I am William Wallace. I am Richard Marx. I am those kids in Red Dawn.

In short, I am the Resistance. And I am trying to save P. A. Kane from himself.

Now, to be clear, I am not talking about the hateful, nihilistic Resistance as epitomized by those sending Mr. Kane one-way tickets to Belgium. No, I am working from the inside, quietly, under cover of night, subtly nudging Mr. Kane away from his current course of narcissistic self-destruction. I am the one who reasoned against a follow-up to “South Buffalo Man’s Misplaced Ass: FOUND”. I am the one who convinced Uma not to sue. I am the one who wipes his browser history.

This kind of thing cannot be done brusquely, like a bull in a china shop, or a Lorena Bobbitt in a bedroom. Small actions that he does not notice, or planted ideas that he believes were his own: these are the tools I use to slow him down or affect his headlong rush toward the precipice. I hide his keys, but only once or twice a week. I change the tense of his verbs and the sex of his pronouns, until he swears off the Maker’s Mark. I flip one lens of his reading glasses, and throw away every other sock. I replace the Elvis Costello CDs with Wang Chung, and Dostoevsky with Doonesbury, and the cholesterol pills with Tic-Tacs.

Progress is being made. Some might say that it’s not enough, that the Kane residence and its immediate neighbors remain under the control of a madman. To them I say that Rome wasn’t built in day, and I need to keep my health insurance in case that burning sensation comes back.

Am I a hero, a savior for our times, a light shining in the darkness? Should I be lavished with praise, money and beautiful women? I’ll leave those questions to historians. As the saying goes, “History is written by the unnamed cowards trying to slow the roll of despots while still cashing a check. ” Right now I’m just a man, holding back the tide of sheer madness, whispering to Mr. Kane from the foot of his bed as he sleeps: “Help me. Help me help you.”

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