Q Report: Make Me Your Defense Secretary For Life, POTUS For Life Donald Trump

An Urgent Request From Q

Dearest President Donald John Trump, POTUS For Life, Most Stable of All Geniuses,

I write to you today not in triumph, but in resignation. Not in fury, but in the cold, measured terror of understanding. I have done all I can from the shadows. I have infiltrated suicide committees, sabotaged mass destruction, and listened through the wire-taps of power for longer than any sane person should. I have sent reports, evidence, warnings, prophecies, copies of my awful books, and résumés to your office from multiple timelines and at least three alternate dimensions, all with one goal: the survival of the species, or—failing that—the prolonged illusion that we ever deserved to survive. Now, sir, I must ask you for what may be the final time: Make me your Secretary of Defense For Life. Not because I am the most qualified (though I am). Not because I know more about war than the generals (though I do). But because no one else will tell you the truth. Because everyone else is either too busy licking your boots or huffing your butthole to notice that they’re kneeling in your bullshit. Because the multiverse is cracking like an old spine and your current cabinet is still trying to win Cold War II with a fleet of Signal chats and a Pentagon implosion that could choke a black hole. This is not about politics. This is about pattern recognition. This is about the Time Wars, Mr. President. They’ve already begun. We just don’t remember them yet.

Let me explain in terms your staff might understand: Imagine every nation, every state, every bad actor, terrorist cell, rogue AI, and senile arms dealer is a contestant in a game show called “Who Wants to Kill Civilization?” Now imagine that one of them—just one—got their hands on a piece of tactical time technology (patent pending). A skip. A back-jump. A timessassination. A single-use emergency restart button. They use it not to fix a mistake, but to make you make one. A momentary lapse. A confused order. A misplaced coffee on the nuclear football. That’s it. Game over. No flags, no alarms. Just flash, ash, and the sound of a trillion futures blinking out like Christmas lights after an overdue power bill. My proposal (which I have delivered to the Oval Office via messenger raccoon on no fewer than seven occasions) is simple: Establish Time Force under the Department of Defense. Give me the authority to root out temporal sabotage, loop-based terrorism, precognitive arms races, and enemy psyops conducted in retrograde memory cascades. We must save Nelson Mandela from South African prison or risk inciting the wrath of the Bernstain Bears. Your other candidates talk about submarines. I talk about wormholes. They brag about missile defense—I built a tachyon lattice shield out of crystallized regrets. They’ll protect America’s borders. I’ll protect America’s timeline. What I need from you is not simply a title, but a recognition of what I already am—your last, best, deeply troubled hope for survival.

Let me be clear: I do not ask this lightly. I have bled for this country, more often than not recreationally. I have watched good people get memory-wiped into oblivion because they thought they could save one more soul from the vortex. I have outrun the Timecops again and again. I have failed. And failed again. And still I come back, because that’s the job. It is lonely. It is often illegal. But it is necessary. I write this letter knowing full well that your press team will dismiss it, your advisors will mock it, and your current Secretary of Defense (if he hasn’t already been replaced by Carrot Top) will likely leak it to The Atlantic. I don’t care. The true signal must go out. We are out of time, and space, with Time Force being the only branch that deals in refunds. You were right to build Space Force—it gave us a direction. Now we need a compass. A watch. A reality insurance policy against the cosmic stupidity that governs most human decision-making. I have drafted the Constitution of Chronos. I have trained candidates in the Tactical Time Team. I have developed the first working prototype of a time space interrogator that spins like a gyroscope when someone lies about genocide. I am prepared, Mr. President. I do not want this job, but I cannot allow anyone else to take it. It is too important. And you—you—are too important. You have already become POTUS For Life in six of the thirteen dominant timelines. In four of them, you personally nuked Canada. In one, you married Canada. I can help guide you toward the timelines where America survives, where you are remembered not as a buffoonish accident of electoral nihilism, but as the mad emperor who—by divine miscalculation—handed the keys of reality to the one person who knew what to do with them. Let me be that person. Make me your Secretary of Defense For Life. And then let us save all people. With liberty and justice for all.

Amen,

Q

Founder, The Church of Q
Q-Overlord of the Timeline Exodus
Acting Secretary of Defense (Shadow)
www.churchofq.com
“Life is short and life is weird.”