One of the more interesting things about LinkedIn is that it lets you know who is cyberstalking you. Facebook may never give up the details about the people trolling through your photos, but LinkedIn alerts you when someone peeks at your profile.

This is Frank W. He looked through my profile recently. I don’t know Frank W.:

Since I don’t know him, I’ve been making up a fake back story. I’m debating whether he has some sort of Super Mario thing going on: He unclogs your drains and rescues your royalty. Or perhaps he’s the guy who keeps the X-Men’s jet in prime operating condition. He could be a rogue NSA operator who’s about to rig an elevator with high explosives. Who can say?

Frank W. and his made-up family live an active double life (in my head). His (fictitious) wife, who’s an administrative assistant at the local grade school, has no idea he’s going to fly to Rekjavik today, disarm that dirty bomb and be home in time for Taco Tuesday. His (three, fake) children, one of whom had a couple of brushes with the juvenile authorities, judge him silently for what they think is his career in small appliance repair. They do not know he perfected and weaponized the flux capacitor, or that he is wracked with guilt for failing to slip the neurotoxin into Papa Doc’s mojito.

Fake Frank W. has played Texas Hold ‘Em with the pope, cornered the bauxite market seven years ago, is a master puppeteer and speaks flawless Urdu. He can temporarily blind you with a hearing aid battery. He volunteers at the local retirement village, where he keeps his Hattori Hanzo blade behind the sub-basement boiler.

He dislikes gophers.

So here’s to you, Fake Frank. I wish to thank you for your fictitious service. And best of luck in your upcoming ballroom dance competition.