7:30 PM. I ventured out for a coffee—decaf, naturally.
Anxiety was already hitching a ride in my chest, so I had my Spidey senses on full alert.
And why not? I expected him to show up again: my own personal loony-bin James Bond wannabe.
This “CIA agent” (more like Certified Idiot Always) has been lurking in my life, along with his equally unhinged brother, since 2015.
Homeless, stalking, and plotting, he’s been breaking into my house, hijacking my CCTV, and apparently running some bizarre 24/7 surveillance operation.
Oh, and last Saturday? He upped the ante by waltzing into my bank.
Let me paint you a picture: clean-shaven, semi-decently dressed, and flashing a government-issued paycheck like it was a golden ticket.
He had no intention of waiting in line with the peasants; oh no, he just had to make his presence known. A professional gangstalker’s calling card.
I looked at him and thought, This is beyond bananas. Whether you’re with a federal agency, a gang, or some dis-organized crime circus, crazy is crazy—and you’ve got it in spades.
Fast forward to tonight.
The vibe was different, though still very much in the “asylum escapee” category.
his Alter Ego didn’t outright follow me this time, but at the end of the street, there he was.
He appeared from the side, a dramatic entrance like he was auditioning for Les Misérables.
How did I know it was his Alter Ego?
Oh, the clues were as subtle as a brick through a window:
- The Weird Approach:
He came from the side, keeping his distance, like someone scared of both human contact and crosswalks. He stood way too far back from the light, as if a restraining order against intersections was in play.
Buddy, no normal person does that!
Either you’re afraid of people, hiding from the law, or you’ve got some deeply personal vendetta against the color red. - The Counter-Spy Dance:
I let him pass me, staying behind to observe. This turned into a real-life game of Spy vs. Spy.
It took him about three seconds to realize he’d flubbed it.
He slowed down, hoping I’d pass him.
But I wasn’t born yesterday. I slowed down too, fiddling with my sock.
Checkmate.
And then came the details—oh, the glorious details:
- Those shoes! He wore a pair so big that the fronts curved upward like he was auditioning for the circus. I almost laughed out loud.
- Hands in pockets: His trademark move. Every. Single. Time. He’s practically the Picasso of pocket-hands.
- The sailor walk: Oh yes, he tried to switch it up with one of those fake “training walks.”
Problem? I once dated a sailor. My internal radar lit up like a Christmas tree.
Wrong move, pal.
Knowing my usual routine, he bet on me stopping at the first store.
So, I played along, pausing just long enough to watch him squirm. Sure enough, he turned to see what I was up to.
Rookie mistake.
When I didn’t enter, I could see his brain short-circuiting. I slowed down at the next store. He peeked through the window, trying to figure out my move.
At this point, I could’ve handed him a neon sign saying, “I KNOW WHO YOU ARE.”
And then came the finale: the guy hit full panic mode.
He sped up, probably trying to save face.
So, naturally, I walked into a third store just to watch him implode.
He couldn’t help himself—he turned around, did a full 180, and tried to track me again.
This, ladies and gentlemen, is my life.
My streets are ruled by organized crime networks who hire gangstalkers with the collective IQ …..
After grabbing my coffee, I made my getaway.
Right and left, I checked for my “craziness prince” before heading home.
My dream for 2025?
A normal life, with normal people, and absolutely zero circus organized crime clowns pretending to be secret agents.
Until then, I’ll keep surviving this real-life soap opera in the Twin light Zone.