So much for anonymity

Freedom of Speech, the last stand

Photo by Claudio Schwarz on Unsplash

Scrolling through Substack, a meme about trump wearing a shitty diaper. You like the post and comment that you hope he gets colon cancer, his needle dick falls off and he dies a slow and painful death. You continue scrolling, stop and sigh. Twenty Palestinians killed while trying to get food at a GHF distribution center. You type This is Genocide! Israelis are Nazis with a brown “fuck you” hand emoji and restack the post.

Two weeks later, your doorbell rings. You stand on your tiptoes and look through the peephole. Two dark haired men in gray suits and navy blue ties wearing aviator sunglasses. You step back. “What the fuck?”

Two firm knocks. Hands on hips, you glare at the door, “Whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested.”

Silence.

You get on your tiptoes. Their blue suits fill the peephole. “Seriously?” Talking, nothing you can make out. You turn around and shake your head. “I shoulda got the fuck off sign from the swap—

A deep voice says your full name.

You turn around. “Who are you?”

“FBI.”

You bite your lower lip. Daniel was going to Ross Dress For Less and Target. You look at the computer table; his cellphone is charging. Your laptop is on the coffee table. You shut it down and shove it under the sofa. You take a deep breath, walk to the front door and partially open the door. “May I see some identification?”

They reach inside their suit jackets, exposing black guns in shoulder holsters, and show two FBI government IDs with their names, ID numbers and pictures. Agent Bruce Jones and Agent Stan Harvey.

You clear your throat. “What’s this about?”

Agent Harvey removes his sunglasses. “Madam, may we come inside and talk to you?”

Your heart slams against your ribcage. You clear your throat, “Do you have a warrant?”

Agent Jones removes his sunglasses. “Madam, we’d just like to talk to you.”

Sweat trickles between your breasts. “About what?”

Agent Harvey straightens his neck. “May we come inside?”

“If I say no will you leave?”

They look at each other, then look at me. Agent Jones flashes a smile. “You can say no.”

Your body unclenches.

Agent Harvey takes a step forward.

You step back and start to close the door.

His black dress shoe wedges between the door and the frame. “If we leave, we will come back with a warrant, take all your electronic equipment, and bring you in for questioning.”

You press your head against the door.

“Or you can let us come in and we can talk.”

You open the door and step back.

They walk inside and look around. You point to the sofa, then turn your recliner around, swipe your cellphone from the messy end table. You bring up the voice recording app, hit play and set your iPhone on the coffee table.

Agent Harvey frowns. “That isn’t necessary.”

“I have a faulty memory.” You sit back and smile.

The unsmiling agents look at each other.

You clear your throat. “You were saying?”

Agent Jones pulls a small black notebook and pen from his inner coat pocket. He flips open the notebook. “Are you active on social media?”

You rock back and forth in the rocker. “I closed my social media accounts.”

He tapped the pen against the notebook. “Which were?”

The rocker squeaks as you rocker faster. “Instagram and Bluesky.”

“What about Twitter?”

You stop rocking and plant your feet on the carpet. “What’s this all about?”

“Do you have an account with Twitter?”

You lean forward and look at your cell phone, Two minutes and forty seconds. “I had a Twitter account, that I rarely used. When Mosquito bought it, it was crazy town. I attempted to close it, but my password wouldn’t work. So I said fuck it. Then I got a notification my account was frozen due to suspicious activity. I sent an email that I wanted to close the account.”

Agent Harvey glances at his watch. “So your account is still open?”

“No. It’s been suspended. And before you ask me why, I have no idea. I got an email stating my account was suspended for inauthentic behavior.”

Agent Jones raises his eyebrows.

Agent Harvey sits forward. “Did you make any physical threats to another subscriber?”

You laugh. “No.”

“Threats of violence against the government or a politician or political party?”

Your back straightens. “NO!”

“Do you still have the email?”

“Nope. I trashed it the same day it came.”

Agent Jones writes in the notepad. Without looking up he asks, “Do you remember the date?”

“Middle of June.”

You stand up. “So are we done here?”

“Do you know Maria Tambeen?”

You grab the armrests and ease your backside in the rocker. “Who?”

“Maria Tambeen.”

You glance over at your iPhone. How much battery does it have? “Never heard of her.”

Agent Harvey and Agent Jones exchange a glance.

“What about Substack?”

“What about it?”

“Maria Tambeen has an account on Substack.”

“Good for her.”

Agent Jones sits forward. He tapes the face of your iPhone. “We know you are Maria Tambeen. You opened your account on January 21, 2025. You have 111 subscribers. Two of your subscribers are Palestinians who have ties to Hamas.”

I snort.

“Did I say something funny?”

“Why is it anytime anyone who is Pro Palestinian and writes anything about the Genocide in Gaza and slams the Nazi Israeli government, they’re Hamas.” I sit back. “Total bullshit.”

“So you are Maria Tambeen?”

“No I am not Maria Tambeen.”

“Are you sure?”

“Like a heart attack.”

Agent Harvey opens his coat pocket and pulls a folded stack of papers. He set them on top of your iPhone.

Now what?

“You have sent six comments to the President beginning in February under six aliases, complete with names, addresses and telephone numbers. All emails are Tuta Mail addresses belonging to the account of Maria Tambeen.”

Son of a bitch.

Please take a look at them. Maybe they’ll refresh your memory.”

You pick up the papers and unfold them. You skim the email addresses, and street addresses and telephone numbers you found online. So much for anonymity.

You toss the papers on the coffee table. “These are comments, not threats.”

“Irrelevant. Now, for the last time are you Maria Tambeen? And I’d be very careful how you answer.”

You snatch your cellphone off the coffee table. You turn the recording off, hit video on the camera icon and point your iPhone at Agents Harvey and Jones. “Yes I am Maria Tambien. Not Tambeen. T A M B I E N. And yes, I sent those comments to The Don. I also write posts on the criminal organization known as the trump regime, fucking kkk Stephen Miller and ICE, the regime’s secret federal police who are kidnapping anyone brown that speaks Spanish. So fucking what. I can write whatever the fuck I want. It’s called Freedom of Speech and my constitutional right to write anything I fucking want or did the Supreme Court take that away too while nobody was looking?”

Agent Harvey and Agent Jones look at me unblinking.

“You G men have been pretty quiet back in D.C. But then again Director Kash has been flying back and forth to Los Wages to hang out with his squeeze so there hasn’t been time for investigating cybercrime and terrorism.”

Agent Harvey retrieves the papers and puts them in his inner coat pocket.

“So who did you boys piss off to get assigned to investigating social media accounts?”

The agents rise in unison. “We have our eyes on you.”

I open the front door. “Duly noted Agent Jones and Agent Harvey. Now go fuck yourselves and get the fuck out of my house.”