Theater of the Absurd in Tactical Gear
“Do I have to answer to you?”
—Unidentified federal agent, Washington, D.C.
(spoiler: yes, dipshit, you do)
It starts like a scene from a discount dystopia. Not even a well-funded one—this is mid-budget fascism: shaky camera, overcompensating gear, the chaotic energy of a high school production of 1984 staged in a Bass Pro Shop.
A bystander dares to ask:
“What’s your name?”
“Do I have to answer to you?”
The masked figure replies, his voice somewhere between dead fish and middle manager.
No badge. No ID. Just a gun, a uniform, and the kind of entitled vagueness usually reserved for frat boys evading accountability at Title IX hearings.
And here’s the theological core of the thing: when power becomes faceless, formless, vibeless—it stops being democratic and starts being goddamn eldritch.
You are no longer in a republic.
You are in a haunted house.
And the ghosts have flashbangs.
The Law Has Become LARP
This isn’t enforcement.
This is cosplay with consequences.
They show up in unmarked vans like some cursed DoorDash order from the underworld. No name, no context—just impact. ICE raids schools. DHS disperses peaceful crowds. Bystanders get cuffed for asking questions while dudes in Oakleys mutter legalese like it’s a spell to ward off liability.
They’re not officers.
They’re unpaid extras in the authoritarian cinematic universe.
Coming this fall: “Fast & Faceless: Bureaucracy Drift”
And still—through the pepper spray haze and PR fog—someone shouts,
“Let’s see some badge work, boys!”
Like a heckle hurled into the void.
Like a middle finger raised during a black mass.
Dark Humor as Holy Weaponry
This is where the hope lives—in the snark, in the sarcasm, in the kid filming while someone’s being tackled off a CitiBike. Because if the state gets to surveil you 24/7, but trembles when you hit “record,” you’ve already won something.
It’s why someone screams, “Nice cosplay, RoboCop!”
It’s why another mutters, “Should’ve stayed in Fortnite, my guy.”
It’s why the words “thank you for your service” are now laced with irony sharp enough to cut riot shields.
They wear body armor. We wear disbelief.
They bring tear gas. We bring memes.
They bring silence.
We bring receipts.
It’s Not About Trump. It’s About the Template.
This isn’t just about ICE. Or whoever’s piloting the imperial drone this quarter. This is about the template of authority in the 21st century:
Faceless. Placeless. Erasable.
It doesn’t have a name, but it has a warrant.
It doesn’t know your rights, but it knows your address.
It doesn’t file reports—but it files you.
And when you ask, “Who are you?”
It responds, “You already ruined it.”
Ah yes. The sacred doctrine of blame-shifting authoritarianism.
So What Do We Do?
We name the nameless.
We record the ridiculous.
We turn every GoPro into scripture and every TikTok into testimony.
We laugh in their faces—not because it isn’t deadly, but because we refuse to let the grave tone of state violence be its last word. We strip its costume off with satire until all that’s left is a trembling man with a badge he’s too ashamed to show.
This is the theology of brunch and resistance.
This is the gospel of “Yo, badge work!”
This is sacred mess.
Final Sermon from the Sidewalk
Maybe revolution doesn’t come on horseback.
Maybe it comes on a moped getting body-slammed by a mall cop with delusions of grandeur.
Maybe it’s not a grand awakening. Maybe it’s an awkward moment in line at Dunkin’ where someone whispers, “I think that dude’s with ICE,” and the entire line decides to film his every move.
That’s hope.
Not polished. Not choreographed. Just messy, loud, glitchy truth—barely held together by Wi-Fi and rage.
So keep filming.
Keep asking.
Keep heckling their cosplay.
And if you can’t make sense of it?
Make a scene.
Because when the masks fall—and they always fall—someone needs to have the footage.
Want to read the words from the source? https://www.thehandbasket.co/p/federal-agent-dc-violent-arrest-delivery-worker-video
Or watch the video
