PART I: WINGS UNCLIPPED AND UNNAMED
PURPOSE
The trek through remnants of a midwestern snowstorm and associated sub-zero temperatures was followed by a trip through airport security — surprisingly with no issues — learning to fly after four years of ground control and hurtling toward the nexus of shit like a dog returns to his own vomit, mainlining adrenaline, existential dread, and a festering case of what-the-hell-am-I-doing-with-my-life as I shuffle through this airport terminal in Springfield, Missouri.
It’s February 19, 2025, and Tom Petty’s gravelly croon about how coming down is the hardest thing rattles through my skull like a loose lug nut in a busted Chevy. His voice is the cosmically conferred soundtrack to the PTSD anxiety I feel as I stand in line for an overpriced sandwich—$17 plus tip-- for nothing special on the far side of security with plenty of time to kill.
The last four years have given good reason for such a large time buffer, however. I fully expected TSA to treat me with a quad-S domestic terrorist tag like the insurrectionist so many have said I am — like so many J6ers who’ve flown before.
Admittedly, there was no shortage of lunacy in the twilight of 2021 when Americans stormed the Capitol as peacefully as possible, fists swinging and flags ripping through the frigid January air, believing we’d rewrite the script of this late-stage republic with our bare fucking hands. But today, the Feds in Charge of Flight wave me through like I’m just another overweight dipshit with a boarding pass and a bad attitude. Fair enough. It’s a pleasant revelation that comes with a quiet sigh of relief.
My wings got clipped after that last trip into the District of Columbia, and I haven’t flown since.
Perhaps I clipped them myself, drowning in self-pity and cheap whiskey when I could afford it, or maybe it’s a bizarre entitlement festering like a boil in my gut from carrying the magical moniker of J6er. But I’m just a minor character in the story of January 6— e pluribus unum — wandering through the haze of disconnected memory and reminiscing on the glorious revolution that remains to be seen, bullshitting ourselves that we’re all Heroes of the Republic like so many idealistic fools who’ve come before.
I scarf down the sandwich with the ferocity of a starving wolverine who’s dodged more than a few
pieces of bad bologna. Grease coats my fingers, and crumbs tumble down my shirt until it’s gone.
I’ve carved out a shitty little corner in this terminal to sit back and suck on a nicotine pouch, letting
the buzz wash over me like a tide of synthetic calm in a sea of corporate panic. I’m not sure why
I never used these as an option to manage my addiction on long, overseas flights. They keep the nic fits at bay without the habitual ritual of sparking a lighter, taking a drag, and breathing it in like marijuana smoke in the Rotunda.
In the waning months of 2020, I fueled my search for reality with an endless supply of canned
Moscow Mules from the hotel pantry at the Holiday Inn. The complete lack of sobriety in the leadup
to the Capitol riot left me staggering through life like a drunk bear in a campground. But now, with
three boring hours stretching out before my plane boards and in the aftermath of almost four years
of federal supervision, I’m sipping the beer in front of me like a monk who’s slipped the monastery,
gently easing into a weekend bender in Vegas. Except my Vegas is DC, and it’s shaping up to be a
reunion of one of the largest and most dysfunctional families on this planet. So, consumption of adult
beverages is warranted, even encouraged. I’m a fucking American, after all, or at least that’s what it
says on my Real ID, that shiny piece of government identification I flashed at security like a fully rehabilitated citizen. They follow the golden star on the plastic card, you see. And I’m now doing the same as I embrace a bit of functional alcoholic activity just after noon on a Wednesday, my birthright etched in the Constitution or maybe just scratched into the bar top I consider defacing with my own John Hancock.
ESPN blares on a screen bolted to the wall like my name is Winston and it’s 1984, yammering about
different needs from different NBA players, desperate to convince me that these needs are
somehow relevant to my own well-being. The guy sitting next to me seems important enough,
speaking loudly on a phone call with a wooden pencil in hand like he’s auditioning for a 1950s
accountant gig. He’s going on and on about test kitchens and whether he’s received some sort of
information. It’s cryptic nonsense that could be recipes, corporate espionage, or the ravings of a
lunatic on a deadline. He’s taking it all down with that pencil, scribbling like a man possessed, on a
notebook surely filled with useful information.
He mutters about being at Alpharetta, some podunk Georgia hellhole, and South Carolina with back-to-back travel dates on the week of the third and the week of the seventeenth. Steven and Chris will be somewhere else, he says. To my ignorant, eavesdropping ears it’s a riddle much more interesting than the corporate propaganda masquerading as sport on the television though. He’s got a coat slung over his arm, a trench coat that screams “I’m on a mission,” so it must be important—some grand quest like my own. And I have a fancy coat as well, here to do serious journalism and report very serious news — or so I tell myself as I settle into my own main character syndrome, cradling a tall Miller Lite that sweats in my grip like a nervous FBI informant, demanding my attention with every icy sip that slides down my throat.
It’s 2:15 PM CST when my phone buzzes repeatedly like a pissed-off hornet. It’s a text from my little
brown raindrop, Jesus Rivera, my brother through four years of bullshit and the man with the plan
that put me in the airport right now: Jake Lang just got kicked from CPAC. Imagine that. I’m two
beers deep, suddenly grinning like a hyena who’s stumbled on a fresh kill.
The news is all over X, a shitstorm of outrage from the J6 faithful screaming “injustice,” cheers from the skeptics who’ve been calling him a grifting prick since day one. Forgive my lack of solidarity for a moment—because credit must be given where credit is due, and nobody sticker slapped the title of “hero” harder than Jake Lang, the 34-year-old New Yorker who created a martyrdom empire and parlayed his successes into an impending run for the U.S. Senate out of the State of Florida.
He was locked up in pretrial detainment for 1,467 days, with 900 in solitary — repeatedly delaying his trial date — but just like so many of us J6ers, he’s now free to move about the country, pardoned by Trump on January 20, 2025. Louder than a bullhorn in a library, he’s once again hawking his patriot plight like a used car salesman with a late model Kia, a bag full of methamphetamine, and a stripper girlfriend who loves…methamphetamine.
Jake’s a real main character, you see, a public relations darling who’s turned his now-defunct 13-count
indictment into a redemption tour, peddling T-shirts and tears on social media. He’s a rich kid hustler turned patriot poster boy, now free and swinging for the stars like it’s January 6 forever. But his shadow’s long and murky, with a strange association with Rep. Randy Weber of Texas and questions about a “pending matter” in the Southern District of New York that he’s been dodging for over a year like a greased pig. Maybe that was too direct, too raw, too much of a clear window into my headspace. I’ll make a note here to maintain a sarcastic front from now on, a razor-wire shield against anyone thinking I’ve lost the plot.
But that’s enough about Brother Edward for now; back to the matter at hand. It’s 5:08 PM CST, and I can feel the air beneath my wings again. It’s such a silly fucking thing to take for granted, so beautiful in its execution of human ingenuity as the plane tears down the runway like a metal beast clawing free of gravity’s chokehold. God, this feels great after a four-year sabbatical—a stretch of dodging nefarious feds and alleged bitch militia assets, licking wounds, and hiding from the long arm of a system that wanted me and so many others in a cage or a grave.
Dr. Robert Renteria’s From the Barrio to the Boardroom flickers in my mind some four weeks after
he personally gave it to me. I pull it out of my leather satchel, intent on finally reading it in full. It
feels like the timing is right. I’ve got a helluva woman waiting for me in Kansas City. We text back
and forth about the great shit disaster on a flight from Atlanta to Spain some years ago. It’s clearly
time to take a massive steaming poop on everything that presents itself. Figuratively, you sick
bastards, though I wouldn’t put it past me in this state. This is the great shitpost as a troll learns to
fly once more, and I desperately need to hit the head before I piss all over the hallway and leave
every passenger in this flying tin can drowning for air in a steady torrent of urinary excretion—a
golden flood of biblical proportions, a J6er’s revenge on the skies, a piss-soaked declaration of
independence.
Something about the impending AI singularity comes up in my feed, but it’s lost in the roar of the
engines as I stumble toward the lavatory, the plane banking hard. I return without incident and
prepare for the second phase. The stewardess serving drinks says it’s her second day. She’s a
sweet kid, all nerves and wide eyes, with no V8 on this bird unfortunately, but she rustles up some
Bloody Mary mix from the cart and coaches me into another round, her hands trembling slightly as
she pours. We took so fucking long to de-ice—ice clinging to the wings like a bad hangover—so this
round’s complimentary, a small mercy from the airline gods who usually nickel-and-dime us to
death. There’s no ice in the cup, though. It’s a shame corporate couldn’t find a way to make them
grab it from the wings, I muse, smirking like I’ve discovered gravity itself. Never mind that, though;
there’s more room in the cup for vodka, I say aloud. Life is charmed as it should be, a fleeting high
at cruising altitude, the cabin pressure squeezing my skull just enough to remind me I’m alive.
The plane descends and there’s a message about powering down, the captain’s voice a garbled
hum over the intercom, cutting through the fog of my buzz. Now finished with my latest education, I gift Dr. Renteria’s book to the guy sitting to my right. He was reading some dog-eared paperback earlier in the flight, nose buried in it like a hermit, and it seemed appropriate—a passing of the torch from one book-loving soul to another. Such a story from the barrio to the boardroom needs to be appreciated by as many people as possible. The bilingual From the Barrio book series was created to empower youth worldwide, promoting education and self-esteem to combat violence, gangs, and drugs. Plus, the good doctor bought me a fantastic dirty martini when we met in person on the outskirts of Chicago.
There was some discussion at the time about whether he should sign the book when he handed it
over, and now I understand why he didn’t. It’s cleaner that way—passed freely from one to another, just like the “Ad Astra” knife that was given to me by a former Green Beret, that I gave to Juan O’Savin at the Italian American Club in Vegas back in 2022. Some gifts are better left unmarked, their stories told in the giving, not the ink. Juan, the intelligence whisperer with a trademark cowboy hat and cryptic grin, took the blade with a nod, eyes glinting like embers in a campfire on a dark evening at Cape Cod. Maybe I’ll tell the rest of that story someday, over a bottle of something strong… probably not though. But never mind all that. The eagle has landed in North Carolina. It’s time to take a brisk walk to the next terminal, shaking off the Bloody Mary haze like a dog shedding swamp water, feet shuffling along with a purpose I can’t quite name.
PART II: SWAMPBOUND FLIGHT DELAYS AND
DEMOCRAT TEARS
So here I am, waiting to board the next flight that will take me through Reagan National Airport, the swamp’s gateway, into that churning cesspool of humanity where it’s damn near impossible to tell friend from foe or even why any of that shit matters. We shuffle through the gate like cattle to the slaughter. It’s always a strange mix of people headed into the Capital. It’s hard to parse the suits from the subversives, the patriots from the parasites, all of us jammed together in this particularly perfect purgatory.
Word trickles through from my little brown raindrop that Enrique Tarrio and Stewart Rhodes have been kicked from the glorious realm of CPAC. Tarrio, the Miami-born Proud Boys titan sentenced to 22 years for seditious conspiracy, is a bulldog of a man with a deceptively quiet demeanor and a smirk that could cut glass. Rhodes, the Oath Keepers founder, ex-Army paratrooper, and Yale Law grad, nabbed 18 years, carries a one-eyed glare that’s a testament to battles fought and lost. Both their sentences were commuted by Trump on January 20, 2025 — hopeful that pardons will come soon. But they’re free from prison now, thorns in the establishment’s swampy ass, and top contenders to be declared main character of January 6. Just like Jake Lang’s, their bans light up X like a Molotov cocktail tossed into a dumpster fire. There are screams of “tyranny” from the MAGA faithful and cackles from the libtards who live to see others suffer.
My favorite little brown raindrop texts me that he’s having dinner with “all my favorite people”—an entire peanut gallery of people who’ve decided I’m a fed—but I’m nonetheless welcome at Jake’s Patriot Mansion. Whatever the fuck that means, it certainly sounds like it’s draped in red-white-and-blue bunting and stocked with Natty Light. I’m going to need better drugs than the fading Bloody Mary sloshing in my gut, a weak-ass buzz that’s no match for the shit I’m about to wade into.
Say “Jake Lang” in the mirror ten times and the devil will appear, I’ve been told. Maybe it’s true, maybe I did that already, staring into the chipped glass of my bathroom last night after attempting to trim my wild beard, bleary-eyed and half-cocked, summoning something dark to match my mood. Rivera says they have beer. No word on drugs, however. But Natty Light or otherwise, I’m in. So, I guess I’ll settle into my seat and see what the air tastes like when I land. As of right now it seems bitter, smelling like regret and jet fuel.
Just as we’re set to take off, the captain comes on the intercom. There’s a ground stop in DC for a “VIP” movement, likely President Trump. Looks like we’re delayed for at least half an hour, maybe more because the pilot says we may have to refuel. I’m laughing my ass off in my head as the Democrats on the plane make their TDS known, grumbling and moaning about Trump’s ego as though they haven’t done the same fucking thing for every American president since planes had propellers. Fucking politics, a circus of hypocrisy that never ends. My Kansas City queen is texting, “How lovely. Lol. So lovely. lol,” and I’m cackling into my tray table like a lunatic who’s finally found a way to spell the reason. Her sarcasms compliment my ecstatic joy in this microcosm of unhinged whining.
The Democrats keep at it, their complaints a steady drone. She texts again, “I bet they are. So tolerant. So caring. Gobbless,” and I’m smiling like a Cheshire cat, pure unfiltered joy at their misery. The delay is for the plane’s safety, too, for fuck’s sake—it’s so fucking funny, liberal tears raining down in the cabin like a monsoon of sanctimony, a sweet elixir to wash away the stale taste of any critiques I still harbor for my J6 family. X buzzes like a hive of pissed-off wasps with chatter about possible stimulus checks from DOGE. And I’m right in the mix with the rest of the peasants, ready to take the cash, shove it in my pocket, and buy another round. “StiMULAtE mEeeEe Hahaha,” my queen texts with no remorse, as we discover yet another beautiful punchline to the endless joke of American political discourse. “Stimulate US, comrade,” I add, toasting in my mind to proletariat resolve with an imaginary shot glass.
And suddenly, we’re clear for launch. The plane lurches skyward like a drunk staggering out of a dive bar. I guess I’d better read some of the Original Scroll by Jack Kerouac that she loaned to me some time ago. Let’s not get into my mismanagement of its upkeep right now—pages bent and coffee-stained from neglect in the backseat of my pickup truck —but that’s another story for another time when I’m not half-lit and hurtling toward DC. I place part of the wrapper from the complimentary Biscoff graham-cracker on page 111. Crumbs dust my lap like fallout, a makeshift bookmark. I need a Coca-Cola like it’s the last fucking drop of water in a desert, throat parched from the dry cabin air and the lingering tang of vodka.
With a quick hop, skip, and a jump, the interior cabin lights are back on, and the descent is underway. The pilot had something to say about tray tables and seatbacks, but I was lost in a deeply introspective moment accompanied by heavy thoughts and prayers, staring out the window at the lights beneath me while reminiscing on the hubris that brought me here the last time, glinting in the darkness like a taunting middle finger from the past. I should put my Coca-Cola away now because the plane is already landing. Wheels kiss tarmac with a jolt that snaps me back to the present—Reagan National, the swamp’s front door, here we fucking go.
Rivera picks me up at the airport, his rental Mini Countryman built for the zip to our hotel and the growing flood of whatever will happen in the days ahead. While he drives, we catch up on the latest from the rumor mill. It’s a shitshow like always—and we beat the dead horse that continues to stink– whispers of arrests and bans and MAGA infighting swirling like flies. He misses the turn to our lodging, too busy jawing about everything since the last time we saw each other in person, and we head to McDonald’s so I can grab a bite to eat. A guy stands beside the drive through and asks for a dollar; we buy him a Big Mac instead, good people and all, a small act of grace in a world that’s fresh out of it.
We head back to the missed turn where the Holiday Inn Express is waiting. I finish my fries in the room and then head downstairs. Strange noises drift from the Virginia Lodge Motel next door as I smoke the day’s last cigarette and catch up with my queen on FaceTime—someone’s having a good time over there, or maybe a bad time, who fucking knows. Moans and thumps filter through the winter air like a spontaneous late-night porno or domestic violence incident I didn’t sign up for, but her voice on the phone and face on the screen is a tether, keeping me from drifting too far into the abyss.
PART III: CLICKS AND LIKES, NOT HEARTS AND MINDS
I’m up at 6 AM or thereabouts to the sound of the hotel door slamming shut like a gunshot. Rivera said he’d be moving at 0530 and he wasn’t lying…fucking marine. I get my shit together as quickly as I can, bleary-eyed and fumbling—a disheveled raccoon pawing through the garbage—but Rivera’s back before I can meet him for breakfast, hauling ass with an early morning grin that comes from a much healthier lifestyle than anything I’m willing to experience.
I head downstairs and spoon a healthy serving of underheated sausage gravy, lukewarm slop that tastes like regret, and slap it on a biscuit to complement the half cigarette I manage to suck into my blackened lungs in as he loads his things into the Mini. I finish quickly and hop in the passenger seat so we can make our way to the Gaylord National Harbor—$25 parking and a chance to bump uglies with conservative media whores who would otherwise decline to engage in that sort of promiscuity…publicly, that is. But I kid from my own perspective, quite happily spoken for after many years of open and excessive sluttery.
As we roll into the grand Gaylord, a gilded cage of marble, glass, and beltway excess, I’m reminded of the annoyances of dealing with Republicans…and the U.S. Secret Service. They quickly deprive me of my lighter, snatching it like I’m about to torch the place. Good thing I have nicotine pouches to satiate my desire to insurrect—a rebellion deferred to my bloodstream, keeping the beast at bay for now. Word continues to propagate that J6ers are being booted from the event with near reckless abandon. Richard “Bigo” Barnett, the Arkansas biker who propped his feet on then Speaker Pelosi’s desk or whatever, is the latest to get the axe. X blazes with the news like a wildfire through dry grass as Rivera and I bump into him and exchange hugs.
The night before, I texted my pal Chad LeVrouw about the upcoming agenda—we were originally slated to sleep on the floor and join a chorus of man snores in his Gaylord hotel room until Rivera came through with less occupied accommodations. “Good question, brother,” he responded. “Get settled, and we’ll figure it out.” “It’ll be wild,” I replied. “Indeed, I hope so,” he had said optimistically.
At 8:36 AM this morning, I texted again, “You guys alive?” He replied, “Uh… alive might be a strong word. But existing in space and time, sure. Mostly inanimate.” “At the hotel, at least?” I inquired further. “Yes, thank God,” he responded. I texted, “Well, you should get moving. There’s weirdness afoot, and the Secret Service already took my lighter.”
He asked if I was in the building, unaware that Rivera and I are already chewing the early morning fat in the main lobby and discussing the finer points of how to get tattoos and make car deals from the confines of federal prison with the recently released Big O Barnett. Barnett needs Stewart Rhodes’ number so we could figure out where the hell we are eating breakfast. I provide without hesitation.
After loitering like stray cats in the Gaylord’s shadow for a while, the alleged mastermind behind the supposed seditious conspiracy finally shows up. Rhodes, now the national spokesman for fellow J6er Treniss Evans’ legal advocacy group, Condemned USA, leads us—now accompanied by the tremendously sweet Jenn Baker (who also works for the organization)—as we make our way to a steakhouse filled with the most elegant lighting and people imaginable. Ties and cufflinks gleam beneath chandeliers, and absurdly courteous waitstaff hover like drones as we lowly insurrectionists compare notes and order coffee. Barnett cackles about his Pelosi photo op, while Rhodes grunts about his 18 years sentence and the pressing need for a full pardon to be made reality by a simple stroke of Trump’s presidential pen.
After black coffee gets poured into our cups—pleasantly bitter and almost as satisfying as the last four years—Stewart takes a call with an insider from Palm Beach, a high-roller donor who he says is burning up the phone with Matt Schlapp, the overlord of all things CPAC. He is reversing Stewart’s ban from the event and also working on Enrique Tarrio’s. “Downhill from there,” Rhodes says. But it’s always downhill in DC, a city sliding into entropy on a greased rail.
We finish our breakfast and head out into the greater convention, working our way through a crowd where every turn reveals a familiar face. I give hugs to Nicole Reffitt and her husband Guy—the Texan who led the west stairs charge on J6, undeterred by pepper balls, sentenced to 87 months before Trump’s pardon set him loose. Nicole is a pillar of the J6 wives’ brigade who kept the home fires burning through the shitstorm.
Media swarms as we stand in line and CNN pulls their usual fuckery—that detestable little giggleshit, Donnie O’Sullivan, missing the opportunity to engage in honest dialogue and dragging the conversation back to Waco and right-wing extremism, desperate to keep the dying domestic terror narrative alive and tie as many J6ers into his fantasy as he can. Stewart is done, waving it off with dismissive understanding for the angle that fucking leprechaun is going for. Donnie persists with his loaded line of questioning, “trying to be fair,” he says. But fairness is a fucking unicorn in the legacy media—a myth they push without any self-awareness. And the alternative media in the mix is just as masturbatory – a gang of cruel faggots just like Dr. Thomson once said.
“God bless,” I mutter to myself, laughing at the absurdity of the circus around me. Bigo continues to have issues with getting his credentials—bureaucratic horseshit at its finest. JD got kicked from his live on X—a glitch or a ban, who fucking knows. Mama Micki’s here—Micki Witthoeft, Ashli Babbitt’s fierce mom who turned grief into a megaphone at Freedom Corner. I’ll need to catch up with her, no doubt—her ash-gray hair and iron will a beacon in this mess.
But the CPAC bigwigs are now having a closed meeting with Barnett and Rhodes, off to the side to keep things quiet. They don’t want cameras to record what is said. Surely, it’s all getting handled — quite the conundrum as the excuses pour out like piss from a boot –waiting to find out if Stewart’s press credentials have been reinstated or if he is just part of the general admission — no word on whether he’ll be allowed to operate a camera.
It’s a bureaucratic dance as old as the swamp itself—a disingenuous waltz of power and petty control — a poker game where bluffing means everything. But this time, it looks like Rhodes has an ace in the hole. He and the other J6ers got kicked because of a system glitch, they say. Bad PR is a helluva motivator for getting computers fixed these days.
With one crisis settled, the press harpies gather around Ivan Raiklin, the Deep State Marauder himself, desperate to hear about the latest in retribution efforts and whatever else he’s trolling them with—his voice leading them along like puppies on a leash as I listen half-heartedly and begin speaking with his DOGE Report comrade, Vem Miller AKA Yenovkian, an Armenian (GHASP) renegade from Nevada who was falsely accused of attempting to assassinate Donald Trump.
Roughly ten minutes later, we’re deep into conversation about Southwestern corruption and mafia movements in Armenia—his stories, like mine, personal, wild, and largely unverifiable, an unplanned feast of shared experience that I lap up like a starving dog. I continue to loiter within the maelstrom surrounding Raiklin—open to whatever and discussing the finer points of Vem’s move to DC, waiting for the Randy Ireland to wash his ass or whatever the hell he’s doing so we can meet up for a smoke and go IN to the conference together — just like the Ghost of Ray Epps would tell us if he were here…allegedly.
Now puffing away, outside with Mr. Ireland, Matt Laslo joins us in our efforts to stay out of the windchill—eyes blazing, a walking jolt of D.C. chaos who’s been marinating in the Capitol Hill muck since ’06. He clocks me mid-drag, smirks, and we’re off—riffing hard on how mainstream media’s gone soft and lost the plot, pervaded by punditry and largely devoid of substance. He’s a veteran journalist, educated and thoroughly established—nearly two decades grinding out stories for WIRED, VICE, Raw Story, and Playboy —yet here he is, pacing the pavement and talking to an insurrectionist indie, railing about how the press has lost the American pulse, trading grit for glitz.
They’ve gotta ditch the lazy takes, he explains, dig into the raw dirt again, or watch the people ghost them for good. He gives me his card and says to call him if I ever need to get a story out. Maybe I’ll take him up on that. God knows there’s more than one on the backburner that the American people should know about.
But for now, it seems proper to meet up for a beer with Jonathan Munafo—a front row Joe from Albany with a January 6 rap sheet and a now-pardoned 33-month sentence to go along with it. Ireland and I continue our previous discussion with him about the problems with media, the perils and pitfalls of trying to stay objective in a completely subjective reality, the ugliness of social media influencers who are only beholden to the checks they cash for spewing partisan propaganda—enabled by a public desperate to be outraged at the next exhibition of fear and confirmation bias from their favorite online personalities. Reality has abandoned us in this digitally conceived maelstrom of misinformation.
“Clicks and likes, but not hearts and minds,” Jonathan says bluntly—a bitter truth scrawled in neon clarity across my eternally curious mindscape.
I stew momentarily before taking a pull from a vape — not nearly enough I’m told — so I draw deep into my lungs and make peace with the fact that things are about to get weird. Because after two years of relatively steady sobriety—a fragile truce with my federal supervisors from US Probation—it’s a guarantee that hanging out with Proud Boys is a surefire way to get fucked up beyond recognition, a relapse waiting to happen perhaps. But this is my Rome now, and I see no purpose in pretending I’m somewhere else. What follows gets rather fuzzy as I wander from the patio and back into the bar, free to fuck up or forget as many details of this saga as practicable.
Without a doubt, I have anything but a poker face—eyes glassed over, grin lopsided, beard disheveled—unable to straighten my personal ship until Lara Logan buys me a double martini. At 53, a war-zone vet turned truth-chaser—as anyone who spends time with her can attest—she shines as an absolute sweetheart, a genuinely empathetic soul who’s spent her entire lifetime trying to get things right. That kind of modus operandi ensures problems in this world because nobody likes the truth, and Lara knows this more than most—her scars map battles fought for it. Our conversation begins because I say she got a few things wrong, amplifying some lies about January 6. Fuck if I can remember what now—the gin erases it—and if I’d been inclined to keep them all organized in a notebook, I might have a list when she asks, her eyes sharpening with curiosity.
But despite my underprepared criticisms, she immediately takes steps to amplify my work, sharing my raw gonzo documentary and a more recent investigative piece about who opened the Senate fire doors—and that beats what many do through the years, a rare kindness in a sea of backstabbing attention whores.
So, the conversation continues, and the alcohol flows like a river of oblivion—gin, tequila, whatever the fuck else. Things only become stranger as the evening wears on—a descent into madness that feels strangely like home. Relapse rages underway, and I love it. She receives an invite to a party with Steve Bannon and asks us to tag along to a place called Butterworths—apparently the newest hotspot for MAGA-related festivities in the District of Columbia, a den of drunk conservatives and scheming insiders… allegedly.
Of course, a name like Butterworths sparks its own lampooning. Piss-drunk and likely slurring, I put on my worst English accent and satirically explain how I would love nothing more than to get some buttered sausage at Butterworths–Gary Busey’s revenge. Lara can’t stop laughing—her giggles carry through the bar noise like a song. My buddy Chad catches the moment on his phone, making jokes on Facebook about how I rebuff her sexual advances–garnering negative reviews of my behavior from my queen back in Kansas City. Stand-up guy, LeVrouw—way to fucking go. She’s roasting my ass in text messages already.
But as we wait for directions from Bannon—with multiple texts from Lara unanswered—we decide to abandon ship at the Gaylord and go to a hockey watch party at the Cadillac Bar just down the street –USA vs. Canada. It’s a great concept in theory. except I don’t watch any hockey—can’t give two shits about pucks and ice for some strange reason—and Rivera thinks it’s a good idea to feed me a triple shot of tequila — the exact sort of thing that gets my dander up—a spark to the powder keg of my soul. I find through the years that getting dander up in a bar always brings a bit of sporting fun.
A debate about rape flares with a fired-up right-wing pundit—another loudmouth with strange hair and a gigantic ass, face red as a beet—and I probably act like a drunken asshole, slurring my points like a sloppy prizefighter, but he certainly does too—his behavior richly influenced by bourbon and bravado. I’m perfectly okay with that. These things happen from time to time.
So, Rivera and Ireland decide to head into the heart of D.C. for some reason—no real recollection of who tags along, a rotating cast of blurry faces—and somewhere along the way, I need to get out of the car and take a piss. Son of a bitch, the first place I find is fucking Butterworths. I guess I’m having buttered sausage after all, I laugh, as I make my way in to wait patiently for a turn at the pisser. I marvel at the scenery behind me—rabbits bounce all over the wallpaper, and a print of Bambi and his mother stares back from within a frame.
Rivera is convinced I’m about to get killed when I say something that requires an N-word—I use a hard R—an unapologetic quip that spills out in my tequila haze, a blazing criticism of both racism and the virtue-signaling fools who believe some words stay off-limits—but everyone laughs as I explain how the Pirate ball cap gives me a license, or something like that. You have to check with Rivera for the details; he stands infinitely more sober than me—his eyes widen as I sway, watching my big backtivities like a true rifleman and brother.
So it rolls on for at least an hour or so before we make our way back to the hotel in Alexandria. I raid the snack closet sometime around 3 AM—or so I think—a haze of Doritos dust and shame settles over me, chips crunch beneath my fat body as I collapse into oblivion and take stock of what I learned in the hours before.
From Donnie O’Sullivan’s leprechaun lies twisting J6 into a Waco wet dream, to Matt Laslo’s raw defiance shredding a press gone soft, to the simple truth that Munafo nails to the wall: clicks and likes rule—not hearts and minds. Legacy media peddles myths while the alternative chases clout—Dr. Thompson’s gang of cruel faggots peaks at existence, jerking off to outrage bucks yet blind to the pulse beneath the marble and cigar smoke. Logan fights it, Raiklin toys with it, and I stagger through it like it’s 2020 all over again—stoned immaculate like Morrison would want, on the perimeter of a martini hangover—a relapsed asshole lost in the nexus of shit once more.
PART IV: BEST EFFORTS AT THE SCENE OF THE CRIME
It kicks off sometime around 8 AM with a less-than-informed effort to meet up with the Proud Boys at “The Phoenix” for a security brief before heading to the U.S. Capitol for a press conference. The name reminds me of a dirty cabaret club from my younger years, but I digress.
Rivera and I set out with as much energy as we can scrape together after the liver-abusing shitshow from the evening before. A hangover pounds my skull like a jackhammer on concrete—every pulse reminds me of that triple tequila shot and the high-powered vape that turned my brain to complete mush roughly twelve hours earlier. We follow the blue line on Google through the swamp—roads clog with traffic and smell of shit, horns blare like a symphony of pissed-off cabbies.
We stop at Chick-fil-A for a sandwich and a drink and eventually roll up to what we think marks the correct spot: an apartment building in Maryland near the Baltimore-Washington Parkway, northeast of the Federal District—a less-than-impressive structure that looks like a 1970s union-built relic of an organized racketeering scheme, left for our current discovery.
As we pull into the lot and park the car, a fire truck with sirens screams in behind—lights flash like an early morning disco—perfectly expected, though. That convinces us both we’ve landed in the right place. My previous rendezvous” with Proud Boys and associates, back in 2020 Atlanta, make this seem like just the kind of shithole they keep as a home base—a crash pad for plotting and drinking—and it doesn’t surprise me that the fire department gets called because of their presence; antifa loves dialing this shit in any chance they snag.
We wander confidently into the lobby—stale air thickens with a strange urban desperation, a flickering fluorescent bulb buzzes overhead—where people shuffle toward the laundry area, staring at us as they pass. We eat our sandwiches standing up, lean against a pillar in the lobby, and assess the place further—grease-stained wrappers and empty soda cups slap into the trash. After a few minutes of walking around like Vincent Vega after a shooting, it dawns on us we are at the wrong Phoenix—a realization that lands without surprise or regret.
So, Rivera reaches out to the wild man Jonathan Mellis via text for clarification—a J6er who was sentenced to 51 months for something tied to a cop’s shield near the west side tunnel and some alleged history as a meth cook, a wiry exhibition of American rebellion with wide eyes and a penchant for chaos—and in just a few short minutes, we snag the correct location: The Phoenix Park Hotel, deep in the district near the Capitol. A fresh blue line lays out on Google, and we follow along.
As we make our way into the federal district, ever closer to our destination, Rivera’s rental Countryman hums along at his will. He reminisces about his time as a Marine—driving supplies through the heart of Iraq’s war zone. He explains how it mirrors the drive we take now, except for the constant popping of small arms fire toward his vehicle—bullets pinging off Humvees like deadly hail—and the steady reminder from command: “We don’t stop for sheep.” You see, stopping a U.S. military vehicle in Iraq was a great way to get your ass killed, he explains—RPGs, IEDs, ambushes—so he and every other poor bastard in that mess would commonly plow through animals and every obstacle in their path. It counts as collateral damage in the U.S. war on terror—or whatever the fuck they want us to believe about military-industrial complex exploits back then.
He notes how Iraqis often seemed to lead their sheep in front of convoys—not so much to trap them for ambush but knowing the U.S. government would pay top dollar for any sheep killed. Leading lambs to slaughter was a lucrative gig for those with the means—a grim hustle in a grim fucking place. Real terrorists put kids in harm’s way, and multiple service members tell me “sheep” serves as a sick euphemism—the kind that always draws dark, traumatized laughter from those who’ve survived the hell of war. Rivera’s laugh matches others I’ve heard through the years —his eyes gaze off as we roll toward the Capital City’s heart. “You don’t stop for sheep,” he repeats, almost to himself, as we hit a pothole and press on.
Shortly after 11 AM, Rivera turns the corner onto a street lined with overpriced rowhouses, and I spot the Capitol dome looming—a symbol of everything we lost over the last four years. Strange feelings claw at my gut like a feral cat as we approach. I ask Rivera if he feels stormy—half-joking, half-serious—but the weight of so many broken lives radiates toward me from that temple of American democracy—the place where so many lost all faith in the institutions four years ago. It feels entirely fitting for a return to the crime scene—a pilgrimage to where thousands of well-meaning Americans screamed their lungs raw, only to pay for their temper tantrum with years of their lives.
Rivera pulls up to the hotel—a mostly nondescript white beacon of supposed respite near the Capitol—and we step out, feet hitting asphalt with a dull thud. We head to the lobby and ask how to reach the Capitol Suite. The front desk staff shrugs without a second thought and tells us to go all the way up. “The door is probably open,” they say, chuckling, barely glancing up at us from their phones.
As we press the elevator button and step inside, I catch more from the staff: “It’s our capital now”—a snarky quip, intended to mock, that captures an attitude We The People should never lose—clearly trying to grasp shit they only know through media lies and regime-change politics in a shaky republic—a TikTok generation mouthing off about feeling they’ve not been taught to comprehend—fucking kids these days.
When we reach the top floor, the door doesn’t stand open, but a quick knock brings a joker smile from Mellis, welcoming us in. I glance out to the balcony and see someone smoking—Bobby Pickles, the guy who sold me my “Enrique Tarrio Did Nothing Wrong” shirt, when it was hot off the press on January 5, 2020, in Lafayette Square—so it only makes sense to light up with him here. I still haven’t replaced the lighter Secret Service snagged from me yesterday, so I borrow his—the flame flickers as I ignite—the first drag hits my lungs and lets me reminisce further on everything leading here. We discuss the surreal vibe of standing on that balcony, gazing at the city where this mess started—fucking unreal—the Capitol dome glints in the midday sun like a lesson from history class, streets below buzz with tourists and cops blind to the ghosts we carry.
Enrique steps onto the balcony to smoke with us—decked out in a black hat, trench coat, and dark sunglasses like the villain establishment MAGA and Antifa paint him as—he peers at his phone, texting furiously about something, likely coordinating festivities not far off, asking if Bobby keeps a tripod handy for the press conference. Rivera walks out and mentions he needs to move the car or sort longer-term parking. I volunteer him for camera duty. He agrees—nods it’s no big deal—here to document what he can. Moments later, we gather in the suite for a security brief—chairs scrape across carpet, a dozen of us cram into a room littered with empty beer bottles and breakfast burrito wrappers—trash piles on the counter—Enrique and the other boys discuss keeping it peaceful, the need for those with pardons to place themselves between the Seditious Five, Stewart Rhodes, and any threats.
Joe Biggs remarks that the true sign of seditious conspiracy lies in a group of men with cameras trailing them 24/7. A cynical laugh ripples through the room—but when you face a government thriving on shadowy deals, abandonment of privacy makes perfect sense—transparency shields against their lies.
The decision is made to hit the nearest liquor store as a crew for much-needed supplies for whatever follows: booze—the true patriot’s fuel, after all. This drinking club with a patriotism problem hasn’t changed much, but maybe they’ve grown slightly more somber—eyes hardened, laughs quieter, years lost to prison now etched into their faces—early libation before a press conference resets sanity after four years of bullshit—a button of glass and grain. We strike the street—a ragtag band of misfits and motherfuckers. Joe Biggs grabs a Lime scooter outside and rides off—weaving like a kid on a sugar high as a smile widens across his face.
Something about rolling on two wheels and hunting sweet jumps always turns grown men into little boys—stupidity blanks trauma—and now you know why men of conscience live to drink, fight, and fuck. Biggs, an ex-Army staff sergeant with two Purple Hearts—spent nearly four years of his intended 17-year sentence in locked away with a lost demographic. He aims to send scooter video to brothers he discovered while there—Bloods, Crips, Gangster Disciples—those who grew to respect him like most who know him. And that’s where the DOJ really fucked up.
Those privileged and over-educated sacks of shit still can’t grasp that real fucking men thrive when it’s hard. In a world of respect and natural male hierarchy, Proud Boys and so-called insurrectionists earned admiration from a demographic who’d already been tossed aside—the real America, unvoiced in D.C. for decades and left to rot within the prison industrial complex — now exposed to patriotism in its rawest form.
With liquor and beer in hand, we head back to the hotel to review final security thoughts: stay tight, watch the flanks, no heroics. Hotel management emerges—some pencil-neck in a cheap suit—tells us not to film on their property—likely scared of retribution from the Marxist LARP called BLM/Antifa—an astroturf gig funded by foreign subversion artists like George Soros, now just bitching about Proud Boys with no purpose.
Four years after their “victory” put a pedophile in the White House, does it shock anyone that the public sees them as a fucking joke? No—it doesn’t—they are, objectively—and hell, even Proud Boys are little more than a gag that grew legs—a bitter irony fueling discontent as we shrug off the manager’s whinging and head out.
We walk to the Capitol in solidarity—toward the Peace Circle—where this journey began for so many, where we start our peaceful trek around the grounds. The monument—unveiled in 1878—stands as a marble tribute to naval sacrifice in the Civil War—funded by sailors and officers—designed by Franklin Simmons, driven by Admiral David Dixon Porter—its symbols weave mourning and hope: Peace offers an olive branch south, Grief weeps over a tablet for the dead, Victory lifts a laurel wreath, Neptune with infants Mars and Minerva links sea to war and wisdom—built during Reconstruction—its spot near the Capitol mirrors a nation wrestling loss and craving unity—a solemn call now witnessing modern resolve as we stand before our house, tracing the route where munitions were fired against us—rubber bullets, flashbangs—and teargas to shred our First Amendment rights. Fucking hell—the memory burns.
But as we reach 1st Street Northeast, heading to the lawn where press gathers—cameras rolling and mics hot—Patricia Eguino starts her famous act—growling and shrieking into a bullhorn about insurrection like a fucking lunatic. At 38—she’s a lonely tribute to years passed with a voice like a busted chainsaw—her whistle-blowing D.C. housewife pal knows only “Fuck the Proud Boys”—repeating it like a mental glitch—no self-awareness of the hate consuming her.
I chat briefly with NBC’s Ryan Reilly and ask how he fares—infamous among J6 defendants but a friend through odd twists—tracking J6 cases and journaling the story of Sedition Hunters all along the way. He notes familiar faces—surely the surreal nature of this return doesn’t escape him—and despite some J6ers’ hate, his work kept the story alive—forcing it into American memory when too many were inclined to forget. He never signed off on or approved of what went down—like many—but he kept some tabs on reality. And for that, I still owe him a beer or ten someday.
As the press conference begins—curiosity, and even a quiet empathy, defines the prevailing mood among those who are here—reasonable Americans crave each other’s voices, I think. Because the fringes can only spew hate—and we all see it if we let ourselves. That hatred lingers as a shared wound after years of the same broken tune while we make our best efforts to walk away without incident. But best efforts are often unappreciated in the federal district, and arrest was likely unavoidable. MORE ON THAT LATER.
PART V: WAYS, MEANS, AND ATTEMPTS TO RECONCILE ON THE WAY TO THE PATRIOT MANSION
Back at the Gaylord’s Harbor Bar—hours after Enrique’s latest arrest—it seethes like a swarm of locusts, raw Americans buzzing with adult beverages and renewed defiance, fresh from the energy expenditure at Capitol Hill—Munafo, Rivera, Ireland, and I are well within the eye of this gathering storm. Barry Ramey looms in black, J6 medal swinging, aviators glinting with unbowed grit. Chris Alberts grips a beer, beard matching his hulking pride. Kirstyn Neimala weaves fire, defiance in every step. Shane Jenkins stands tall—“Mama Tried” inks his resolve. Mason Courson toasts to newfound liberty. Rasha Abual-Ragheb dances free, feds forgotten. Phillip Anderson crackles, J6 scars alive. Even Zachary Alam, the oft alleged Antifa plant, lurks in the mix—while Pezzola enjoys the moment, Rehl gleams, dressed sharp to the nines, Nordean smolders fierce with his infamous haymaker holstered for the moment. Joe Biggs haunts the fence—a sentinel keeping watch while the party continues to grow. Enrique Tarrio struts in—arrest all but forgotten and smirk curling across his face as he snags a beer.
Drinks flow, uninhibited, when Jake Lang makes his grand entrance. I’m pleasantly inebriated, and not in the mood. He offers his hand to me like a long-lost friend, but it’s just that main character complex—he’s always willing to hijack whatever any other J6er is doing to make it about himself. A true sociopath in the crowd—swinging for the stars or whatever—loved by some, but that’s not my problem—I’ve got my own character complex to maintain—serious journalist, you see.
I tell him, “We aren’t friends,” hit him with questions about Rep. Randy Weber from Texas and whispers of a seemingly forgotten pending matter in the Southern District of New York. He doesn’t like it—fine by me; his dad’s been sniffing to launch a lawsuit anyway. “So fucking sue me, Jake,” I slur as he blathers about patriot brothers in Yeshua or whatever he’s currently peddling—“I can’t fucking wait for discovery.” I tell him it’s time to fucking leave—sick of his bullshit—but he clings on like a Missouri tick, much like antifa from earlier in the day, attention-starved and unrelenting, until Pezzola stands to his feet and gently backs my demand. Jake finally fucks off to his side of the patio and peace returns. Thankfully.
Shoes off—feet aching—I watch from the outskirts as the patio turns into a redux of the world renowned J6 Prison Choir—everyone belts out the national anthem—voices ragged and raw—a poorly tuned hymn of defiance and kinship echoing off the atrium glass. Drinks keep flowing—the bar tab climbs—I pay through my nose—our flag is STILL THERE! Bank statements be damned—I’m the main character when I sign off on the charges and this is serious journalisming; the boys need to get shitfaced and I’m happy to do my part.
Anarchy Princess shows up with Amanda Moore and Baldy Banks—antifa-associated journos I can’t bring myself to hate despite what anyone says about them. To me, they’re just three more people completing the tapestry of this weird, fucked-up family—this melting pot of imperfect people thrust together in time, subject matter, and an unhealthy obsession with American politics.
Helena Gibson lambasts Anarchy Princess like she’s the antichrist—I suggest letting bygones be bygones with a drink and civil chat. No way Helena is having a part in that sort of thing, but at least no fight erupts. There’s no real difference between this quarrel and my ongoing disdain for Brother Edward Jacob Lang and his Sixth or Seventh Church of the Second Revolution or whatever.
I move on with Ireland, Rivera, Pezzola, and our recently discovered left-leaning friends to see what hits at the top-floor nightclub—a pink neon bust compared to downstairs—so we return to the lobby at 1:27 AM, and I snap a pic of Anarchy Princess posing with Rivera and Ireland—a beautiful moment—AP’s peace sign up ‘til Ireland’s “PROUD OF YOUR BOYYYY!” OK sign makes her recoil. Ribbing aside, unity’s brewing—talk, listen, heal—I believe our country can mend. Or at least that’s what the alcohol is telling me.
Then word filters in of a still-open invite to Jake’s Patriot Mansion bash. Why shouldn’t we go? Aren’t we patriots at the end of the goddamn day? Might as well keep drinking—maybe act like an asshole and get into a fight—“Fuck around and find out,” I’ve heard many folks say—a mantra ringing as I stumble on into the next iteration.
Once again, we pile into the Countryman for a side quest—tearing off into the darkness of early morning beltway traffic, onward to the Patriot Mansion—an Airbnb honeypot roughly 13 minutes across the Potomac from the Gaylord, somewhere in Northwest Alexandria.
We arrive and step inside to greetings from so many who’d been partying at the Harbor Bar not so long ago—booze still flowing with zero remorse. And for whatever it’s worth, I attempt to conduct myself as a gentleman—shaking hands, nodding, muttering some well-meaning pleasantries and what-nots and what-have-yous—but considering the amount of alcohol in the mix of simmering disagreement—and Twisted Tea now making its presence known—it’s only be a matter of time before a retarded dick-measuring contest erupts like a Vesuvian cataclysm.
I make an effort to sit at the dining table and have a conversation with Jake—to hash out our differences like men of consequence should endeavor—but any chance of bilateral talks are complicated with the peanut gallery looking on. Couy Griffin, the cowboy from my home state of New Mexico—is comfortably settled into his role as head simp, his hat tilted and unwilling to vouch for my intensions (whatever that means)—chest puffed and well aware that the 505 rules — allegedly– because I’m too fucking drunk to swear to it, and so is he—no shortage of culpability here in this kitchen.
But shitfaced or not, I’ll never fucking understand why people are so averse to letting Jake handle his own beef. They defend him like he’s a child who’s lost in the mall, just outside of Victoria’s Secret while his mommy shops for panties—it’s fucking weird—a cult of personality that makes my skin crawl.
Altercation is inevitable—especially when, as a super serious journalist—half smashed and slurring—I demand Jake Lang answer my questions without his run-of-the-mill, pious reflection psyop. He continues to dodge the simplicity in my queries like a silicone eel—but he confirms he’d had a meeting with Rep. Randy Weber from Texas. So, maybe the questions about Torshin and Butina will get answered someday—and maybe there’s an innocent explanation for his prison selfies and podcast empire versus Biggs’ hell—or Rhodes’—or Rivera’s for that matter. And does it even matter anymore if the stories about Ryan Samsel’s broom closet were completely fabricated? Let’s each take a moment to vouch for our stupidity first—tracking Mexicans at the border with beer bottles or whatever the fuck else Cowboy Couy wants to do to grift a few bucks.
Now, with all the dick measuring done, I agree to retreat from kinetic escalation and refocus my aggression at someone who isn’t going to cry about it. So, I head to the garage in the backyard where I can pick on Vem Miller for funsies. I accused him of being NSA, which makes him wonder if I’m Armenian after all—don’t twist it like the tea in the fridge—something’s up with the Caucasus. And despite my apparent inability to be friendly, I manage to make amends with Tommy Tatum AKA Potatum—his nickname from Sedition Hunters will always be funny as fuck and a true friend laughs at you with no remorse.
This patriot mansion’s a shitfaced zoo, and we are reconciling like dead men on the downhill slope from project mayhem, you see—main characters, everyone. Springsteen fades to Metallica and the family is back together — perfect in our flawed exhibition of kinship, and no amount of infighting will ever be enough to tear us apart.
Maybe, one of these days, Jakey Poo and I can be friends after all – but probably not if it turns out he’s as fake and weak as he smells. It’s fine, as always. Everything is fine — kumbaya in action. Except for Bryan Betancur and his weird obsession with rape, Amanda Moore’s feet, and lone wolf school shooters. That creepy little motherfucker probably needs to be dealt with before someone gets hurt.
What makes a patriot anyway? Maybe one day we will know.
PART VI: FOND FAREWELLS AT THE J6 WHITE HOUSE
Waking up at 10 AM is a shock to the senses—like a goddamn freight train slamming into my skull—no part of me wants to get moving after whatever occurred at the Patriot Mansion shitshow—the good, the bad, and the ugly –but I scramble out of bed to pull the drapes back and make sure it isn’t 10 PM—head pounding—mouth tasting like an ashtray fucked a distillery.
The President is speaking today—Trump’s big CPAC moment—so I put myself together to the best of my ability—shit and shower but no point in attempting to trim this weird fucking beard—a patchy mess I’ve let grow wild. I put on a necktie for reasons I’m not sure how to articulate—maybe some half-assed attempt at all due respect for the executive office or just muscle memory from court dates. Rivera slaps on his sport coat and we laugh at the multiple bags of snacks from the hotel pantry that once again litter my bed—Doritos, pretzels—a fucking candy bar wrapper stuck to the sheets—the white walrus always has a snack before a snooze, goddammit. Rivera is shaking his head as we stumble out into the hallway and make our way to the elevator.
We need to pick up Ireland—taken by Google to some godforsaken corner of Virginia where he’s reportedly having brunch with Vem—an aggravating detour on our way back to the National Harbor to express our gayest pride at the Gaylord. Rivera chooses valet so we don’t have to walk any more than necessary—fucking legs are dragging like lead—then he embarks hard on his primary mission—hellbent on getting all the J6ers seating on the front row so we can get our pardons signed.
Ireland and I wander around—sweaty and confused—we run into Gary McBride, my Farmington, New Mexico compadre through four years of madness. Gary gives us the lowdown on how to stash lighters before dealing with the US Secret Service—tucked away behind a sign on the outskirts of the security checkpoint.
I have to confess I’m not particularly optimistic about the success of Rivera’s mission—cynicism’s a bitch with a splitting headache and scattered memory—but I may as well get in to fit in—put differences aside for another day—because after finally getting to spend time with all these fucking people, I’m more convinced than ever that we actually are a family—a fucked-up tribe of sinners and survivors. The water is near a bridge as I give Cowboy Couy a hug.
We and a group of roughly fifteen J6ers stand in solidarity near the midway point of the main ballroom from front to back—shoulder to shoulder—a wall of J6 defiance. CPAC officials tell us they are doing everything they can to put us in the VIP section—bullshit promises but I see no reason for hard feelings —whether we get any special recognition becomes less important than ever. I’m just happy to stand with these brothers and sisters in this location in space and time—a strange, disparate group of individuals who, because of an out-of-control government, now find ourselves at this celebration of everything wrong with politics—so no surprise on my end exists that after MAGA normies from all corners of the globe ask to take pictures with us—cell phones flash, awkward smiles spread all around—the Fire Marshal finally gets involved and directs us to the standing-room-only attendance area at the very back. Biggs is already there, unpardoned and even less shocked than me that there will be no special seating.
I run into Ryan Samsel—the scarred instigator who was given a 17-year sentence—pardoned but still raw. I make it a point to introduce myself, and he expresses how he really wants to talk to me later—likely about old reports of how he was locked in a janitor’s closet. I will have to follow up on that—his eyes plead for a chance to unload his story to my skeptical ears.
After an unknown amount of time spent waiting, Trump finally makes his way to the stage—golden hair gleaming under the lights—and I stand as a gesture of respect while listening to the Lee Greenwood staple and feeling some sense of accomplishment in the struggles of the last four years—feet aching in my dress shoes. I find it difficult to listen to another one of his rambling speeches, however—fucking tangents about the border and dirty democrats, low hanging fruit for MAGA influencers to pick up and propagate for clicks and likes.
So, for a few moments it makes sense to go observe as reporters talk to J6ers like Rasha, Brian Mock, and Gabriel Garcia, with the weirdos who paid big bucks to be a part of the club, supremely irritated that anyone was interested in anything but what the orange man was saying—fucking normies—J6ers are worn out.
I sit down on the floor and attempt to rest my aching feet, while Kirstyn Neimela laid down nearby and appears to be taking a little nap—good idea. And by the time Trump mentions us, there isn’t nearly the energy necessary to overpower our position in the back—but we all know how to get to the front of the line if needed—even if it turns into a riot—fucking hell, we’ve done it before, after all.
As Trump concludes—finally—a sense of relief washes over me like a cold beer after a long haul—and after stopping at the stash point where I retrieve my lighter (thanks again, Gary), we make our way back to the Harbor Bar downstairs where more drinks flow and selfies are abundant—chicken wings and sandwiches pile on tables—grease soaks through napkins—smiles and stoic acceptance all mix into a giant shitbag of humanity.
And as Jake Lang makes his rounds once again, I may as well shake his fucking hand—an olive branch through the haze, given with hope that the future ain’t what it used to be. Anarchy Princess, Baldy Banks, and Amanda Moore sit down at a table as well—Rivera makes TikToks like he does so well — I sip a Stella with as much vigor as a wet sock—much of the family gathers here for farewells.
But we still have a stop to make—back at the Eagle’s Nest AKA J6 White House to meet with Micki — the adoptive mother of all January 6 defendants—and pay our respects for her long-suffering efforts to see us all free. So, after saying some goodbyes to everyone here at the bar—handshakes and nods—specifically thanking all for their various efforts and recognition of their roles in this unique tapestry in American history—we snatch up the car from the valet and head back into the heart of the federal district.
Gary McBride and Nicole Reffitt greet us at the door—two people I’ve known almost since the beginning of this madness—and I honestly never thought l would get to see them in this place, with word that everyone who kept the home fires burning here will be dispersing in the following days. The guys from America First Warehouse are here, as well as Nicole’s husband, Guy.
I remark how the last time I saw him he was leading the push up the west side stairs of the Capitol—completely undeterred by the barrage of pepper balls fired at him by Capitol Police—called “The Tip of the Spear” in news clippings and court hearings—and objectively, some of that characterization may ring true. But fucking hell—he’s just a man—a husband—a father—not a cartoon villain.
So, I remember my thoughts about martyrdom in America and what it meant to me in late 2021—what I was trying to convey when I explained America as a confluence of two mighty rivers in Cairo, Illinois—a metaphor for the clash of ideals and the blood that flows from it. Micki remembers as well—now 60 years old with ash-gray hair and an iron will that passed on to her dearly departed daughter, Ashli. When she returns to the house from the grocery store—and I finally get a chance to give her a tight hug without an entire peanut gallery looking on—it felt to me as though I might really begin to put this journey to rest.
You see—I’ve always felt as though if anyone deserved the truth it was Micki—and it was up to us to make sure that her dream about Ashli wanting the political prisoners set free became reality—and through all of the personal and financial loss within our savage community in the time that followed our first meeting in Freeport, Texas in late 2021—somehow we—the motley crew of nobodies who refused to shut the fuck up—kept the quest for January 6 truth at the forefront of everyone’s minds.
By the grace of God, we kept pushing until Trump was back in the White House—knowing full well that the only way we would ever be free again was by presidential pardon and decree—Lord knows the courts had abandoned reason for madness. And maybe that’s why a bunch of lunatics with main character syndrome were needed to take on the system—four years later—it begins to make so much more sense—fucking hell—we’re the redemption story America never wanted.
Because even if we can’t stand each other sometimes—even if we can never all be friends because of the things we’ve said and done to each other—we will always be a family—whether we like it or not. God knows I’ve not been perfect in my exhibition of His will—we’ve all sinned in our own special way along this path—and without a doubt we will all be held accountable for our sins when the time is appropriate.
So, while Micki and I share a joint—a slow burn of weed and memory, along with reflective thoughts about the last few years—she laughs at my previous evening’s altercation with Couy Griffin—only wishing I’d actually punched him in the mouth.
Rivera and I do our duty to sign Robert Morss’ book and the house register—names scrawled in ink to be remembered one day in the far-flung future perhaps. We pose for our photo in front of the “Wall of Insurrection” where dozens if not hundreds have gone before—and then I sink from exhaustion and mellow marijuana high into the north side of the sofa—that place where Potatum’s fat ass has completely ruined the springs—and we laugh together once more—four years of high strangeness that will haunt us forever.
PART VII: ESCAPE FROM THE SWAMP AND WAITING
FOR JUSTICE TO CATCH UP
Sunday morning dawns in Virginia as Rivera and I make our way back to Reagan National – a short drive through a city waking up slowly. Once we clear TSA security standards and eat some semblance of a meal, we meet up with a lesser-known former Lieutenant Colonel, for the latest J6 intelligence, before sitting down for a well-deserved Bloody Mary near Rivera’s terminal. The drink burns, spicy as hell, its tomato juice thick with Tabasco and vodka, jolting my system and scorching away the fog of the past few days. Jesus Delamore Rivera was the first J6er I came to know after that fateful day, my brother through all of this, especially when it felt like we stood alone. Crazy how things have changed.
As I prepare to fly out of D.C. again, having dodged the airport arrests four years ago with a rental car and radio silence, fleeing like a ghost with my heart pounding, sure the feds were hot on my trail, a strange peace settles over me. This calm, unknown to me since before the Capitol steps erupted into a war zone, washes through my bones.
I give JD a hug, arms tight around his shoulders. His grip returns firm in a brother’s farewell, and I bid him adios as he walks to his gate back to Pensacola. Then I walk to a quieter spot in the concourse and hop on a call with Vem Miller to talk about the future of media. Words buzz through my skull as I pace the terminal. Maybe I can find my place after all. A glimmer of hope flickers in the haze.
And just when I think I stand as the main character in this latest plunge into chaos, I spot Joe Biggs walking toward his flight. “Biggs!” I call out, my voice hoarse from days of shouting and smoking. I walk up and give him a hug. I ask how he fares and if he’s about ready to fly back to Miami. “Yeah,” he says, “just finished getting finger-fucked by TSA.” His laugh rings hollow, a dark chuckle at best because it’s no joke, his eyes hard but warm with the gallows humor that keeps him alive after nearly four years of hell behind bars.
Our escape from D.C., on Friday afternoon after Enrique’s arrest, pulses as the visceral core of this story, continuation of the madness of a city hellbent on crushing us, a testament to the grit that keeps us fighting. It began at the Capitol lawn as the press conference wound down. We knew our walk around the grounds – our return to the scene of the crime — was far too peaceful; there’s always someone to ruin it.
We broke from the chaos as bullhorns blared and Eguino’s shriek sharpened, Jake Lang and Phillip Anderson now amping things up while Enrique’s cooler hand tried to hold things steady. So, he played decoy, his swagger drawing eyes since he thrives on it, letting us slip away on North Capitol Street and back to the Phoenix Park Hotel. We moved briskly, keeping an eye on our six; no idiots trailed us, and that part of the plan held. We reached The Dubliner Restaurant, eager for beers.
Rivera said he needed to head to the Gaylord to get some work done and asked if I wanted to stay with Proud Boys. I told him we’d catch up, and I hit the bathroom, my bladder screaming after hours of restraint.
Emerging from the pisser, I found trouble brewing. Biggs overheard an employee mutter something about how they didn’t want us there. “Nobody wants to eat food that’s been spit in,” he said, so we split to take our money elsewhere – a decision solidified when the manager doubled down. He made it clear we didn’t belong.
Up the small elevator we ascended to a bank of rooms. News crashed in like a brick through a window: Enrique had been nabbed. Texts flew, X erupted, and we huddled over a phone watching that clip where Eguino growls and shrieks like a rabid hyena until she shoves her phone in Tarrio’s face, filming his every breath. He smacks it away, a reflex sending it skittering across the concrete, handing U.S. Capitol Police a flimsy excuse to cuff him. They label it assault, Eguino’s apparent victory, Tarrio’s wrists bound, with no way to undo it and no reason to linger here.
Biggs packed fast, duffel over his shoulder, jaw tight. Pezzola, followed suit, eyes continuously scanning. We descended the elevator, doors groaning shut, and piled into a hatchback parked just to the north of the Hotel. Lucien sat behind the wheel, a filmmaker Biggs knows from as far back as the original GWOT combat zones in Afghanistan. Strange vibes hit as we settled in, heads swiveling on the search for critical understanding, unsure if what might happen next with Capitol cops lurking like vultures. That damn city.
We pulled from the Phoenix Park Hotel, old stress settling in like fog, turn signals clicking dread: click-click, click-click, engine growling beneath D.C.’s bustle, cars honking, suits scurrying, tourists gawking. We took I-295 South toward the Gaylord National Harbor, a 7.5-mile, 15-20 minute haul if traffic didn’t screw us. Biggs sat in shotgun, Pezzola and I rode in back, Lucien’s camera between us.
Biggs answered a call from Enrique’s mom, Zuny, her frantic voice piercing the static, a mother’s panic. “It’s gonna be okay, Zuny, we’re on it,” he said, steady as granite, picking sores on his head: one, two, three bloody spots, fingernails digging in, a tic from years of stress, promising all would turn out alright. Biggs stayed steady: “Don’t know anything else yet, Zuny, you know as much as us.” We knew nothing beyond cuffs.
Lucien drove with silent resolve, hands at ten and two, eyes fixed, presumably like so many times before, with Biggs at his shotgun through warzones and chaos across the globe, dust now asphalt, IEDs now cops, focused as we crossed the Anacostia on I-295. Biggs picked; I gripped my phone, texts pinging; Pezzola’s brooding stare through the passenger window of the back seat. Zuny’s concern noted as Biggs hung up the phone.
At 2:01 PM, I texted Treniss Evans, one of my closest friends in this mess and a man who’s already done everything any one of us J6ers could have asked for: “Has Enrique’s attorney been notified?” My fat fingers fumbled. “That seems to be the primary action item. I’m with Biggs and Dom on our way back to the Gaylord.” “Yes,” he replied. “Copy that,” I respond. “Jon Gross takes the case.” “Copy.” We moved forward. Biggs nodded and Pezzola eased. Hope flickered with at least one action item accounted for.
At 2:03 PM, my Mom texted: “You ok? I just read about Enrique.” Damn vultures are fast when they think they’ve got a J6er on the hook. “Yeah, we are working on it. I’m with Biggs and Dom headed back to the Gaylord.” “Hang tough, be smart. Love you,” a reminder of why we are here in the first place. “Love you too,” I replied.
The quiet ride, engine humming, tires hissing, broke with laughter over Enrique’s spotlight love. Biggs rumbled, “Fucking media whore.” Pezzola snorted, “Always gotta be the star.” A chuckle for all before silence returned, and we rolled on — reaching the Gaylord National Harbor after 2:20 PM. I split for Rivera and Ireland; Biggs and his crew grabbed food. The escape had apparently ended, but not the fight.
Two days later, at Reagan National Airport, Biggs stands before me, and I know our battle is far from over. America teeters, its healing stalls, full redemption remains shackled. The latest iteration in the ongoing story of January 6 howls as a testament to wild redemption, a crew of sinners claws their God-given power back from the swamp. Biggs stands as its pulse, raw and unbowed, from Springfield’s haze to the Gaylord’s fury, the Capitol’s gut punch to the Mansion’s chaos, Eguino’s venom to Ashli’s ghost.
As I bid farewell to the man I claimed as my sole reason for voting for Donald Trump this time around, the guy who told me on 14th Street, D.C., on December 13, 2020, that he was tired of brawling with Antifa kids and BLM activists on piss-soaked streets, insisting America’s real enemies were on Capitol Hill, the guy, who like so many other veteran J6ers, gave blood, bone, and sanity in America’s Global War on Terror before they locked him away to die for taking his grievances directly to the seat of power, the guy still denied VA benefits or a pension due to a bullshit seditious conspiracy charge and an unfulfilled pardon promise, I see the battle for this nation’s soul stretching far beyond us. We bleed through America’s mistakes, Iraq’s sands, D.C.’s lies. Veterans like Biggs, Pezzola, Rehl and Rhodes bear the weight; sentences commuted but not erased — and a nation’s failures linger.
Perhaps even more central to redemption, amid all the noise, is the fate and still-evolving legacy of those who died that day. I know about Officer Brian Sicknick and how the media lied, blaming his death on George Tanios and Julian Khater. David Sumrall never shies from attributing the deaths of Sicknick, Kevin Greeson, Benjamin Phillips, and Rosanne Boyland to police actions.
However, from an honest perspective, it’s difficult to conclude that Sicknick, Greeson, and Phillips were murdered, though the riotous circumstances likely contributed to their deaths. And even Rosanne Boyland’s death—her lifeless body savagely beaten by Metro PD Officer Lila Morris on the steps of the west tunnel entrance where she was trampled and crushed—cannot objectively be blamed solely on police.
Yet, Air Force Veteran Ashli Babbitt’s death stands out as a singular moment of supreme negligence. Even now, years later, I struggle to find any excuse for Robert Byrd, the Capitol Police officer with a history of reckless behavior, who chose to take aim and deprive her of the life she’d earned through service. Her blood still stains that marble in my mind.
And I still struggle to define my own role in the riot and how much of my journalistic integrity remains intact amid all the emotion that day and since. We really did storm that building together, a raw, unscripted act of defiance, even if it was ugly or even utterly stupid and ill advised. And four years later, we can look back and understand that we won. No psyop can steal that from us. It’s our truth, carved in blood, sweat, and the echoes of that day, all veterans of a fifth-generation war.
Now, staring out at the terminal, I reflect. Despite any redemption we may have found at the Gaylord CPAC Extravaganza, the mission stands firm, unfinished. Biggs, the rest of the Seditious Five Proud Boys, Dominic Pezzola, Ethan Nordean, Zachary Rehl, Enrique Tarrio, and Stewart Rhodes still wait, the promise of full and unconditional pardons still unfulfilled. These men, flawed, fierce, and human, stand as citizens stripped bare, denied VA benefits, pensions, and honor, all for a nation that turns its back when convenient.
America cannot heal until they reclaim their place, not just as free men, but as patriots restored. We J6ers carry this torch; our scars scream it. Every chaotic step from that Capitol lawn to this airport terminal drives us to one truth: the fight persists until Biggs and the rest breathe free, treated as citizens once more, given what they are owed.
This 21st Century Bonus March stretches on, and I know that our story together—patriots, raw and unbowed—points to that golden horizon, where justice finally catches up.
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