Wednesday, September 12, 2018

EDIT: Five-Minute Sprint STORY

(I guess we'll find out together.)

EDIT: My wife shot me the idea of doing a word sprint every week about this story because she really wants to know what happens. So that's what I'm going to do. I'm high now, watching ECW's Massacre on 34th Street PPV, and taking my lunch break. So we're going to do this now. Five minutes, stream of consciousness, who knows what's going to happen.

ORIGINAL POST: I'm high, I'm listening to Iron Maiden's "Fear of the Dark" from their concert in Rio, and I've got the timer set for five minutes. Let's see what happens.


Mabel turned to Agnes and said, "I've had enough of this nonsense."

It wasn't the words Mabel used that gave Agnes a start. Heavens no. Agnes had taken 93 trips around the glowing center of their solar system and there was blessed little that would surprise her now.

It was the fact Mabel had been dead for at least 25 of those trips that gave Agnes pause.

I'm just fuckin' with you. Mabel isn't dead. She hasn't spoken in probably three months, so Agnes was a little surprised by the comment.

And no, she still wasn't surprised by her words. Mabel was always carrying on about one thing or another. We want a library card. We want to vote. I want an abortion. No, seriously, I'm pregnant and didn't find out until pretty recently, so if we don't do something quick, it's going to go from regret to murder, so really...let's find a a doctor. Or a Mexican. But someone. And quick. Because like I said...

"What nonsense is that, dear?"

"Ugh, just all of it."

"Mabel, you haven't said much in a bit, so you'll have to forgive me if I don't remember what had you in a state when you went all non-verbal last spring."

NEW POST 9/6/18

Mabel was dumbstruck. Which was kind of funny, if you think about it. She's said one thing in three months, and her sister's response shocked her back into being a mute. Maybe it's me.

She was right, though. Mabel struggled to think back to what had infuriated her into silence for month after month after month. She knew she was right. That much was certain. She had had no doubt regarding the strength of her convictions. Mabel was prone to dramatic extremes, true; also true was that Mable was prone to taking handfuls of pills without having the slightest idea to their origins or effects. Or side effects.

Actually, that could explain a lot of the memory loss. Something to think about, Mabel thought. Or she thought she thought it. She may have forgotten it by now. Or not. Yeah, she really needed to stop doing that. But man, what an interesting day...

She looked back at her sister. "Oh, shut it down, Agnes. You know what I'm talking about." She hoped Agnes knew, because she had no idea herself and was just fishing.

NEW POST 9/8/18

Agnes sighed, loudly. A little too loudly, if we're being honest. Mabel could be dramatic, but Agnes wasn't afraid to embellish, either.

"You're still mad at Mother, aren't you, dear?" Agnes asked, making a noticeable, albeit insincere, attempt at something like empathy.

Mabel racked her brain. Being pissed at Mother wouldn't be anything new, but that didn't sound right. But close. Maybe Mother had something to do with it? Like, maybe Mother said something that pissed her off and then she held that anger in and took it out on someone else, and THAT'S what she's really pissed about, the fallout between the other person as a result of whatever the shit it was that Mother said?

Fuckin' Mother.

Still, that didn't sound entirely accurate.


That named popped into her head with the suddenness of surprise sodomy. She remembered. She remembered it all. It was Don. That goofy little prick actually did it. And he got away with it. Goddammit.

"No, Agnes, for once, it's not about Mother," Mabel spat. Not literally spat. That would be gross. Like, figuratively. Like, she spat the sentence out because of the low regard for which she holds her mother.
NEW POST 9/12/18

"It's Don," Mabel said. "You remember Don, don't you, Agnes? Don't you?"

"Of course I remember Don," Agnes said. She couldn't forget Don and his swarthy good looks, his charm, his huge bank account, and his even huger cock. It was massive. It waddled around the farmyard as though it owned the place, but at 76 lbs., it was hard to argue.

His enormous black cock notwithstanding, he also had a bigger-than-average penis as well and Mabel had spent her youth as a size queen, so it's not hard to comprehend that she would remember Don. She had spent a couple months post-WWII as Don's steady girl. It was a heady summer, but when Don left, she shut down for almost a year. She didn't speak, she rarely ate, and she carried a bitter grudge against Agnes after catching her in the bathroom with Don. He claimed he was helping Mabel's older sister with her hair; Agnes claimed he had bent her over the sink and was plowing her like Grandad's cornfield in the spring.
NEW POST 9/24/18

"In addition to his--"

"If you mention that cock of his, I'll punch you in the mouth." Mable despised chickens.

"Alright, in addition to his pet," Agnes said slowly, "and his larger-than-average manhood, of course I remember Don. I remember going to his funeral more than 30 years ago. So unless you've become a medium, what does he have to do with anything?"

"I saw him. Yesterday."

"In a dream?"

"No, not in a dream. That's stupid, what you just said. I know the difference between a dream and real life, Agnes. God, you're so dumb sometimes. 'In a dream?' 'In a dream?' That's what you sound like. Mother was right."

Now Agnes was taken aback. Mabel, not even in jest, had ever credited their mother with being right about anything. Ever. Being who she was, however, Agnes would not allow herself to be caught off guard. No matter how badly she wanted to know what Mother was right about, she would not rise to the bait.

"Mabel, I was just asking. Dreams can be powerful sometimes. If it wasn't a dream, then can you please explain the context in which you saw Don?"

NEW POST 10/04/18

It was hard for Mabel to describe what she saw. She knew it was Don, but it was hazy now. It had been a while since she felt what she would call normal, but she also knew she was telling the truth. She had seen him. Alive.

"I'm...not sure," Mabel said, knowing she was giving Agnes more ammo to talk down to her in that patronizing little voice of hers. Since they were kids, Agnes knew how to get under Mabel's skin. "Sure you did, Mabel" or "Of course I believe you, Mabel" or "Yes, Mabel, you have incredible bosoms."

"I know you think you saw him, Mabel, and I believe you," Agnes said.

"Goddammit, Agnes, you insufferable cow!" Mabel yelled. "I saw him! As sure as I'm looking at your old, wrinkled face right now, I saw him!"

Agnes looked at her in that way she always had with that "Of course you did, Mabel" look on her fucking puss. Goddamn, did she hate her sister sometimes. Like now. Or like that time she stole Mabel's diary, read the passage about the time she accidentally pooped her pants during Sunday School and blamed it on Davy, the slow kid.


And done. Music went from Iron Maiden to a live duet between Metallica & Ozzy doing Paranoid. Kirk is playing THE most gorgeous Les Paul. #Swoon.

Sunday, August 26, 2018

Five! Minutes! To Wriiiiiiiiite Something...

(Eddie is never not awesome in any context. Also, I know a guy who knows Iron Maiden's drummer. So, yeah.)

Sammy Hagar's jamming with Chickenfoot, playing Deep Purple's "Highway Star." Sammy's awesome. I met him once at a NASCAR race. I have three celebrity meeting stories that all start with "I was at a NASCAR race & running to (wherever), when I ran passed (celebrity)." Sammy Hagar (which I'm about to tell you), ECW wrestler Al Snow (which I write about HERE), and Charlie Daniels. Which is heretofore known to none but me.

Anyway, I'm running out of the media center at the track in Fontana, Calif., and I see Sammy. The following exchange takes place:

"Holy cow, you're Sammy Hagar!"

"I know!"

"You're awesome!"

"I know!"

"I gotta go, it was great meeting you!"

"You too!"

The Charlie Daniels story was very similar, except when I said, "Holy cow, you're Charlie Daniels!" his response was "Yessir!" His response to "You're awesome!" was "Well, thank you kindly!" The Al Snow story is better, but Charlie was a nice man. A little, um, different, these days, but he was a nice man. So now you know the Charlie Daniels story.

Anyway, George Thorogood is singing about drinking his rent money in the form of bourbon, scotch, and beers. I love him, by the way. It's amazing to me that I haven't seen him live. So there's that, me & BatBong just had a chat & there's five minutes on the timer.


She had a beaver that just wouldn't quit. Her boyfriend's little brother had been force feeding it meth for the past hour.

It was disturbing in that they had just watched it gnaw its own tail off, shrieking between fevered nibbles, but they just couldn't look away. Mostly, because they had been force feeding themselves meth for the past three days. I can't tell you what they were seeing through their eyes at that point, but I can tell you it was...unusual.

Prior to this tale of self tail-decapitation or whatever you would call it, Chet the Beaver may as well have been called Chill the Beaver. Because he was pretty relaxed.

For Chet, a normal day consisted of laying around, taking second-hand hits from his person's hot-boxed bedroom while listening to his favorite group, the Beaver Brown Band. It had nothing to do with the name; he genuinely liked them, respected their background, and admired their never-ending-tour work ethic.


We're now watching Lynyrd Skynyrd doing "Freebird," pre-crash. I met them, too. Many years post-crash. The live version of "Freebird" my wife & I saw that night included a woman dancing who also looked as though she had been force-fed some meth. The video I'm watching is in the hey-day of the 70s mega football stadium shows. Seeing this crowd of tens of thousands of people getting into the music, that's pretty incredible. That's your stereotype stoner "Profound" Moment of the Day.

If You Can Dodge a Wrench, You Can Write For Five Minutes

(Why am I not actually using this time to work on my book? Look, a bison! #SmokeBomb)

Hoo boy, we're having fun now. Digging the five-minute word sprints. Now on YouTube is Twisted Sister's "We're Not Gonna Take It." First, RIP Neidermeyer, and second, I have nothing but admiration & respect for the fact Dee Snyder admits that song was brilliant marketing on his part & he planned on selling out from the beginning. It's a great song & they are a solid band. Nothing wrong with using your talent to create an anthem that's easily monetized.

Whatever. High's starting to wear off (but there's always more) & the timer's set for five minutes.


He walked through the door more pissed than I’ve ever seen him.

Fred wasn’t a big man; he didn’t fill the door. Didn’t come close, actually. Standing at around five foot, four inches, Fred wasn’t an intimidating presence. A hint of a pot belly hung over his belt. A double chin spilled over the collar of his t-shirt. Male-pattern baldness was stealing the already-whispy hair upon his head. So no, he wasn’t intimidating.

Except for the massive horn in the dead center of his forehead.

It was massive. Remember Berkley’s dream monster from Bloom County? Remember how it had a giant single horn coming out of his head? That’s what Fred’s looked like. A little more proportional to his body, but incredibly massive and more than a little distracting.

The horn had mysteriously appeared one day around mid-afternoon. He was at a bar, flirting with a woman who you could kindly say was out of his league. Usually, Fred stayed in his lane, but hours of day drinking on a Tuesday had given him the kind of courage where rejection is just the first no on the way to a yes. He excused himself to use the restroom. When he came back, the object of his temporary affection was gone and he had a large, curved horn coming straight out of his head.

He didn’t see it in the restroom as he was splashing some water on his face. In fact, in the years he had the horn, he had never felt it. There was no weight to it, despite the size. It was brought to his attention only after the bartender, a young lady of 21 who had led a reasonably sheltered life, screamed and pointed at Fred.


Greta Van Fleet's on YouTube now. That voice just shocks the shit out of me every time I hear it.

Another Five-Minute Sprint

(This has nothing to do with nothing, except I saw it & started giggling.)

Watching the video for Diamond Dave's "California Girls." Takes me back to the sixth grade. That was a solid year for me. Plus, his videos around this time are incredibly creative & still hilarious. Anyway. Still high, still watching videos on YouTube. Got the timer set for another five minutes. Let's see if we can catch lightning in a bottle.


So Eddie's fucking crazy, right?

Jesus Christ.

You know he killed that guy. He totally fucking killed that guy.

I don't know, man.

I mean, OK, yes. I suggested that Tony was a guy that I would love to see dead. And maybe I kept texting him that if he killed Tony, maybe I would be his best friend. And alright, I may have given him $700 and told him I was giving him that money as a reward for killing Tony.

But sonuvabitch, I didn't think he'd actually go through with it. I know I drove him over there. You don't have to keep interrupting. I was there. I remember how it went down.

Yes, I held Tony down while Eddie shot him. Fifteen times. In the thigh. In front of his mom. Tony's mom. Had he done it in front of his own mom, that would've been weird. I guess no weirder than being the one getting shot in front of your mom. And the thigh thing. No idea.

Dude, I know I'm the one who told him to shoot him there because I wanted to see his dick explode. And I wanted him shot there because he may have banged my high school janitor. I'm a deep guy.


Huh. That went in a rather unexpected place.

Monday, April 2, 2018

I Gave Up Political Posting for Lent

I went the entirety of Lent without posting or sharing a single political comment on any social media platform. It was an interesting experiment, especially considering the first day of Lent was marked by the Parkland shooting and pretty much continued to go downhill. 

I learned a lot and have decided to, for the most part, continue that trend. You don't need me to know the world sucks right now and if you didn't know that, you need a lot more than my re-post of an Atlantic article about the President. We're good people. All of us. Alright, most of us. 

Why don't we act the way on social the way we act when we're talking to someone in real life? At this point, if you're still a friend of mine, I like you & you obviously like me. Or you have me blocked on Facebook. Either way, let's just be nice. 


Saturday, March 17, 2018

Happy Birthday, Lord of All Evil!

As I often do, I'm taking part in another Chuck Wendig Terrible Minds Flash Fiction Challenge. This one is based on this Tweet from a Twitter account that does nothing but throw out insane writing prompts. We're about to see how pure evil celebrates a birthday. And no, it's not political. But this one is.
Everyone thinks being evil, that pure megalomaniacal evil built on a foundation of power and endless streams of money, is easy.

I’m here to tell you, that’s not the case.

I am called many things, but I’m mostly known as Jotara, the Crusher of Souls. My real name is Randy and I used to sell vacuum cleaners door to door. Being the Lord of the Malevolent Keep can be challenging, but it’s indescribably better than dealing with some soccer mom or stay-at-home dad wearing stained sweats, talking down to you because they think they’ve finally met the person one rung lower than them on the social ladder. They were among the first visiting my Chamber of Nefarious Punishment. Those smug faces were twisted canvases of pain and regret within minutes. That was a good day.

For the most part, being indescribably evil is fun. Ultimate payback to those who mocked me when I peed my pants in fourth grade on the bus to our annual field trip to see the world’s Largest Bottle of Ketchup. Being responsible for the disappearances of the prom date who stood me up as a joke (and let’s not pull any punches, she was no prize), her parents, the entire student council who planned the prom, and the band who sang the song chosen by said student council to represent the entire affair. The state of New Jersey thanked me afterwards for that one.

My point being, this job doesn’t suck. At least not most days. Like today.

My birthday.

Just because I’m the Lord of Ineffable Villainy doesn’t mean I don’t still enjoy my birthday. I like cake. I like unwrapping presents. I like being served the hearts of unbaptized babies whilst having those who respect and fear me most singing “Happy Birthday.” I’m an immortal god of repugnance and destruction, but I have feelings. I’m still just a guy, you know?

It’s a catch 22. I can’t explain the concept of a birthday to my loyal slaves because they are as I made them—mindless automatons whose sole function is to follow my orders without thinking and to kill everyone in sight. And if we’re being honest, those two taskes tend to fall under the same umbrella. I mean, are you going to trust one of these mindless mass murder machines to bake a red velvet cake with matching cupcakes? Of course not.

When it comes to music, I’m the first to admit I dropped the ball there. I thought extinguishing the lives of all the musicians, actors, and writers I admired in an effort to steal the creativity from their very souls was a solid idea. As it happens, I didn’t actually gain their power and now the people I would’ve invited are all too dead to show. Plus, I killed the last two guys who could’ve sang the song from the White Album to really get the birthday celebration rolling.

You know there’s no handbook for this, right? No one tells you how to be an all-powerful entity bathed in darkness and monstrosity. It just happens and you do the best you can. People seem to be real cool about stealing my ideas, though. Don’t get me wrong, I dig the ones who recognize the artistry of what I’m doing. But the fact that little orange prick—

You know what? I’m not going there. I gave up talking politics for Lent and I’m going to stick with it.

But just the audacity to—

Nope. Gotta have willpower.


What was I saying?

Ah, yes. I didn’t know what would work and what wouldn’t when I got this gig. I thought, hell, I killed the guy, I can bring him back, right? Nope. What I do is reanimate the corpse and just a shade of the soul is left to run the body and if you think a shade can properly command a body to do a decent version of “In Da Club,” you’re insane. You know what my options are? Either trying to get Conway Twitty’s dead ass to sing “Happy Birthday, Darlin’,” or Florida Georgia Line. Yeah. Florida Georgia fucking Line. One, they suck out loud, and two, they don’t even have a birthday song. But, I killed everyone else, so…

Then there’s the presents. Even I admit, I’m a hard guy to shop for. I literally have $147 trillion at my disposal. So no, I’m not going to be impressed by your grand gestures. A solid gold Ferrari? Please. Ever driven a solid gold car? That shit is soft and you can’t even touch the damned thing without it warping. It’s ridiculous. Oh, wait, you kidnapped the President of France for me to use as ransom? What part of $147 TRILLION did you not get? At this point, I would have to expand the lair to hide any more money. I’d probably have to use the ransom to do the rebuild and you see how that’s just a potential loss leader right there.

And I swear to Me, anyone shows up with some homemade nonsense, I will personally bring your dead grandparents back from their eternal slumber and make them perform the most deviant sex acts Porn Hub could never show you while forcing you to watch every moist, gooey second. I have no interest in seeing the results of your ill-fated struggle with art because you think it’ll come off as kitschy and cute. No one wants your drunken interaction with construction paper, glue, and unicorn hair, GREG.

I dunno. I just wanted a birthday, you know? I brought Marilyn back to sing to me. Yes, that Marilyn, and yes, that song. She looked like a stroke victim and sang like a, well, like a stroke victim. It’s just that—

Hang on. My phone. Sorry about that.

Oh, shit, it’s Vlad.

I have to take this, sorry.

Привет, господин Президент!

Friday, February 16, 2018

How the GOP Took Away the Guns

As I've done here before, this is part of a Chuck Wendig Terrible Minds Flash Fiction Challenge. Today's challenge is called No Guns, one made as a response to the horror we witnessed in Florida earlier this week. Write about a world with no guns, whatever that may mean to you. My story is how the GOP managed to create 100% gun control.
There was a smattering of unsure applause as the ten children were marched across the stage. Well, nine of the children marched; the youngest—a six-month-old baby girl—was carried by one of the adults hosting what would become the most widely-watched piece of media in the history of time.

There was no dramatic movie-esque stoicism here from the kids. They knew what was going to happen. They knew they were about to be murdered for the entire world to see. They knew they were not going to see the sunset.

Except the baby. She was blowing spit bubbles and giggling, making the scenario all the more horrifying.

The United States of America, a country convincing itself since World War II it was special and blessed amongst all the nations of the world, had a problem. It was a problem in which no other first-world country on Earth suffered. It was an image problem, to be sure, but it had massive complications covering nearly every aspect of American life. It was reasonably new, but quickly became one of the most controversial topics of the day regardless of financial status, geography, or political affiliation.

How to put a positive twist on the killing of children in order to control the population?

DC spin doctors were at a loss. The people who would become Americans had been culling other humans for centuries and there had never been an outcry like this. The Natives, be it from guns or disease, had been decimated and the majority of US citizens either agreed this was for the best or just didn’t think about it at all. #NotMyTable was the popular hashtag on social media in regards to what can only be described as the most popular genocide in world history.

And look at the Blacks! Men, women, and children brought here in chains served as a common example of what happens when the dominant race relents, allowing the minority to not only survive, but earn actual rights. The Blacks went from a race of cowed, terrified slaves to some of the richest men and women on Earth. They dominated the entertainment industry, which kept the stupid people enthralled with their ideas of equality and freedom. They ruled sports at every level, a mistake on their part as it reminded Americans you can’t be nice to the help because the help would eventually forget their place.

It was the allowing of the Blacks to thrive introducing the mess the country was in now. The population had exploded, thanks both to them and the wave after wave of Mexicans crossing the poorly-protected southern border. The former were untouchable, at least in any real way, but the latter had been successfully rounded up with the Muslims and either sent back where they came from or imprisoned. They all had something in their background, so it wasn’t hard to lock them up for the common good.

The school shootings came as sort of an odd blessing. Granted, most of the dead kids were white, but there were always plenty more. It also allowed the government to focus on the real problem inherent in these massacres: the music. Attacks on rock and heavy metal failed, but then rap came along, like God Hisownself personally answering a prayer. By the time the shootings started becoming a thing, white kids all over the country were hooked on hip-hop. The culture of gangs and guns introduced to Caucasian children provided the perfect foil. And games like Grand Theft Auto? Heck, that was a bonus.

For 20 years, as the body count rose, the constant question was: Why is this happening in the most advanced nation in the world? Why can’t we even talk about it? Why won’t our elected officials get off their collective and respective asses and just do something?

The argument became a matter of, how many murdered children does it take to get Americans to agree there is a problem and finally agree to do something about it?

The answer was ten.

During a debate on one of the cable news networks (no, not the good one), that very question was posited by a member of the panel. It was meant as rhetorical, but wasn’t taken that way by a fairly wide and varied group of people. Gears started turning.

Before long, it became a social media mainstay with its own hashtag. #HowManyDoesItTake. All the talk shows had what they thought were hypothetical conversations about the literal number of dead children it would take before the common American had had enough.

In secret, a bipartisan group was looking at the numbers. The number of school shooting murders were on the rise, as were nearly all categories of gun-related incidents. The populace would never understand the need for the slaughter. They would only complain about how expensive food was becoming and how housing prices were becoming obscene and the nation’s infrastructure was falling apart. Much like FDR and the relocation of Japanese Americans during World War II, it was necessary for the government to step in and take care of the situation.

A decision was made. A number was determined. Ten. The plan was this: Ten children, ages birth to 16 years old, would be provided. They would be provided by parents willing to sacrifice their own child to save others.

But how would they be sacrificed? The gun lobby provided a plan (disturbingly quick, if we want to be honest). Ten people, ten American citizens, would bid on the chance to murder a child with live television and online coverage. It would be televised across the world in what was believed to be the ultimate deterrent. Who would possibly want to use a weapon like that when you see, in front of you and live, what it does to our fellow citizens?

Evidently, a lot of very rich men wanting the chance to act out their greatest dream, completely legal and in front of an audience of literally billions, were down for it.

Bids started at $1 million. There was a catch, however; each bid had to be paid in full at the time of the bid and there were no refunds. If someone made the initial million-dollar bid, got outbid, and decided to pack it in? He was out a million bucks. Plus, of course, additional fees and whatnot. The final numbers were never released, but it’s rumored the government could now purchase a half-dozen brand new fighter jets with the funds. And those jets ain’t cheap.

The children reached their spots and stopped and turned, facing the audience. Each of the children was white, straight, and from affluent families. One of the unfortunate souls happened to have a father sitting in the Oval Office, watching the events unfold on one of multiple television screens mounted on the wall. He was eating dinner and growing impatient.

There was no fanfare. The first man (a Northern California lumber magnate with a house filled with animal heads and a basement containing the mummified remains of a Black street walker) walked onstage, holding a .12 gauge shotgun. He nodded to the woman holding the now-whimpering baby. She set the child on the floor and moved away. The man raised the gun to his shoulder, looked at the infant for a moment, then pulled the trigger.

The baby’s head disappeared in a spray of blood, bone, and brains. The curtain behind her was sprayed with gore. There were gasps and scattered screams throughout the audience, but others in the crowd (those making unsuccessful bids to be onstage holding their own gun) clapped aggressively.

The remaining children began screaming, but it did no good. They were shackled, each chained to the floor. Another executioner walked up to the stage. He paid nearly $18 million for the chance to be here and he wasn’t wasting it. The producer of some of the biggest television shows in the world was holding an Uzi with an extended clip and he was going to get the most out of every round.

While this was happening inside, outside the theater a bloody riot was unfolding. People, including off-duty law enforcement and military personnel, were desperately trying to get into the building. All for naught as they were mowed down by federal agents, acting in accordance to the executive order signed just yesterday by the President. The order allowed—hell, encouraged—the use of deadly force in an effort to protect the operation taking place just beyond the locked and guarded doors.

As the First Son was about to meet his Creator at the hands of the current Secretary of Education, all coverage switched to the cameras outside, showing the mad rush to get into the building. By now, it was full-blown mayhem with some of the protesters getting guns of their own and shooting the federal law enforcement agents. As cameras swept across the scene, showing the bloody corpses—hundreds of them—in the streets and on the sidewalks, the President spoke.

“This is what you want? A bipartisan effort was made to get rid of guns in this country for the foreseeable future and these people outside, these thugs, are trying to take that away from you. These supposedly peaceful people who wanted to take away your guns are now using them to prevent the action they wanted and killing innocent police who are only doing their job.

“This is not what our Founding Fathers wanted. You are now defenseless against this horde of murderers. How do you defend yourself now? With your vote. Any elected official, whether they are in your hometown or in Congress, who supported this action needs to be voted out. We agreed to send ten innocent angels to Jesus in order to hand over our guns. And this is what we get. Murder. Terror. Blood in the streets. Vote them out. Vote them all out. Make them pay not only for the deaths we saw here today, but the ones they will be responsible for now that we are a nation of patriots unable to defend our homes.

“The war to take back what is ours starts now. Thank you, God bless you, and let’s make America great again.”