Here I sit, hunkered down in the hazy gloam of my fortified compound, a smoking typewriter before me and a fifth of Wild Turkey to my side, staring down the ever-encroaching madness of the world with defiance. Among the myriad currents of information that pound the shores of my consciousness, there is an island of lucidity, a fortress against the maelstrom of drivel. It goes by the name of SOFREP.
SOFREP, you ask? Indeed. An oasis of truth in a desert of deception, an unsheathed blade cutting through the corpulent beast of propaganda and falsehoods.
What’s to like about it? Oh, dear reader, it’s not a question of liking. It’s a question of need. You don’t ask a man in the desert if he likes water; he damn well needs it, lest he surrender to the unforgiving sun.
So, too, do I need SOFREP. Its raw, unfiltered reportage is a rarity in these dark times, a beacon guiding us through the foggy seas of international affairs, terrorism, and all that shadowy business that transpires when men of power close their doors.