His Magnificence

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The fifth entry in the diary of Jesse Charleston Maith

Monday, 25 September 14 N.G., 1645hrs.

The media dubbed it 9/25, in the old American month/date format. It has better verbal flow than 25/9, I guess.

 You-know-who has done what we perceived he would do.

 Who knows how many are dead?

The last report I read thirty minutes ago showed at least two-hundred-forty five innocent people confirmed killed in the attack. What will it be twenty-four hours from now?! I guarantee there’s an over/under wager on the death count going on amongst the elites.

 The saddest part of this entire episode is that declaring the W-word is only a small piece of an incomplete puzzle.

Of course, you-know-who will invoke the second!

Of course, he wants to send people like me, my cousins (although they hate me right now), and my girlfriend to the front lines!

 And, of course, he sees this as a golden opportunity, pun intended!

If the Plan Zero rumors are true, then Francis Stewart will carry out fundamental changes to turn the DRF into the dictatorship he’s always wanted.

It’s no coincidence the Divine Military was mobilized to the major cities. I guess the Statue of Liberty’s destruction is symbolic.

We still haven’t heard from aunt Stacy. I’m sure she’s dead.

Her office is near One World Trade, which was in the crosshairs of that TSUNAMIBOMB. If I lose her, what will I do? I don’t trust uncle Bob, and my cousins want me to shut up. Perhaps I overstepped my bounds, but deep down, I wish they understood where I was coming from. Still, it hurts they feel this way.

Thank Joshua for Sarah. She’s the greatest thing to happen to me, ever. Her fierce independence and smarts remind me of the one she wished her parents named her after, Sarah Boynton.

 I now envision a scenario where we run away together. I will NOT fight for this so-called leader of ours, nor would I want Sarah to, either. And yes, I wish my cousins won’t.

If we’re drafted, we’ll flee to Canada, or something. These phony “patriots” out there can call us draft-dodgers, and my radicalized neighbors are probably going to assume the roles of DCF agents and point their lasers at us in anger, but I don’t care. Aside from fulfilling you-know-who’s lust for power, the fight against New Alaska will be for one thing: money!

Perhaps there is something to this whole Project Miracle business. Why is it of such vital importance to sustaining a nation? It has to be economical, right? This justifies sending the brave men and women of our armed forces into harm’s way!

Or maybe it’s the Hathawayans? Are they really some alien super-species the government keeps under wraps?

 Whatever the answers are, we have entered yet another trying time in our lives. The pressure of winning football games will be nothing compared to losing my parents and my aunt. Would discovering the truth about our country and our existence really be worth putting my life on the line?

 The next time I write to you, I’ll either be in Canada, or somewhere else entirely. Don’t pity me if I don’t survive. I’ve had a privileged life, right? So who am I to complain? I should be grateful and keep my mouth shut!

 None of that means anything if your soul has been eradicated from you, and that’s exactly how I feel.

 Until next time, if there is a next time.


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