You’re a miserable, sniveling, gutless little scumbag. A real coward.
You’ve spent years wrapping yourself in another man’s name and another man’s mission, then, the second the questions get uncomfortable, you block, run, and dig up a booking photo.
I asked you, directly and on the record, why you lied about Fort Huachuca. I asked why your name keeps showing up in the same documented patterns as Brian Harpole, Justin Davis, Jacob Reses, Bradley Hansel, Johnny Moore, and Butch Hibbs in the days immediately before Charlie Kirk was murdered. I asked why you and Erika Kirk and Gary Melton cooked up a sloppy, wrong-date “alibi” using somebody else’s children to try to discredit Mitch Snow’s testimony while you simultaneously pretended you’d never even heard of the place.
Let me make something crystal clear for you and whoever is still paying you to play spokesman: I will never have a booking photo for killing my boss. That particular honor, that particular stain, that particular smell that follows a man for the rest of his days, is not mine. I didn’t betray the man whose show I produced. I didn’t stand next to his widow while the “official” story was being assembled. I didn’t help manufacture metadata and text-message theater to give her an alibi for a military intelligence base the day before he died. I didn’t look America in the eye and call every unanswered question “conspiracy garbage” and “brain rot” while the data kept stacking up against you.
How does it feel, Andrew? How does it feel knowing the whole world is looking at you through a giant microscope and almost nobody with a functioning brain believes a single word you utter from Charlie’s desk?
You look unwell. You look beat down. You look worn out in that specific, haunted way that only happens when a man knows the walls are closing in and he has no good answers left.
Your face is inflamed, puffy, pale and blotchy, like the stress and the lies and the damage control have finally started leaking out through your filthy skin. Your head hangs. Your shoulders slump. You won’t look anyone in the eyes for more than a second because you know what they’ll see if they stare too long: a snaky, cornered little man who used to stand in Charlie Kirk’s shadow and is now slithering into something much darker.
You’re not handling this well.
You can block me. You can post old mugshots. You can hide behind the widow and the lawyers and the remaining paid loyalists. None of that changes the fact that you were asked a simple, specific question about a military intelligence installation in Arizona in the days before your boss was assassinated, and instead of answering it like a man you ran like a rat.
That’s who you are now, Andrew. That’s the version of you history is going to remember.
Sleep tight. The microscope isn’t going anywhere.
Mike
TERRYL FARNSWORTH
Who Is This Guy Wearing A MAROON Shirt At UVU — And WAVING Around A Liberal Tears Stanley Like Some Sort Of A Signal
