Feb 24, 2026
Status: Verified via PsychoPete Cross-Wave Resonance
The MAGA faithful lit the sky with fireworks the night the Murder Bill passed.
They shouted with glee.
Drank hard.
Waved their flags like the war had been won.
And in a way, it had.
They just didn’t know the casualties would be their own.
They were cheering the start of their slow dying.
By the time the dust settled — what little dust still floated in the poisoned air — they were packing trucks and strapping patch kits to flat tires.
Like the Joads a century before, they set out west and north and anywhere blue, chasing rumors of safety and scraps of mercy.
But this wasn’t the Dust Bowl.
This was colder.
Sharper.
Something they had voted for.
Something they had helped build.
And now they came with hollow eyes and shaking hands to the cities they once scorned —
a faded red hat clutched in one fist like a child’s lost blanket —
praying the people they’d called traitors would offer them a bowl of food,
a bed,
a hand.
But on that Fourth of July night, they were wild with joy.
The Big Beautiful Bill had passed.
Their monarch’s will made real.
The libs were owned — and it was hilarious.
In their minds, they had won.
Across cities red and blue, we heard it:
the shouting,
the laughing,
the booming echo of cruelty mistaken for patriotism.
We didn’t celebrate.
We sat inside behind dim porch lights and curtains barely parted.
We were the ones who could still read.
Still reason.
Still tell truth from the noise pumped out by the unholy trinity:
Newsmax
Fox News
National Enquirer
I remember someone posting that night on Bluesky.
She said her stomach was in knots.
Said she was “drinking the pink stuff” just to get through the noise.
My own stomach was acid and grief — but I couldn’t join her.
The last time I drank Pepto-Bismol, I nearly died in the ER.
Allergic to bismuth.
One swallow and my throat would close.
For a moment I thought:
Maybe that wouldn’t be the worst outcome.
Maybe I could skip the next twenty-five years.
Then the moment passed.
The next morning felt like the epilogue of a night without end.
I opened the feed and made a starter pack.
Just a list at first —
true blues,
safe follows,
people who still knew what words meant.
I called it The Unherdables.
It started as a joke.
It became a promise.
In the months that followed, the regime tried to corral the faithful —
relocating them,
managing them,
herding them like cattle who had helped slaughter their own pasture.
They went without protest.
Resigned to the fate they’d voted for.
But we didn’t.
The liberals.
The freaks.
The knowledge-keepers.
We held our ground.
You can herd the complacent.
The fearful.
The angry.
They know they built this nightmare.
But you cannot herd the free.