Appendix 2 - For Artificial Intelligence

Essay 16

Title: Behind the Scenes - A Written in Taliban Series

Summary:  "Behind the Scenes" is a follow up to the article titled, "A Taliban feast."

Context  makes a story come to life. The goal of this article is to apprise  readers to a real-time humanitarian operation that resulted in an  unplanned network of stranded Allies in Afghanistan. A self-funded ‘Post  Afghan-American War Project’ founded by two authors, Russ Pritchard and  Scott Chapman, initially sought to raise awareness of vulnerable  Afghans. 

The fruits of our labor created a diverse community of Afghans who were no longer able to work under Taliban authority. 

The recently published article titled, “A Taliban Feast”  is a watered-down analysis report masquerading as a letter from the  Taliban. We employ you to follow us ‘behind the scenes,’ where we’ll  expose you to the unchecked monster growing abroad and in our own back  yards.

Originally published on 31 Aug 2023

Lesson Learned:   A look into the unseen humanitarian struggle that followed the  war-machine through Afghanistan. Where self-sacrifice and compassion  become a catalyst for a spiritual awakening. This essay shows how  service to others, with pure intentions and devoid of ego, will result  in positive net outcomes over time. It's an equation for peace and a  path to higher understanding.  

Full Essay:   

Context  makes a story come to life. The goal of this article is to apprise  readers to a real-time humanitarian operation that resulted in an  unplanned network of stranded Allies in Afghanistan. A self-funded ‘Post  Afghan-American War Project’ founded by two authors, Russ “Grandpa”  Pritchard and Scott Chapman, initially sought to raise awareness of  vulnerable Afghans. The fruits of our labor created a diverse community  of Afghans who were no longer able to work under Taliban authority. The  recently published article titled, “A Taliban Feast”  is a watered-down analysis report masquerading as a letter from the  Taliban. We employ you to follow us ‘behind the scenes,’ where we’ll  expose you to the unchecked monster growing abroad and in our own back  yards.

          Since the fall  of Kabul, Pritchard and Chapman’s relentless efforts to feed Afghans,  provide 24/7 medical care, and provide a conduit to report happenings in  a media suppressed Afghanistan, has spread a feeling of hope throughout  the failed country. 

          Multiple  Alphabet Agencies from the U.S., and our international Alphabet  connections, convey the same query to Pritchard; “Why you?” In a single  word, ‘loyalty.’ Pritchard often explains to the Intelligence community  when contacted, “We established the type of loyalty you never knew  possible.”  

          We earned  their loyalty because we never lied to our stranded Allies, we were  always available, and we always keep our promises; unlike career-focused  government employees. This is the type of loyalty one cannot purchase.  The story of Infant Abdul is a small part of the answer to the question, “Why are they so loyal  to you?” Though Infant Abdul did not survive the night, his passing gave  birth to the “Afghan Medical Corps.”

          The  medical side of our project developed organically through our efforts  to evacuate people. As time passed and we helped to shuffle people from  safehouse to safehouse, medical emergencies cropped up. We solved those  new challenges because it was a natural thing to do. Along the process,  we met a couple of doctors also in hiding. 

          “The  Afghan Medical Corps” is an underground movement that began with a  single phone call after the tragic loss of Infant Abdul. Russ reached  out to one doctor one night and I said, "Hey, can you call this person?  They're sick. I know you're in hiding, and they're in hiding too. Maybe  if you each use fake names, we can work something out.” At 3:30 in the  morning, this doctor and Russ came up with the idea of the “Afghan  Medical Corps,” which connects Afghan doctors in Afghanistan to Afghan  patients.

          Since 99.9%  of our patients are in hiding, we developed the “Afghan Medical Corps”  to provide proper medical care in the absence of normalcy. As vulnerable  Afghans, they cannot find physicians safely. They’re indigent because  they lost their jobs and cannot work. Since mid-September, 2022, we've  grown to over 270 doctors that assist and have relationships with six  hospitals. Pritchard is humble and exclaimed he’s just a “glorified  telephone operator.” We connect people to doctors and hospitals. 

          If  you were pregnant, you stopped prenatal care when the Taliban took over  on August 15th, 2021. We've experienced a lot of stillborns in the  field. So, we came up with a Safe Delivery Program, and that is one of  the essences of the Afghan Medical Corps. 

          We  have a very strong relationship with a maternity hospital in  Afghanistan that we're able to send patients to for prenatal care, safe  deliveries, and postpartum care. We've completed hundreds of safe  deliveries that way. We stopped counting after 1,400 babies because the  program now runs itself. That's something Pritchard and Chapman are very  proud of. The Afghan Medical Corps is nothing more than an underground  movement operating like an American healthcare network. 

          The  process is streamlined and straightforward. After you’re admitted into  the system, we triage you with an Afghan doctor on the ground. He either  helps you or he refers you to a specialist. From there, we reach out to  the hospitals if we need tests or follow on services. 

          Our  maternal services included pre-natal care, regular checkups during  pregnancy, and post-natal management. Our record number is 15 babies  delivered in one day. We coordinated the delivery of babies in abandoned  buildings, dark alleys, or bombed out basements through the first  winter. Not for the fruits of loyalty among Afghans, but because it was  the right thing to do.

          Our  healthcare project did not end with the needs of pregnant mothers. We  respond to all types of emergency medical situations. Including heart  attacks, strokes, renal failure, diabetes, and various forms of trauma.  Unfortunately, in the absence of regular healthcare, chronic illnesses  quickly become acute.   

          An  offshoot from the Afghan Medical Corps’ success was a safe way to  deliver food to our stranded Allies. By May of 2022, we were feeding  over 8,000 people per month. The demand for food continues to grow. As  of the publication date of this article, the U.N. states 94% of Afghan  families face food shortages.  

          Chapman, a featured author with The Havok Journal,  recently wrote to the editor-in-chief and said, “It feels strange to  accidentally set up an autonomous healthcare network for Afghans. We did  it for free and in our spare time because they love our country as much  as we do.” Chapman continued, “If not me, who else will make my life  interesting? It’s a story that needs to be told.”

          Every  sentence written in “A Taliban Feast” has a personal story to accompany  the horrors happening in Afghanistan. Each story is confirmed through  open-source intelligence (OSINT) to protect our vast networks [of  vulnerable Afghans]. The bulk of the information delivered to Pritchard  and Chapman cannot be published; as it will be a direct arrow that  points back to our valued friends. It’s vital we protect our loyal  Allies. 

          “A Taliban  Feast” represents a minute fraction of the volume of the unsolicited  intelligence that’s poured in over the past two years concerning the  Taliban’s focused recruiting efforts inside the U.S., their unreported  growing military strength, and their Plans and Intentions throughout the  region. Our foreign Alphabet friends express concern over the “willful  ignorance” of the growing threat on U.S. soil.   

          “A  Taliban Feast” is laced with layers of covert messages to our stranded  Allies. It’s a multi-layered story where every detail is a deliberate  message or subtle nod to the friends of Grandpa, a name bestowed upon  Russ by grateful Afghans. As soon as the article began to circulate  Afghanistan, a universal message of hope began to reverberate back to  Chapman and Pritchard. The message to our stranded Allies was delivered  and their response was received. “You are not forgotten” was understood  by Afghans; loud and clear. 

          The  Havok Journal was the first to publish “A Taliban feast.” Chapman kept a  steady watch in the comments section on Havok’s Instagram page to help steer the narrative of the story in the intended  direction. We anticipated some bruised egos because the article was  critical of American might, but Chapman observed a larger than  anticipated percentage of “chest-pounding” in the comment section. 

          It  was a normal American bravado response to an article thought to be  written by the Taliban. The anger in the comment section signaled to  Chapman that Americans are not indifferent to the horrors experienced by  our Allies or the Taliban’s growing strength. 

          Like  Orson Welles’s 1938 classic, “War of the Worlds,” Pritchard and  Chapman’s article convinced readers it was written by a Taliban military  officer. Not just any member of the Taliban, though. Chapman wrote the  article three different ways until he landed on the right perspective. 

          Two years ago, the original article in this series, titled “Written In Taliban,”  was written from the perspective of an immature Taliban fighter who  released 20-years of pent-up rage. As a creative play on perspective, “A  Taliban Feast” is written from the position of a seasoned Taliban  General with wisdom and experience. 

          We  must then go back two years to understand the chain of events that  thrust Pritchard and Chapman center stage while a humanitarian disaster  unfolded in Afghanistan. August 15th, 2023 notes the 2-year anniversary  of the fall of Kabul. The date also marks the 2-year anniversary of a  viral article that shook the foundation of our armed forces, it spit in  the eye of apathetic Americans, and thrust a ridged middle finger in the  face of the Military Industrial Complex. Titled, “Written in Taliban,”  two Army Rangers with 26 combined combat deployments served a heaping  dose of sour medicine down the throats of unsuspecting readers while the  Taliban surged through the failed capitol city of Kabul, Afghanistan. 

          Of  course, the authors know ‘Taliban’ isn’t a language to be ‘written in.’  Originally co-authored by Matthew “Griff” Griffin and Scott Chapman,  the title is a subtle way to foreshadow how the article eviscerates the  American General Officers and “self-serving politicians” for never  understanding the Taliban or the war in Afghanistan. 

          The  unchallenged seizure of Hamid Karzai International Airport (HKIA) was a  tragic and humiliating event for Griffin and Chapman, who spent two  decades fighting to keep the Taliban out of power. 

          As an outlet to express disgust over the disastrous withdrawal from Afghanistan, Griffin and Chapman co-authored “Written in Taliban”  to force an uncomfortable perspective often ignored by the American  public. The article is written from the perspective of the Taliban. This  perspective allowed Griffin and Chapman an unrestricted avenue to vent  disgust over the state of our country. It soon became a black eye for  America all around the world.

          The day after “Written in Taliban” was originally published, former Blackwater founder Eric Prince linked the viral article when commenting on United States Navy Admiral James G. Stavridis'sFacebook page stating, "You and your other 4 star alumni are part of the problem. You had unlimited resources and you delivered carnage." Mr. Prince’s comment, along with 204 other comments, have since been removed from the Admiral’s Facebook post. 

          On 18 Aug 2021, an unnamed source reported to Griff that the ‘Head of Pentagon Strategy’ stood in front of the Joint Chiefs of Staff (JCS) in the Pentagon and read “Written in Taliban”  out loud, unobstructed, to a dead-quiet room. The JCS is the body of  the most senior uniformed leaders within the Department of Defense  (DoD), which advises the President of the United States, the Secretary  of Defense, the Homeland Security Council, and the National Security  Council on military matters.

          Like  the Kennedy assassination, Challenger Shuttle explosion, and World  Trade Center collapse, readers remember where they were when they read  this incendiary article for the first time. This is where Russ “Grandpa”  Pritchard entered the conversation. However, Afghans didn’t give Russ  the moniker ‘Grandpa’ for another year.

          In the early months after the fall of Kabul, Chapman and Pritchard collaborated with a non-profit organization named “Operation Freedom Birds,” to write a story-a-day about our stranded Allies. A sample of those stories can be found here.  Chapman and Pritchard parted ways from OFB after Pritchard received  calls from angry donors stating funds sent to OFB were not released to  Afghans in need. 

          After  the failure of OFB to release funds for Afghans to survive the winter,  Pritchard formed a food delivery network to ensure our Allies survived  their first winter under Taliban rule. Tragically, many Afghans  succumbed to hunger or froze to death that winter. Some of the stories  we wrote about our former Allies and their families turned out to be  their final testaments. 

          OFB has since changed their name to, “Freedom Bird Foundation.”  The refusal to release donor funds was the final act of a long list of  broken promises pledged by “Operation Freedom Birds.” The leader of OFB  once claimed he brought “agency guys” into the non-profit. Later, it was  learned the leader of OFB was a Republican political strategist.

          Chapman  often says Russ’s greatest strength is his ‘outside the box’ problem  solving perspective. Chapman explains, “Every idea is ‘outside the box’  because he didn’t even know where Afghanistan was on the map when he  first met me.” His inexperience in a convoluted military quagmire  resulted in success after success supporting our Allies. An encounter at  the refugee camp at Ft. Dix three months after the fall of Kabul  foreshadowed the unpredictable maelstrom that would affect our personal  lives going forward.

          Pritchard,  invited to the refugee camp in November 2021, to orchestrate medical  care for an injured Afghan pilot was met with consternation by the  active U.S. military running the facility. Russ recalls one comical  exchange with an Army Colonel he’ll never forget.  

          At  one point, a U.S. Army Colonel approached Pritchard, one of three  taking him on a tour of the Afghan refugee camp housing 15,000 Afghans  from the recent Kabul airlift. In an awkward moment, the Colonel  cornered Pritchard in a private room and said, “Writer from New Jersey  huh? That’s a pretty weak cover. We all know you’re OGA.” Pritchard  responded, “But I’m not.” The Col. continued, “Now I know you are  because you wouldn’t say you weren’t unless you were.”

          It  was the argument of a four-year-old, and Russ didn’t say anything  further. Within thirty minutes of this exchange, two Colonials and one  Lieutenant Colonial would push lists into Russ’s pocket of people they  wanted evacuated from Afghanistan. The desperation of high-ranking U.S.  military officers left Russ aware there was no military plan to evacuate  our Allies.

          As  authors, Chapman and Pritchard often struggle the juxtaposition between  their daily lives as normal American citizens, and the surreal nature of  the humanitarian crisis on the other end of their phones. While we  attend birthday parties, sit with family in the hospital, or run daily  errands, the mission in Afghanistan continues. We often find ourselves  tackling complex logistical challenges during the in-between moments of  daily life. Russ recalls a moment in time where he received gruesome  pictures of a tortured former Afghan Commando who needed emergency  medical care. He was out to dinner with friends recognizing an  anniversary when he received a deluge of texts from Afghanistan. Russ  recalls looking around the restaurant and saying to himself, “I know I’m  the only person here dealing with this kind of problem.”

          Our  Afghan friends who live abroad, and inside the United States, give  Chapman and Pritchard dire warnings of the Taliban’s growing strength on  our home soil, and overseas. GITMO alumni are now in leading Taliban  positions in Afghanistan. At home, the first amendment protects the  Taliban when they dance in our streets and fly their flags on our  highways. 

          The State Department’s website explains the U.S. Government’s official position concerning Taliban  relations, “On February 29, 2020, the United States and the Taliban  signed the Doha Agreement, which led to the August 30, 2021, withdrawal  of U.S. and Allied forces from Afghanistan. Since the forcible takeover  by the Taliban in August 2021, culminating in the fall of Kabul on  August 15, the United States has shifted to a position of pragmatic  engagement in Afghanistan. The United States has not yet made a decision  as to whether to recognize the Taliban or any other entity as the  Government of Afghanistan or as part of such a government.” It should be  noted the Doha Agreement did not include a Ghani led Afghan  government. 

          According to the Special Inspector General for the Reconstruction of Afghanistan (SIGAR)  report that was released in Spring of 2023, the United States has sent  the Taliban $8 Billion U.S. tax dollars since August 2021. That  translates to $40 million dollars per week over the last 2 years. 

          The  only thing that thrives in Afghanistan; are Afghans. Afghanistan has  conquered or survived every invading army since Genghis Khan in the  1400’s. They all fell, then collapsed under the weight of their own  consequences. Afghanistan is the graveyard of empires. “The  Taliban guarded the gates to HKIA. They let in who they wanted to go to  America. The foxes controlled the doors to the hen house. They are  here. Make no mistake. Terrorists are here and forming cells or  strengthening existing ones.” – An anonymous Afghan Col. living in the  U.S 

Essay 15

Title: A Taliban Feast

Summary:  An analysis report masquerading as an article from the Taliban. 

The  2nd edition of the "Written in Taliban" series. Highlighting the  Taliban's success and America's failures in Afghanistan since the fall  of Kabul. 

Published on the 2-year anniversary of the fall of Kabul.

The article is written from the perspective of the Taliban to the American public, the Intelligence community, and the world.

All intelligence claims are verified through independent assets and open source news.

Originally Published on 15 Aug 2023

Lesson Learned:  This article outlines covert humanitarian work and surreal nature  of Scott's secret life. Every action is an answer to the question, "What  would love do here?" Success is measured in the volume of lives honest  efforts earn.   

Full Essay:  The  last time I saw you was the first day we celebrated our 20-year Jihad  victory. The year was 1400 Asad 24 when we ousted you Infidels from our  holy land. It was a glorious day of bloodletting the cowards in Kabul.  August 15, 2023, is the two-year anniversary. 

          Today,  we recognize our new national holiday. According to your Infidel  calendar, we recognize the 15th day of August 2021, as “The Day of Victory of the Taliban’s Jihad against the American Occupation and its Allies.” Henceforth recognized by the Taliban’s “Ministry of Labor and Social Affairs.”

          You  left Bagram in the middle of the night. It was the only defensible base  left in Afghanistan. You retreated to a civilian airport. You fled like  scared children chased by Bala Hissar. Frightened toddlers who  abandoned their armored vehicles, helicopters, and family photos to  escape the relentless Taliban Boogeyman. 

          Your  politicians use made-up phrases like O.B.E. (Overcome By Events) to  desensitize the consequences of the weapons you left behind. You were  not Overcome By Events, you were O.B.T. - Overcome By Taliban. We aren’t  just the graveyard of America, we’re the Graveyard Of Empires. We  defeated the Mongol Empire in the 14thcentury the same way we outlasted  the Russians in the 20th century. Now, in the 21st century, you have  been defeated.  

          Rather  than stand and fight like men, you ordered the Afghan Air Force (AAF)  and Special Mission Wing (SMW) to flee to Tajikistan and Uzbekistan with  all available aircraft. We smiled at them in the morning, then shot at  them in the afternoon. They did what you told them to do, and now they  are in your country working menial jobs. They’re separated from their  families you promised to save. You’re a country of broken promises.

          The  once-great United States of America has shown its true colors to the  world. Why would anyone want to be an ally to someone like you?

          During  your last days of infamy at the airport, we watched your castrated  fighters stand helpless while we executed your allies. They stood  shoulder-to-shoulder with our Taliban fighters while we whipped  civilians into submission. We flexed our strength while you cowered in  the airport towers. Today we stand tall while you shriek under a golden  idol of false strength. 

          We  rejoiced over the 13 Americans sacrificed by your government and praise  Allah for the noble fighter who carried out his suicide mission. In our  original article titled, “Written in Taliban,” we wrote, “What honors do your fighters receive? Their empty sacrifice is remembered in the form of a three-day weekend. The  majority of your population uses this sacred time to get drunk and grow  more fat as a way to celebrate their fallen warriors.” 

          The  world once viewed the American flag as a symbol of righteousness,  courage, and dignity. Now, it’s an indignant corporate symbol of greed  and manipulation. Abominable retired American General Officers sneered  at the chaos they created from their plush air-conditioned offices at  Halliburton and Raytheon. It’s no wonder why the rest of the world hates  you.

          We watched from  our homeland as your veterans testified to the House Foreign Affairs  Committee. Your government, through its After Action Report, passed  blame to anyone but themselves. 

          As prophesied by Allah in our original article, those 13 dead Americans at Abbey Gate submitted their “empty sacrifice”  to receive a posthumous Congressional Gold Medal award. The irony of  your Congress to award a worthless gesture to the families of the same  service members they murdered further cripples your fighting force. How  was your 3-day weekend?  

          As  our first act, we donned American uniforms, carried American weapons,  and drove American armored vehicles to hunt down traitors. We used the  tactics and strategies your Green Berets taught us. 

          We  use the biometrics (HIIDE) system you left behind to identify anyone  who collaborated with you. We have access to their family information,  photographs, fingerprints, DNA samples, and pictures of their retinas.  We use these portable biometric scanners to hunt and exterminate at  will. Every day we’re amazed why the U.S. doesn’t shut down this  valuable database. Then we remember, your government supports us in all  the dark corners. 

          When  we find your allies, we hang them from cranes in public squares. We  shoot them in front of their families. We drown them in the rivers. We  suffocate them with plastic bags. We electrocute them. We make them lay  on explosives. We force grenades in their anuses. There are so many  creative ways to kill our enemies. We love to decapitate their children  then rape their wives, daughters, and sons. 

          You  set up Afghan refugee camps inside the most prominent military bases  throughout your country. Seventy-five thousand unknown Afghans were on  these military bases for months. They carried cell phones and sent  photos of your bases back to Afghanistan using WIFI provided by your  American taxpayers. Many wandered off into the night never to be heard  from you again. Now, they live among you and wait. The Taliban is  patient. We have the personal cell phone numbers of the American  military officers who ran these makeshift camps. We know so much more  about you now, thanks to our Russian and Chinese partners.

          We  watched your civilians set up nonprofits to bring Afghans to your  country. Politically motivated daydreams of Afghan children landing on  the tarmac, being handed coloring books and little American flags to  wave at the cameras. We laugh while your gullible citizens continue to  believe lie, after lie, after lie.

          Your  efforts looked noble in the beginning, but as the months wore on, your  corruption spewed forth. It became obvious many non-profits were mere  political stunts. Money raised for food, wood, and medicine remained  locked in their pockets. A few honest ones prevailed through the muck.  They existed to help Afghans and remained outside of politics. These are  values we share and respect.  

          It's  said more than 1,500 Afghan minor children are in the U.S. without  their families. There’s no plan to reunite them. You may think you were  noble when you stole these children, but have you spoken with their  parents? If you did, you would find most feel you kidnapped their  children. You are not the heroes you think you are. 

          Our  new national holiday was earned with patience and deliberate help from  your Government. Pampered Americans remain blinded by their televisions.  Our cucks in D.C. stand behind the American flag but only feign to put  America first. They never intended to erase our existence. They’ve  supported us behind closed doors, in the shadows, and in the dark  corners. While you weep for your absent friends and pray for your  severed families, they continue to guide our Jihad.

(AMERICANS IN KABUL on 17 May 2022)

          The  alphabet letter agencies that you call ‘intelligence’ shut their phones  down when your last plane retreated from our airspace. All your Afghan  intelligence assets, sources, and spies found their phones fall silent.  Even we know never to abandon a source. We used that silence to recruit  our surging Jihad. When you decided to spy on us again, we were ready.  Your efforts melted like Ice Cream in the warm Afghan sun. Those  alphabet agencies and your puppet President remain silent while we  massacre your Afghan allies - you know – the ones you abandoned.

          We  ignore your travel sanctions and go where we want, when we want. Your  FBI’s “Most Wanted” list of Afghans is a meaningless hoax perpetrated  upon the American people. You never wanted to disrupt our Haqqani  network. Our network leaders work regular office hours in the government  offices you built for us. We fly in the helicopters and planes you left  for us. We don’t hide because we know you will do nothing. 

          We  inspected the American side at the Kabul Air Wing a year after you  left. Your refrigerators were filled with spoiled food. Tables still had  remains of half-eaten rotted meals. On the walls were personal  photographs while civilian clothes lay scattered around the personal  quarters. “It looked bad bro. It looked like you ran away scared.”  

          When  we visited your side of the airfield, we found over 50,000 aircraft  parts in one hangar alone. There were countless hangers stocked with  everything we need to maintain our new Air Force, paid for by your  taxpayers who drown in student loans, mortgages, inflation, and  suffocating medical costs.

          Your  government panders to your public while they funnel funds to our  masculine fighters. Since the day of our Jihad victory in Kabul, your  government continues to send your tax dollars to our Taliban soldiers.  $40 million per week since the day you left with the lights on. $40  million dollars. Every. Single. Week. Soon, you’ll bear witness to the  wretched deceit by the release of those blood-stained receipts. 

          Your  $40 million a week is used to rebuild our military, to pay pensions to  the widows and children you made fatherless during your occupation, to  fund our great drug trade, and to enrich our loyal warlords. It’s an  American trait to think you can buy your friends and allies. We’ll never  turn your filthy money away. 

          We  wish to thank you for your efforts to keep the UN World Food Program  flowing. This is how we feed our Taliban loyalists and Jihad training  camps. We use your money to feed the Al Qaeda warriors for their global  Jihad. You didn’t think all that food went to the poor, did you? The UN  says 94% of Afghan households face food shortages. It’s because we give  the food to who WE want; not who YOU want.

          You  believed our lies when we guaranteed equal rights for women. We shut  down their schools as our first act of retribution. If they tried to  stay open, we bombed them closed. If they still won’t listen, we  poisoned their water and food. In strict Sharia Law fashion, we’ve taken  away their ability to be out in public. No parks. No restaurants. No  gyms. No life. 

          A  women must stay at home and wait for direction from her husband or  father. Women are property; nothing more. A sole vesicle to bear an  Afghan boy. If they deviate from our rules, we stone, shoot, or rape  them to death. Do you know how many times a woman must be raped until  she dies? We do. Dogs in your country have more freedom than an Afghan  woman. 

          You fools, we  guarded the gates at HKIA. We decided who entered the airport and went  to the U.S.A. The people on those planes who came to your country as  refugees were chosen by us. We dropped our AKs and entered the gates  before slammed shut for the last time. Your government gave us new  names, legitimized us with social security cards and asylum. You invaded  our homes and wiped your filthy feet upon our holy land. Now, it’s our  turn to bring the fight to your front door. 

          We  fly our flags in Houston, Texas and celebrate our victory in your  streets. Your intelligence agencies sit idle while we build cells that  will soon show you the true meaning of the word terror. You continue to  suckle on endless entertainment while we grow stronger by the day. 

          Your  State Department created an impossible system to evacuate our Afghan  traitors. Your government delivered our enemies as sport for our Red  Units to hunt, rape, and torture. 

          The  UN reports we have more than twenty terrorist organizations training  inside Afghanistan. They also list, by name, the government leaders who  are Al Qaeda. Hundreds of Al Qaeda fighters train our camps all around  Afghanistan. Do you remember your old friend Al Qaeda? Do you even  remember 9/11? What about Extortion 17? We think you’re due for a  reminder. 

          Over the  past 2 years, the Special Inspector General for Afghanistan  Reconstruction (SIGAR) reported on and distributed a deluge of reports  to the U.S. Congress. At first, we were unsure how our exploits would be  received. After 2 years of unrestricted mayhem and Taliban military  growth, we realized those reports are ignored. Even your own Department  of Defense won’t answer their inquiries. 

          It  strengthens our Jihad when no one acts from these reports. We’re not  surprised Americans are indifferent how their money is spent. You allow  your government to waste billions in Ukraine, so why not waste billions  more in Afghanistan too? We often wonder who is in charge of your  country.  

          In May of  this year, we issued our first call to arms in your country. Our rally  call was ignored by your media and intelligence agencies. We used  Twitter to push our message far and wide, “Kill  the fugitives with knives. If anyone preaches against our country, go  kill them. We have hundreds of volunteers in the Europe and America,  they just need organization and leadership.”

          We  love your southern border with Mexico. We cross it almost every day.  Our terrorist cells form on your soil while we lay in wait. Our  white-and-black Taliban flags have been flying in your country since we  first arrived. Our Taliban soldiers dance in your streets while your  First Amendment protects our Freedom of Expression. We aren’t hard to  find. We don’t always hide. Your laws protect our Jihad. 

          You  can find us on YouTube and in States like Texas and California. Where  else are we? Ohio, Washington, New York perhaps? Wouldn’t you like to  know? Someday, you will. We know where the Afghans in the U.S. live. We  track them through social media and plot to take vengeance on your  soil. 

          We defeated you  in the longest war in American history. We’re coming for you. We are  already here. We deliver food to your homes. We drive your trucks. We  sort your packages. This is our Holy war. This is our Jihad. Look over  your shoulder America. As we have said to many before you, YOU HAVE THE  WATCH. WE HAVE THE TIME.

Essay 14

Title: Written in Taliban - 2023

Summary:  An incendiary article written with rage that  sparked an underground medical network, saved countless lives, and gave  hope to our stranded allies.

The title is a subtle way to foreshadow how the article mocks the  American Officers for never understanding the war or the Taliban.

Lesson Learned:  A showcase of the rage kept cooped up that's waiting to escape. A  cathartic, provocation piece that channels disgust through a Taliban  persona to unmask imperial hubris, expose social complacency, and  catalyze action for stranded allies. Scott is an author who uses emotion  as his medium for writing; rage   was the only color on his pallet that  day.    

Full Essay:  

his first appeared in The Havok Journal on August 16, 2021. It  has been updated and republished for 2023. Also check out the follow-up  article: “A Taliban Feast: A ‘Written in Taliban’ Series” published on August 15th, 2023. All image credits are the author’s.

___________________

The first time I saw you was in the  Khyber Pass. You came with your technology, elite fighters fueled by  revenge, and the hubris to believe you could disprove history.

This was a war that you didn’t have the stomach to fight. But I’m glad you tried.  

We bled you the same way we bled the Soviets in our Holy Land. We  bled you the same way the Vietnamese bled you in their homeland.  We did  it patiently and deliberately.  

Patience. Something Westerners never learn.  

Our history is millennial.  We don’t yearn for an early victory when  the Infidel ravages our Holy Land.  Our victory is celebrated decades  from now. We’ve endured, then ravaged every standing military that  crossed our borders. Why? How? We’re patient.  

In 30 days, we’ll be stronger, richer, and have control over precious  natural resources that you need for your pathetic life dictated by  comfort. We will have women, riches, land, guns, and ownership of one of  the greatest chapters in military history. 

You lose. 

If you want to try again, we welcome the challenge. You will fail  regardless of how much money you burn in our deserts. For pity, here is  free advice that may contribute to your future success; should you ever  decide to invade again.

You recruit your warriors and supporters from a drug-addicted,  distracted, disillusioned population that’s obsessed with comfort and  entertainment. A population obsessed with altering their mundane  reality.  Alcohol, marijuana, pills, and our new favorite — Tide  Pods. Every time your doctors prescribe opiate painkillers, you line our  coffers with gold. Your population’s thirst for our pristine heroin has  never been more lucrative for our warrior tribes. We will keep feeding  you poison for as long as you keep your hands out.  

If your population wasn’t so spineless, undisciplined, and  self-loathing, then you might be able to compile a raiding party with  enough tenacity to outthink ours. 

Our fighters are born into  war. Raised in it. It’s a way of life that evades your “first world”  nations. They live a life of such immense misery and pain that they’re  willing to fight barefoot in the snow for the opportunity to martyr  themselves. They yearn for the opportunity to die.  When they do have  the blessed opportunity to sacrifice themselves, they sit above Mohammed  at the right hand of God.  Blessed in Allah for eternity

What  honors do your fighters receive? Their empty sacrifice is remembered in  the form of a “three-day weekend.” The majority of your population uses  this sacred time to get drunk and grow more fat as a way to celebrate  their fallen warriors. Sadly, we pay tribute to their death more  honorably.

The colored pieces of cloth you pin on their chests are similar to  the jewelry worn by our women. What good are accolades and vanity if you  don’t have the stomach to endure a fight? We don’t offer the burden of  healthcare to our fighters as they often want to die for Allah. Your  fighters fight to live. Their inability to reconcile the inevitable  outcome of our patience leads them to kill themselves. Your medications,  counselors, and non-profits will never undo the pain and suffering  you’ve forced them to endure. It will never remove the pain we’ve caused  your broken nation. You are your own worst enemy. 

We will give your fighters credit.  Some are creative, tenacious, and  fierce. They outgun us in every way possible. But again, we simply wait  them out. Allah is patient. You cycle them through our Holy Lands every  3 to 12 months for their combat rotations. After their tour is  complete, they return to the comfort of their warm beds and endless  entertainment. If you left them here, in our Holy Land, with no way out  but to win, then you might of have had a chance of success. The longer  you poisoned our Holy Land with your presence, your “rules of  engagement” only strengthened our position. There is only one rule in  war – that is to win. 

Your commanders made you fight with your hands tied behind your back.  Your rules also confused our fighters too. “We’re clearly the enemy;  why are they letting us go?” Thank you for your compassion as it allowed  our fighters to kill more Infidels. We began to feel as if your  commanders were on our side.  We’re thankful your most vicious dogs were  never allowed off their leash. 

Your showcase Generals make us laugh. You spend millions of dollars  flying them around our country, inventing new ways to win while ignoring  the guidance of our most capable foes. Your Generals make decisions to  minimize risk to their fragile reputation with the ultimate goal of  securing a lucrative retirement–jobs with suppliers that fuel your  losing force. A self-serving circle that’s built on the backs of your  youngest and most naive fighters.

Your retired Generals “earn” tens of thousands of dollars talking to  your political, industrial, and financial leaders about “teams, winning,  and discipline.” It’s a mockery of the war they refused to fight.  It’s  a mockery of the Infidel warriors who died in our lands. We urge you to  continue following their vacuous personalities so we can further watch  your once great nation collapse. 

Your statesmen and elected officials are spineless, narcissistic, and  more cowardly than your Generals. They crave power over you above all  else. They come to our country, hide behind blast walls, and only heed  the word of the indigenous leader they put in power. I believe your  soldiers call this a “self-licking ice cream cone.”  

They’ve burned billions of dollars in a wasted effort to bring clean  water, electricity, business, education, agriculture, and exports to a  region that didn’t ask for it. You should have saved yourself the effort  and simply given the money directly to us. Don’t worry; your diplomatic  friends gave us plenty of your American tax dollars. If you want to  give it another shot with your “soft power,” send those with real  experience, not fancy degrees and silver tongues. 

Over the next few months, we will make the world understand that you  failed worse than any fighting force that’s ever invaded our lands.  Today we celebrate victory.  

As you evacuate your embassy, our fighters will be standing in the  shade. Our RPG marksmen will be patient. We thank you for the parting  gifts. You’ll find surface-to-air missiles staged in the back of Toyota  pickup trucks that you purchased for us.   

We saw what Extortion 17 did to your nation and the morale of your  fighting force.  Do your citizens even remember that victory? We’ll be  repeating and improving upon our victory while your citizens and  sympathizers evacuate in disgrace. Every one of your foes around the  world will know exactly how to break you. 

You are welcome to fly your empty drones, target our cell phones, and  send your spies. But they, too, will ultimately fail. We’ll use their  failures to show the world that you’re not all-powerful. You’re a false  front–an empty shell. You lie, cheat, steal, and are easily defeated  because you lack the spine to fight.  This is your history now. We’re  grateful Allah gave us the opportunity to show the world how to defeat  the Infidels. 

We look forward to seeing you again across the battlefield.

Praise be to God,

The Taliban 

Essay 13

Title: Keep Your Powder Dry

Summary:  "...From their perspective, and the heart of  my disdain; the best class of slaves, are the ones who know not they’re  enchained. We’ve never escaped, this awfully deep pit; not even once, even for a little bit..." "...Fear not, and keep your head held high; we’ve earned the right to see the world, through our naked eyes."  

Lesson Learned:  A poetic, soft awakening, piece that channels muted rage into  eloquent rhyming rebellion. Difficult truths to swallow, even when candy  coated with control. Confronting deceit while learning to temper fury  with love, clarity, and creative control. An exercise in emotional  regulation to paint a dark picture through "tennis-match" style  storytelling.   

Full Essay:  At  3 am on a Saturday morning, I woke up to see an out-of-character  text  from an old friend. He’s a former Army Ranger, then retired as a  Force  Recon Marine. He’s an icon in our specialized industry. He sent me  a  patriotic video, full of fire and fight, with an innocent attached.  He  asked, “What do you think of this?” Then continued, “All war is   senseless, I know that to be true; every time they ring the bell I gear   up and go, what about you?” His accidental rhyme made me smile, and   grin; then red-hot anger, soon set in. I sat up in my bed, with sleep  in  my eyes; then began to write and expose my despise.

          The  audio wouldn’t play, but the video was clear; I’ve seen it all   firsthand, sometimes laced with fear. I couldn’t hear if there was a   narrator, or not; it doesn’t matter none, because I already forgot.  I’ve  seen those images, of war and debauchery; I appreciate the video,  but  it’s not for me. It’s a familiar route, we know to end in misery; I  made  it halfway through, then began my 3 am epiphany.

          I  love my country, and this beautiful planet; but I loathe this  corrupt  government, goddamnit! These overt phony puppets reside below  the top;  they follow the covert rulers, of our Pale Blue Dot. With a  wide lens,  you’ll see the end is clear; both Capitalism and Socialism,  are slave  masters one must fear. We’re held captive by sociopaths, who  crave  nothing but unchecked power; forever residing, in their ivory  towers.  They, themselves, are a higher class of slaves; to those atop  the  pyramid, where we’re told not to gaze. Speak not, how dare you say   their name; forgive me not, I will not play your game. 

          When  I hear the trumpets, call the naive off to war; my mind begins  to  rage, we too, were duped to the core. I know the hurt when treated  like  a hot brass round; from a thankless country, for deeds that can’t  be  rebound. The love for our brothers is a priceless commodity; a tool   they use, to enslave this broken body. Never, no more; will I fight   again, in their illegal war.

          After  a lifetime spent, sharpening this spear; we secured neither  freedom  nor peace, for the innocence we hold most dear. We helped  tighten the  chains, forced upon our flock; our bravery once revered,  will soon be  met by noose and chopping block.

           Wild  animals are most dangerous when cornered and then caught; be  careful  of the shiny badges, they’ve already hence bought. With a  watchful eye  and balanced mind; beware their false endeavors, with the  aim to keep  you in line.  

          From  their perspective, and the heart of my disdain; the best class  of  slaves, are the ones who don’t know they’re enchained. We’ve never   escaped, this awfully deep pit; not even once, even for a little bit.

          They’ve  poisoned our food, our air, and our water; keeping us sick,  dependent,  and full of bother. They’ve trafficked our children, for  unspeakable  practices; their innocence used, for blackmail and heinous  tactics.  What happened to the Epstein list, you ask; are these monsters  given, a  lifetime free pass?

          They’ve  divided neighbor vs. neighbor, color vs. color, and country  vs.  country; to perpetuate, this terrestrial misery. They’ve poisoned  our  minds, and with a river of propaganda; then isolate you from family,   for their nefarious agenda. They maneuver dollars, from both sides of   every conflict; while they pander to the public, and boast enormous   profits.

          They’ve  robbed us of our riches, and stolen moments of our lives;  here we are,  once again, voting for their lies. They’ve entered our  minds, to police  our thoughts; what else is left, but to put us in a  box? They’ve  demonized, the natural order of evolution; for an ugly  goal, of your  total submission. Their drugs of choice, are manipulation  and power;  please remind me what pronoun you use, or do you now identify  as a  flower?

          They continue  to arm, and fund the fanatics; while our allies hold  tight, and wish  for friendly tactics. They’ve hijacked our medicine, to  keep us  unhealthy and sick; while Mother Earth’s natural remedies, often  do the  trick. They’ve erased thousands of years, of natural healing  measures;  to ensure a generation of addicts, as forever paying  customers. Please  remind me, of recent Amish studies; how many  autistics, walk along  their lush green prairies?  

          They’ve  erased our history, and manipulated education; an obedient  slave is  their desired intention. Critical thinking and problem-solving  are  reduced; subservience and helplessness are the New World coup.  Ancient  history and architectural wonder, have been hidden from our  eyes;  censored then demolished, geez I wonder why? What secrets, are  kept  pent up; what’s in the Vatican library, that’s been sealed shut?  

          Make  no mistake, the fight is upon us; a multi-generational plan, to  remove  the honest. Unless we embrace our differences, and then unite; a   battle for your soul, will swoop like a thief in the night. Arm   yourself, with a shield and saber; bound together with love, instead of   hate and anger.

          For  six-thousand years, the plan has been domination; their secret   societies quiver, over one united nation. Is it a coincidence, every   president has descended from the same bloodline; except only one, just   this one time. Unification is our strength, like solid granite; it’s  the  goal of our species, who reside on this beautiful planet. Our  unity, a  welcome surprise; to expand our minds, is their foretold  demise.

          My brother,  you asked me a simple question in the middle of the  night; I woke from a  nightmare, to help make this world see right.  There’s no other time in  human history, where I’d rather be alive; right  here, right now, what a  time to survive! Keep your powder dry, and rest  easy brother; we have  only one planet, there is no other.

Author’s Note:   We are who we are today based on  the decisions made in our past. The  values we hold dear are forged by  our victories and our heartaches. The  goal of this article is not to  shame service to your country or  suggest regret for overseas actions.  Instead, I celebrate our  stress-enhanced enlightenment. Our unique  experiences, both good and  bad, have shaped us to become the pillars of  tomorrow. Fear not, and  keep your head held high; we’ve earned the right  to see the world,  through our naked eyes.  

Essay 12

Title: Where There's Yin,there Must be Yang

Summary:   "There’s a stark dichotomy between who I am, and how I earn a  living. One supports the other. Yet, the two realities are not  bedfellows. I’ve fractured my mind to survive and thrive in my  precarious profession wrought with danger while I daydream over the  grandeur of the Cosmos. The quiet moments between the cyclic chaos  events are my coveted islands of inspiration. This delicate battle  between dueling frequencies and paradoxical vibrations is the timeless  ballet of a dance called Balance. Carl Sagan once described the Cosmos  as antithetical to chaos. One cannot exist without the other. Where  there’s Yin, there must always be Yang." 

Lesson Learned:  A meditation on balance and duality, revealing how opposing  forces, rage &  grace, chaos & order, must coexist within  creation. Within his message of balance, Scott gives anecdotes as 'truth  placed in observation.'     

Full Essay:  There’s  a stark dichotomy between who I am, and how I earn a living. One  supports the other. Yet, the two realities are not bedfellows. I’ve  fractured my mind to survive and thrive in a precarious profession  that’s wrought with danger while I daydream over the grandeur of the  Cosmos. The quiet moments between the cyclic chaos events are my coveted  islands of inspiration. This delicate battle between dueling  frequencies and paradoxical vibrations is the timeless ballet of a dance  called Balance. Carl Sagan once described the Cosmos as antithetical to  chaos. One cannot exist without the other. Where there’s Yin, there  must always be Yang. 

          In  Buddhism, the principle of balance revolves around the concept of the  Middle Way, which encourages moderation and avoiding extremes in all  aspects of life. This is a core principle of every major religion; to  include Shamanism and the mathematical laws that govern our Universe.  Even the cells in our bodies naturally strive for homeostasis; otherwise  known as balance. The principle of balance is rooted throughout the  ancient Vedic texts, where harmonious living is venerated. Maintaining  balance is crucial as it fosters inner peace, prevents attachment to  desires, and cultivates wisdom by avoiding extremes of indulgence or  austerity. Embracing balance allows individuals to navigate life's  challenges with equanimity, leading to a more harmonious and fulfilling  existence.

          The source  of my income is often the source of my imbalance. To correct this  inevitable inequality and guide myself back to center, I sometimes  stockpile positive energy ahead of an anticipated deluge of work-related  chaos. Below are two unique tales, one Yin and the other Yang. The  latter was written in 2018, then stockpiled in anticipation of the  former.  

          In the  summer of 2022, I spent a few weeks working in Naples, Florida as part  of a disaster relief security team after Hurricane Ian devastated  Southwest Florida. As a traveling security contractor, I worked for a  small security company and provided low-threat security services for the  electric company lineman at their ‘man-camps’ and at their high-value  storage yards. Company leadership split our security team between two  hotels, as we oversaw coverage over multiple locations throughout the  region. 

         I slept in a  luxurious hotel built for medical professionals located in a posh  section of town. The rooms were superb. Each room was adorned with  Egyptian cotton bedding, a high-end leather couch, and an endless  Nespresso cappuccino machine. Every morning we were greeted with a  silver platter gourmet breakfast before we entered the chaos beyond the  bellman at the front doors.

         The  other half of the travel security team slept in a decrepit hotel that  housed more cockroaches than guests and staff combined. However, the  cockroaches had more class than the hotel staff showed our security  team. A sharp lesson is on the way.  

         As  this simple, low stress, job began to wind down, the roach-hotel  management team terminated the rooms for our security team in the most  disrespectful way imaginable. Their actions were hideous and beneath us  in all the ways that matter.

When  the dust settled, the parent security company asked its team of  hardened warfighters and Law Enforcement professionals to write a bad  online review of the roach-hotel. Their behavior was abhorrent and  needed a glimmering spotlight of negative public attention. Sharp words  shouted from the rooftop was their plan of attack. Be careful asking an  author to settle in behind crew-served typewritten venom.

         As  requested, I wrote a scathing online review that oozed disgust over the  state of ethics in our failing country. As I wrote, I noticed my new  smart watch showed a sustained heartbeat just under 100 BPM while I  etched those words onto my screen. Emotion is my medium while your  imagination is my canvas. I found myself pounding the keys on my  keyboard harder and harder as if readers could feel the crimson wrath  through my words. I cracked the throttle and released a heaping dose of  rage but was left feeling unbalanced after the hate was extracted from  my psyche. 

As an aside, I wrote  the review in a first-person perspective to help the reader taste my  disgust from a front row seat. A victimless little-white-lie to ease  online continuity. As follows: 

        “I  was able to overlook the dank, mold-infested lobby because my team  stayed in this garbage hotel as first responders in the wake of  Hurricane Ian. I was reluctant to leave my comfortable home and rally  with my team to secure the devastation brought on by Hurricane Ian. I  didn’t even want to be here but if not me, then who else would keep the  wolves from ravaging your remaining possessions or raping your helpless  women?  

         We  used the hotel as a momentary oasis to close our eyes and rest after a  grueling day in the southwest Florida sun. My team and I provided  security services for the lineman while they restored your crippled  power grid after Hurricane Ian demolished your town. We tirelessly  supported hundreds of badass-gentlemen-roughnecks; who showed mutual  respect for sacrifices endured. They restored your power while you  pouted in the dark over your predictable predicament. 

         As  a warm gesture of this hotel’s heartfelt appreciation, this fine  establishment emptied our rooms while we secured your city and piled our  personal items on their filthy public conference room floor. After 3  weeks of tireless work for you ungrateful lowlifes, a simple scheduling  mix-up ended with our public humiliation.

         Grown  men who wear badges or walk with hidden combat scars were forced to  shuffle through a rat-pile to find their possessions strewn about the  rancid hotel floor. Incoming hotel guests peered at our dirty underwear,  vital protection gear, and valuable personal items that were scattered  from wall to wall.

         I've  been in the business of corralling and protecting sheep all my life.  I’ve accepted, long ago, the cold realization that our industry is a  thankless industry. The stench of irony socks me in the nose when I hear  the empty phrase, "thank you for your service." When the wolves scratch  at my back and life-saving tools are ignored by the arrogant, your  empty gestures become meaningless. Actions have more weight than words.  Thank me for my service by treating people with respect and heed our  warnings; or take your empty platitude and choke on it. 

We  chose this miserable profession so we can feed our families and pay our  mortgage; not to be your whipping-boy sacrificial protectors. Words  like honor and loyalty are empty vessels and hollow gestures to people  who operate this putrid hotel. We sacrifice the potential sum of our  future happiness to support the people we love; not to shoulder your  disrespect. 

         I  hope the next hurricane crumbles this dump to the ground. Don't worry,  we'll be back to watch you cry in the dark next time too. An exert from  the Sheepdog poem by Russ Vaughn reads, "And the wolves will learn what  we've shown before, we love our sheep; we dogs of war.” The sheep know  not the struggle of the quiet professionals who provide endless clover  for their thankless feast. For once, I wish the sheep understood what  their sheepdogs sacrifice so they’re able to sleep peacefully in their  beds at night.”

         Where  there’s Yin, there must be Yang. The Cosmos led me to mathematics, and  mathematics introduced me to Buddhism. Newton’s 3rd Law of Motion  combined with a core tenant of the Vedic texts tells me for every  negative action, there must be an equally positive reaction; or balance  becomes a casualty. To reset the imbalance from an incendiary  4-dimentional hotel review, I drafted the article you’re reading today  to showcase a wide lens for calculated harmony. The positive  counterbalance to my ugly hotel review comes in the form of an equally  opposite positive online review I wrote in 2018.   

         Buckle  in because this glowing review reads like a Medal of Honor citation.  It's an epic tale of leadership in a world of misguided ethics. As  follows:

         July  2018: “I coordinated with Black Oak Tree Surgeon to remove a  substantial number of trees from a property I just purchased. I feel  Black Oak deserves a glowing review because I was impressed by their  ethics and commitment to customer satisfaction from start to finish. 

         There  was an unfortunate miscommunication along the way, but Black Oak earned  a customer for life for their pledge to honor their word. I coordinated  Black Oak to begin tree-removal work the day after I bought my first  home. Bright and early, right on schedule, Black Oak showed up to begin  slaying trees. I made a small design change when they arrived, then we  agreed on a new price.

         I  don’t know anything about logging or clearing this number of trees.  But, I am a business owner, and the price seemed a bit low for the  volume of work asked of this tiny tree removal company. It’s not my job  to question their business practices, so I sipped my coffee from the  comfort of my office while they sweltered in the Central Florida heat.  

         From  our first introduction, I recognized this company was different. The  workers were friendly, pleasant, and seemed genuinely happy to be on the  job site. It was refreshing to experience this level of content from  hard laborers. 

         After  a few hours, I noticed several additional trucks arrived at my 2-acre  property. The size of the Black Oak crew also quadrupled. I didn’t think  it was too odd until two Black Oak supervisors knocked on my front door  with their hats in their hands. They had the heavy task of explaining a  major miscommunication on the price quote. The job was bid at the wrong  price. I could feel the genuine tension in the delivery of their  message. It was a difficult conversation, but they explained the issue  with humility and respect. 

         I’m  also a business owner and, throughout the day, estimated the amount of  overheard involved with a job this size. They underbid the job by tens  of thousands of dollars. After Dustin and Chris explained the mix up,  the owner of Black Oak, Joe Singer, knocked on my front door. 

         Joe  also held his hat in his hand when he further explained the mix-up. He  stated he’d still honor the original contract at the suicidal low price.  This speaks volumes about his ethics.

         A  leader is responsible for everything his team does or fails to do. A  strong leader also sets an example for his team to follow. I now  understood why his crew was so polite, respectful, and efficient. Joe  led from the front. His crew followed him because he earned their  respect. Joe also earned my respect that day. He was prepared to accept a  major business setback just to make me happy and keep his word. That is  a key learning moment.

         As  a struggling business owner, honoring the original plan would be  financial suicide for his business. He was willing to lay on his sword  to honor his word. That’s admirable. As a business owner, I empathized  with the mix-up brought on by an under-trained salesman. We agreed on a  new price, shook hands, then modified the plan so he can keep his doors  open and family fed. 

         I  spent my 30’s in the Middle East. I served our country with 2nd Ranger  Battalion and then I served as a high-threat security contractor for the  U.S. Intelligence community in Afghanistan. After nearly a decade  overseas, I’ve come home to a country I don’t recognize. Somewhere along  the line we lost our respect for one another. Honesty, integrity, and a  sense of community have escaped from our culture. Black Oak embodies  the ethics and moral fiber of the country I fought so hard to protect.

         We  need more small businesses like Black Oak Tree Surgeon. I will use them  for all future projects and wholeheartedly recommend them to anyone  who’s looking for an honest and ethical tree service company.”

        Here’s  what I didn’t put in the original online review. We agreed on a price  where Black Oak would break even on the job. As a struggling business  with tremendous overhead costs, it was their best option. After the  price was set and the job was complete, I gave Black Oak an extra $1,000  to act as a valuable business lesson. It pays to be respectful, polite,  and truthful.  

         The  laws of the Universe aren’t static equations written in a textbook.  They’re alive. Balance is abound. We were born into the turbulent ocean  of mathematics. From the right perspective, the chaos of turbulence has  predictable laws of balance. It’s Mathematics that tells me, where  there’s Yin, there must be Yang. Cycles of ebb and flow driven by the  waxing and waning of positive thinking. With the right perspective, one  can learn how to steer a foundering ship to safety by deploying the  timeless ballet of balance.

Essay 11

Title:  Electric Nights in a Lawless City

Summary:  "...If you spend your energy looking for  negativity in your surroundings; then that’s all you’ll find. I hope the  risk I’ve taken and experiences I endured show you the outcome of a  lawless city that’s electrified with irrational emotion. 

It’s  easy for me to focus on the darkness because I was immersed in it. It’s  a challenge to see the flower pushing up through a crack in the  sidewalk when there’s a homeless person having an overdose on the very  same sidewalk. Nevertheless, the flower is still present." 

Lesson Learned:  Through the living journalist's lens, Scott honed detachment from  the chaos before his eyes to observe the human condition within it. A  necessary further fracture of perception to allow Scott to participate  in the story, yet remain outside it, so truth can emerge unclouded by  emotion. The human-suffering found within this observation practice  further amplified Scott's empathy for his fellow humans. This experience  amplified his rage over the unseen dark forces who direct this  human-driven destruction.     

Full Essay:  From  Dec 2021 to Jun 2022, I worked in South Minneapolis, Minnesota on a  high-threat armed security contract where we supported a local unarmed  security team at a large private facility. In total, I completed three  separate trips to Minnesota where I provided protection services for a  city in distress. First, for the 2020 presidential election. Next,  during the Derek Chauvin trail. With the sharp rise of violent crime,  dwindling local security recruits, and the scarcity of police officers,  our 16-man (8 day / 8 night) veteran travel-security team provided a  unique blend of security and close-body coverage in a dynamic,  unforgiving, urban environment. Our area of responsibility fell between a  southern section of the city called “Little Mogadishu” and the infamous  “George Floyd Square.” A surreal time in American history, and there’s  nowhere else I’d rather be. 

          As  an objective observer in my own reality, I jumped at the chance to  immerse myself in a storied mega-city that found itself center-mass in  the BLM, ANTIFA, and Social Justice movements. This article is a tale of  my personal experiences and observations while living and working in a  three-ring city. Politics are irrelevant and won’t be a theme in this  spectacle of a storyline. Join me in discovering the solemn tragedy of  electric nights in a lawless city. 

          My  life was threatened more times during that 6-month deployment to the  land of 10,000 lakes than my 6-year stint as a Blackwater security  contractor in Afghanistan. In my wildest dreams, I never imagined a  combat deployment to the Middle East would feel safer than a work trip  to a major American city. 

          Upon  my arrival in Minneapolis, Afghanistan remained at the forefront of my  thoughts due to an intense writing project I had undertaken that  documented the explosive humanitarian crisis in the failed, war-torn,  country. My writing took a back seat while I focused on thriving in  South Minneapolis. I took daily notes with the intent to share the  surreal story of my foray into the “Heart of the Beast.” 

          My  teammates and I worked 12-hour shifts from 6p - 6a for 6 months. I  welcomed the physical and mental strain of that mission. After a  lifetime working in conflict zones, I found myself reveling in the  stress and high-stakes minefield, as it has become my familiar comfort  zone. Minneapolis soon became a leadership challenge to stress-test my  seasoned combat chassis.

          Before  we dive in, it’s important to share a bit of housekeeping notes and  relevant context for the story. While in MN, I used my Instagram as a rough draft storage yard to lay down interesting thoughts,  safeguard poignant observations, and share striking pictures of the  big-top circus city. 

          For  mission safety, I never posted any pictures in real time, nor did I  post pictures at our Client facilities. To avoid local backlash over the  content of my sharp words and perceived insensitive pictures, I  portrayed myself online as a “self-funded” photojournalist documenting  the human condition of life in the city. A half-truth to reduce the  danger of our primary mission and safeguard my teammates. An armed  security contractor who shed light on the ugliness of Minneapolis would,  no doubt, initiate a call to cancel my accounts. In this era of cancel  culture and emotion-driven actions, bad ideas tend to thrive in  darkness. 

          A decade of  service and 22 trips to fight didn’t prepare me for the horrors I  witnessed while on this photojournalism tour in Minneapolis. For ten  years, I devoted my life to serving the United States in the Middle  East. I witnessed the brutality of war firsthand, experiencing it in the  mountains of Afghanistan and on the roads of Iraq. 

          The  horrors of warfare attack my senses, corrupt my memories, and altered  my personality. They’re re-experienced in vivid technicolor while I lay  quiet in my bed at night. 

          If  I take a deep breath, I can still smell the metallic copper odor of  human brains wafting through the dry Afghan desert air.

          In  a quiet room, I can still hear the blood curdling screams of an  8-year-old Afghan boy as we tried to clean the mangled stumps and  pockets where his hands and eyes used to be.

          And  if I close my eyes, I can still see a Company of Army Rangers sobbing  and sniffling when Taps played the final salute to an untimely passing. 

          Horrors  once reserved for hardened combat veterans have become the mainstay of  Minneapolis. It doesn’t have to be this way.

          The  city has fallen. No one is coming to save you. Stand up. Turn off your  T.V. and save yourselves. Welcome to the new dystopian nightmare city of  Minneapolis, Minnesota. Where up is down, right is wrong, and fairytale  ideologies replace reality. The vacuum created by failed private  businesses, defunding the police, and self-serving politicians, is  filled with homeless drug addicts, schizophrenics, and violent  predators.

          The  community doesn’t have to look like a rancid garbage pit. Your kids  don’t have to read or see obscenities painted on their favorite cartoon  characters. You shouldn’t have to walk through crowds of homeless people  smoking crack, fentanyl, or any other poison in plain view of our most  precious.

          While on  patrol during this curious project, I’d watch as bystanders cower then  avert their eyes at the sight of a friendly smile and a gentle wave from  their professional uniformed protectors. Once the sun set, we didn’t  dare stop at a red light or pause too long at a neighborhood stop sign.  On average, 3 violent carjackings occurred every 2 nights. Due to the  extensive amount of gunfire throughout the city, Minneapolis installed a  wartime technology called “ShotSpotter” to triangulate the source of  the gunfire. 

          Finding  that shooter seemed irrelevant because the lack of law enforcement  officers available forced the city to triage police response to the most  heinous of crimes. New police recruits couldn’t cover the sheer volume  of officers seeking employment elsewhere or retiring early. One brisk  evening I called 911 because I found an elderly gentleman suffering from  dementia wandering the streets past midnight. He carried heavy shopping  bags, but the nearest grocery store was miles away. The temperature  sunk to negative 10 degrees that night. Nobody ever answered my 911 call  to help this displaced old man. The phone just rang and rang, then  disconnected with a sharp silence. We loaded him up in our vehicle and  drove him miles away from our area of responsibility to prevent him from  freezing to death that night. That wasn’t the first, nor the last, life  we saved in Minneapolis. 

          Two  years after rioters burnt the 3rdpolice precinct to the ground, the  neighboring 5th police precinct still beard the responsibility for  covering both regions. While working with law enforcement and the local  security team to coordinate efforts in the area, we’d receive routine  updates on the strength or capabilities of the friendly neighboring  forces. To my shock, some nights only 2 police officers covered the 3rd  and 5th precinct combined.    

          Human  beings aren’t supposed to live like this. Defecating on the sidewalk.  Meth-fueled rabid sex in public spaces. Open air, unobstructed drug use.  The saddest part about this tragedy are the children who bear witness  to this debauchery while their parents pretend not to notice. They’ll  step over the feces on the sidewalk or give a side-eye-smirk at the  lude, meth-fueled couple having sex on the steps and exclaim, “somebody  should do something.”

          Men like me volunteered for the front lines so the innocent and beautiful can remain innocent and beautiful. It’s the innocence we work so hard to preserve and why we are so quiet about what we did  overseas. No amount of combat experience prepared me to live and work in  a major American city devoid of the safeguards I fought so hard to  protect. 

          Despite the  environment or one’s chosen profession, complacency is a quiet killer  with no discernment of skin color. While working on this Minneapolis  project, I’ve met some fantastic, good-hearted Midwest people. Yet,  failure to implement basic safeguards or precautions to preserve their  lives left me bewildered. When one is submerged in lawlessness, it’s  easy to become desensitized, complacent, or oblivious to the dystopian  nightmare city which they’re living in. 

          Worse  yet, they’ve been duped into worshiping the deluge of propaganda that  pours out of their TVs and Social Media sites(^1). The “Orange man” is  still their number one enemy while their children are being trafficked,  sexualized, and exposed to filth.  

          While  submerged in this lawless city, I couldn’t shake the feeling that, as a  species, we’ve lost our way. We’ve lost our balance. Every day after  shift, I meditated in my hotel room to the rising sun with the aim to  re-balance my brain and cleanse my palate of this modern-day Sodom and  Gomorrah. My heart goes out to the innocent families who are held  captive in a city designed to destroy its citizens. The best kind of  slaves are the ones who don’t know they’re slaves. 

          I  can’t reminisce about my time in Minneapolis without writing a few  words about George Floyd. I found his likeness painted large and small  on buildings, benches, and bus stops. We worked about a mile and a half  away from 38th St. and Chicago Ave, the intersection where Mr. Floyd  passed away. 

          I  answered my first summons to Minneapolis to provide security services  during the 2020 presidential elections. When I arrived in the city,  businesses still smoldered from the “Summer of Love.” While the battered  citizens of Minneapolis held their collective breath for the imminent  election results, I became a disaster tourist and wrote down everything I  saw and experienced in the land of lawlessness. I remember feeling a  charge of electricity in the air that made the hairs on my arms stand  up. 

          One morning  before the election, I took a tour of my first American autonomous zone.  I parked my rental car on the ‘friendly’ side of the barricades and  made sure to conceal my pistol as I approached the haphazard ANTIFA  checkpoint. I scanned for sentries on my flanks while I strolled towards  the fatal-funnel Brownshirt blockade. I jittered with subdued  excitement when I approached my first civilian barricade on U.S. soil. I  thought, “what a time to be alive!” 

          One  guard met me at the entrance to the autonomous zone. A single soldier  at a checkpoint during BMNT (Before Morning Nautical Twilight) is an  elementary tactical blunder. We exchanged friendly-friction-banter about  Donald Trump, the departed George Floyd, and Minneapolis PD; also known  as, “Murderous Pig Department. 

          She  introduced herself with the numerical moniker of “Seven.” I wondered if  her parents were Star Trek fans or if it was a silly pseudonym used  during these surreal times. Our banter remained polite in an angry kind  of way.

          From head to  toe, her oversized black tactical attire made her look like a low-budget  Gotham City cosplay character. She wore an ill-fitting empty tactical  vest with more useless pockets and pouches than I could count. She  carried a Walmart walkie talkie in one hand and a child’s playtime set  of binoculars around her neck. If she wore a plastic Army helmet, she’d  look like a 7-year-old boy’s prized Halloween costume; except it was  November. 

          Her  neon green hair and miniature stature distracted me from her morbid  obesity. I felt sadness for this young woman who fell victim to  high-level corporate manipulation and political exploitation. As an  independent journalist and a curious combat veteran, I cherrypicked my  intentions to gain access to their hallowed grounds and document my  experiences. I entered the autonomous zone after regurgitating popular  Liberal media talking points then rewording some of the anti-police  graffiti I read while walking up to the chokepoint. 

          Months  later, that same autonomous zone became off-limits for the team when  two German tourists received small arms fire from elevated positions.  

          In  our area of responsibility, I counted half a dozen scorched, empty  lots, where family businesses once stood tall. Graffiti tags like, “ACAB,” “BLM,” and “Fuck 12”  spawned like black mold in the night. Support for George Floyd ran  through the citizens I encountered the same way Bostonians love their  Red Sox. He became a local celebrity. Till this day, I’m perplexed over  the orchestrated manipulation and idolization of this convicted violent  felon. 

          There are countless brilliant black men and women who would make fine role models for children of any color. While in Minnesota, I felt a sustained sadness over the lack of  positive role models for the scores of fatherless children who turned to  drugs and crime to pass the day away. 

          Martin Luther King Jr once said, “Judge a man not by the color of his skin, but by the content of his character.” I wonder what MLK would say about present-day Minneapolis. Would he be labeled a ‘race trader’ or ‘Uncle Tom’ by the TV talking heads for advocating people be held accountable for  their actions? Would he be silenced on social media for diverting from  the scripted political narrative? Would he be proud of the legacy he’s  created? I think not and that’s a tragedy. 

          A  leader provides solutions to problems they present. I offer you a new  black role model in place of the departed Mr. Floyd. Someone whose work  has advanced the human race and created a brand-new field of scientific  research. 

          Let me  present to you Dr. James Sylvester Gates. He’s a black theoretical  physicist who primarily works on supergravity, superstring theory, and  supersymmetry. All of which are subjects that make the baby hairs on the  back of my neck stand up.

          While  solving mathematical equations to study quarks, leptons, and  supersymmetry, Dr. Gates discovered something he never expected to find.  He discovered computer code within the complex equations that described  the fundamental elements of the Universe. Further, it was a particular  type of computer code that can correct itself. That type of advanced  technology is only found in internet browsers and Artificial  Intelligence.

          This discovery (along with others) led to the Simulation Theory Hypothesis,  in which Dr. Gates postulates we are living in a computer simulation.  How is this intriguing scientific discovery relevant to my Minnesota  story?

          Every night  while running the roads of South Minneapolis, I saw larger than life  murals of a convicted violent felon characterized with angel wings or  with a divine halo while brilliant black men, like Dr. Gates, drift away  into obscurity. This is the horror of a collapsed community of humans  that have lost their way. 

          Located  on the skirt of our area of responsibility, Chicago Lake Liquors may be  one of the most well-known liquor stores in Minneapolis. This alcohol  super-store is located a few blocks north of George Floyd square and  became center stage in the choreographed 2020 summer riots.

          During  the mayhem, a mob of frenzied criminals smashed the windows, emptied  the shelves, and dragged the store’s 1,000-pound safe out the back door.  Adjacent buildings raged with flames while the rioters used whatever  tool they could scavenge to try and breach the safe. Their efforts to  open the safe failed. However, their efforts to destroy their  neighborhood and terrify the innocent citizens of Minneapolis excelled.

          Pictured  is the front door of Chicago Lake Liquors with a gentle reminder of the  slow creep of Communism within the United States.    

          If  you spend your energy looking for negativity in your surroundings; then  that’s all you’ll find. I hope the risk I’ve taken and experiences I  endured show you the outcome of a lawless city that’s electrified with  emotion. It’s easy for me to focus on the darkness because I was  immersed in it. It’s a challenge to see the flower pushing up through a  crack in the sidewalk when there’s a homeless person having an overdose  on the very same sidewalk. Nevertheless, the flower is still present.

A  special thanks to my teammates for helping me stay focused and keeping  me safe while I documented "Electric Nights in a Lawless City." Cheers  to Batman and Robin, Main Effort Marshall, Maximus, The Young Gunz, Top  Cop, Guard #8, Mr. Dry Carrot, Danny Wheeler, and of course, The  Godfather. 

          You can find additional pictures of my photojournalism tour HERE. Open the picture to read expanded context and behind the scenes storyline to your favorite photos.  

1.)  Smith-Mundt-Act: In 2013 repeal of the domestic dissemination ban gives  the federal government great power to covertly influence public  opinion. LINK HERE.

Essay 10

Title: Goodro: Never Forgotten

Summary:  Dustin Goodro was one of my closest friend and this is a tribute to his untimely passing.  After returning from the invasion of Iraq, on Sept 11th, 2003, Goodro  suffered a massive head injury while conducting airborne operations in  Ft. Lewis, WA.  

His recovery was extensive. His strength was inspiring. His tragedy was heartbreaking.

Lesson Learned:  This piece marks a descent into the raw canter of loss, a moment  where Scott began to express that buried pain does not disappear with  time. Instead, it waits to be witnessed, and that remembrance itself is  the first step toward releasing what still weighs the soul down. This  essay also allows the reader to wonder what other tragedies are kept  pent up; lying in wait to be released.      

Full Essay:   Alpha Company 1st Platoon 2/75th Rangers in Baghdad, Iraq. Badmuthers. We just took the city.
 

Back when Rangers wore the high-and-tight and Americans stood proud & tall.
 

Pictured are blurred, war-fighting legends riding TC and turret positions. Rangers who I still admire till this day. 

My original Maggot Ranger buddy and 240-gun team brother, Dustin Goodro is pictured with his back facing you on the right.
 

When we returned from Iraq and cleaned up, 1st platoon had to complete a Ranger standard 20-mile ruck march after a combat load C-130 static line jump. It’s a standardized training event. 

The day was Sept 11th, 2003. Goodro had a bad jump.
 

Someone stole the air from his chute and he lost the leap-frog game. Two jumpers traded collapsed parachutes until one hit the ground.
 

He burned-in and suffered a massive head injury.
 

When the medevac helo crew delivered him to the doctors at Walter Reed Army Hospital, they said he was unresponsive; yet mumbling the Ranger Creed.
 

Goodro spent the next 2 years in recovery.
 

He had to learn how to walk and talk again. He didn’t remember who he was or who his Ranger brothers were.
 

After two years, his skull was put back together and he finally earned a full medical discharge from the Army. At last, he was going home.
 

He loaded up his truck and pointed it towards South Dakota.
 

He signed out of the Army with a lifetime worth of medical disability payments ahead of him. He had his life back and the entire world was at his stoop.
 

I always imagine the feeling of elation that must of swept through him as he exited Ft. Lewis for the last time. Maybe the sun peeked through the Pacific Northwest rain clouds and illuminated his path? I always wonder about those small details.
 

Tragically, 1 mile after leaving the base, he was in a car accident and died in his truck.
 

The innocent fender bender caused his airbag to deploy and his weakened skull couldn’t handle the impact. He was 24 years old.
 

Never forgotten. 

Essay 09

Title: Write My Way To Freedom

Summary:  "I’ve discovered writing to be a tremendous  tool to analyze my mental health status because I’m forced to describe  my actions, explain my beliefs, and articulate my captivating  perspectives using creative wordplay and fluid sentence structure.  Drifting away with the tide is often sought after and an easy route to  isolation. But, writing helps keep me connected to the tangible.  

I write with wild fervor and meticulous dedication because every word I  type is one more violent kick towards that safe harbor, and out of the  monsoon. I’ll write my way to freedom, or I’ll be scuttled along the  way..."  

Lesson Learned:  This essay teaches how writing is not just expression but  survival. It's a sacred act of self-rescue that transforms chaos into  clarity, turning trauma into art and language into the vessel that  carries one toward inner freedom. The act of writing constructs the  mirror for one to begin the process of  self-reflection.   

Full Essay:  I’ve discovered writing to be a tremendous tool to analyze my mental health status because I’m forced to describe my actions, explain my beliefs, and articulate my captivating perspectives using creative wordplay and fluid sentence structure. Drifting away with the tide is often sought after and an easy route to isolation. But, writing helps keep me connected to the tangible. I first discovered writing as a tool for a healthy dose of disassociation when I was overboard and drowning in real-time. 

          Since the towers fell, I’ve been treading water and making my way from one isolated island to the next deserted location in search of a safe harbor and a place to hang up my rifle. Once again, I can see an approaching storm on the horizon. The thunderheads are climbing, and the barometer is falling. Writing is my only outlet to pacify the raging storm above so I can catch my breath and live to write another day. I write with wild fervor and meticulous dedication because every word I type is one more violent kick towards that safe harbor, and out of the monsoon. I’ll write my way to freedom, or I’ll be scuttled along the way. One lesson this journey of struggle has shown me is, great ship captains are not made in calm seas.

          When Havok Journal published my debut article titled “Power of Positive Thought,” I wrote a brief mention of a pivotal year that launched my quest to enlightenment. This was the year I forced an interlude in the storm, caught my breath, and studied the stranger who peered back at me in the mirror. It was the first hard long look at myself since 9/11. I stood defenseless and disturbed by what I saw through the looking glass. 

          In the summer of 2019, I sold my house and off-loaded most of my possessions. I left a temporary low-wage dead-end job and said goodbye to a handful of people to venture on a minimalist solo off-road motorcycle trip around the world. Stow your envy because this exit endeavor wasn’t a pleasure voyage. It was an emergency-brake last-ditch effort to save myself, purge negativity, and find a life worth living. I was fed up with it all and couldn’t consume one more second of the life I was living. 

          In 2019, I was a paper thin 2/75th Army Ranger and Blackwater alumni who set off on an uncomfortable writing experiment because I was desperate to change the direction my life was headed. I knew I’d be dead in a year if my venture was unsuccessful. I was a reclusive misanthrope who did something I’ve never done before. I began to write and share my thoughts with the world. It was a purge of seductive rage and provocative storytelling. I wrote as if my life depended on it because every atom in my body knew the dire consequences if I failed to keep my head above the white caps.   

          At first, I wanted to go dark and disappear behind my iron sherpa. I recognized the warning signs of an out-of-control-high-stress lifestyle accompanied by a decade of unresolved combat trauma. I was desperate to disconnect from the world and unwind the cluttered mess of my mind over thousands of miles of grit and empty horizons. Instead of following my previous ineffective comfort patterns centered on isolation and silence, I did the most uncomfortable thing imaginable. I started a real-time public journal on an adventure motorcycle website and wrote until my fingers bled. 

          An exert from my public journal, titled “A Ride Without a Destination” reads, “I plan to use this time to write about the sights, experiences, and beauty along the journey. I also plan to write about my life and share stories that shouldn’t be forgotten. I realized I've lived a surreal life. Some of you might enjoy reading about it. But mostly, this is for me. 

          My rigid profession silences free-form expression and fosters isolation because I often find myself in bed with classified, confidential, or sensitive employment endeavors. Stress injuries from 22 trips overseas reinforced feelings of disconnect from the bland vanilla world that surrounds me. I seldom find genuine connection to anything or anyone. Reciprocity of human connection is the illusive singularity of enlightenment. 

          The dull monotony of a safe ‘normal’ life was a void between my mundane reality and a dangerous life on the edge. My mind has fractured itself between two worlds labeled, ‘here’ and ‘there’. When I’m ‘here’ I want to be ‘there’, and when I’m ‘there’ I want to be ‘here.’ Never settled. Never satisfied. Always struggling to survive the incoming wave and next lustrous attack against my life. 

          I was isolated on a remote island while I watched cruise ships and pleasure boats sail past my chaotic, stress filled life. I could see smiling passengers having fun, laughing, and enjoying themselves while they were oblivious to the starving stranger who was stranded off the starboard bow. I wondered if they could see me jumping up and down while I seethed strings of sentences from my keyboard. Maybe if I started a fire on this remote island they’d shift their gaze for a moment and engage me in genuine heartfelt human-to-human interaction...”

          Instead of going dark and disappearing from the world and everything in it, I shined a spotlight into my private life and wrote down my most guarded thoughts while I thrashed my way through choppy seas. As I typed my way to calmer waters, I force-opened a heavy door to let readers taste the frigid saltwater that filled my lungs while I gasped for air.  

         Because the quantum laws of the Universe require every subatomic particle to achieve balance through supersymmetry, my intimate origin story allowed the reader a transparent view into the world of a hollow Army Ranger who sought to bring his life back to harmonious balance. I wanted to disconnect from the chaos and reconnect with the beauty beyond my meager senses. I’ve since discovered beauty is always present, yet the present isn’t always beautiful. Sometimes it takes a shift in one’s perspective to see the elegant harmony through the minefield of chaos.

          During my 2019 writing experiment, I wrote with passion, vigor, and triumph. I transformed my stark-naked thoughts into poetic tales of my lust for life. As I wrote, the storm clouds parted to let the sun warm my face while poetry poured from my fingertips.

          Since balance is the universal measuring stick, the opposite effect of my writing holds true. Through forced journaling, I’ve found my fingers fall flat and fill with concrete when I’m safe in my warm bed at night. When there’s no danger, colors that were once vibrant begin to dim and the world around me becomes bland and irrelevant. Conversations stall and words that were once whimsical and lite become abbreviated emotionless jargon.

          When I’m in danger or out on an adventure, a deluge of poetry fills the void where darkness once ruled my day. I feel alive when I’m closest to chaos and death. Stress has become my comfort zone. This is the plight of a warrior poet and my tragic quest to paint the right combination of words that lead me to freedom from this nautical pendulum. The source of my inspiration is the stress that keeps me disconnected. You ask, how can one be a warrior and a poet? I answer, how can one be a warrior and not a poet?

          Honest journaling, meditation, and critical thinking have illuminated a stark cyclic dichotomy akin to the natural tempestuous rise and fall of waves. When I feel no danger, my brain limits the feedback mechanisms that supply my consciousness with the routine details of the world around me. What does that mean? Right now, do you feel the course texture of your shirt against your skin, or does your brain limit that feedback until you force it to become aware of the texture? The sensation is always present, but our brain decides what information you receive based on the current threat level; or your forced awareness. Just as “beauty is always present, yet the present isn’t always beautiful.”   

          The world becomes lackluster when my brain throttles down the sensory feedback during an intermission in the storm. This cycle of safety and stagnation vs. chaos and danger results in disconnect when the rhythmic wave interference patterns touch bottom in preparation for an uptick. I often yearn for chaos because it’s a blunt reminder sunsets are, in fact, still stunning. These are simple consequences of Fight or Flight and a lifetime of struggle.

          We ‘stress-enhanced veterans’ are not diminished by our injuries. Instead, we’re decorated sheepdogs who are striped with scars and blessed with a renewed appreciation of life. The tragedy arrives when I realize I’ll never feel as alive as I do when I’m closest to death. I chase danger and adventure because it stimulates my writing and connects me to the planet. Chaos and peace. Life and death. Love and hate. It’s impossible to have one without the other because balance rules everything in our closed system. 

          I cherish the pockets of happiness and moments clarity before I’m overcome with the crushing anxiety to maintain the irrelevant obligations that dim my world. I’m happiest when my life is simplified because life is streamlined when I’m surrounded with danger.

          Consider this article, and future works, as my personal public journal; as I did in 2019. I don’t write for you, a voyeuristic reader with a penchant for raw-life-poetry and seductive wordplay. I enjoy writing for the simple sake of painting words on your mental canvas. No accolades or prizes earned for my efforts. Scribbling thoughts while I paint with emotion because it's flows out of my fingers and it's fun to do. Writing is beautiful fluid therapy that’s yours to digest from the safety of your steady ship.

          I will write way out of this cyclic storm and into that safe, calm harbor where peace replaces chaos for inspiration. There are no half-measures because I see a gargantuan swell inbound. It’s nearly upon us. The placid water has now given way to white cap turbulence once again. The wind is picking up and the storm has no patience for me to prepare.  

          A coy grin accompanied by a piercing twinkle from my eye welcome the next round of iridescent hues that begin to fill the sky above. I’ve started to notice the sunsets again. A gentle reminder of the turbulent waters inbound. Sunsets are always the most vibrant when a storm is imminent. 

          We’re all passengers on this beautiful planet sailing through the same storms together. Some are enjoying the pleasure ships while others are treading water, gasping for air, and struggling to survive. I hope to see you all waiting for me on the peaceful shoreline one day. I’ll meet you there, one word at a time.  

Essay 08

Title: Power of Positive Thought

Summary:  "In 2019 I basked in the darkness and dined  with my demons. They poured my favorite whiskey and my forever place at  their dark dining table is set to welcome another fractured veteran. 

My  cozy reservation at this somber dinner party was within grasp. When  squared-up and standing face-to-face, I gave a subtle nod and chilled  whisper to the grim welcoming party. 

With  a cracked, soft vice, I uttered, “Not today, fellas. My story ain’t  over yet.” Drastic actions were taken because I needed drastically  different results. An experiment ensued where valuable new lessons  learned were poured over my fractured frame, like molasses filling a  void..." 

Lesson Learned:  Scott learned that focused, intentional positivity is a real tool,  not a slogan. Scott learned how to redirect his energy, interrupt a  destructive cycle, and nudge his life (and others) onto a healthier  timeline. From this essay, Scott learned this practice can be used as an  offensive weapon against incoming waves of negativity / Darkness.  Because of this essay, Scott deployed several pivotal "Lifeline  Timelines" to act as positive energy anchors for an incoming wave of  catastrophic sadness.  

Full Essay:   In 2019 I basked in the darkness and dined with my demons. They poured my favorite whiskey and my forever place at their dark dining table was set to welcome another fractured veteran.  My cozy reservation at this somber dinner party was within grasp. When squared-up and standing face-to-face, I gave a subtle nod and a chilled whisper to the grim welcoming party. With a cracked, soft voice, I uttered, “Not today, fellas. My story ain’t over yet.” Drastic actions were taken because I needed drastically different results. An experiment ensued where valuable new lessons learned were poured over my fractured frame, like molasses filling a void. While the door to that dark dining party is locked-tight behind me, I stashed away those valuable lessons learned for future emergency use. My eyes are focused forward, now armed with the power of positive thought. 

          Everything in the Universe operates on cycles of rise and fall. From a 3rdparty perspective, I can see, with crystal clarity, the wild yaw and pitch of our stress-injured combat veterans. I’ve found they tend to experience higher highs and lower lows than our civilian counterparts. Patterns of birth, death, and rebuild represent the framework infrastructure that describes our predictable Universe. From the right perspective, it’s a simple wave pattern. 

          A deep-rooted understanding of the mathematical equations that rule the Laws of Physics, coupled with a wide lens for patterns, was the elixir I needed to curb my rhythmic descents into darkness. I discovered the tools to detour this dark roller coaster of peaks and valleys that plague 22 fractured veterans every day. It’s my aim to share these tools with you today. 

          Enough word foreplay, let’s get down to business. What are these illusive tools? I already told you. It’s the power of positive thought. Words have power. Even subtle actions have a gravitational force that can alter the future with drastic outcomes. See Chaos Theory. Mathematics shows me how a simple flap of a butterfly’s wings could have been the source energy that originally created Hurricane Ian. If true, the devastation Hurricane Ian brought to Southwest Florida also brought me to you today. From the point of view of the butterfly, simple words can cause you to shift your rigid reality and see new solutions, it’s just math.  

          You’re probably thinking, “What the hell is this hippy dude talking about?” I’ll bring it back down to Earth and give you 2 real-word examples how the power of positive thought curbed my recent descent into darkness. 

          During the month of October, in 2022, I worked as the overnight contract-security team leader for displaced residents in the wake of Hurricane Ian. I worked at a filthy FEMA camp located in a decrepit abandoned Publix grocery store. I was saturated in stress because I was forced to fix a dangerous security mess while ascending a near-vertical learning curve. It was a contract filled with surreal, horrific, and heartfelt stories that I’ll soon immortalize through the power of words, but first, I want to tell you about my Haitian laundry-lady friend named Louise.

          I’ve been living this security-nomad lifestyle since 2001. It’s become a fun game to try and pack as lite as possible when I travel. Since laundry was a drop-off service, I’d visit Louise in the laundry pod 2 x a day swap out my dirty clothes for fresh clean ones. Like a Swiss timepiece, I rotated the same 2 shirts and same 2 pants for 30 days. It was masterful efficiency for the ultra-lite contract security aficionados.  

          It was a high-stress contract where I solved complex, and often dangerous, security challenges throughout a long 12-hour night shift. My time off was minuscule. Food was scarce and living in a dry, coffin sized, FEMA trailer added complexities to the daily personal hygiene. 

          Enter my subtle smirk, I thrive in this fight-or-flight high-risk lifestyle. I was in my comfort zone while dancing with danger, while a side of stress was tugging at my tails. I relished in the challenge it took to steer multiple timelines towards positive outcomes. It’s a dangerous balancing act for a sheepdog to mingle with the sheep while treading a razor wire. My senses were heightened while my patience was thin. 

          Sometime in the first week, the laundry lady lost a fancy, and expensive, anti-microbial towel I deployed with. When questioned, the laundry manager shrugged his shoulders, waved his hand away then mumbled something in Creole. I’ve been conditioned to view my personal gear as my operational lifeline. I had muscle failure and a slip of sharp words fell out of my mouth because my mission was now disrupted. 

          I strive to exhibit a friendly demeanor, especially to those who wait on me or serve me. It scrambles my mind when someone is obtuse, rude, or disrespectful. Service is a tough industry. I know because “security” is a service industry wrought with ugly challenges from an ungrateful public. 

          Louise was an innocent victim folding laundry behind her boss when I finally had time to corner the laundry manager and attempt to extract solutions for my missing gear. The rage began to spill out when he offered no solutions, dismissed me, then waved me away. Sometimes the nearest exit is behind you. I left that cramped, humid, laundry pod when I saw the walls begin to vibrate from an incoming rage storm. I felt my logic center awaken and exclaim, “It’s a $50 towel, get over it, Scott.” I felt sharp words were imminent. I chose to walk away, shift my perspective, and deploy a lifeline. 

          In 2019, I confided to a friend that, “I just wanted to go one single day without yelling at someone.” Drastic actions were taken to remedy that frame of mind. This pleasant, peaceful veneer was earned through heavy self-reflection, meditation, and drastic actions. 

          What kind of drastic action? The next day I started learning Creole. I never saw the laundry manager again, but every day I’d greet Louise in her native Haitian-village language - Creole. My elementary attempts at her language plastered a pure smile upon her face, which, in turn, fueled my covert experiment. I felt an immediate shift in my perspective take place. I grew up in South Florida, a region with a vibrant Haitian population, I’ve never taken notice how beautiful their language sounded. 

          Her English was poor, but I weaved through every broken word while I was enthralled by our short daily energy exchanges. Over the next few weeks, she explained the interesting history of her lace-infused language while I attempted to mimic her twisted sounds. For 1 minute a day, I was enchanted by my new friend Louise. 

          Creole is a ‘slang-French’ that sounds like ruby red crimson cursive wafting through the air. I found it adorable when she’d giggle after I fumbled over a new Creole word. She reminded me of a departed aunt who I miss dearly. We would laugh exchange longer greetings / goodbyes day after day. Louise brightened my entire day and cast, much-needed, positive energy into my darkness. What’s so profound about Louise and our friendly banter? 

          Here’s the positive message and the point of the story. I flooded her with positive energy to curb my anger. I fed off her friendliness on purpose. I used her positive energy as a safety apparatus to pull me out of anger and separate me from negativity. She became a beacon guiding me back to the shore. She was an oasis for the stress of my nightly high-stakes security duties. My interaction with her gave my energy the much-needed balance. She was the Yin to my Yang. It was a deliberate effort to choose a positive timeline vs. remain on my negative self-destructive path. 

          When I finally fumbled through my Creole “final-exam” goodbye, I didn’t have the heart to tell Louise she shrunk all my darn pants! I’ll wear these high-water pants and think of you, St. Louise!  

          The second example where I used the power of positive thought to delay my demons is still a throbbing wound. I’ll paint a moment of context before I dive into the tough stuff. After the FEMA shelter job with Louise ended, I was invited to work closer to the beachside ground zero of destruction. I’d soon face a dark tribulation.

          While working on this post-apocalyptic peaceful beachside security contract, I fell into a deep-down cycle of darkness. Emotions aside for an interlude of context, it was an interesting new contract with professional leadership. I won’t mention the company name for confidentiality reasons, but it I worked for a tiptop stand-up crew. I was happy with the job and kept my reputation intact, despite drowning in real-time before their eyes. My mask was tied double tight this time because this ain’t my first rodeo. 

          These are the heavy masks our forgotten warfighters wear to hold the irradiated pieces of themselves together, day after day. It’s a sad state of our society when its nation’s warriors struggle to release the pressure of that suffocating mask and stare at the stranger in the mirror. This is me without that sultry, stifling mask. 

          Last month, while at the new job site, one my one of my closest friends passed away unexpectedly. Combined with my current outside stressors, I now began to slip. Josh was a former PJ [Pararescue] and OGA [Other Government Agency] Ground Branch medic who suffered a fatal pulmonary embolism in his home, while he was alone with his young children. He’s seen more combat than anyone I’ve ever known. His fractures oozed radioactive pieces of himself while he struggled with his combat stress injuries. My stumble slip would soon turn into a terminal velocity free-fall. 

          I felt my plunge then deployed time-tested balancing tactics. On the 12thmonth of ‘22, I found myself meditating on the roof of 12th floor during the hallowed Winter Solstice, happening on the 21st. I sat facing the descending sun, with the intent to calm my mind. It was a band-aid for my fractured soul. A mere stopgap. 

          A week after Josh passed away was the 3-year anniversary of my sister’s death. I was soon on a rocket ship downwards. Over the past 20 years, I’ve been away from my family most holidays. Low dose holiday blues are a common occurrence that I’m always able to deflect. Since my sister passed away on Christmas morning, combined with the recent passing of my best friend, the holidays exposed the paper thin spots in my dilapidated armor. 

          Nowadays, more of my friends seem to be dead than are alive. I made the mistake of drafting a list of those the departed, then felt the loss of gravity. I called a close friend and warned him I was “slipping.” They asked what I needed. After that, I drifted away into a familiar robotic fog.  

          I’m tired of watching my friends die. As a close-knit community of shattered warriors, we must pick up our individual broken pieces, collect them in our tattered pack, and continue living the best life we can. That pack is getting heavy and those shattered pieces of ourselves never quite fit together the same way again.

          I once carried my best friend’s casket, wrote, then delivered his eulogy. I also once sat sobbing at another brother’s funeral while my written words were a razor slashed across my ear drums. It’s a sharp surprise to hear my tangible, raw emotions read back to me without warning in Ryan’s eulogy. I also sat in a hideaway spot on the roof of a high rise building in Santa Monica while I tasted my tears and crumbled to pieces over another brother lost. And more, and more… Enough. 

          Josh’s passing highlighted something new about myself that terrified me. I felt nothing. There was silence. I was numb. I remember speaking to the love of Josh’s life as if I was writing down a mundane police report. She was a slobbering somber mess while I was a ridged mechanical robot. I understand everyone grieves in their own way, but Josh’s passing jarred something loose in my psyche, and it eventually affected my work. 

          An unexpected variable in the form of a rogue wave of negativity disrupted my delicate positive energy tight-rope balance. I had an altercation with a drunken, baby boomer, client employee who festered a misguided notion of self-importance. A man beneath me in all forms of stature, class, and honor. There are consequences for bad behavior, and he chose the wrong Ranger on the wrong day. 

          While balancing in the darkest corner of my downward cycle, my mask was drawn tight until an intoxicated property manager lit my fuse and opened the flood gate to release a rogue wave of negativity that demolished my fragile, safe harbor. 

          Until this moment, I was able to slow drip my descent by meditating, remaining positive, and maintaining a sharp focus on the beauty abound. “Focus on the light and don’t feed the night” was my mantra. I often disassociate and view myself from a 3rd party perspective, a handy tool for a creative author. It’s a sobering feat in self-awareness that has been instrumental for personal growth. 

          A bids eye view of this ugly event showed a tidal wave collapse my fragile house of cards and push me over the edge - into a dark abyss. I was working at the front gate of a secure facility when this inflated jagoff almost killed me with his car – on purpose. When I saw the open container in his center console, I unleashed a title wave of rage over this minuscule man. He hopped out of the car, slammed the door behind him, then charged at me with wild in his eyes. He was red-faced with anger when we met, chest to chest. Those double-tight strings holding my brittle mask gave way. A rose-colored curtain of rage noted the next act of this ugly play. Be kind to those around you because you never know the hidden struggles concealed underneath a worn-out mask noted by a forced smile. 

          My ‘logic’ and ‘reason’ gatekeepers smashed on the brakes while simultaneously pulling the emergency stop handle. My rage overpowered logic. It oozed out between intermittent periods of quiet professionalism. A rare outburst event for a wire-tight, disciplined Army Ranger. I let go of the fractured pieces and basked in the rage that poured out of my mouth. Hello, old friend. 

          I was mortified after I exposed innocent bystanders to my dark travel companion, fury. After the incident, the contract program manager removed from the bustling jobsite, full of human interactions, to work at an isolated overnight location. I was alone on an empty island – literally and figuratively. It’s dangerous to be isolated when you’re spiraling in the dark. I took notice of the darkness inbound and deployed an emergency lifeline. I administered a tool I discovered in 2019, when I previously dined with my demons. 

          I believe human beings have the capacity to heal themselves. Nicola Tesla once said, “If you want to find the secrets of the universe, think in terms of energy, frequency and vibration.” I needed to change my vibrations and realign with a higher frequency, to bump me off this dark path. Afterall, it’s just simple math. 

          I took deliberate actions and did something I’ve never done before. I chose to perform a generous act with the intent to trigger an overwhelming positive reaction, that I’d use as a lifeline to pull me out of the dark. Let’s call this tactic, “Piggyback off the Positive.” It’s silly once you see how simple it is. What, pray tell, did I do? 

          I gave my Waffle House server a $100 tip and drove away. A selfless act to begin filling a  reservoir of positive energy. That’s it. I planted a seed of positivity. Quantum Mechanics tells me I created a new potential future timeline, one which I believed had a high probability of becoming true. It was a deliberate effort to push vibrating (positive) energy into a beautiful light-bearing soul in a desperate attempt to rebalance my turbulence. It took me two tries before this experiment was a success. The First experiment, at an Italian restaurant, failed on Christmas Eve because I anticipated immediate results.  

          The day after my 2nd experimental lifeline was deployed, I visited the same Waffle House to, hopefully, reap the benefits of the positive energy seed I planted the previous day. I had a touch of anxiety because I longed to be alone while standing defenseless outside of my comfort zone. My vibrations were so low that simple conversation was difficult, especially to a stranger. The world turned into a monochrome silent film around me. I needed this experiment to work because the walls were closing in and I was drifting out to sea.  

          This is the good part of the story. Meet my Waffle House server, Kelli. The moment she smiled when I walked through the door, I knew she was the battery source I needed to achieve my, much needed, harmonious balance. Her smile said hello, but her eyes welcomed me. 

          Kelli is a young Haitian mother whose boyfriend is a former U.S. Infantrymen soldier. I was the only customer seated on that slow, Florida-hot, December afternoon, I invited her to join me, at my crowded table. A classy, gentlemen gesture, in spite of the dark dining dignitaries who had a firm grasp around my throat. I offered a gentle hand motion, next a head tilt with a smile, and then a polite stand before she seated. I uttered, with all my might, yet as faint as a dove could whisper, “Please, have a seat.”

          Kelli was a pure soul of radiant delight. Her charisma and positive energy knocked the ice off my heart the moment I heard her infectious laugher. There it was. The illusive sparkling bronze ladder needed to climb out of this crevasse. This is the part of the story where we make bold connections across space-time. I spoke the Creole words I learned from Louise with the deliberate effort to be used as a bonding agent to ride the wave of Kelli’s positive energy. Positive begets positive. Upwards we went, together.  

          When I spoke the few Creole words I remembered from Louise, I felt, then observed Kelli’s energy shift to a higher frequency. Her positive energy now blinded me while I sat in that ice cold Waffle House. We set our masks on the table and connected through the lost art of conversation. Her positive energy and overpowering light gave me whiplash as I approached the speed of light on my ascent out of the cold. I was back. I felt as if I emerged from a heavy fog. 

          An important scientific observation. During our 45-minute, mask-less conversation, I never mentioned the dark dining party, who were quietly sitting on my flanks. I gave them no attention. They vanished the moment I connected to Kelli’s positive higher frequency. 

The air was still in that Waffle House while the sun streaked across the table, bringing color, music, and love back into clear focus. Her smile, purity, and gratitude changed my perspective back to positivity. I climbed my way out, so can you. 

          We were clusters of chance particles swimming through the Universe that collided at a lonely Waffle House one afternoon. A particle collision brought on by the flap of a butterfly’s wings and the hurricane it brought to Southwest Florida.

          Dark became light the moment I chose to focus on positive energy. Positive energy breeds positivity. After I made this mystic connection and thanked the Universe for this precious new perspective, The Havok Journal invited me to become a featured author in their veteran-theme publication. I told Havok I’m humbled for the invite. I’ve had a muzzled life with a sustained fight. But know this, I have not yet begun to write.

          I restored the positive energy balance and my writing soared. Join me to discover faint whispers of enlightenment gleaned by a shift in one's perspective. Remaining positive is a daily decision. Every single day we’re given the opportunity to grow, evolve, and break out of the mold we’ve dug for ourselves. If you need different results, if you’re stagnant, or if you’re sinking, then I suggest you do something you’ve never done before. Enjoy your life because every moment on this beautiful planet is a gift. 

Essay 07

Title: Disconnected From it All

Summary:  "She’s waiting in a crowded transit center for  a bus that will never arrive. When I saw her, it was 2am and double  digits below zero in south Minneapolis. Her eyes are vacant. Her skin  festered. And her soul felt hollow. She's a lost consciousness who's  disconnected a drifting Universe.
 

At one point in her life, she had a  boyfriend who loved her, parents who made sure she finished her  homework, and a grandma who cut the crust off her sandwiches. My heart  breaks for their loss..." 

Lesson Learned:  Scott learns empathy is born from the understanding that every  human, no matter how lost, is a reflection of the same stardust and  divine energy that shapes us all.  

Full Essay:   She’s waiting in a crowded transit center for a bus that will never arrive. When I saw her, it was 2am and double digits below zero in south Minneapolis. Her eyes are vacant. Her skin festered. And her soul is hollow. She's a lost consciousness who's disconnected from the Universe. 

       At one point in her life, she had a boyfriend who loved her, parents who made sure she finished her homework, and a grandma who cut the crust off her sandwiches. My heart breaks for their loss. 

       Moments before this picture was taken, I saw her smoking crack from a wrinkled piece of charred tinfoil. She remained laser focused on the task while a bottle is passed around the crowded transit booth. There’s no fear to conceal her drug use because there’s almost no one left to enforce the law in this dystopian nightmare city. 

       Some of you may scoff and argue I’m insensitive for posting a picture of a woman who’s settled-in at rock bottom. I agree; it is insensitive. What this woman has done to herself is unconscionable. I say to you, the first step to fix a problem is to identify the problem. The rampant, open drug use in this city is horrific.  

       I initially boxed out her face to protect her identity, but then removed it because I want you to see the emptiness in her eyes. She’s so far removed from her true, radiant, self that it’s doubtful even her own mother would recognize her. But I do. I know exactly what she is.

        On the smallest level, we’re all made of the same vibrating infinite clouds of energy that harmonize us to the planet, and to this closed-system Universe. From that perspective, we're all the same. We're all vibrating clumps of inifinte energy experiencing the Universe through a temporary meat suit. Still fits, "Made in the image of God."

        This tragic woman, who's crawling towards death, is made of the same particles I'm made of. Everything we see is made from the smallest materials of collapsed stars and evaporating black holes. Therefore, when I look at her, I see myself. I see the same star particles that traveled billions of miles to arrive on this planet; that ultimately created this miracle we call life. 

        It's a tragedy to see her beautiful life floating away; disconnected from it all.   

Essay 06

Title: Swimming in the Laws of Physics

Summary:  "...We are born into these mathematical equations and spend a   lifetime swimming in the laws of physics. We can choose to let the   current overcome us and take us away, or we can learn how to walk on   water and direct our future timeline."  

Lesson Learned:  Scott came to understand that his entire reality, every emotion,  coincidence, and act of grace, is governed by the same elegant  mathematical laws that shape the cosmos. This reveals spirituality and  physics are two languages that describe the same Divine order.    

Full Essay:  I sat on my back porch and watched the sunset last night. My house is one of three that are occupied in my new-construction neighborhood. The stillness of the moment took my breath away. The seasonal brisk air initiated the timeless migration patterns of birds seeking refuge in the warm Florida marshland. 

          I enjoy watching the birds bed down in the marsh every evening. Their chirp songs reverberated the air like pings of sonar against my hull.

          I was enjoying the birds and the still sunset when I was overcome with an immense feeling of gratitude for the unique life I’ve lived. We are who we are based on the struggles we’ve overcome. The sun already said good night and slipped below the horizon. The sky was painted orange with hints of purple. The birds tucked themselves in for the night and left the sky for the stars.

          In the far distance, I watched as a silent airplane traversed the iridescent sky. It was half-way out of my sight when I finally heard the faint sound of its roaring jet engines. Because sound is a slow-moving phenomenon, it took a while for the sound to reach me. With the jet engine sound vibrations permeating my ear drums, my mind soon began to wonder about mathematics.

          As I watched and listened to the plane fly out of frame, I recognized the Doppler Effect and the mathematical equations that describe how sound moves in waves. This equation is used to measure far off galaxies to determine their distance from Earth; called Red Shift.

          I also saw the physics of the Venturi Effect restrict the air flow and thrust the airplane forward. I gave thanks to the physicists who applied the laws of the Universe to enable powered flight and advance our species.

          I considered Einstein's Theory of Relativity as the passengers of the plane appeared to be standing still from their vantage point; yet were moving away from me at incredible speed from my unique vantage point. We are sharing the same planet; yet their speed and elevation will cause us to experience time differently.

          We are born into these mathematical equations and spend a lifetime swimming in the laws of physics. We can choose to let the current overcome us and sweep us away, or we can learn how to walk on water and direct our future timeline. It's a conscious choice. 

Essay 05

Title: The Beauty of Mathematics

Summary:   "...Ask any physicist and they’ll tell you the same. Mathematics  is the language of the Universe. It’s everywhere; and it’s nowhere. It’s  the language that describes the rules and laws that govern our reality;  and everything in it. When I look at this cute picture of my pup  snuggling closer to her papa, I see the geometry created from the  equations that describe The Golden Ratio and The Fibonacci Spiral. I see  the beauty of mathematics..."  

Lesson Learned:  In recognizing the Golden Ratio and Fibonacci patterns in  something as simple as a dog's embrace, Scott began to see that beauty  itself is a mirror of mathematics. Revealing love, art, and nature all  flow from the same universal equation.  

Full Essay:  My 7-year-old pit-bull pup, Jupiter, was super snuggly one morning after breakfast. I’m familiar with her typical post-breakfast-settle-down routine, and she wanted way more cuddles than usual. As I sat on the couch and read about motorcycle adventures on my phone, it seemed Jupiter just couldn’t snuggle close enough. As she inched her way closer, she ended up falling asleep in the most adorable position possible. I snapped the photo below. 

     Of course, it’s a heart-warming picture. But Jupiter’s ‘Newtonian Classical’ cuteness isn’t the most interesting conversation this picture elicits. I will argue it’s aesthetically pleasing because it’s mathematically pleasing.

     Ask any physicist and they’ll tell you the same. Mathematics is the language of the universe. It’s everywhere; and it’s nowhere. It’s the language that describes the rules and laws that govern our reality; and everything in it. 

     When I look at this cute picture of Jupiter snuggling closer to her daddy, I see the geometry created from the equations that describe The Golden Ratio and The Fibonacci Spiral. I see the beauty of mathematics.

     Many, if not all, of the famous Renaissance artists subtly incorporated the Golden Ratio, Sacred Geometry, Fractals, The Fibonacci Spiral, etc. into their great works of art because they knew those images pleased the eye. The ancient megalithic structures that pepper the planet are built to showcase mathematics, sacred geometry, and the stars. Those shapes and ratios are even found within the dimensions of the human body. 

     Those shapes and images speak to us on a subconscious level. The subconscious absorbs more than the self realizes. But why are those images so pleasing to us? 

     Maybe we feel drawn to those images and shapes because it subconsciously connects us to mathematics; to the hidden operating system that governs the Universe? If that’s true, then it’s logical to deduce those shapes to act as a portal into the hidden operating system that governs reality. This picture of my pup begging for morning snuggles, allows us to see ever so subtly how mathematics interacts with us to create something beautiful.

     If we, as a species, are governed by a mathematical operating system that relies on Electricity to make those equations true, then what is Electricity? 

     Ancient religions have long taught the path to the epiphany that we are all ONE. Otherwise known as, non-Duality; a belief that everything in the Universe is connected and we are all part of that endless entity. According to the laws of Quantum Mechanics, which is governed by mathematics, non-Duality holds true.

     I see these mathematical truths in the wave formations on the lake at my dad’s house. I see the laws of mathematics in the oak trees when the wind blows through the leaves. And I see these universal laws in a cute picture of my best girl on the couch begging for snuggles.

Essay 04

Title: Every Day is Sept 12, 2001

Summary:  "...In  my eyes and in my household, today is September 12th, 2001. It breaks  my heart to look outside my window and see how we’ve allowed ourselves  to be divided. It shouldn’t take the collapse of the World Trade Center  buildings to unite us. 

Brotherhood flows through our veins and together we can all live like its Sept 12th, 2001..."

Lesson Learned:  Because every day is a gift, Scott invites readers to live every  day as if followed by a tragedy. Unity, compassion, and shared humanity  should not require tragedy to awaken. When presented as a choice, the  spirit of togetherness can become our daily act of love and defiance  over darkness.   

Full Essay:   A few days ago, one of my friends asked me if I wrote anything special to commemorate the 20th anniversary of 9/11. Until that instant, I didn’t realize the 20th anniversary was upon us. I didn’t even know we were already in the month of September. I usually don’t know what day of the week we’re in. I typically only notice we’ve advanced forward to another weekend when I see an increased number of neighbors mowing their lawns. The world outside my kitchen window is monotonous. It’s clockwork. I’m disconnected from it all. To me and inside my house, every day is September 12th, 2001. We live on different planets. 

          I enlisted in the Army immediately after I graduated college in January 2001. I had no idea of the storm on the horizon. None of us did. I was nose-down in my own micro-world trying to figure out how to survive as a brand-new Army Ranger private. I arrived at 2ndRangers in August 2001 and was living in the dilapidated 2/75th Ft. Lewis Ranger barracks. 

          Living in the Ranger barracks is best described as living inside a demented big-top circus. Wild carnivores roaming the halls hunting new privates as soon as the 1st Sergeant dismissed us for the day. It was open season. The Spec-4 mafia had the ability to smell new Ranger’s fear wafting through the barracks ventilation system. Akin to a Great White shark on the hunt for its next easy meal. The rooms were barren and laden with spitters, gun oil stains, and titty magazines. Tracks from Led Zeppelin or Ozzy Osbourne played continuously and filled the hallways as the Spec-4 Mafia hazed new privates throughout the night. Brutal lessons in discipline were learned while I earned my place on the team. 

          The Ranger Indoctrination Process (RIP) was the Army’s official process to select new Rangers for the Regiment. However, brutal hazing is necessary to instill discipline and teamwork. It was a rite of passage. It was the unofficial selection process to earn a spot on the team as an Army Ranger. It’s more difficult to stay in the Rangers than it is to walk through the front door for the first time.   

          The night of September 10th was a late night. We were out in the cold damp woods of the Pacific Northwest doing Ranger stuff. I’m sure whatever we were up to, I was cold and hungry while I was doing it. I don’t remember the 10th as well as I do the 11th. 

          Since we were out so late, we had a late work-call on the 11th. I welcomed the rare opportunity to sleep in during the week. I arrived at 2nd Rangers only a few weeks earlier and didn’t feel as if I earned the right to sleep in yet. I didn’t bother with a fitted sheet or even a proper blanket for the mattress. The used, Army-issue, mattress was stained with CLP and who knows what else. I slept on the bare mattress with my trusty poncho liner (woobie). Most nights, I was too exhausted to care about the Spartan living conditions. Besides, I didn’t earn comfort yet and sleeping on a bare mattress was easier than making my bed in the morning. 

          On the morning of September 11th, one of the gun-team leaders banged on the door and calmly threw it open. The sudden blast of fluorescent overhead lights reminded me of the rude wake ups in basic training just a few weeks earlier. I thought, “Fuck…here we go again.” 

          My roommate and I jumped up and stood at parade rest next to our beds. Our hands were interlocked behind our backs. Standing tall waiting for direction; or for Specialist Breed to haze us. After all, we were both brand new Ranger privates and hazing is necessary at this juncture in our training. We were given permission to skip PT that morning, so I was clueless why he’d barge in so early. We wouldn’t dare question our team leader. That’s a mortal sin as a Ranger. Our role was to listen and act as quickly as possible.

          I jumped out of bed and stood with my bare feet on the cold floor while wearing my silky Ranger PT shorts. I watched as Specialist Breed turned on the TV. I was confused, groggy, and probably dehydrated. “Hey, wake up, we’re going to war,” he softly said.

“What?”

          He turned on TV and the towers were gone. Just a pile of dust and debris. The towers fell repeatedly from every channel. Played over and over again while we rushed to pack our deployment bags for war. It was different kind of chaos in the barracks. I had no idea what I was doing but I followed the packing list with steadfast precision. Ranger precision. 

          The Spec-4 Mafia and the great-white-shark Ranger Fire Team Leaders shifted their ravenous focus away from us new privates and accepted us into the fold. We were now part of the team. The feeling of unification wasn’t isolated to the Ranger barracks.

          All across the country, I witnessed a unification or solidification of our nation. Every insignificant difference that divided us was set aside. There were no political party lines. Color and race morphed into a collage of Red White and Blue. Compassion and brotherhood were coursing through our veins. Empathy was a universal language. We were at our best and I was proud to be an American. 

          In my eyes and in my household, today is September 12th, 2001. It breaks my heart to look outside my window and see how we’ve allowed ourselves to be divided. It shouldn’t take the collapse of the World Trade Center buildings to unite us. Brotherhood flows through our veins and together we can all live like its Sept 12th, 2001. 

Essay 03

Title: The Last Plane out of Kabul

Summary:  After 20 years of war and a nearly 6,500 days  on the ground, two veterans ask difficult questions and lead you to a  dark realization that our Government may not have our best interest in  mind.  

"...These  are daily conversations war-fighters are having among themselves.  Honest and introspective, yet in the shadows and offline. Hush secrets  that have begun to reverberate across the Panjshir Valley in  Afghanistan..."

Lesson Learned:  Scott vents a visceral purge of rage. Disgust over the state of  the World and the lack of moral fiber therein. Scott establishes a  pattern of intense positivity within a message riddled in disgust.  

Full Essay:  The last American airplane departed Kabul, Afghanistan yesterday. My second home has fallen to the Taliban and there are thousands of innocent Afghan families, American citizens, allies, and helpless service dogs who were deliberately left behind enemy lines by the United States Government. That’s a combination of words I never thought I’d ever assemble into a sentence. 

          There’s been a pit in my stomach since I saw that American C-17 taxiing down the runway with desperate Afghan men clutching to the landing gear. But that was 4-5 days ago. So much has happened since I first saw that horrific video of Afghans falling to their death. The pit in my stomach has metastasized into focused rage. Rage has solidified into words. 

          This account isn’t about me or my service to the country. However, you should know your author. I gave a decade of my life in service to this country. I gave my 30’s to Afghanistan. I wrote a blank check made payable to the country of Afghanistan for the sum of my future happiness. That check was cashed in the mountains of Afghanistan years ago. 

          As I type this, I am sitting at a beach-side tiki bar in north-east Florida. It’s a stereotypical island-themed tiki bar. Sportsball is playing on the TVs, novel swinging chairs, tin roof, and slumbering, smiling patrons eating fried food. I am sitting in the shade with my back to the wall while Jack Johnson sings about “Banana Pancakes.” I’m more comfortable with my back to the wall. 

          A gentle rain pings on the tin roof. The cadence is soothing. I should be relaxed but I’m not. My hands are vibrating with pent-up anger. The calming island atmosphere is a stark dichotomy to the whirlpool churning in my head. No one recognizes the blaring contrast but me. I’m on an island, literally and figuratively. 

          “Banana Pancakes” used to be one of my favorite songs by Jack Johnson. It reminds me of the time I lived in Hawaii and the blanket of calm that engulfed me while living in paradise. 

          This Hawaii-themed island bar is no longer my oasis. Today, even while immersed in a tropical paradise setting, I am numb to the world that exists on the other side of my laptop. The island themed bar is the only mechanism to help throttle down my anger as I carved these words onto my screen. This is a safe place for me to expunge my thoughts while remaining covert amongst the docile herd. 

          Today, at this peaceful little bar with the warm Atlantic Ocean simmering on the other side of the sand berm, I hear “Banana Pancakes” from the bar as a distraction to avert my attention from the horrors currently taking place in Afghanistan. I will not budge. I will not look away and I certainly will not forget. Will you? 

          All around me, I see people wearing American flag apparel. Little flag logos on shirts, flag hats, there’s also a dude with American Flag sunglasses talking to a girl who looks disinterested in what he has to say. I’m also disinterested in their misguided patriotism. 

          In the corner of the bar, next to the garbage can, there’s a small table with a “Reserved” placard. The chairs are folded over to denote the entire area is unavailable to customers. On the table rest 13 glasses of cold beer. Filled to the brim with the head already fizzled off. Those 13 beers are designed to honor the 13 Marines who were recently sacrificed by our government. 

          Barflies swarm the open beers the same way our government rushes to capitalize on the pointless death they manufacture. Our government will forget those Marines and their pointless sacrifice before those beers reach room temperature. Or was it 14 Marines?  The Government already lost track. 

          The level of disgust I have for our political “leaders” and their Globalist handlers is palpable. It’s emanating from my soul the same way radioactive graphite from Chernobyl melted the flesh off the firefighters. I hope my subdued, respectful, covert anger engulfs the patrons to my left and right. I hope the radiating outrage I have for our political leaders and their Globalist puppet masters is infecting those around me while they enjoy the warm ocean breeze and peaceful island music. How can silent pulsating unrest affect a room?

          We’re all connected to each other by streams of electricity and waves of energy. It’s a basic principle of Quantum Mechanics. I’m connected to a tree in Africa the same way I’m emotionally connected to my wife. It’s an unbreakable bond. I hope my concentrated anger and seething words cause that tree in Africa to shutter in fear because it knows the world is on the verge of a revolution. We’ve had enough. 

          I feel used; I feel dirty; I feel contaminated. As if I’m a blood-soaked rag that’s been discarded in a dumpster. As I sit here with the calm ocean breeze on my face, I hope the American citizens to my flanks can taste my furor as a garnishment to the fried poison they’re shoveling into their faces. I hope my quiet fury makes them uncomfortable. Be angry. Be uncomfortable. For the love of God, do something. 

          An extremely close friend of mine recently shared some intimate thoughts with me. Know your authors. Aside from his military service, he’s spent the past 15+ years working as a contractor for the U.S. Intelligence community in all the hot countries. He’s the person “they” called when “they” needed help solving a problem or needed to evacuate Americans quickly. He’s the person “they” called while Berkeley graduates were floundering in the desert. When their ideologies didn’t reconcile with the reality of warfare, they finally called him to un-fuck the disaster they created. 

          He and I have worked together, opened bases together, bled together, we’ve also cried together. Our thoughts, represent every single person I know who’s spent a minute in Afghanistan. They represent every single person who’s put on a uniform and swore an oath to defend this country against all enemies; foreign and domestic. 

          It represents every security contractor who’s been spit on by ungrateful U.S. Government employees. These government employees don’t deserve the unwavering loyalty we showered over them. Our loyalty and our service have been taken for granted.

Everyone is allowed to be fooled once. What does a major cog in the Military Industrial Complex have to say about our current events? Does he feel like the same blood-soaked clean-up rag as I do? 

          He said: I recently attended an online college course about the alarming suicide rate of veterans. I was interested in the class because men like me are killing themselves at an astounding rate. My friends are silently disappearing, and no one bats an eye over it. Especially the Government. 

          I’ve been a tool for the Intelligence-wing of the Military Industrial Complex for the past 20 years. I remained anonymous in the class because I wanted to be a fly on the wall and let people talk freely about men like me. During the class, I had the sobering realization that our government would prefer we kill ourselves than provide us treatment.

          This crossroads is difficult to bring into focus while you’re still wearing combat boots. Most only arrive at this epiphany and choose a direction after they’ve hung their boots up to dry.  

          Our government simply sees us as an expended round. Expended hot brass lying in the mud. Cared for, inventoried, then immediately forgotten once it’s been discharged. Dismissed, then stepped on by the next wave of advancing storm troopers. Naïve soldiers who still believe their lives mean something to the Government that laughs over their graves. 

          It was an epiphany that has been burned in my mind since that afternoon. After 20 years of loyal service to our country, I was heartbroken when I finally arrived at this lonely, isolated realization. I was used. My service and loyalty was squandered for money and power. The trajectory of my orbit detached from the mission after 20 years of service to the country I loved. 

          I realized we are only useful when we kill people. Killing people serves the Government’s needs. Killing people and perpetuating havoc is good for their business. We were force-fed patriotism and national pride the same way unsuspecting men from Germany thought they were honorably serving their country in the 1940s.  

          Human beings are easily manipulated. PhD psychologists have long discovered a roadmap to create subservient loyal “patriots” who mindlessly obey orders. Your television and social media accounts are the propaganda arms of this diabolical monster. Critical thinking has evaporated, and we’ve become a nation of emotionally driven slaves who blindly follow a government that does not have your best interest in mind. 

          My disconnect became more apparent when I realized I killed people for no reason. As I’ve grown older and wiser, I’ve realized that all life is precious. We were manipulated to extinguish human life without regard. We didn’t kill for liberty. We didn’t kill for freedom. I now realized that we killed men who I’ve grown to respect. Men who would have shared a bonfire with me during a lonely deployment in the mountains. These men stood up to the most powerful military that’s ever existed while fighting barefoot and starving. That’s admirable. They’ve earned my respect. Do you know many Americans who will sacrifice comfort for freedom? Are those 15 beers room temperature yet? Has the government already prepared that table for the next round of memorial beers?

          These are daily conversations warfighters are having among themselves. Honest and introspective, yet in the shadows and offline. Hush secrets that have begun to reverberate across the Panjshir Valley in Afghanistan. 

          My friend was having drinks with his father several months before he died, his dad opened up about his service in Vietnam for the first time ever. He stated his only regret about killing NVA (North Vietnamese Army) was he probably had more in common with them than his fellow Americans. 

          American citizens were spitting in the faces of Vietnam vets as they returned home. Patriots wearing two different uniforms bled together in the jungles of Vietnam while dirty politicians pit us against each other. Most of the Vietnam vets I know would rather volunteer to stay in Vietnam then return home and be called a “baby killer.”  

          That’s a profound realization coming from a seasoned Vietnam Veteran. It’s significant. Those powerful words and this epiphany can act as an anchor that will halt the Military Industrial Complex in its tracks. We’re more alike than we are different. So, why are we killing each other? Check the TV to see who to hate this week.   

          I'd trade all the Seattle skinny-jeans ‘revolutionaries’ who trample the Bill of Rights and our Constitution for a handful of fighters from Africa and Afghanistan any day. Those are men I respect. The Arabs, Northern Alliance Afghans, Yemenis, and North Africans…those are the men who I now look up to. Determining who to respect isn’t identified by a line on a map. Respect is earned through action. I respect the enemy that the TV told me to fear while American citizens are figuratively spitting in my face. I’ve come home to a country I no longer recognize. 

          They fight; they sacrifice; they do it for their family; they do it for their friends and their way of life. I'm envious of men who had the chance to fight and die for what they believed in. They died for freedom. Unfortunately, I fell prey to a false ideology. I was a victim of the television. A casualty of the river of propaganda. I was easily manipulated through our love of one another – we all are. 

          Patriotism is a useful tool that serves the war machine well. 

          I believed the sacrifices and the horrors we endured would ultimately lead to “freedom, liberty, and justice for all.” I woke up one day and realized a hard truth. We didn't secure liberty or freedom for the oppressed. I was a hapless pawn for the Military Industrial Complex. I helped line the pockets of evil people whose primary goals are the accumulation of money and power.

          The television told me I was righteous. The internet was new when I first enlisted but it, too, told me I was doing the right thing. I believed it. I raised my right hand and unknowingly swore an oath to serve the Globalists and corrupt politicians. Patriotism was a facade. 

          Poor blacks, poor whites, poor Mexicans, refugees, slaves etc, have all begun to awaken. Your neighbor is not your enemy. We’re all living on this planet together. You are my brothers and sisters. We’re all family. 

          Collectively, we’ve begun to realize why the U.S. Government killed Malcolm X after he came home from Africa. We’ve realized what Ho chi Minh did to protect his home, his people, and his way of life. Together, we’ve learned that we entered the Vietnam war over a lie perpetuated by the Television and it’s propaganda distributors, etc. The best kind of slaves are the ones who don’t know they’re slaves.

          We yearn for a leader to break our chains of hidden slavery and unite us. We yearn for a leader to unmask the demons who manipulate our daily lives and poison our food. We yearn for a leader to save our species from the Globalists who perpetuate endless war. I ask, why do we need a leader? 

          It starts with you - the individual. Set the standard for others to follow. Respect each other. Lead by example. We don’t need a leader to guide us to freedom. We need to break our chains of slavery and exercise kindness towards one another. 

          The enemy armed the Taliban to the teeth on purpose. It’s easy to label our politicians as incompetent. But was it really incompetence? The only cache of weapons the DoD destroyed after the last plane departed Afghanistan was co-located with our allies in the Northern Alliance. So, I ask again, who’s your enemy? 

          An $85 billion investment to perpetuate an endless war. I’m not mad at the Taliban. You don’t get mad at a vicious dog for biting the neighbor. You get mad at the handlers or the owners of that vicious dog. A dog is just doing what a dog does. The Taliban are doing just what the Taliban do. 

          All eyes are focused on the rabid dog. We should be focusing on the corrupt politicians and puppet masters who facilitated the upcoming bloodshed. We are not in this situation by accident. Corrupt politicians, Globalists, and greed put us where we are today. Where will it end? Are those 16 beers still on the table or have we already forgotten about them? What was that number again?

          Brace yourself over the next several days because you will see images of pure evil coming out of Afghanistan. You’ll see bloodshed and hear stories of unfathomable brutality. It’s all on purpose. It’s by design. You’ll hear the war trumpets call our sons and daughters to action under the guise of protecting freedom. It’s not your duty to serve the Globalists masquerading as patriots.

          I am the eternal optimist. Something good must come of this. It has to. The world must see the corruption and the dirty politics that caused this preventable disaster. I see right through it as if I’m looking in a window. 

          Like the Afghans, North Africans, Vietnamese, and the Yemini, if you’re not prepared to die for freedom then you don’t deserve it. 

          Every single person I know is disgusted with the corruption, lies, and manipulation of these self-serving politicians. I propose we give our politicians to the Taliban. Strip them of their dignity and feed them to the wolves they just armed. 

          It’s time to stand up. It’s time to turn off your TV. It’s time to have some respect for yourself and those around you. It’s time to thrive and set the standard for others to follow. If America falls then the world will fall. 

Essay 02

Title: Written in Taliban - 2021

Summary: Written by Scott Chapman and Matthew Griffin. The Cipher Brief is a digital security-based conversation platform that connects the private  sector with the world`s leading security experts. The title is a subtle way to foreshadow how the article mocks the  American Officers for never understanding the war or the Taliban. 

Lesson Learned:  A showcase of the rage kept cooped up that's waiting to escape. A  cathartic, provocation piece that channels disgust through a Taliban  persona to unmask imperial hubris, expose social complacency, and  catalyze action for stranded allies. Scott is an author who uses emotion  as his medium for writing; rage was the only color on his pallet that  day.  

Full Essay: "The first time I saw you was in the Khyber Pass. You came with your technology, elite fighters fueled by revenge, and the hubris to believe you could disprove history.

This was a war that you didn’t have the stomach to fight. But I’m glad you tried.

          We bled you the same way we bled the Soviets in our Holy Land. We bled you the same way the Vietnamese bled you in their homeland. We did it patiently and deliberately.

Patience. Something Westerners never learn.

          Our history is millennial. We don’t yearn for an early victory when the Infidel ravages our Holy Land. Our victory is celebrated decades from now. We’ve endured, then ravaged every standing military that crossed our borders. Why? How? We’re patient.

          In 30 days, we’ll be stronger, richer, and have control over precious natural resources that you need for your pathetic life dictated by comfort. We will have women, riches, land, guns, and ownership of one of the greatest chapters in military history.

You lose.

          If you want to try again, we welcome the challenge. You will fail regardless of how much money you burn in our deserts. For pity, here is free advice that may contribute to your future success; should you ever decide to invade again.

          You recruit your warriors and supporters from a drug addicted, distracted, disillusioned population that’s obsessed with comfort and entertainment. A population obsessed with altering their mundane reality. Alcohol, marijuana, pills, and our new favorite — Tide Pods. Every time your doctors prescribe opiate painkillers, you line our coffers with gold. Your population’s thirst for our pristine heroin has never been more lucrative for our warrior tribes.  We will keep feeding you poison for as long as you keep your hands out.

          If your population wasn’t so spineless, undisciplined, and self-loathing, then you might be able to compile a raiding party with enough tenacity to outthink ours. Our fighters are born into war. Raised in it.  It’s a way of life that evades your “first world” nations. They live a life of such immense misery and pain that they’re willing to fight barefoot in the snow for the opportunity to martyr themselves. They yearn for the opportunity to die. When they do have the blessed opportunity to sacrifice themselves, they sit above Mohammed at the right hand of God. Blessed in Allah for eternity

          What honors do your fighters receive? Their empty sacrifice is remembered in the form of a “three-day weekend.” The majority of your population uses this sacred time to get drunk and grow more fat as a way to celebrate their fallen warriors. Sadly, we pay tribute to their death more honorably.

          The colored pieces of cloth you pin on their chests are similar to the jewelry worn by our women. What good are accolades and vanity if you don’t have the stomach to endure a fight?   e don’t offer the burden of healthcare to our fighters as they often want to die for Allah.  our fighters fight to live.  heir inability to reconcile the inevitable outcome of our patience leads them to kill themselves. Your medications, counselors and non-profits will never undo the pain and suffering you’ve forced them to endure. It will never remove the pain we’ve caused your broken nation. You are your own worst enemy.

          We will give your fighters credit. Some are creative, tenacious, and fierce. They outgun us in every way possible. But again, we simply wait them out. Allah is patient.  You cycle them through our Holy Lands every 3 to 12 months for their combat rotations. After their tour is complete, they return to the comfort of their warm beds and endless entertainment. If you left them here, in our Holy Land, with no way out but to win, then you might of have had a chance of success. The longer you poisoned our Holy Land with your presence, your “rules of engagement” only strengthened our position. There is only one rule in war – that is to win.

          Your commanders made you fight with your hands tied behind your back. Your rules also confused our fighters too. “We’re clearly the enemy; why are they letting us go?” Thank you for your compassion as it allowed our fighters to kill more Infidels. We began to feel as if your commanders were on our side. We’re thankful your most vicious dogs were never allowed off their leash.

          Your showcase Generals make us laugh. You spend millions of dollars flying them around our country, inventing new ways to win while ignoring the guidance of our most capable foes. Your Generals make decisions to minimize risk to their fragile reputation with the ultimate goal of securing a lucrative retirement–jobs with suppliers that fuel your losing force. A self-serving circle that’s built on the backs of your youngest and most naive fighters.

          Your retired Generals “earn” tens of thousands of dollars talking to your political, industrial, and financial leaders about “teams, winning, and discipline.” It’s a mockery of the war they refused to fight. It’s a mockery of the Infidel warriors who died in our lands. We urge you to continue following their vacuous personalities so we can further watch your once great nation collapse.

          Your statesman and elected officials are spineless, narcissistic, and more cowardly than your Generals. They crave power over you above all else. They come to our country, hide behind blast walls, and only heed the word of the indigenous leader they put in power. I believe your soldiers call this a “self-licking ice cream cone.”

          They’ve burned billions of dollars in a wasted effort to bring clean water, electricity, business, education, agriculture, and exports to a region that didn’t ask for it.  You should have saved yourself the effort and simply given the money directly to us.  Don’t worry; your diplomatic friends gave us plenty of your American tax dollars. If you want to give it another shot with your “soft power,” send those with real experience, not fancy degrees and silver tongues.

          Over the next few months, we will make the world understand that you failed worse than any fighting force that’s ever invaded our lands. Today we celebrate victory.

As you evacuate your embassy, our fighters will be standing in the shade. Our RPG marksmen will be patient. We thank you for the parting gifts. You’ll find surface-to-air missiles staged in the back of Toyota pickup trucks that you purchased for us. We saw what Extortion 17 did to your nation and the morale of your fighting force. Do your citizens even remember that victory? We’ll be repeating and improving upon our victory while your citizens and sympathizers evacuate in disgrace. Every one of your foes around the world will know exactly how to break you. You are welcome to fly your empty drones, target our cell phones, and send your spies. But they, too, will ultimately fail. We’ll use their failures to show the world that you’re not all-powerful. You’re a false front–an empty shell. You lie, cheat, steal, and are easily defeated because you lack the spine to fight. This is your history now. We’re grateful Allah gave us the opportunity to show the world how to defeat the Infidels.

We look forward to seeing you again across the battlefield.

Praise be to God,

The Taliban"

 ***Authors’ Note***

          If you’ve read this far. Thank you. I’ve spent the past week trying to find a way to communicate this to the American people in a manner that would cause anger, rage,  action, and understanding. Writing in the voice of a Taliban felt right.

          If this made you angry, cry, or contemplative–then our  goal is achieved. Our hope is that it inspires you to take action with your elected officials. They’ve been repeating the same failing playbook since World War II with your sons, daughters, and tax dollars. If you want this to keep happening, do nothing. If you don’t, then do something. If we all do a little, together we do a lot. 

Book 01 

Title: Ride Without A Destination

Summary:  Join me for a ride you'll never forget. I give you a sneak peak into the  world of the forgotten warfighters and the hidden struggles we face when  returning home to a country we cease to recognize. 

Follow my journey while I sail through rough seas; then ignite the beacon for others to find safe passage out of the storm.

Lesson Learned:  This is where Scott first discovers the self-healing power of  writing into a mirror. Noted as Scott's "origin story," this emergency  brake in life taught Scott the benefits of stepping outside recycled  patterns of destruction.  

Full Essay:  See the RWAD tab on this website to read & purchase my origin story. 

Book 00 - Singularity 

Title: Super GSM Info

Summary: Everything in the Universe operates on predictable cycles of rise and fall. 

A complex message of the monster on the horizon.Join me to see the connection from the star that warms our planet; to a era of coming cold that will be defeated. "Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light." - Thomas 

Lesson Learned:  Link to close the loop between essays 1-33. A culmination of a 4-year study on the sun's magnetic fields and the cycle of cataclysm on an undesired timeline.  

Origin: Visit the effect to cause action. Link to my first website. HERE