Q Report; Dinner With Kyle

To: Agents, Anons, Weirdoes, et. all

From: Q (K-00)

Re: Dinner With Kyle

11/21/2445

Hello All, 

Dinner with Kyle did not go well. Let’s start there and work our way back. To be fair, even within my own expansive and often chemically enhanced imagination, I did not think it would go well. Dinner with murderers rarely does. Oh, you can pretend that you aren’t sitting with a life taker. Eat your flavorless Trump brand steaks (kept at absolute zero in a specifically designed container [for guests]) with ketchup and soda and try to keep it all down. Ignore the elephant in the room (shot by Junior in ’88). Try to ignore the solid wall between the realities of myself and the other guests. We do our best.

Back in ’21 Trump was still unaware that I was working him like an ugly accordion. Running influence psy ops that turned otherwise neutral people into insane fanatics. Radicalizing interior cells of misinformation like a metastasizing rot within the organism. Seeding chaos and division. Leaning into the only lever of control that I had at the time; dumbing down Trump fans into useless slobs. If they were arguing on their phone they couldn’t handle a gun. Well, they could, but reloading was a real hassle. Neither here nor there, this is about the dinner with Kyle. 

Trump had called me in, as he sometimes did back then, to impress his guests with having someone attend who could engage in normal conversation. Fans have a hard time congregating as a casual, laid back, let’s not talk about our recent double homicide group.  I always hated it when he called me down to Mar a Lago, but I took enough anti-anxiety drugs to keep my BPM under rage levels and drove to the place. That tacky, gaudy, hideous place. Oh how I loathe it. And there they were! Kyle and his mom. All dressed to the nines and ready to exploit. Thank heavens COVID still allowed me to wear my helmet. 

Q: Oh hello, everyone. Sorry I’m late. 

Trump: Oh that’s fine, we were just talking about sports. Everyone, this is Q. 

Kyle:  Wowie! The REAL Q?!

Trump gave his big full denture smile then. I’ll admit it, I hate his guts, but there’s something about making him wear a genuine smile that activates some uncontrolled lizard brain response. Some hypnotic feeder bar Skinner Box positive reaction that I’ve been studying for a while, but unable to lock down. Over the distortion of my helmet I did my whole deal. 

Q: The very same! Q Overlord Q of the Church of Q at your service! Has the president told you about the timephone!? Would you like to call the past!?

Kyle: Boy would I!?

Q: Well, study very hard in quantum physics and maybe someday you can create your own literary vehicle!

Kyle: I don't want to!

Wendy: He knows such large words!?!

Trump: Doesn’t he? I have the best words, but Q sure steals a few of them. Come on, let’s get inside, the sea gulls start shitting just after sundown.

We all made our way past the foyer while I attempted as best I could to avoid Wendy’s lusty gaze. 

Kyle: Can I ask you a question, Q?

Q: I’d rather you didn’t!

(Big laugh)

Kyle: Why did you write all of those Q Drops?

Q: Oh Kyle, I didn’t write any of those. 

Kyle: You didn’t!?

Q: No no. No, those were four chan nerds, Kyle. I wrote the Book of Q. Have you read it?

Kyle: Golly no. I’m not so great at reading.

Q: That’s OK, Kyle. No one else read the book either. As a nation we’re not so great at reading. 

Trump was desperate to raise the mood.

Trump: But we’re great at other stuff, right? Like guns and meat?

Q: Sure, mister president! Sure! We’re great at sports and fast cars. 

Wendy: SEX!

Wendy was obviously jumping the tracks and unable to contain herself. COVID lockdown really did a number on the overall social skills of the planet, but in particular the Midwest (who was not so great with society to begin with) had a difficult time readjusting to being around groups of people. One bizarre side effect was me occasionally having to low grade tazer the overly thirsty MIDNWTF. As was the case here. 

Wendy: Ow!

Kyle: YOU HURT MY MOM I FUCKING KILL YOU!!!

It’s truly amazing how hormones work. The fight, flight, and freeze reactions. How our limbic system just sits there in the middle of the brain with our oldest and most important survival skills, ready and waiting (eager) for someone or something to trigger it. In this case the youth was overly reactionary to a mild 10% tazing (cattle prod level) just to keep the hands away from my gear. His response? Try to fight. My reaction? 

Trump: What just happened here? What is going on? Q, please let him go?

Q: After he apologizes for trying to kill me!

Kyle: NO! NO! I don’t have to say sorry for NOTHING!

Wendy: Let him go! Let him go you sexy, sexy superspy!!!

Wendy hitting me with the absurdly small purse wasn’t helping. 

Trump: Q, please! You’re embarrassing me in front of the staff!?

Trump hated it when I made him look weak. What he didn’t know is that most of the staff were Guild plants and loved this shit. Shared body camera footage among themselves. Trump eating his boogers when he thought no one was looking. Molesting the cat. Crying at his desk.

Kyle: Let me go you communist pedophile before I get my AR and…

But the choking prevented the completion of the sentence. Before he passed out I allowed a tap out to act as an ad hoc apology and established a safe distance between us, just in case he didn’t for reals surrender. But he was tired and crying now. Aware that his tiny useless body could be killed with something as simple as hands around his straining neck. It was all too erotic for Wendy, who had to excuse herself to the restroom to rub a quick one out. In the meantime we had appetizers on the veranda. I never ate or drank at these things. No way I was taking my helmet off.

Trump: So do you like Pokémon, Kyle?

Kyle: No. We can’t afford nice things like Pokémon. 

Q: Doesn’t an AR run 2K with the bells and whistles?

Kyle: Oh, I don’t worry about that. 

Q: What DO you worry about Kyle?

Kyle: Communism. 

Q: Sure. Sure. Anything else?

Kyle: Libtards?

Trump: Fake news media. 

Kyle: Yeah! Yeah, you know mister president! I hate whatever you hate. 

Q: How darling. 

Wendy returned from the bathroom, flush with blood. A bell rang and we went to dinner. Overcooked Trump steak with ketchup and all the trimmings (soda). I used my straw port to politely drink some body temperature water from my camel back, explaining away I was allergic to all atom based food. Unable to conjure the will to act as Trump’s spy monkey, the rest of the evening went relatively quietly. After a while there was a picture taking session and everyone left. If anyone has some quality footage of me choking Kyle I would appreciate a forward. This is the worst op I’ve ever run. But the rewards will hopefully outweigh these chronically awful dinners at Mar a Lago.

1 <3

Q