This is a detective story, with a cast of characters you may not have seen before. It’s taken me a long time and there’s a lot left to do. Beyond that, I’d rather let the work speak for itself.
I feel like the spirit of Substack is the spirit of risk-taking… so here’s mine.
-A
I have a half-dozen names. Kike. Christ-killer. Invasive species. Jew. I’ve heard it all. Periodically, I even get a human name and a human shape. At work I’m known as Reese Niekerk. That’s all you’ll ever know me as: a name befitting the prep school I went to and the kid I should’ve been. It’s a name that didn’t roll out of the shtetl yesterday, with a half-dead goat and six inches of mud for an inheritance. Reese Niekerk is literate. Reese Niekerk is genteel. Reese Niekerk takes his oysters with Champagne and races boats. “Mr. Niekerk” rolls off the tongue. I like him.
I might have a half-dozen identities or more, but somehow, everyone seems to know better than I do what I am or how I should be known or how I should exist. I’m not sure when I first encountered this phenomenon; it must have happened young because all pathologies start in childhood, don’t they? But I have no specific recollections. Of course, even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you, so…
I’ll say this: as a “millennial” adult male, I have achieved a level of clarity that eluded me when I was younger. Zionists call me a self-hating, sniveling bitch because I think they’re living in a delusional fever-dream, and because I have the temerity to observe the real-world results of their practices. Curiously, I fare as bad or even worse with anti-Zionists. I give my family credit for this. See, I come from the mystical nexus of Jew money and Jew power. This means we’re both the source of all problems and controllers of all solutions. My very existence is the result of a conspiracy. The monied Jew, the ubermanipulator, is not a slur to me. It’s my fuckin face.
There’s one other alias I get to wear, and it’s a little unusual… I’m a palatable Jew. This man feeds you emasculated latkes and cartoon-Yid bagels in some decrepit-ass third-rate knockoff Lower East Side kikespeak brogue where the nasal honk accent, the yidsounds, they are the punch line… this man is from nowhere. He wishes to speak no language. He has nothing to express politically or culturally. This man has ethnically cleansed himself, and now, at least on the surface, this man is entirely harmless. He has no passion, no energy — there is nothing animating him at all, other than the desire to recede into the walls. This is not a person — it is a castrated shell. Of all the selves I can embody, this is the one I prize most. Why? Because nobody thinks about it as human in the first place. Unseen. Unheard-from. Barely there at all. Nearly the ideal way-of-being for a spy.
Do you want to know a secret? I mean this as sincerely as I can say that my name is Reese Niekerk (so take this sincerity with whatever salt you want) but my primary association with communal life is shame and abuse. Too much of this, not enough of that. Any direction I turn, I’m never enough, and the judgments never end.
I hate it.
I hate all of it.
Here’s another secret: the best part of my job is that I’m paid to wage war against the very thing holding me in contempt — communal life itself. My job is to create chaos for the enemy. My job is to study and pursue transgressive behavior, and this pursuit fulfills something in me I can hardly explain, only to say that I will never stop…
I also must thank espionage for introducing me to a Jew, finally, that I myself liked. This man was possibly the only Jewish male in the history of Judaism who understood me. Roman Romanovich Leib was a former KGB officer, of all things. Somehow, he made it to 75 years old before running into his own assassination. It became my full-time job to find his killers. I found them. I found two different networks of support staff and useful idiots, and I rolled ‘em up. Those who are still alive are alive only because I could envision them having some future utility to myself or the Agency. They haven’t survived anything. In fact, they’re right where I want em: in hourly fear that I decide they’re no longer useful.
We’ll get to the case soon enough, I promise…
i was hooked st “detective story!”
i’m looking forward to learning more about reese and his escapades.
Ok. Sign me up. This teaser is almost unfair - because I want more, of course!! Patience, I tell myself. Patience!! :-)))))