Work out that pent up aggression with this core-focused workout that’s designed to let you really express that anger in a focused, constructive way.

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My gift to you. Enjoy with my sincerest thanks.

—

Eastern Iraq, 2017

Operational Detachment-Alpha…

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You can also just make the mocktail version (minus the booze) and it’s a great immunity booster due to the ginger and turmeric is a natural anti-inflammatory. Perfect way to start your day down at the Bullshit Factory.

This recipe makes a pitcher, it’ll stay good for about a week, just stir before serving.

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But I do it about 90% of the time I’m carrying. I’m not perfect.

In this article I’m going to explain what OBCC is, why I don’t recommend it (why it’s a bad idea), why I do it, and demonstrate some data I obtained at the range last week.

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It can be a little time consuming so feel free to make the sauce ahead of time (it’ll be good for a week or so, or freeze it, I don’t care, do what you want, I’m not a cop) and this is a MILD recipe. If you want to blow your fucking sensitive taste buds out, add more jalapeño seeds and ancho chilis.

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And because of that, his death a few years ago makes me think of the day he died and what was going on in my life at that time, which I’m going to talk about here in a sec.

Because it’s illustrative of why, if you’re considering joining the military (especially since the economy sucks and it’s only getting worse, and military service is a guaranteed paycheck), you should give it a second and maybe even, a third thought.

—

I was late in my career, shelved to a 3-star command staff, particularly the Future Operations planning cell. Where I worked is irrelevant, just know it was a clearing house for fat full-bird colonels too stubborn to retire and lower field grade officers waiting for their chance to take another command.

I hated it, and I hated my fellow officers: career-driven cut throats and backstabbers, spineless yes men ready to undermine their own familial relationships to kiss the ass of a lieutenant colonel if it meant that one day he might make general and be bothered to remember when this over-eager dipshit major stayed late to tweak a power point slide the commander might glance at for all of 5 seconds before pressing on.

I digress.

The annual two-week long table top staff exercise was coming up and I was hand-selected by my dick boss to “lead” our section through a bunch of meetings during a simulated campaign against an enemy that looked an awful lot like an amalgamation of Russia and Iran. I really did not want to participate in what was essentially an over-serious DnD campaign with tanks and howitzers on the board and not barbarians and rangers.

The first day of the simulation came. The start time was 5-fucking-am (or 0500 if you cut your hair like a state trooper) and I had been in my little planning cell for about four hours before coming up for air. Because the simulation was “totally top secret, guys” we couldn’t have our devices on us; my phone was locked in a little locker in the lobby of the building.

So, to the lobby I went, to refresh my coffee, get some air, and check my phone. I turned it on and had about a dozen missed calls from my dad, leading to one voicemail.

Never a good sign.

I listened to the voicemail. My father’s live-in girlfriend left the message. She had found my father dead just a few hours ago, in his favorite easy chair, cable news on the tv.

He died in the best way possible and for that I am forever grateful to the universe.

I was shocked, panicked. I vaguely remember calling my mom and telling her. I don’t remember putting my phone back into the locker. I remember sort of drifting back to my cell and finding my dick boss talking to his friend, another asshole LTC who hated my guts because I wore a Crye Precision uniform, not the bullshit ones you pull off the rack.

“My dad’s dead,” I remember telling him. “I need to go.”

What I remember clear as day was the look in his eyes. It was a look of “you’re fucking kidding me” and “fuck you.” Maybe a tinge of jealousy. I remember his response, clear as a bell, some four years later:

“You’re still gonna run the TTX, right?” he asked, completely serious.

I burst out laughing. The absurdity of the question! I forgot who I was talking to, not a human being with his own family, but a fucking robot in multicam. I was shocked, in a state of shock, and non-the-less shocked some more. I belly laughed directly into his face.

At this point in my career, I was out of fucks. I had long-read the writing on the wall. In the military, on the officer side at least, there are certain passive-aggressive indicators telling you when your time is nearly up; that you’re likely not going to be a successful colonel, let alone a general. I had been seeing exit signs on my career’s highway for a while, and had already made my decision to request a Release From Active Duty. I was essentially untouchable just as long as I didn’t piss hot on a drug screen or assault someone.

I came down from my laughter, wiped a tear from my eye. The other LTC, not my boss, was giving me a look like I was dogshit under his boot.

“No, I’m leaving,” I said to my boss. “I’m going to go bury my father.”

“What about the…” I gestured around us, dozens of eager bootlicking field grades and CPTs milling about.

“I’m sure someone can step up,” I said, turning away.

“But you can’t just leave,” he stammered.

“Then fire me, sir, or arrest me, or whatever you have to do, I’m going.” I recall saying, on the verge of actual tears of frustration at this point. I could feel myself starting to lose it.

I’m pretty sure he said something to my back, but now I was floating away again, towards the lobby, not really aware of my surroundings. I don’t remember the labyrinthine maze of offices, or scanning my CAC to move between compartments. I remember getting to my car and driving home, calling a friend, who had recently buried her dad. We commiserated.

About two or so hours later, while I was in the throes of booking a last-minute flight to Maine and coordinating with the funeral home who received my father’s body, my boss’s boss called me. He had a slightly lighter touch, which was more brick than bowling ball.

“Geez Jim, I’m so sorry, I just heard,” he started.

“Thank you sir, I’m really off my feet here,”

“Yeah, if there’s anything the shop can do, please let us know, ok?”

“Thank you sir,”

“I just wish you hadn’t left in such a hurry,” he starts. My gut does a backflip. “It’s not like, you know, you could do anything, the man’s dead.”

I hang up. It’s one of those moments I wish you could still slam down a receiver.

--

No one at my office, in my chain of command, really gave a shit about me or my family. The military pays a ton of lip service to the idea of “family” and “taking care of families” but where rubber meets road is a different story. The military as a whole is staffed through and through with middle managers who are determined to make red blocks turn green on whatever quarterly report they have to brief. The very last thing on their minds is the welfare of their service members, let alone their families.

Even now, today, you read stories of enlisted service members’ families being rolled up by ICE agents, who are on military installations, stalking service member families at the ID office.

So, again, if you’re considering joining the military today, because the economy sucks and you need to support your family, think again. You (and most importantly, your family) will be left high and dry.

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Thanks for reading! I hope you subscribe for more of my content. Subscribe for free, but tiers (with a bunch of extras!) start at $5/month! Support the content slop you love!

Also checkout my gear store on Infinite Armory! I’m selling some gently loved kit, always updating!

You’ll also need to buy or build a drag bag. This can be as simple has grabbing an old duffle bag and filling it with individual gallon ziplock bags filled with sand. Each bag should weigh roughly around 5lbs so it’s easy to add and subtract weight as necessary. Ziplock bags are around $5 for a box, some sand from Home Depot or whatever can be around $20.

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This recipe calls for a fat-washed bourbon (recipe here) and a black cherry shrub (recipe here). You can get by without the fat-washed bourbon and just use regular bourbon but you’ll need the shrub.

Get the shrub started NOW and this will be ready to serve at your Halloween party. The mocktail version just leaves the bourbon out and it’s actually pretty refreshing, so maybe the kids will enjoy it. I dunno, we don’t have kids; we’re the couple who keep the lights off on Halloween, so.

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I could go on, but you get the point.

I’m calling this new series “The Crumbling” where I’ll focus in on one industry or aspect of government and detail how the cracks are starting to show, explain how we got here, and what can be done about it. This week, we’re starting with the Federal Aviation Administration (FAA).

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And probably the best part? This is one of those recipes you can make well ahead of time and pop it in the fridge to bake later. A real mid-week knockout, for sure.

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“Sinners” is probably my favorite horror movie to come out in the last few years, I think I’ve watched it about a half dozen times, which says a lot, since I usually go years between movie rewatches.

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Also, for this article, I will be using industry-standard firearms terminology. The term “silencer” will be applied to what are conventionally known as “muzzle suppressors.” Hiram Maxim invented the silencer in 1890-something and it was patented as a “silencer.” I know this ruffles some internet experts’ feathers, but as someone who’s used them personally and professionally for over 20 years, and since this is my article, they will be referred to as “silencers.”

Fucking deal with it.

Also, for this, “NFA items” will refer to SBRs, SBSs, silencers, and “Any Other Weapons (a bureaucratic catch-all, think, those stupid “spy pens” that shoot a single .22) it’s just easier for me to write. Understand this doesnot include fully-automatic machine guns or explosive devices.

Background:

Ok this is going to get a little nuanced so bear with me.

Roughly (almost exactly actually) The 2^nd Amendment advocacy group Gun Owners of America (GOA) along with a number of US-based firearms industry heavy hitters, including SilencerCo, Palmetto State Armory and B&T USA – plus 15 individual states – sued the federal government over the National Firearms Act’s (NFA) restrictions on certain types of firearms (Short-barreled rifles, short-barreled shotguns and silencers).

When Congress passed the Big Beautiful Bill (BBB) in 2025, it fucked over a lot of Americans. But in there was this small chunk of red meat for gun owners: The BBB was going to do away with the $200 tax “stamp” required for individual NFA items, like the above mentioned SBRs, SBSs, and silencers.

This “tax” has been prohibitive and in the last few decades, kind of silly. When the NFA was passed in the 1930s, the point was to curb Chicago Mobsters and Bonnie & Clyde types from buying up fully automatic machine guns and dynamite sticks from local hardware stores. $200 in 1934 would be equivalent to about $5000 in spending power according to US Inflation Calculator-dot-com.

Today $200 barely fills up some dipshit’s oversized Dodge Ram.

And at the same time the BATFE had been quietly moving away from enforcement of frivolous federal gun laws. Mostly in part due to the BATFE’s federal budget being slashed to ribbons in order to pay for forever wars in the Middle East. But also because of “AR Braces.”

Around 2010, in a cheeky way to subvert the SBR rule (Any rifle barrel under 16” could not have a traditional rifle stock affixed to it without paying the tax). Companies like SB Tactical and Sig Sauer started bringing to market “braces” that toed the line of being a full blown stock. They were 100% in compliance with BATFE standards and did the same job as a rifle stock.

Under the Obama Administration, the BATFE tried to curb this trend by saying shooters must maintain a “pocket of air” between the end of the brace and the pectoral notch where the rifle butt would normally sit. But, who the fuck is checking for that.

And even Obama’s BATFE Director Steve Dettelbach wrote a white paper that was “total leaked” stating that the BATFE had more important things to do than chase down gun owners with AR braces.

There was a time, briefly, in 2018-19 where Congress considered forcing gun owners who purchased AR braces to “file” for tax stamps, as they considered making AR braces illegal, but conventional wisdom won out, because even congress can be right twice a day, not unlike a broken clock.

And that brings us to the BBB and GoA (et al)’s NFA lawsuit.

An Aside...

Last year around this time, GoA (et al) sued the federal government over the NFA, citing basically that without a tax stamp, enforcement of such items like SBRs, SBSs and silencers is unconstitutional. They should be treated like any other firearm purchase: subject to a standard background check.

And, if anyone reading this has ever spent time in Europe and their gun culture, silencers are especially de-regulated. A quick aside:

I’ve spent a lot of time in Eastern and Northern Europe where hunting and “defense of the homeland” are a big deal. I think a lot of Americans, when they think of “Europe” they’re really thinking of Western Europe, and particularly the Liberal-ish countries like The UK, France, Spain, Germany, etc.

But go east a little further, to the Balkans, the former Yugo Bloc countries, Baltics, Ukraine and you’ll quickly find that firearm ownership, especially silencer ownership, is fairly commonplace.

In Lithuania for instance, the Lithuanian Rifleman’s Union, a state-sponsored semi-organized militia, exists. Pushing past it’s problematic past, today if a Lithuanian wants all the Gucci kit they can afford, they simply need to sign up for the LRU. With good-standing membership, an LRU member can own just about anything and everything that’s commercially available.

Sporting good stores in Ukraine sell silencers over the counter. In many European countries, hunting without a silencer will get you fined by the game wardens.

When one of my Ukrainian partners came to the US as part of a training exchange, I brought him to our PX (like a mall, but on a military installation). We walked through the sporting goods section, where all the gun shit is, and he was gobsmacked that people can just buy standard capacity (30 rounds) magazines right off the rack. In Ukraine, that’s a controlled item, similar to silencers here in the US.

I won’t lie to you, when I was last in Ukraine, I was real tempted to buy a few cans and smuggle them back with my weapons case, but I ultimately did not. My luck has never been very good, and I would be that guy caught at the border by customs bringing in a bunch of illegal silencers.

The Lawsuit.

A federal judge in Texas (naturally) heard the GoA (et al) argument and agreed. It made zero sense for this restriction to be in place if it was no longer generating revenue for the federal government. And so the wheels started turning.

Who is BATFE Director Robert Cekada?

Earlier this year, BATFE Director Robert Cekada released “guidance” for the BATFE as he took over as director, and we’ll get into that in a second.

But first, let’s talk about the man. At the end of the day, he’s a fucking fed, and no one should trust him. However, unlike his predecessors, and many within the Trump administration, he was promoted from within.

Cekada spent the last few years as Deputy Director and before that a Special Agent in Charge of some of the biggest BATFE field offices in the country. Previous BATFE directors have been presidential appointments, similar to ambassadorships to Jamaica, where the nominated director has very little first-hand knowledge of the directorate and just gave the sitting president a ton of donation money.

But Cekada, working his way up from within, saw up close how fucking silly the BATFE’s pursuit of “laws” had been. It had been a distraction, he said, and only looked to “punish” lawful gunowners. He saw a vision of the BATFE reallocating its resources to go after actual criminal elements, not some dipshit who didn’t fill out the right form the right way before taking a silencer across a state line for a PRS match.

Cekada’s New BATFE Guidance.

In the Spring of 2025, BATFE Director Robert Cekada issued new “guidance” on some longstanding trouble spots for most lawful gunowners here in the US. I wrote a comprehensive Explainer about it on my Instagram and you can check it out here if you want more information.

But in this guidance, Cekada made clear that the BATFE was spending too much resources on chasing after petty, bureaucratic nuanced federal gun laws that really only punished lawful gun owners.

He also acknowledged that many of the “laws” were unenforceable. For instance, a lawful gun owner traveling across country with their firearm (properly secured) who wanted to stop and get gas and take a piss, would be in violation of a federal law. The law stated that you had to keep moving if you were transferring a firearm across state lines.

If Old Joe stopped to take a piss, did that mean some fucking fed would have to be there to go through his shit to find a firearm that was properly secured anyway? Would Old Joe declare that shit, really? He just needs to piss. Taking a piss shouldn’t involve federal forms.

That and other new guidance came down and many long-suffering gunowners could finally exhale. There was a new dawn rising for American gunowners.

The October 9 Open Letter and What it Means.

So back to the top. On October 9^th of this year, BATFE Director Robert Cekada finally issued guidance on NFA items going forward, as it pertained to the GoA (et al) federal lawsuit.

In the letter, he makes five points:

1. The BATFE will still tax the manufacturers and sellers of NFA items. This means, those taxes will likely be passed on to the buyer. These NFA items will likely go up in price.

2. As stated just above, this new guidance does not extend to MGs or “destructive devices” aka, explosives. Those are still subject to stamps and taxes.

3. The new guidance on NFA items does not supersede the guidance within the 1968 Gun Control Act, and it’s “prohibited persons” clause, which includes convicted felons, persons of less-than-legal immigration status, etc.

4. The new guidance does not change the fact that you should still be filling out a BATFE Form 20 for the transportation and sale of NFA items. However, in the letter Cekada says the BATFE is working on changing this, so more to follow.

5. The new BATFE guidance does not supersede State and Local laws governing NFA items. So if you live in a state that has previously made NFA items illegal to possess (like, say, New York) you still can’t possess one.

So what does all this mean?

So, to paint broadly, NFA items can now be purchased over the counter by filling out the standard Form 4473, the same form for firearms purchases. Sorta. Mostly. Kinda. Depending on what state you live in and your ability to pass a background check.

But it’s huge news! No more finger printing, no more Form 4s (the BATFE states in this open letter than it will still process the necessary forms like Form 1, Form 4, but it’s strictly voluntary, so, fucking, why would you?) no more awkward phone calls to your dipshit Sheriff’s Office. You can just go to your local gun store and buy a can off the shelf. Just fill out the 4473 like you would if you were purchasing any other firearm.

Providing you live in the right state, of course.

As of writing, 27 states (“Free States”) will allow a purchaser to buy an NFA item via Form 4473, and these states are: Alabama, Alaska, Arizona, Arkansas, Florida, George, Idaho, Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, Kentucky, Louisiana, Maine, Mississippi, Nebraska, Nevada, NH, New Mexico, North Carolina, Ohio, Oklahoma, South Carolina, South Dakota, Tenessee, Texas, Utah, Virgina, Washington, WV, Wisconsin, and Wyoming.

Nine states are “banned” states, which there will likely never be a straight forward path to NFA item ownership. These states include: California, Delaware, Hawaii, Illinois, MA, New Jersey, New York, Rhode Island and Washington, DC.

The remaining 14 states are in a kind of limbo. These are called “Conditional States” and local laws vary.

Regardless of where you live, it is incumbent upon you to understand the laws on NFA ownership. Talk to a guy behind the counter at your local gun store or do some intense googling to find out for sure.

And remember, a 3D printer is like, the same price as a pretty decent can. Just saying.

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Thanks for reading! I hope you subscribe for more of my content. Subscribe for free, but tiers (with a bunch of extras!) start at $5/month! Support the content slop you love!

Also checkout my gear store on Infinite Armory! I’m selling some gently loved kit, always updating!

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Farltlek is a Swedish word that translates roughly to “speed play.” It’s a great way to build your cardio endurance. For this workout we’ll mix in some hill work too, so you’ll need access to a track and if the hill is nearby all the better. You can substitute stairs for hill work, just don’t forget to lift your knees.

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I recently read an article from a fellow substacker - whom I respect – about carrying a gun. More to the point, not carrying a gun.

This writer has a huge following and centers a lot of their content around “prepping” the practice of “preparing” for the worst eventual outcomes as our western civilization crumbles then collapses all around us.

What I like about this writer’s takes is they’re grounded in reality. A lot of the “prepper” community takes their cues from Hollywood: You need a hazmat suit and 100,000 rounds of ammunition, and a cabin off the grid, etc etc. And check it out: I’ve literally been to places just like this.

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A little aside, if you will…

In my last few months with 10^th Special Forces Group, I was put in charge of setting up a big training exercise in Alaska, and a smaller “prep” exercise in Montana. Montana was picked because it was going to be winter, which would be close to the conditions our teams were going to face in Alaska in the Spring, and there’s a network of retired former SOF operators living out there.

One such guy, let’s call him Bill, was a former 18C, or “construction specialist.” Without going too far down a rabbit hole that is already an aside, Special Forces tactical teams, often referred to as Operational Detachments, or “OD-As” have a number of specialized operators manning the team. Once such specialization is “construction.” But honestly, it’s more like “destruction.” But whatever.

Bill was an 18C and when he hung up his green beret in the late 90s, he bought a little land in Montana. Then 9/11 kicked off the GWOT, and because Bill was Bill and Bill knew a bunch of spooky guys from Langley, VA, he got to do some contracting in Iraq. This made Bill insanely rich.

Pulling up to Bill’s cabin, out in some remote, windswept chunk of Montana, was an experience. Of course, we were riding around in a blacked out Chevy Suburban because the clown 18B I was traveling with thought it was “cool.” As a Civil Affairs guy (a master of the Human Domain™) I had a feeling this would backfire on us and be problematic. And boy-howdy, was I right.

Bill had sent us a message over Signal to meet at his “Cabin #1” which he was happy to give us MGRS coordinates for. It led us to the base of a small mountain with a winding dirt road that terminated at a steel gate, and about 200 yards to the cabin itself.

Bill is king of the mountain, for real. The cabin is humble, cedar shingled, one-story, and no more than 1000 square feet. Big wrap-around porch and 360 degrees of views to the valley below where Bill’s main house is.

There’s no intercom at the gate, so we’re just sitting there like assholes, waiting for Bill to open up for us. After a few minutes, the gate swings open and we pull up the last little bit of driveway, when Bill steps out on to his porch, a micro uzi at his side.

“Ah shit,” I curse and hop out of the passenger side of the big, black, government-ass-looking-ass-truck. I wave my hands over my head, palms out. “Bill? I’m CPT Jim, we texted earlier? On Signal?”

Bill contemplates me. Or maybe he’s contemplating perforating me, the truck, the idiot 18B driver, in that order. Then a big smile spreads across his weathered face.

“Ah hell, c’mon in Jim!” He yells and waves us in.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Bill, clad in cowboy couture, offers us coffee (it was really good) and pie his wife made (also really good). We discuss the exercise and how he might be able to help. Bill then starts talking about prepping and how at his main house, he has enough supplies to be self-sufficient for “10 years or more” he claims.

We walk to the back side of the cabin, where the porch looks directly down to his main property. Bill’s house sits on 1500 acres, has a fresh water creek that cuts through less than a mile from his back door, something-like 800 heads of cattle, more chickens than he has ever bothered to count, goats, horses, you name it. A bunch of earth-moving equipment and a fucking helicopter.

He invites us down for dinner the next night, to meet his wife.

I’ll wrap this up, because I’m getting close to the point but there’s a few other things I want to mentioned about how surreal this shit was.

The next night we come back, with a few other planners and have dinner with Bill and his wife, who made us some damn tasty steaks and baked potatoes, all harvested from the property.

Bill’s living room is adorned in dozens of hunting trophies. In his “real retirement” as he calls it, he does guided hunts through the nearby mountains. “Cabin #1” is the first in a series of hunting cabins he maintains on his expansive property. He also mentions that he has “bug out routes” to each one memorized. I believe him.

Looking around his living room, I take in two things: 1) a framed picture of himself and Donald Trump Jr. kneeling over a large dead animal and 2) the Glock 40 dangling close to my head, in a leather shoulder holster, hung on a coat hook.

I glance up at it, looking down the mineshaft that is its barrel.

“That’s a helluva pistol,” I remark.

“Hah, yeah, I use that for mountain lions, bears, and DEMOCRATS HAHAHAHAHAH” He cackles. I smile in a toothy way as if to convince him I’m on the team, so I don’t end up disappeared among the 1500 acres later in the evening.

(For what it’s worth, I was a registered Independent at the time)

Bill takes us to his cellar, which he calls his “operations center.” It’s essentially a bunker, like you’d see in a Hollywood depiction of how preppers behave, but instead of guns mounted to the walls and barrels of bullets spilling everywhere (and don’t get it fucked up, there certainly was that, including what I assumed was a fully functioning, fully automatic M240 MG) but he had barrels of grain, tightly sealed. Drinking water. Non-potable water clearly marked. Home-canning products and preserves lining shelves. Generators, not plugged in, but looking well-maintained. Workout equipment, tools, spare cots (the army kind that squeak whenever someone laying on it moves), all the things one would need to survive.

Bill goes on: “We’re 99.5% off the grid here. The only thing connecting us to the real world is our cable. I need my Fox News,” he chuckles. He explains that even his internet is satellite and is happy to show us the antenna in the back. I ask about fuel for the generators and Bill explains he has several 500gal fuel tanks buried around the house and accessing them only takes a few minutes with one of the earth moving machines out front.

Bill is a real prepper.

So all the to say, preppers exist and the ones doing it right, are the ones with the resources to do so. I don’t think Bill is a target, and if he was, he’d likely be able to handle that shit just fine. As it pertains to our first meeting, with the blacked out Suburban, Bill confided: “I had you guys on camera about a mile out anyway, if you were bad guys, you wouldn’t have made it up the hill alive.”

Oh, Bill.

So, back to it…

This writer, their thesis was: in a prepper or bug out situation, a firearm is a liability. Having one is asking for trouble.

I don’t disagree, but I also don’t agree fully and I’ll explain why.

If you took all the gun owners in America, the majority have never used their firearms in a hunting or (definitely) a combat scenario. Most take their gun to the range once a year (if) and shoot some holes in paper and box it up, never to see the light of day again until the next year.

And that’s fine (clean your fucking gun).

So, I can see the argument that in a bug out situation, a gun may create more problems than solve.

I’ve been carrying a firearm both personally and professionally for close to 30 years. It comes with a fuck-ton of responsibility. You have to maintain such a heightened sense of situational awareness at all times, it can be exhausting – mentally and physically. Carrying a gun is not comfortable, and nor should it be. You should never be comfortable while carrying a gun, because comfort breeds complacency and that’s how you end up zeroed.

And most bug out/collapse/prepper situations do not require a firearm, honestly. The United States will never balkanize, there will be no “Civil War 2.” Not in the kinetic sense at least. The types of people who believe that are the types who just want an excuse to kill their neighbors and take their shit in an “ethical” way.

The greater threat, truly, is an environmental disaster of some sort, forcing people to displace en masse. If you’re caught in flash flooding, a massive hurricane that causes mudslides that wipe out half your community (I’m thinking 2024 Asheville, NC) and have only minutes to evac the area, are you really going to take on the extra weight of an AR15 and a combat load in a Haley recce rig? Will you even have time to run and get that silly shit?

No, probably not. You might have just enough time to grab a Bug Out Bag (BOB) that you’ve hopefully pre-staged.

But, for people like me, who shoot multiple times a year, competitive and for qualifications, the firearm might be something I pre-stage with my BOB if think there’s a reason to. My decades in the military have given me not only a training advantage, but a planning advantage.

But bugging out with a visible firearm does create potentially dangerous situations: you could very well shoot yourself on accident (it happens, even to the most seasoned veteran or professional whatever) and carrying a firearm in the open tells people that you must have something worth stealing.

I won’t get into the nuances of bugging out, that’s a post for another time, but what I will say is: make your plans based on your honest-to-god abilities. If you’re not confident with a firearm, OK! That’s fine, own it, or, change it. Get out there, get more training, take the guns out more than once a year.

Here’s some other defense options you can look into, graded by me, based on my anecdotal experience with each.

The Knife:

Pros: The knife is great because a quality knife has many uses besides defense: It can pry things open, it can signal across great distances in daylight, it can help start fires, it CUTS THINGS! Knives are fast, deadly, and very quiet, require no ammunition or reloading, unlike firearms.

Cons: A knife as a defensive option as a sharp (pun intended) learning curve however. Many practitioners of knife fighting spend years honing (pun intended) their skills, and even then, shit can go south in a knife fight real quick. And like a gun, they require constant positive control and training. You have to respect carrying a knife, like you would a firearm.

The knife’s biggest disadvantage is it’s a close-range weapon. You’ll have to be in the fight of your life to get the most out of it. I tend to tell folks I give training insight to, to use the knife as a tertiary option.

Overall grade: B-

Brazilian Jiu Jitsu:

Pros: Brazilian Jiu Jitsu (BJJ) teaches folks to be calm when at a disadvantage, control oneself when uncomfortable, and make tactical decisions when things look bad – and there’s the joint and limb control/manipulation aspect as well. Most fights go to the ground. No one ever gets one-shotted punched out, really. In most street fights, it turns into grabbing and pushing and both parties on the ground.

I’ve been doing BJJ off and on for almost three years. I’m a long-standing blue belt, which is not at all a master of the technique. But you don’t need to be.

Even a new-ish white belt, someone who’s maybe taken a month of classes, can mop the floor with your average idiot on the street with no training. Because again – the white belt knows breath control, how to think under pressure, and a few very basic techniques.

BJJ requires almost no tools (you can literally choke someone out with their own shirt collar, trust me), just some steady maintenance.

I’d also like to throw (pun intended) in a shoutout to judo as well. Learning to use your opponent’s weight and momentum is foundational for BJJ anyway, and tossing a motherfucker to the ground, from hip-height even, will end just about 99% of all fights.

Cons: The biggest drawback to BJJ is the close proximity that’s required for it to be effective, and, of course, if your attacker has a gun or knife, you’re better off using your cardio to run away or get to cover. BJJ is purely a last line of defense.

Grade: A-

Pepper Spray:

Pros: Getting pepper-sprayed sucks, trust me. For most folks, a direct blast in the eyes and nose will shut down their will to fight in pretty short order. I think I’ve been sprayed at least a dozen times in my life, from training to actual deployment (more on that in a sec).

Pepper spray differs from “mace” because it uses an organic pepper oil and not chemical. Just in case you care about whether or not your attacker is vegan or not.

Cons: Pepper spray doesn’t work great in high humidity or wet conditions, or obviously in high winds. You also can suffer from “over spray” which is when you spray your target but some of the OC comes back on to you, rendering you combat ineffective as well (which is what happened to me one time, when some dipshit cop I was working with sprayed a guy I was standing right next to).

OC spray works fine if your attacker is at a distance of about 20’, standing perfectly still and unarmed. Otherwise, avoid this defensive measure or only use it if your other options are limited.

Grade: C –

Pepper Ball Guns:

Pros: A lot of police departments have switched to pepper ball guns for “riot control” and being able to engage neutralized threats at further distances, keeping more people “safe.”

Kinda like OC/pepper spray, Pepper Ball guns take the spray to another level: you get more stand off and are less affected by the elements. Imagine if a paintball gunshot little paintballs of highly condensed pepper spray? That’s a pepper ball gun.

Cons: The issues with pepper ball guns is they require CO2 charges, they can foul fairly easily and the rounds themselves sometimes fail to break on contact, not dispersing their chemical agent.

So you basically just shoot a guy with a rock, who’s probably already pissed at you, and don’t kill them? Solid work.

If you do decide to invest in a pepper ball gun, avoid the ones marketed at you via social media or from sketchy websites, these tend to break fairly easily because they’re cheap junk manufactured to never really be used.

Grade: D+

Tasers:

Pros: The X26 is very ok, and can incapacitate a large person fairly effectively (trust me, I know first-hand). If deployed correctly, you basically “hit a switch” on someone, causing their muscles to quickly contract, freezing them in place and causing them intense pain.

It’s not fun.

For this, we’re going to talk about the X26 Axon “Taser,” you know, the one that shoots the electrified prongs out of a cartridge? The ones the cops use? Not the little handheld ones your grandma likes to keep in her purse.

Cons: However, tasers have their faults as well. One is the limited range of the prongs, which if I remember from taser training 20 fucking years ago, it’s like 30 feet? So, pretty close. Also, you need both prongs to impact the target’s skin, meaning the taser is far less effective in colder climates, where people wear layers or heavy coats.

Once the prongs are in, hoo-boy are they in. You often need a paramedic or a doc to cut them out, they can be nasty.

Grade: B

Bow and Arrow:

Pros: Broadheads are nasty business and can be highly lethal on soft targets. Plus you get about 100 yards of stand off between you and your threat. On top of all that, bows are very quiet, quieter than silenced rifles at least. Imagine picking off threats from a tree harness, the psychological effect that would have on a band of raiders? Ammunition can also often be reused. You may lose a broadhead but shafts are generally multi-use. Also, patrolling your property with a bow looks like you’re simply stalking deer.

Cons: Bows do take a higher level of skill and maintenance, comparable to firearms. Many styles of bows exist, and like firearms, if one thing goes wrong with your compound bow’s pulley system, you’re fucked. And while broadheads can be highly lethal, ballistically they’re not the same as a bullet. Wound channeling and hypovolemic shock (what kills most people from gunfire) are reduced in living threats. You basically have to have excellent precision aim, which can be hard to do in stressful situations, especially under fire. Capacity is another issue for bows. Most riser-mounted quivers can hold 5-6 shafts. You have the same ammunition capacity as a revolver.

Grade: A- / B+

The Baseball Bat:

Pros: A tried-and-true defensive weapon, the baseball bat comes in a few different varieties. For this, I’m recommending the aluminum bat. Most wooden bats last about 25-50 hard swings, and you’re not trying to hit home runs at the park, are you. The bat requires no ammunition and are relatively cheap (while, pro-level bats can run as high as hundreds of dollars, you don’t need that for something you’re going to use to maybe bash someone’s head in).

Cons: While the require no ammunition, the “ammunition” in this case will be your cardio and body’s ability to keep swinging. Also, fairly limited range is the bat and it’s not great in tight quarters. And because the bat is only going to move as fast as the wielder can swing it, it is susceptible to capture by the threat.

Grade: C+

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She stared at the door in the low light; the tv casting a grey glow over everything in the shitty motel room. Shadows bopped up and down across the walls. The flickering neon sign in the parking lot seemed to shimmy and pop every time the wind picked up and road dust pepper the single pane window.

The knock came again, this time a little harder, but not so hard it would wake anyone up in an adjacent room, if anyone else was there. This was a fairly desolate location, on purpose, for the reasons she was here.

And the knock did not sound like a cop. Cops knock like they’re trying to take down the door. And there was no shouting. Could this be the contact? She glanced down at the shitty, chipped, uneven, probably-cum-splattered bedside table, to the kitchen knife she swiped from work. It was the best she could do on such short notice, which was crazy since this was the 5^th District of the Unified Confederated States of America, what used to be taught in schools as a suburn of Dallas, Texas, America. They practically give guns away here.

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Grace snatched up the knife and slipped it into the front pocket of her sweatshirt. She went to the window and popped the curtain just enough to see to the door. Another knock came, as strong as the last one, and she jumped a little since she was so close to the door.

It was dark but she could make out a large figure, a man, standing just off the door frame, he was alone.

She unlatched the door and opened it a crack.

The door did not fly open, hell, Grace thought, it seemed to barely open at all. The large figure, bearded, muscled-but-a-little-passed-his-prime, dark baseball cap, workman’s jacket, combat pants with the knee pads sewn in, preternaturally slipped inside the shitty motel room. He had in his hand a black box with a blade antenna on it. He locked eyes with Grace and put a gloved finger to his lips. She nodded and stood back.

He pocketed the black box and drew a large frame pistol from a holster on his right hip and swept through the room to the bathroom in the back. When satisfied that no one else was in the room with them, he nodded to Grace.

“On Wednesdays we wear…” he lifted his eyebrows.

Grace was caught off guard for a moment but remember the challenge and pass phrase.

“Stay green, stay in the woods, stay safe,” she replied with the Karl Pilkington quote. The large man nodded and turned back to the door. He produced a small flashlight from his other pocket and fired off three flashes into the parking lot. He closed the door but did not lock it.

“Go ahead and have a seat, would you?” He nodded at the bed.

Grace sat down and drew the knife from her sweatshirt pocket. The large man, who was standing at the door caught it in the corner of his eye and smiled, but said nothing. After a long two beats, he pulled the door open and in walked a woman in her mid-50s.

She was also dressed in work clothes: an oiled canvas hooded jacket, cargo pants, a drop leg holster Grace had seen cops wear. She also had a large frame pistol in it. Her hair, grey, pulled back into a pony tail routed through the back of a tan baseball cap.

The large man shut the door and locked it. The woman sat across from Grace on the other bed, she smiled.

“Grace? My name is Marie. This is Ronan. We’re gonna get you out of here.”

--

Marie explained how it worked. They were going to drive 18 hours straight from this wind-swept shithole town in the middle of nowhere East Texas, to Denver, Colorado, without making many, if any, stops. They had comfort items in the car to help out.

“You ever use a she-wee?” Marie had asked. She explained it was a device that would let Grace pee into a bottle.

Ronan explained they had food, water, and fuel to make the trip. The car, a 2034 Dodge Challenger, was fast and retrofitted with an additional gas tank to make up for the extra weight the armor generated.

“Uh,” Grace started. “Armor?”

“The car has armored panels that are rated for high velocity rifle rounds, but don’t worry, we’ve never had a reason to test them,” he smiled knowingly through his beard.

Marie went on to explain they were both healthcare professionals, she had been a doctor for the last 30 years, he was a trauma and emergency nurse for the last 15, a Special Forces medic before that. They had made this trip over 200 hundred times over the years and were confident they’d do another 200.

Marie handed over a large manilla envelope that was taped shut.

“You can use that knife to open it,” joked Ronan. Grace did exactly that.

Inside was a trove of documents and a contact lens case. She set the contacts aside for the moment and poured over the documents. A battered driver’s license that had her picture but a completely different name, date of birth, and address. A UCSA passport with a small number of stamps into the Federated Territories. And then there was the tiny plastic vial.

She held the vial up to the lamplight (which Marie insisted they turn on). Inside was what looked like a small piece of pencil lead, straight from a mechanical pencil. But Grace knew what it was.

“You guys really thought of everything,” she said, looking up.

“Like we said, we’ve been doing this for a while,” Marie said, smiling. She had the warmth of a mother. Even Ronan, with his gruff exterior and Special Forces background projected an aura more of a protective father than grizzled operator.

“If you guys managed to get this stuff here, why not just smuggle in mifepristone?” Grace asked, flipping the vial around in her palm. Ronan barked a laugh and leaned back on the bed, to his elbows.

“Shit, we get caught with this shit,” he nodded at the paperwork, “maybe, maybe we do 12 months, and that’s not likely. Our lawyers across the border will make a deal for some sort of exchange. Some piece of shit confederate terrorist will get let go, we’ll get let go, and it’s back to business.”

“If we’re caught with the abortion pill,” Marie continued, “that’s a mandatory life sentence, according to the 2029 Accords.”

“If they don’t outright execute us on the side of the road and dump our bodies into a ditch,” Ronan finished, looking up at the water-stained ceiling.

Grace nodded.

“Ok, so what are we waiting for?”

“Nothing, I’ll go bring the car up to the door, Marie here will help you with the SID and contacts, is that all your stuff?” he nodded at a small duffle bag on the floor.

“Uh, yeah, I was told to pack light,” Grace said.

“You were told right, ok, on you,” he nodded at Marie who stood up with him. Ronan pulled the small antennaed box from his pocket, twisted a nob, studied it for a moment and set out the door into the parking lot. The wind whipped up at the moment and he grabbed for his hat. Marie motioned for Grace to go to the bathroom.

Grace sat on the toilet lid and leaned forward, bracing her elbows on her knees, sweeping her long brown hair over her shoulder and exposing the back of her neck.

“Ok, first, we kill the old SID,” explained Marie. She produced a handheld device, roughly the shape of a pen with a pulsing blue light. She ran it a few times across the back of Grace’s neck. Once satisfied, she produced her mobile device, pulled up an app and clicked around for a few seconds.

“Alright, the old SID has been uploaded to a construct. It’ll produce a signal that still shows it’s on, so no one will be the wiser,” she explained. Grace nodded. “Ok, now for the shitty part, I’m sorry. Try to hold still, I only get one shot at this, ok?”

Grace affirmed, stopping short of nodding her head. Marie pulled out an auto injector, loaded the plastic viral with the cloned Subdermal Identification Device, and clicked off the safety. There was a tiny electronic whirr as the injector powered itself on.

“Ok, hold still,” Marie said, palpating the back of Grace’s C-spine, looking for the disc space between C3 and C4. She held her finger to it, then pressed the autoinjector over that spot.

“Ok, deep breath in, and on three let it-” and she fired the autoinjector. The SID rammed home into the vertebrae disc and immediately started sending a signal.

“Fuck!” Grace yelped.

“I know, I’m sorry,” Marie said, packing up the tools.

“I thought you were going to count to three or something,” she rubbed the back of her neck and checked her hand for blood. It had felt like someone had taken a hot iron bar and beat her on the back of the head.

“I know, but I found that if I count to three, people will wince, so I just, you know, send it,” Marie shrugged. She handed over the contact lens case.

“You ever wear contacts?” she asked.

“No, actually,” Grace confessed. Ronan walked back in.

“We good?” He asked.

“Yeah just gotta do the contacts and we can go,” Marie said. Ronan huffed and walked back out.

“Ok, these are a little different,” Marie explained. “These will dissolve into your eyes, they will have bio markers for any scanners, good for up to 48 hours, ok? So they won’t show up as contact lenses if under scrutiny, but the other side of the coin is, they go in once and once they do, the clock starts ticking, ok?”

“Ok,” Grace said. She was 20 years old, not an idiot.

But then again, that’s how she got in this mess.

--

She was a member of her local congregation’s choir. The Global United Church of Christ was part of the elaborate Southern Baptist Conference network. Her voice stood out and she was often selected for solo performances by the choir director, who was also the daughter of the church’s lead pastor and president, Dr. Jerimiah May.

When Grace turned 17, Dr. May started taking notice of her. He would come to choir rehearsals and sit in the back. He would talk with the choir as a whole, but always seem to gravitate towards Grace. Soon, Grace was being invited to Dr. May’s office. First with the choir director, but then on her own.

Then Dr. May started messaging her, not from his official account, but from a burner account. Grace thought that was odd.

Dr. May started confessing things to Grace, how he was tempted by “demons” and how he had enemies around every corner, both mortal men and Satan’s soldiers, as he put it. Despite his heavy security detail of up-armored ex-Special Forces guys, he said he was scared he might die at any time. And that’s why it was important for him to plant as many seeds as possible, to carry on God’s Work™.

Grace had taken this all at face value, although she did wonder why he was coming to her with all of this, and not his wife. When she asked him about her, he would get visibly upset and accuse Grace of Demonhood.

This went on for two and a half years. Grace would have boyfriends, good men from the church, but after a date or two, they would stop calling. She suspected Dr. May had something to do with it.

When she finally got engaged, Dr. May became apoplectic. He cursed her, threatened to throw her and her family out of the church.

The church was all they had! It was all their relationships. It provided her mother, father and brother employment. Without the church, they’d have nothing.

She begged Dr. May to calm down, to reconsider. He said the only way to make him maybe change his mind, was if Grace had dinner with him.

That made her uncomfortable, but she did not feel she had much of a choice.

Dr. May sent her instructions. She was to report at 8pm at an address well outside of town, past the sprawling golf courses the church owned, passed the regional airport the pastor kept his private planes, and well past the jurisdiction of the church’s police force. She drove for two hours to reach this hideaway ranch.

When she arrived, she was whisked away by staff to a private bedroom, where she was told to get dressed in the clothing provided. Grace suddenly felt ill. In the dress bag was a very revealing, tight red dress, with a slit cut high up the side. And that’s not all: there was red lingerie, and a chrome, jeweled, heart-shaped object she had never seen before.

She had never worn any of these things before. She asked for help from a female member of the staff. The staff member was maybe just a little bit older than she was, and just as seemingly frightened.

“You need to hurry up, Dr. May doesn’t like to be kept waiting, nor his guests,” the staff member said as she helped Grace get the get up on. Grace held up the chrome, jeweled object.

“What is this?” She asked. The staff member sighed.

“That goes in your backside,” she explained, her face devoid of emotion.

“Excuse me?” Grace’s eyes nearly fell out of her head. She couldn’t help but laugh. She had never considered anything going in her backside, things only ever came out.

“I’m not kidding, it goes up there, and you better have it on, or, in, I guess.” The staff member rooted around in a drawer and produced a small bottle of clear lubricant. “It works better if you use this, use the bathroom,” and she nodded to the door opposite the beds.

Grace took the plug and tube to the bathroom and hiked up the dress before sitting down. With all the lingerie on, she had no clue how she was going to get this thing inside of her. She was a virgin, she had no clue how any of this worked.

Which wasn’t true, she had a very basic understanding, or concept of procreation, but none of it involved sticking a trailer hitch up her asshole.

After five frustrating minutes she emerged, feeling full, her makeup running down her cheeks in globs. What was she doing?

The staff member cleaned her up and quickly reapplied some makeup and escorted her to the dining room.

Dr. May was there, in a dress shirt, unbuttoned at the top, sitting beside him was another older man, who looked somewhat important, in a tie. They both ate ribs, covered in brown sauce.

“Finally, took you long enough, Jesus,” Dr. May said, between bites. With a rib bone he motioned for Grace to sit opposite the other man, across the table.

“Grace, this is Senator Thomason, he’s a dear friend of mine, and I would like you to entertain him this evening, after dinner. He’s a very important friend, so you will do whatever he asks, without complaint.” He chewed, never once looking at Grace as he addressed her.

Grace’s mouth hung open. She knew exactly what was happening, but chose not to believe it.

“Dr. May, I-” he cut her off.

“I don’t think talking is on the menu for the Senator tonight, Grace, you just shut up and look pretty,” he turned to the Senator, who had BBQ sauce all around his mouth. “She’s got a wonderful voice, but it’s for singing, not for yapping,” and they both laughed.

A server brought over a small silver tray and set it between the doctor and senator. On it were two blue, diamond-shaped pills. Each picked one up and chased it down with wine.

After that it was a blur. Grace, who had never consumed alcohol before had two large glasses of wine while sitting there listening to these two powerful men talk business. Eventually the senator and Dr. May got up and Grace was forced to follow.

“You let me know if you need anything, Senator,” Dr. May said with a wink, and departed.

The senator was rough, selfish, but at least quick. Grace took it with her face jammed into a pillow. She held back tears, somehow knowing if she cried out, it would only get worse for her.

When he was done, she was alone for a short while. She wiped her nose with her arm. She wanted the plug out of her. She wanted a shower. She wanted to go home. She had a feeling she would get none of that.

The door opened, Dr. May stood in the frame, undoing his trousers.

“You’re not off the clock yet, missy,” he said to her.

Unfortunately for Grace, he lasted longer than the senator. So long, in fact, the senator was ready for another round before Dr. May was finished. And Dr. May didn’t seem to mind if the senator got an early start.

“There’s two ends for a reason, Senator!” he called out.

--

It was three weeks later Grace knew things were wrong, and quickly spiraling out of control. Her mens was late. She was due for it the week after the night at Dr. May’s hideaway ranch. She had always been regular, you could almost set a watch to it. Over the last seven years she had never been more than a day off on her cycle, now she was more than a week.

Instinctively she lied on her menstruation charting app, knowing that if she entered a late date, she would come under some scrutiny, since the UCSA monitored it.

The UCSA had banned commercial over the counter pregnancy tests as well, which meant Grace would have to get a doctor’s appointment to have a lab test done. Having an official lab test would put her on the local government’s radar. She would be tracked until she gave birth, and since the father was either a current UCSA senator or the pastor of her mega church, she was likely to be killed in the interim.

Her mind flashed back to a hushed story between kitchen workers, about how Dr. May kept a mistress some years ago, but when he got her pregnant, she was found dead, of an apparent suicide. Her family was then excommunicated from the church for a “mortal sin.”

Grace had one friend she could confide in, they’d known each other since childhood and had gotten each other out of (and sometimes in to) trouble. She would go talk to Danielle.

She messaged her and they met up at a nearby park between their housing units. Danielle was a few years older than Grace, married, but very active in the church, despite her misgivings for the May family. Her husband was a youth minister on the rise, which lent itself to certain privileges.

“I need a pregnancy test,” Grace whispered, as the two women sat on a bench. Danielle’s oldest, a boy named Peter, played in a sandbox a few yards away. Her youngest remained in the stroller just to the side of the bench.

Danielle choked on her iced coffee.

“Congratulations!” She said and went in for a hug. Grace put an arm up to block her.

“Not really,” she started, her voice low. Danielle read her face.

“It’s not Mark’s, is it?” She asked.

“No,”

“Jesus, Grace,” Danielle’s eyes flitted to the Flock camera that stood sentinel over the playground. “Whose?”

“I can’t say,” Grace wouldn’t make eye contact. She found a spot on the ground that held her focus. The trauma of that night still fresh, still gnawing at her insides.

“Fuck,” Danielle said. “I don’t know, I don’t know why you’d come to me with this, Gracey,” Danielle breathed out, her skin was breaking out in a cold sweat. These days, even talking about an unwanted pregnancy was enough to bring the Congregational Police Investigative Division on you. Danielle was very much right to believe she may be in the middle of a sting operation.

“I just need to know, I’m over a week late and I’m never, ever this late. Maybe a day late, if ever, and that’s rare.” Grace tried to explain. Danielle stood up.

“Petey come on, we gotta go,” The boy whined and threw a plastic shovel down into the sand. Danielle made her way over to him and scooped him up, bringing him back to the bench and seating him in the stroller next to his brother.

“I can’t help you, Grace, I’m sorry,” she said, almost too loudly. She lowered her voice to barely a whisper. “But if I could, I’d leave something on the back wall of the unit, by the trash bins, under the discolored cinderblock,” she added, and turned her back to walk away.

--

The pregnancy test Danielle left came back positive. And while Grace knew in her heart it would be a positive test, she still felt devastated. She wrapped the pen-sized test in a wad of toilet paper and buried deep down in her kitchen trash. She then went into her fridge and threw out any leftovers and condiments she had, making a mess in the trash bag. She then took the bag to the curb, before stopping and deciding she would sleep better if she drove the single bag of trash to the waste yard and disposed of it herself.

Along the 20 minute drive, she passed several electronic billboards. While some showed ads for Chick Fil-A, when they rotated, some showed Dr. May’s face, standing at his mega church’s pulpit stage, arms spread wide. His backing band behind him, his suit luxurious, the words around him said “all are welcome.” The next billboard she passed showed an AI-generated in-utero picture of a fetus, with the message: I’m a living person, and aborting me is murder!” and a message from the UCSA Purity Enforcement Team: “There is no such thing as non-viable, abortion is murder with penalties up to 75 years in UCSA containment.”

Grace felt like the embryo was a brick. A cold sweat broke out in her armpits and lower back. The road ahead of her seemed to come and go out of focus. At a redlight she slammed her eyes shut and felt her body shake, reliving the moments of that night at Dr. May’s hideaway ranch, that led her here.

As if on autopilot, she managed to arrive at the waste yard despite her pending mental breakdown. She paid the $65 fee at the gate and tossed the bag into one of the massive industrial crushers. She then let go of the breath she felt she had been holding since she got the positive result.

But she still didn’t know what to do.

She went to work at the kitchen and set up her station. She was on vegetable prep, which was relatively mindless work. She liked being busy, she liked using her hands, but she needed something to take her mind off of the growing problem in her belly.

While chopping celery stalks down (and nicking her finger), she considered sending a message to Dr. May, not getting into any details, but wanting to meet with him privately. She considered then maybe she should not have thrown out the pregnancy test; she could have confronted him with it. But then she remembered the rumors about Dr. May having mistresses “disappeared.”

Feeling her chest getting tight again, the first signs of a pending panic attack, she set her knife down on the cutting board and walked out back into the alley, where the cookies like to smoke.

She pushed the door open into the hot afternoon sun, slammed her eyes shut and nearly tripped over Lupe, one of her co-workers on her way back inside.

“Oh, shit, I’m sorry Lupe, I got blinded by the sun, I didn’t see you,”

Lupe was a bit older, always friendly to everyone, and a devote Catholic, which wasn’t yet illegal. She caught Grace as she stumbled off the step.

“It’s ok mama,” she took a longer look at Grace’s face. Grace, who was very much on the verge of a complete meltdown, steadied herself against her coworker’s big arms. “What’s up with you? Are you ok?”

The question was just enough to push Grace over the edge. Her face twisted up ugly, a wad of snot formed in her sinus, the tightness in her chest overwhelmed the muscles there and she let out a long, loud, hard sob.

“NO!” She wailed, and buried her face into Lupe’s motherly chest.

Instinctively, Lupe wrapped her up and pulled her from the steps. A set of cheap plastic patio furniture had long-been set up out back, among some milk crates, for workers to use when on a break. Lupe guided Grace to a chair and sat her down. She stood beside her, rubbing her back.

“Let it out mama, it’s ok, when you’re ready, let me know, ok? Let me help you,” Grace nodded and continued to sob. When she got her breath back, she sniffled up some snot and wiped her face with her apron.

“I’m sorry, I’m just,” Grace paused, not sure how to put it herself, “I’m in some deep shit, Lupe.”

Lupe glanced back at the door. And while she knew she would be missing from her station by now, she was a quick worker and a flirt, so she could manage her chef de partie just fine.

She sat in the chair opposite Grace and leaned her heavy arms across the table making it rock, taking Grace’s hands in hers.

“Talk to me, is it something at home? Is your uh, boyfriend? Is he hurting you?” She asked, searching Grace’s face.

“No, no,” Grace chuckled. Her fiancé, Mark, was a wonderful man, his only fault was following the teachings of Dr. May to the extreme. And in her heart, Grace knew if she went to him with this problem, she couldn’t be certain how he would react.

Grace glanced back at the kitchen door, then back to Lupe. She kept her voice low as she explained everything to her. Lupe listened intently, squeezing Grace’s hand for support when her voice would break at times. When she was finished, Lupe stood up and hugged her, tight.

“So what do you want to do, Pepita?” Lupe’s nickname for the young women in the kitchen, she called them her “little pumpkin seeds.”

“I don’t know. If I could I’d get rid of it,” and Grace’s skin suddenly burst in a cold sweat. She never said those words, even in her mind. It wasn’t something you ever said aloud. Lupe had given her such security in her vulnerability, she slipped up. She became rigid in the large woman’s arms.

Sensing her fear, Lupe held her tighter.

“it’s ok baby,” she whispered against Grace’s scalp. “I know what to do.”

--

Grace woke up in the back of the Challenger. She had no idea how long they’d been driving, but it was still dark out.

Lupe had promised her she was going to take care of it, and by the end of dinner service, slipped Grace a piece of paper with a phone number on it,

“Don’t call from a number you’re associated with, better to maybe, I dunno, steal a friend’s device. Or better, someone you don’t like, their device.”

Grace stole the device of one of the cookies, Jared, who liked to make lewd comments to her and seemed to enjoy watching her squirm. She made the call and spoke to a woman, who gave her an address well outside of town. Grace now figured that woman was Marie.

The instructions were straight forward. No devices, take public transit if available. If not, ditch your personal vehicle a way away and hike it to the motel. Wait for us there. The meet was set for 36 hours.

Grace packed a bag and left a message for Mark, that she was going to visit a cousin in District 9 for the weekend. She kept it vague.

She looked forward now, between the seats. Ronan was driving “blacked out” he called it. No headlights. He wore night vision goggles. The displays inside the car were covered in a film that dulled the light coming off, but made them still readable.

He had mounted the little black box on the dash. It showed puple/blue static on a field of black. Every once in a while, he would seem to tune it, twisting a knob, switching to a different icon on the screen. A GPS with a purple line showed the route, with an estimated time of arrival in the early afternoon.

They were west of Dallas, deep in District 15, making a north-western track. Marie had explained they wanted to avoid cities, because it was easy to get bogged down and exposed.

Grace knew enough to ask about ALPRs, or Automatic License Plate Readers, the black Flock cameras that dotted her development and surrounding areas. She knew they watched, and tracked, everything.

“The license plate has a thin reflective film over it, so, it looks normal to the human eye, but if a camera tries to pick it up, it comes back blank. To the camera, it won’t register. We’re basically invisible,” Ronan explained.

The speedometer on the dash read 140mph. Without the headlights, Grace had no clue how fast they were actually traveling, she couldn’t see anything out of the windshield.

“You never get car sick, Marie?” She asked from the back seat. Marie chuckled.

“I used to, but I’ve gotten used to it,” she wore a red lens headlamp, and there was faint clicking from her lap. Grace leaned forward and saw Marie was knitting. She laughed. These bad ass coyotes, with an armored muscle car, guns strapped to them, technology-defeating-technology covering everything, and this one was knitting.

“What are you knitting?” Grace asked, between chuckles.

“Oh, just a sweater,” and she could hear the smile in Marie’s voice.

The black box on the dash, the one with the purple/blue static, dinged. Ronan reached up and played with the nob. In the middle of the display, a spike of red, then another spike, followed by a thick block of static-y red.

“Well shit,” Ronan said under his breath. He came up off the gas, and immediately Grace felt the massive car slow down. “We’ve been pinged.”

“Fuck.” Marie said, and stuffed the knitting into a small bag at her feet.

“What’s that mean?” Grace could feel the tension rise inside the vehicle. She absently slid from the middle of the bench seat to behind Ronan’s driver’s seat.

“Something’s picked us up, by this signature,” Ronan tapped the black box’s display, where the thick reddish spike was extending, “it looks like a drone. Not a small one either, shit.”

“How?” Marie asked.

“Probably IR, which means maybe State or Confed Cops. Fuck.”

Grace felt her stomach pull a loop; her bowels suddenly felt like liquid.

Maybe sensing this, Marie turned in her seat and looked back at Grace, extending a hand.

“It’s gonna be ok,” she said, from behind her red headlamp. Realizing she still had it on, she reached up and clicked it off. Ronan snapped on the car’s headlights and removed his NVGs, handing them back to Grace.

“Tuck those down behind my seat, would you, dear?” Grace took the heavy-ish binoculars and put them down by her feet and scooted them up under the seat. She supposed it would look suspicious if he was wearing them.

“Roadblock,” Marie called out, her voice level, but a hint of fear just under the surface.

“Check,” Ronan called, the car slowing quicker, 70, 60, 50mph all in the matter of 100 feet.

In the headlights, Grace could see the roadblock forming ahead of them, maybe a quarter of a mile ahead. Flood lights mounted to two big pickup trucks, their cabs touching at the median. Men stood off to the sides, closer to the breakdown lanes, in case the car tried to ram its way through. Ronan crept up slowly, coming to a stop 50 yards short. A skinny man in a cowboy hat and body armor started walking up, a rifle slung low in front of him. Two more men followed but hung back.

Grace quickly counted about 10 men total manning the impromptu roadblock. She noticed then one of the truck beds had a mounted machine gun pointing at them, and a man behind it. Dirt bikes lined the outside of the roadblock, ready to be deployed if the car ran.

Since the Challenger was armored, Ronan couldn’t put down his window, so he cracked the door only a little bit, enough to talk.

“Window’s broke,” he told the skinny man in the hat, before he could ask. The skinny man simply nodded.

“What’s going on folks, what’re you doing out here at this hour?” The skinny man was trying to see further into the car, but it’s low profile, tinted windows and barely ajar door was making that almost impossible. Grace tried to make herself small in the backseat.

“Prisoner transport to District 31,” Ronan said in an official tone. He jerked his thumb to the backseat. The skinny man in the hat tried to crane his neck but couldn’t get an angle.

“Uh huh,” the skinny man pulled back. “And uh, I’m sure you have some documents, credentials and such?”

“Sure do,” Ronan said in a flat tone. Marie was clocking the rest of the roadblock crew, doing the mental geometry. Grace would give anything to read her mind.

“Might I take a look at it, sir?” The skinny man seemed surprised he had to ask.

“No,” Ronan replied. “You’re not authorized.” The skinny man balked. Despite himself he had to laugh. Grace figured this skinny man, in his cowboy hat, was King Shit in this windswept part of the state and was not used to hearing “no.”

The skinny man stood up straight, rubbing his chin. He looked back at his road crew, sizing them up versus the car. He was not a particularly bright man, his mama would say to him, but he wasn’t stupid either. Looking at the driver, with his cold steely eyed demeanor, he sized him up to be dangerous.

“Listen friend, it’s not that I don’t believe you,” the skinny man started, adjusting the rifle against his plate carrier, “but, what kind of sheriff would I be if I didn’t check out your story?”

“The type of sheriff who gets to eat breakfast in a few hours,” Ronan replied.

Grace braced for the inevitable gunshot.

The skinny man - sheriff - and Ronan, stared each other down, but it was Ronan who blinked.

“Here,” and he dug into his jacket and produced credentials. He handed it up to the sheriff who flipped it open and read the information. He looked at, what Grace assumed, was the photo, and back at Ronan.

“And who’s this with you?” He gestured at Marie with the credentials.

“Partner. Prisoner’s female. We always transport females with female agents. It’s SOP.” Ronan explained.

Marie produced a similar set of credentials and handed them to Ronan who handed them to the sheriff. He looked them over with the same mild interest as Ronan’s, and held on to both sets, tucking them into the front if his plate carrier.

“I assume you have the paperwork for your prisoner, isn’t that right, uh, Mr. van Damme?”

“Of course, if it moves this fucking parade along a bit faster,” Ronan gestured at the roadblock.

The Sheriff looked back at the trucks and his men, laughing.

“Parade, ha, that’s pretty good,” Ronan handed over a packet of paperwork in the manila envelope.

“Alright, y’all sit tight,” The skinny sheriff turned and walked back to the trucks. Ronan snapped the car door shut and watched the sheriff flinch. He smiled through his beard.

“You didn’t have to provoke him,” Marie said, adjusting herself in her seat. Ronan ran his fingers through his beard.

“These are local shitheels,” Ronan started. “They’re not staties or feds, this is local militia. I doubt that MG,” he gestured a finger-gun at it, then went back to stroking his grey beard, “is properly maintained. Looks like a knock-off RPD, 7.62x39, probably necked down to 5-4-5. If it even shoots, we can sponge up the rounds.”

“Looks like everyone else’s got ARs and AK variants,” offered Marie. “I just worry about their comms, who can they call up, if they haven’t already,” and she glanced to the sky.

“Fair point,” Ronan said. Grace recalled he mentioned the drone that pinged them was a “big one” not the little quadcopters she was used to seeing buzz around the church’s campus, used for surveillance. She had seen videos in school showing the bigger drones were armed with rockets.

The three watched the sheriff pull out a hand set from the truck and talk into it, flipping through the paperwork. The rest of the men, while their weapons weren’t pointing directly at the car, weren’t exactly pointed at the ground either.

Minutes ticked by at an hour’s length each. Eventually the sheriff set the handset down and talked to one of his deputies. After a short conversation, the deputy walked to the other truck and started digging in the back.

The sheriff approached the car, paperwork and creds in hand.

“Well, that’s a good sign,” Ronan offered as he cracked the heavy driver’s side door again.

“Alright folks, I need everyone to step out of the car, now, please.” And Grace had to clench her body to avoid making a mess in the backseat.

Marie and Ronan each exchanged the briefest of looks, and unclipped their seatbelts. Marie turned to the backseat and whispered to Grace: “it’s going to be fine.”

Both the coyotes exited, and Ronan popped the seat so it folded forward and Grace could step out. Her hoodie was up around her head and she wrapped her arms around herself. She couldn’t meet anyone’s eyes.

The deputy returned from the back of the truck with a small box that had goggles attached to one side.

“You’re gonna BATS us, really?” Ronan said in a deadpan.

“Look agent,” the sheriff started. He shot a black jet of chewing tobacco on to the asphalt. “Our statie counterparts picked you up on drone, and there’s been a high frequency of coyote activity along this highway as of late. We’re just being thorough. I’m sure as an agent of the UCSA Purity Task Force, you can appreciate thoroughness. Now, face me and hold still, please.”

The sheriff lifted the device to his face and pointed it at Ronan.

“Could you remove your ball cap, sir?” He asked. Ronan signed and pushed his cap up and out of the way. There was a gentle whirring from the device and a soft ping. The sheriff tipped it up to read the display on top.

“Well how about that,” and he turned it to Ronan.

Grace glanced up and saw the display showed Ronan’s face, and UCSA credentials.

“Now for you, ma’am,” and the process repeated. Again, the device pinged softly and displayed information consummate with their false credentials.

“Thank you ma’am, and now for you, young missy, please step up and remove that hood so we can get a good look at you,” the sheriff said.

Everything suddenly felt too real for Grace. It was like she could sense everything around her. Every metallic click and scrape of the weapons around her, the wind and the scent of burning plastic is always seemed to carry out of the west. Each grain of sand from the highway hitting her skin. The brackish taste of her own sweat along her upper lip, the lights, too bright, all around her, yet surrounded by blackness of the wild.

She removed her hood and absently pushed her hair out of the way. The sheriff took one step forward and held the device up. She looked forward at the digital-blue screen in front of her and the soft white light that passed over her eyes. She blinked, and there was a soft ping, The sheriff tipped the device up.

“Huh,” he started, and Grace sensed Ronan adjusting his weight to the balls of his feet. “Lemme try that again, sorry, these old BATS sometimes don’t get a clean read,” and he held the device back up.

Another soft whirr, another soft ping. The sheriff took in the display,

“Ah,” he smiled. “Thought so, ok, Boyd?” He called over his shoulder to a deputy. Ronan and Marie both tensed, and out of the corner of her eye, Grace watched Marie’s hand drop towards her holster.

“Give’em back their paperwork and let’em through,” the sheriff finished. A stout-looking deputy, Boyd, stepped up with the envelope and credentials and handed it all back to Marie, who was closest, with a curt “ma’am.”

The trio climbed back into the car as the trucks pulled clear of the median. Marie, once settled, stuffed the paperwork back into the glove compartment. Ronan strapped in, turned the car’s engine over, and drove through the gap as soon as it was wide enough to let the beastly muscle car through.

“Gotta make up for lost time, fuck those hicks,” Ronan grumbled. Marie reached over and touched his thigh, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“It’s ok babe, we’re through.”

The adrenaline finally broke for Grace and she started shaking uncontrollably in the backseat. She started crying. She couldn’t remember the last time she cried like this, twice, in a day’s time. Marie shifted in her seat and reached back to her.

“it’s ok, we’re through, we’re good, you did such a good job Grace, good job!” She comforted. “Hey, pull over, Rone,” she ordered. Ronan, eased off the gas again and the slid the car to the edge of the road.

The sun was just coming up in the east, the sky turning bruise-purple.

“Pop the trunk for me?” Marie asked, and Ronan reached down and hit a button. There was a soft thunk as the trunk unlatched.

Marie slipped out, went to the trunk and came back with a soft thick blanket and chocolate protein bar.

“Here,” and she handed both to Grace, who accepted them gratefully and wrapped herself in the blanket. She took a few deep breaths and unwrapped the chocolate bar.

They got back on the road, heading north.

--

The rest of the trip was uneventful, and they arrived in Denver just after 3pm. Ronan parked the car and Marie escorted Grace to a hotel room to get cleaned up.

“You’ll stay here for the night, and in the morning, if you still want the abortion, we will take you to the clinic and wait for you while they do the procedure, then we’ll bring you back here to rest.” Marie explained, “if that’s what you still want to do. You always have options.”

“No, I want to get rid of this thing,” and Grace pointed to her stomach. Marie nodded.

“Then ok. I’m going to give you IV fluids, and after 6pm you won’t be able to eat or drink, just in case your procedure requires sedation. It’ll probably be a full day tomorrow and it can be overwhelming. There’s going to be a lot of forms and education. The procedure itself only takes five to ten minutes, but,” she trailed off, “it’ll be a whole day.”

“Ok, thank you,” Grace said, sitting on the bed. “I, uh, I can’t pay for any of this, this is the nicest hotel I’ve ever stayed in. I can’t pay you guys, and you guys have done so much for me, and I,” Marie held up a hand.

“It’s ok, you don’t owe us anything. There’s a group of donors who finance this whole thing. Like we told you from the start, Ronan and I, we’ve done over 200 of these. We’re very ok, compensation wise, you just worry about you, Grace,” she smiled.

Marie offered food and Ronan inserted a peripheral IV, starting bolus saline. Marie then offered a sedative to help Grace get some sleep, which she accepted but set aside for later.

“Ok, we’re gonna go,” Marie said, standing up. “Once those fluids run out, you can just disconnect the IV from here,” and showed Grace the lauer lock and how it twisted free. “We will be back in the morning, around 8, to get you to the clinic by 9. Morning traffic around here sucks,” she said with warmth, but wiggled her eyebrows in a knowing way.

“Oh, ok, you guys aren’t staying here, in the hotel?” Grace suddenly felt very vulnerable, she was being left on her own, in an unfamiliar place.

“No, we have to get home, we live close by tho. We have to check on our cats,” Marie’s smile extended, thinking of their two cats. She pulled a small device from her jacket pocket.

“If you need anything, or just want to talk, use this, it’s a burner. There’s one number loaded in it, and it goes straight to us. We can be back here in 15 minutes, if necessary, ok?” And Grace took the burner and set it by the sedatives.

They said their goodbyes, and Grace turned on the tv mounted to the wall opposite the bed. She found an old movie, dry swallowed the sedatives, turned over, and went to sleep.

--

Marie was right, the next day was a long one, but by 4pm, she was back in the hotel room. Ronan and Marie had stocked the room with snacks, maxi pads, over the counter pain meds and her favorite soda. She ached all over but felt surprisingly good, as if a huge weight was lifted off of her.

Ronan, dressed now in more business-casual attire, dad-bod-over-muscles, sat in an arm chair in the corner of the room, running his fingers through his beard while Marie took a set of vitals.

“You’re looking good, how are you feeling?” Marie asked, as she rolled up her BP cuff.

“Just sore,” Grace answered.

“It’s to be expected, but most people feel fine after a good night’s rest,” Marie explained.

“Do you know what you’re going to do next?” Ronan asked. Grace had been thinking about it.

She hesitated. “I don’t know if I want to go back,” she confessed. Ronan blew out a raspberry.

“Shit, don’t blame you.” He said.

“If that’s something you truly feel, just know, you’d be giving up every relationship you had back in the UCSA. You wouldn’t be able to contact them, probably ever again. Parents, lovers, friends, those relationships would be over. You’d be starting brand new here.” Marie said, sitting on the bed opposite.

“I think I’m ok with that,” Grace said, looking at some point at the end of her bed.

“There’s programs to help folks like you get on your feet, here,” Ronan said. “We can help you with that, we can put you in touch with some folks for work, or benefits. The application for asylum is pretty straight forward. It’s bureaucracy but you’ll get 12 months of UBI, job placement and medical coverage, you could do a lot worse.”

“Ok, yeah, I’d be interested, I think,” Grace said, looking up. Ronan nodded at Marie.

“Ok, you guys finish up and I’ll be back with some info, lemme go make a call real quick,” Ronan said, as he grunted and pushed himself up out of the chair. He slipped out of the room, and as the door clicked closed, Marie turned to Grace.

“That’s his code for needing to use the bathroom,” she said, with a slight chuckle. “But he’ll be back with some info and he can help you with the application. He hates bureaucracy, but he knows how to navigate it. We’ll get you right.”

“Thank you, Marie, seriously.”

“It’s literally our pleasure.”

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I won’t ruin it for you, even though the movie’s been out for like 30 years, but there’s a famous line that has stuck in my mind ever since I first heard it at the end of the 1996 Ghostface Killah debut solo album “Ironman”: “The greatest trick the devil ever pulled was making the world believe he doesn’t exist. (the quote, I found out while doing research for this article, was actually coined in 1864 by French author Charles Baudelaire)”

ALL THIS TO SAY, Curtis Yarvin has managed just that: he’s successfully managed to convince the world at large he doesn’t exist, and that’s a real fucking problem

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And I wouldn’t blame you if you’ve never heard of him, and if you were intimately familiar with his musings, I’d probably assume you were a red-pilled incel who spends too much time on reddit.

Funny enough, it was Yarvin who coined the term “red-pilled” and launched the online pro-patriarchy movement. But that’s not all. If all Yarvin was responsible for was launching a literal army of unfuckable internet men on society, he wouldn’t rank high enough to be brought to your attention. In fact, he’d best be forgotten, just like what’s his name? The kid who lost half his brain over two bits of cocaine? Silly cat who wore suede in the rain?

Charlie Kirk.

Ok, that’s enough 90s hip-hop references, let’s get into Yarvin: Who he is, his technofascist believe system, his connections to the American oligarchy, what he’s doing now and what we can do to stop him.

Who is Curtis Yarvin?

Curtis Yarvin is a 53 year old white man who, like a lot of the most problematic men in America in 2026, got his start in Silicon Valley in the early 2000s. After exiting the Ivy League and landing in the Bay Area, he developed “Urbit” an encrypted peer-to-peer decentralized network. I can’t describe to you what exactly Urbit is/was? I’m not a techy person and this isn’t a tech article. Based on my research it’s apparently an overcomplicated programming language using, blockchain, something or I dunno. In 2002 people were apparently very impressed with it.

So much so, that tech billionaire and generally insane ketamine addict Peter Theil invested $100K into Urbit and Yarvin. The two would become fast friends.

In the late 2000s, Yarvin began keeping a blog, as we all did honestly. In his blog, Yarvin drafted a new political ideology called “neo-reactionism.” This would be the foundation of what the rest of us call “technofascism.”

What is Technofascism?

Like all these fucking tech billionaire parasites, they have a love of sci-fi/fantasy but take all the wrong lessons.

For Yarvin it was “The Matrix” film series that inspired his belief system. But instead of being the Neo of the story, leading the people to overthrow their technological masters/oppressors, Yarvin took the position of Agent Smith, the film series antagonist.

Curtis Yarvin literally believes that there are racial- and socio-economically categorized people who would make better “batteries” than others (rich white people, who would be served by these “drones.”)

When asked by a San Francisco newspaper in 2017 how he would solve the Bay Area housing crisis, Yarvin opined that the homeless should be hooked up to VR machines where they could be virtual servants. This was after he (half?) joked to the reporter that the unhomed could be ground up into a nutrient paste.

The tenet of neo-reactionism aka, technofascism, is democracy is dead. That, the current system is so broken that it should be removed entirely and replaced with CEO-like figures, accountable to only a hand-selected board of trustees. The CEO operates at the pleasure of the board, the board is supposed to ensure the positions of “shareholders (aka land-owning whites).”

The country would be broken up into “sectors” where “assets (regular-ass folks like you and me, aka, “labor”) could be traded or bought by other sectors as needed. This market would only be open a few times a year, like, fiscal quarters.

So, you know, just slavery but with a different name. That’s Curtis Yarvin.

Curtis Yarvin, the Dark Cathedral, and the American Oligarchy

Yarvin’s writings (under the nom de plum Mencius Moldbug, whatever the fuck) and theories became popular with members of the American Oligarchy like Peter Theil, JD Vance and Steve Bannon.

In the early 20-teens Yarvin was writing about the “Dark Cathedral” what he called the American Media Empire. According to Yarvin, the “Dark Cathedral” was brainwashing Americans to move more towards Communism and reject Capitalism.

Yes, cable news, the harbingers of communism, with their never-ending commercials for dick pills and gambling apps.

Yarvin is that annoying “Big L” Libertarian from reddit: he claims that the “hand of the free market” will guide industry, that, if “people” can decide with their dollars, we don’t need a governing body telling us how fast to drive on the highways, or why we need seatbelts in cars, or smoke alarms in public buildings, etc etc.

He’s also one of those insufferable adults who believe IQ tests are the true measure of one’s intelligence. You know, standardized tests which have been proven to be racially biased.

Like many dipshit billionaires, Yarvin’s understanding of American politics is elementary at best. He accuses FDR of ushering in an era of American Communism, which, on his best day, FDR was maybe a socialist. FDR only made reactionary unilateral decisions to over-correct from years of 1920s-style corruption that had led to the stock market collapse and dust bowls. Many of FDR’s policies were erased by Dwight Eisenhower a decade after enacted.

It’s like Curtis Yarvin has never heard of Ronald Raegan.

But because of his blog and twitter presence – his posts often being co-signed by Elon Musk, another close friend – policy makers within the Trump administration have reached out to Yarvin as an informal advisor.

During Trump 1, Steve Bannon would often call Yarvin directly and ask for his opinion on domestic policy. JD Vance continues to quote neo-reactionary talking points at any opportunity.

Famously, Yarvin opined Trump should be legitimately elected, and then seize power from within. When challenged by the courts, stand tall and ask the courts to enforce their ruling. Something we’re seeing almost literally every day in 2026.

If that wasn’t enough, Yarvin often makes appearances on alt-right podcasts, spewing his thinly-veiled hate speech into the ears of impressionable dipshits who would sooner blame the brown family across town for their economic woes, and not, you know, the billionaire levers of industry that have our country in a chokehold.

So what can we do about Yarvin?

Unfortunately not much, since he’s been allowed to evolve into the hateful turd he is today. But that doesn’t mean we can’t stop the next generation of Yarvin’s from developing.

Yarvin was home schooled for much of his childhood and because he was “super smart” according to his mother, he was allowed to skip three grades. Yarvin was admitted to the Ivys at age 16, where, like all little pieces of rich kid shits, failed to properly socialize and see people as, you know, fucking people.

So, we can do a better job socializing our kids. We can ensure schools stick to a mandated curriculum that emphasizes science and the basics of community. Mandate kids fucking socialize with other kids.

You ever meet someone and just know they’ve never been punched in the face? That’s Curtis Yarvin. Maybe if someone had humiliated Yarvin at a young age, he would have an ounce of humility? Who knows.

We can also hold our children accountable. Oh, your little shit goes to an Ivy, and his frat bros have a snapchat group chat where they exploit women? Dope, kick them the fuck out of the school, put them in prison. Ruin their fucking lives like they’ve ruined the lives of those women.

As I saw in a recent post, and I’m gonna misquote it a little, “if you’re tired of living under a government run by old pedophiles and rapists, stop the young pedophiles and rapists now.”

The reason why Trump (et al) has been allowed to come to power and escape any consequences for all the nasty shit he’s done in life, is because no one has ever bothered to hold him accountable. No one’s held Curtis Yarvin accountable.

We can stop the next Curtis Yarvin by holding the little shits of today, accountable.

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