As the Easterly sun rises I roam the Iowan highways alone, much the way the native Ho-Chunk traversed these plains centuries ago, guided by their senses and ambient cues. I hail from my great nation’s capitol, the Columbian District, in search of my lifelong destined opponent. I travel under the name Reinhold Niebuhr, a moniker that shall inspire wonder in the heart of those that seek my defeat, in search of he of whom I dream, my nemesis.

I fought my first battle in the Scottish highlands in 1536, and having been granted immortality as a result thereof, did this past year affront a contentious and evasive national leader, who as yet remains in power. Although he did lay me waste, he failed to behead me, thereby declining to steal my powers of immortality. And so I trudge on, ever carrying the burden of eternal life until I shall meet a worthy competitor to absorb my everlasting life once and for all. In my wake I leave a successor to complete what I began as I retreat into the Iowan cornfields.

Under the husk of Reinhold Niebuhr, my size 10.5 New Balance sneakers weather the beats and poundings of my vengeance, the scuffs of my wrath hidden by a sensible choice of charcoal suede. You don’t become the Highlander without learning a few lessons about what color sneakers to buy.

And in my navy merino-blend mock neck cardigan zipped up as high as it will go, which is not overly high because it is a mock neck, I tell the tale of the ages to my trusty laptop, my only hope in revealing once and for all the truth behind my latest governmental crusade. My moisture-wicking hiking pants whoosh with each moderately quick step I take down U.S. Route 30 as I compose the legend that will take the country by storm, all while keeping my cholesterol in check.

Yes, I am the Highlander, and I haunt these sacred cornfields, composing nebulous tweets to counteract the equally baffling, yet more disturbing tweets of my rival, which tend to have more spelling errors and ambiguous capitalization. And the cornfields, they tell me things, even though they also have these spiky little corn husk thingies that get stuck in my merino-blend cardigan that take forever to pick out and cause pilling. But as the Highlander it is my honor and duty to pick out the little husk thingies from my mock neck cardigan, much the same way I pick out truth from lies emanating from highest seat in the land.

Yes, I am the Highlander. And I will not rest until my story has been told, and then I will go on to fight again. Unless I am beheaded, in which case I will cease to be immortal. But seriously, my files are all backed up to the Cloud to be published upon my death, so it is not advisable even if you have a really good sword.

I am James Comey. And I am the Highlander.