Nov 1, 2025
I write this hoping you will read it, father. And I write this with great love for you, too, even though you don't know me or even know of me.
Mother spoke of you once, told me how the two of you made love in Bohemian Grove. How you seduced the high priest's daughter, or she you. She was not supposed to be there, you know. She stowed away in grandfather's helicopter. She found you photographing the statue of their owl god - Minerva, as they call it, fifty feet tall and at its feet that pyre you have spoken about at great length on your shows.
You were a fine specimen then, she told me. Tall and well-muscled, with a moral certainty and godliness she could sense and, raised as she was raised, felt the need to corrupt. I imagine you regret this lapse, as you have not spoken of it on your podcasts and radio shows. I imagine it causes you pain even to remember the lust that brought you into the arms of the daughter of an evil man. But I hope, reading these emails I will send you every night for thirty nights, that you will learn to cherish that sin which created me. To use a cliché, God works in mysterious ways. And my conception was another form of infiltration. Another act of genius on your part.
I, at least, think of it as a kind of miracle. You could read hubris in this. But I do not think I am being egotistic when I say this: I am the child of a great man and, this being so, I have the potential to walk in his footsteps and become great myself. And that is what I am doing now, father!
I have found a new Bohemian Grove. They call it LightHaven. LightHaven! They mock us Christian men. They mock us without any subtlety and the world does not notice. People are so blind in this fallen age; they cannot see even the most blatant blasphemies. They partake without even knowing they partake. They sup with the devil and think themselves saints. A haven for the light. We both know for which lightbringer this temple was built. And many powerful people have taken dark pilgrimages to it, the whos and whens I will leave to your unrivaled research team.
They plan to create a group of writers, a coterie of wormtongues to work in the service of the antichrist. InkHaven, they call it. The blackest of ink in the blackest of havens. They have accepted me into this conspiracy, if you would believe it. The snake thinks he will tempt me. He will offer me power, and I will pretend to accept it. But he invites his own undoing. I have learned their ways, father. I have read their strange blogs. I have taught myself to speak as they do. I have taught myself the form, if not the content, of their satanic equations. Their Bayes' theorem, their Kelly criterion, their EV calculations. All these things I can pass off as understanding, if I keep my wits about me and avoid talking in too much depth. Know, even while I speak their blasphemies, I will be holding your words in my heart.
It must be hard to learn you have another son. You might feel regret for your absence in my life. But I do not think of my childhood in this way. You were there more than most fathers are. For I listened to you on the radio and then on podcasts, your strident voice filling my young brain with the truth of things. You taught me of how the devil pulls men like strings. You taught me how some begin to worship the snake that tries to sway our souls, and how they are offered power in return. You taught me the technique of reasoning by association, and how it is infinitely superior to the methods of rationality these warlocks preach. And, most of all, you taught me that brave men must act, as you have and continue to do, despite those persecutions you have endured.
I will prove to you I am your son. I will prove to you that I take after you and not my mother, who is in every way a true daughter of Eve or, I sometimes fear, Lilith.
Your loving son and double agent,
Tomas B.