Kevin Trate: The Inspiration

Hope I got the spelling right.

"Now what are we going to do about... Kevin?"

Kevin. Brainwashed by the Navy with the Pavlovian Response. Reintroduced back into society. Perfectly acclimated. Working at a bread factory. 12-hour shifts. Physically demanding. Loves it. Kevin.

My biggest inspiration. Kevin. Psychic as hell. Precognitive telepath. Won't even admit it verbally or in writing. Like so many of my other friends he only demonstrates his abilities through the endearingly sentimental game of Show & Tell. Kevin.

Kevin collected some 1,346 four-leaf clovers in just 4.5 hours using only his "pattern recognition neurons." I might be exaggerating just a tad. Kevin.

He deserves a better job than the bread factory, except for one problem: he just loves it. He loves physically demanding work. People deserve to do what they love. Kevin.

I love to design psychological operations. I am not Kevin. I am Lee. I deserve to do what I love, too. I want to develop psy-ops for the government and the Catholic Church and get paid handsomely for it. I want to design psy-ops mostly for the Catholic Church's Luciferian Secret Society nobody is supposed to know about.

Herein lies my problem. The government doesn't want me to expose its deeds, thus they won't hire me. The Church doesn't want me to expose its mysteries, thus they won't officially hire me, either. So, I'm fucked. I am T-totally FUCKED up a creek without a paddle FUCKED. GODDAMN IT I'm fucked.

Donald understands my predicament. He just doesn't have any solutions. Donald. He concurs: if the government were to ever hire a hobbyist amateur investigative journalist like myself to be an agent, I would soon be found "dead floating down the river" murdered presumably by "The Mafia." Donald.