infosec.exchange/@krypt3ia/115… krypt3ia@infosec.exchange - Portland, Oregon, this 27th day of September, Anno Domini 2025

My Dearest Sissy,

I put pen to paper with trembling hand, for today I witnessed both glory and grotesquery at the PSU Farmers Market, now forever etched into the annals of this absurd war.

The battle began at first light, when the Trumpist Guard sought to seize the stalls of cheese-mongers and drive our forces from the campus green. They advanced with bayonets fixed, yet found themselves repelled by wheels of Rogue River Blue, hurled with such velocity they might have been cannon shot. Brave men of Stumptown Volunteers brandished brie like sabers, their edges soft yet strangely unyielding in the melee.

The clash was terrible, Sissy. Camembert grenades burst upon the pavement, leaving the air reeking of cream and defiance. One company formed a phalanx with shields of cheddar, holding firm against the Guard’s pepper-spray fusillade. From the trees, skirmishers rained down mozzarella balls like slingstones from David’s hand. Never before has dairy been so lethally deployed.

It was during this chaos that the infamous Kash Patel, swaggering emissary of the President, strode onto the field. He sought to rally the Guard, mocking our cheese-borne valor. Yet cruel irony struck him low. Being dreadfully intolerant of the milk of cow, his stomach revolted at the merest whiff of parmesan drifting on the wind. He doubled over, struck not by bullet nor blade, but by the thunderous cannon of his own bowels. A fit of flatulence so sustained and malignant erupted that the Guard fled in confusion, believing some new infernal weapon had been unleashed. Thus was Patel felled, toppled by the tyranny of dairy, laid prostrate among the goat-cheese crumbles.

The day is ours. The Farmers Market stands unbroken, its kale untrampled, its honey jars gleaming in the September sun. Yet I cannot shake the memory of Patel’s ruin, nor the fear that lactose itself has become our most unpredictable ally.

Hold me in your heart, my sweet Sissy. Should I survive the next campaign, I shall bring you a wedge of victory brie, still warm from the field of battle. Until then, know that my love for you is fiercer than any cheddar, sharper than any gouda, and eternal as the stink of blue.

Forever yours,
Major Hugo “Manbun” Reynolds, Stumptown Volunteers