There I was, knee-deep in hand grenade pins…

The smell of hot brass and questionable decisions lingered in the air. I’d been in some tight spots before — Balkan arms bazaars, West African coup d’états, a particularly treacherous dinner party in Georgetown — but none quite like this. It all started, as these things often do, with a misunderstanding involving a tribal chief, a defunct Russian tank, and a briefcase full of Bitcoin. The grenade pins were just a byproduct. A very loud, very smoky byproduct.

My name’s Fitzroy McLean. West Point grad, Army Ranger, former CIA spook, and once, briefly, the Assistant Deputy Undersecretary for Vaguely Defined Operations (we printed that on business cards just to confuse the French). I used to believe in the system — red, white, blue, and a side of apple pie. But then came a few questions. You know, like “why is the State Department trying to overthrow our allies?” or “is this considered ‘public nudity’ if the donkey’s also wearing a beret?”

That was the beginning of the end. Or the end of the beginning. Either way, I swapped black ops for ballot boxes and spent some time in politics. Which, as it turns out, makes covert operations look downright honest. After I realized I was essentially dressing up in a suit to lie to people legally, I made a quiet exit. Well — as quiet as a press conference with a bullhorn and a live goat could be.

I went back to school (Oxford — the Hogwarts of post-colonial finance) and then turned my attention to the chaotic charm of emerging markets. Africa. Eastern Europe. South America. The Middle East. If it was unstable, undervalued, and had a half-decent rum selection, I was there with a satellite phone and a suitcase. My fund did well. Thirty percent annually, in fact. Which is probably why a sovereign wealth fund swallowed it like a snake eating a smaller, more profitable snake.

These days, I split my time between libertarian think pieces, dodging extradition requests, and mapping out a small Pacific island where I intend to establish Fitzmcleanastan — a tax-free, bureaucracy-free, shirt-optional paradise for those who believe in freedom, capital gains, and really good grilled meat. If you’re reading this, consider it your invitation to the ground floor of the world’s most irresponsibly governed micro-nation. Visas will be issued once I figure out how to print them on cured leather.

Until then, I write. Not because I have to. But because after years of government secrecy, financial sorcery, and foreign policy lunacy, I figure someone should tell the truth — or at least embellish it in a way that makes it worth reading.

Stay tuned, stay skeptical, and for the love of liberty, never trust a man in a tie at a beach bar.

Yours in freedom,
Fitz
President (in exile), Fitzmcleanastan