Dearest Beloved,
I received your missive of Thursday last with the greatest of gratitude, as I and my brave compatriots have five hours now awaited the orders to approach a moderately busy intersection in the shopping district of a mid-sized American city to confront a force of as many as eleven or twelve of the enemy, all cleverly disguised as “dishwashers,” “nannies,” and “landscapers.”
We are a rather ragtag bunch to be tasked with confronting such a formidable force, armed only with hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of tactical gear from late 2023 and weaponry that has been in service for a year before that.
I tell you with no small shame that we beseech the Lord daily to protect our high-capacity automatic rifles, rubber bullets, smoke bombs, tanks, helmets, Kevlar vests and night-vision goggles from the ravages of the possible but not very likely small stone or block of wood that could be hurled our way by a weeping child or hysterical mother as we pry their loved ones from their dastardly hands.
The skater dudes, grandmothers, and dog walkers forever taunt us, my love.
