You do not know me and you never will. Do not attempt to find me.
I have an assistant. Do not bother him. He does not know where I am and can tell you nothing. Even if you put a gun in his mouth.
For these postings, my assistant takes dictation from myself over a satellite phone. I throw out and replace the SIM card after finishing each and every call. Yes, that is an expensive thing to do but I’ve got the money. For longer postings, I compose written messages and give them to a courier who faxes them from locations hundreds of miles away or even from a different continent. Said faxes are burnt upon receipt.
Do not attempt to find me. Or I will find you. And, brother, you will not like that.
I carry six passports. Perfect forgeries. Even a diplomatic one to get me out of tough situations. Unfortunately, I never got to use my favorite. I got it courtesy of Reza Pahlavi before Iran went medieval.
Just to be on the safe side, I have plastic surgery done every five years. I get the surgeons to carve me like my favorite actors. In the 80s, I played Cary Grant before making a brief cameo as Fred Astaire. Daddy Long Legs didn’t suit me though. I looked like a queer. So I had the doctors recut me as Clint Eastwood and kept the tough guy look for a long time. As for my current role, I’ll just have to leave you guessing.
Do not waste your time looking for me. The paper trails have gone cold decades ago. Social Security Number? Never had one. Birth Certificate? Lost after a mysterious fire in a hospital basement. FBI file? Expunged. There’s a funny story behind how a friend pulled that caper but I think I’ll keep it to myself.
I’m so fucking good at this that there are conspiracy theorists who say I don’t even exist. Anyone who is anyone on Mulholland probably heard the rumors already. For the rubes in Peoria not in the know, let me give you a clue. My identity is “on the QT, and very Hush-Hush.” And if you haven’t figured it out already, that’s a double-entendre: could be the tall one or the bald one. Or let’s triple the entendre. Maybe they’re doing it together.
Anyway, keep guessing away, fuckheads. I’m going out for a hot sake and a blow job.