- Joined
- Mar 1, 2020
The mood was tense at Langley. Spartacus had struck again.
He'd started a Substack about COVID, posting an unfathomably autistic article linking every aspect of the virus back to the US intelligence community. Even the former Vice President of EcoHealth Alliance had endorsed it on Twitter. The CIA's own erstwhile assets were on Spartacus' side, now.
Blake Ballpoint, Ivy League faggot and intelligence officer extraordinaire, nervously fiddled with his collar as he waited in the elevator, his forehead dripping with sweat, a sheaf of documents clutched in a white-knuckled fist.
There was no denying it any longer. Spartacus was a Russian asset. He had to be.
There were cruise missiles falling on Odessa, Ukraine that very minute. The Ruskies were about to march into Kiev. Linking Spartacus to the Russians would allow him to begin tasking agents to nab the miscreant and haul him off to a black site once and for all.
Blake strode into a full conference room, slapping the file onto the table. "Gentlemen, we've got him!"
"What is it now, Pointyballs?" the section chief said.
Blake was taken aback briefly by the insulting nickname. He pressed his thumb against the stack of papers. "We've got transaction records. PayPal. Spartacus has been sending money to someone in Russia."
Carmen Segway, sitting directly across the table from Ballpoint, crossed her legs and smirked. "Sending money to Russia? Don't you think if he was a spy, the money would be flowing in the other direction? Payment for services rendered, and all that?"
Blake hesitated for a moment before he came up with a rejoinder. "He's sending money to some guy named Paul, I don't know! Could be his FSB handler."
Carmen grinned. "Oh, I took the liberty of looking into this 'Paul' character, myself. I've got his DA profile."
"DA?"
"DeviantArt."
Carmen swiveled in her chair, thumbing a button on the projector remote. The lights in the room darkened, and on the projector screen at the far end of the room, there appeared a giant digital illustration of a cartoon pony standing beside a vintage motorcycle.
It began as a chuckle. Before long, the whole conference room was rolling with derisive laughter. Carmen Segway rode her self-balancing namesake in laps around the room, cackling at Blake's misfortune as he hunched over and shriveled into his suit, his face turning as red as a beet.
He'd started a Substack about COVID, posting an unfathomably autistic article linking every aspect of the virus back to the US intelligence community. Even the former Vice President of EcoHealth Alliance had endorsed it on Twitter. The CIA's own erstwhile assets were on Spartacus' side, now.
Blake Ballpoint, Ivy League faggot and intelligence officer extraordinaire, nervously fiddled with his collar as he waited in the elevator, his forehead dripping with sweat, a sheaf of documents clutched in a white-knuckled fist.
There was no denying it any longer. Spartacus was a Russian asset. He had to be.
There were cruise missiles falling on Odessa, Ukraine that very minute. The Ruskies were about to march into Kiev. Linking Spartacus to the Russians would allow him to begin tasking agents to nab the miscreant and haul him off to a black site once and for all.
Blake strode into a full conference room, slapping the file onto the table. "Gentlemen, we've got him!"
"What is it now, Pointyballs?" the section chief said.
Blake was taken aback briefly by the insulting nickname. He pressed his thumb against the stack of papers. "We've got transaction records. PayPal. Spartacus has been sending money to someone in Russia."
Carmen Segway, sitting directly across the table from Ballpoint, crossed her legs and smirked. "Sending money to Russia? Don't you think if he was a spy, the money would be flowing in the other direction? Payment for services rendered, and all that?"
Blake hesitated for a moment before he came up with a rejoinder. "He's sending money to some guy named Paul, I don't know! Could be his FSB handler."
Carmen grinned. "Oh, I took the liberty of looking into this 'Paul' character, myself. I've got his DA profile."
"DA?"
"DeviantArt."
Carmen swiveled in her chair, thumbing a button on the projector remote. The lights in the room darkened, and on the projector screen at the far end of the room, there appeared a giant digital illustration of a cartoon pony standing beside a vintage motorcycle.
It began as a chuckle. Before long, the whole conference room was rolling with derisive laughter. Carmen Segway rode her self-balancing namesake in laps around the room, cackling at Blake's misfortune as he hunched over and shriveled into his suit, his face turning as red as a beet.
I love tormenting the Deep State.

Speaking of which, The Expose have reposted it, now.