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.

In the few remaining moments before we are forced to decamp from the tenuous safety and subpar food of the local Marriott to brave rush-hour traffic on our way to our mission, I want to share with you that I have the highest of confidence in my brethren (well, except for Clint Stackhouse—the guy NEVER puts down his phone; for real, my bro needs to go to rehab for TikTok.) Our force is made up of those hardy enough to endure such a privation of a campaign as we now must face—against an enemy as wily as they are unarmed.

They are, to a man (and woman and child and disabled veteran), unashamed to clothe themselves in the garments of workaday citizens. Many feign genuine labor as we approach, wielding serving trays, paint brushes, or ladders—some going so far as to dirty themselves with what might seem to an eye that has not benefited from a six-week Patriotic Abduction training course at a strip-mall karate studio to be actual food stains, paint chips, and other honestly earned detritus of a busy day’s work.

But have no fear for me, my darling devoted. I enter the coming fray safe in the knowledge that your sweet love awaits my return by Wednesday at the latest, depending on traffic, and that, even should I suffer the worst and return to you with visible bruising along the three inches of my wrist not protected by materials meant to absorb the force of a grenade, I shall find comfort in your Lululemon-ed embrace.

Until that moment, I remain yours in everlasting Morgan Wallen fandom,
Jared