You Can’t Save the Children While Worshipping the Monster

They screamed about saving children. Now they'll watch the fire consume the truth, and cheer.

There was a time, brief, deluded, when I believed they might stop. That eventually, even the most saturated, blood-humming Red Hat would stagger from the ledge, stare down into the pit they’d clawed open with both hands and ask, with trembling clarity,

“What have I become?”

That moment never came, because that moment was never possible. The line, the sacred, final threshold I once imagined no human being would willingly step across, never existed. Not for them.

I gave them grace in 2016. Foolish, soft-hearted grace. I rationalized their madness: They wanted to rupture the machine, rattle the halls of power, strike back at the condescending elite. It was vengeance disguised as populism, and I let myself believe it was misdirection, not malice. I watched them bloat themselves on conspiracy and bile at Thanksgiving, fork in one hand, Facebook lies in the other. Still, I stayed. Through the PizzaGate psychosis. Through the needle-denying plague worship. Through the Wayfair-was-selling-children fantasia. I thought, pathetically, that proximity might dull the fever. That love might outlast the rot.

I was wrong.

When 2020 arrived, dragging its noose with gallows erected on the Capitol lawn. Zip ties clenched in fists. Pickup trucks circling polling stations like carrion birds. Tactical gear strapped over bellies full of rage. I watched them pledge allegiance to a man who tried to end democracy with a Tweet and a tantrum. A man who tear-gassed priests for a photo-op, floated bleach injections while morgues overflowed, mocked the dead and praised the killers. A man who did not stumble into horror, he demanded it.

Still, I waited. Like a goddamned fool. I waited for the moral line to matter.

In 2024 it was no longer a question of ignorance. No longer the luxury of plausible deniability. He was now a convicted felon. A rapist. A traitor. A man whose resume was an open wound across the Constitution. He wasn’t hiding. He was crowing. He promised gulags for his enemies, pardons for the foot soldiers of fascism, offshore torture chambers for American citizens, and they roared with joy. Not in spite of the depravity, but because of it.

That was the moment the foundation cracked beneath me.

Election night wasn’t a tally. It was a funeral. Quiet. Private. Brutal. It was the night I buried whatever remained of shared reality. The night I understood the rupture was permanent. We were not the same people. Possibly we never were.

I haven’t left yet. Not physically. I’m still here, still farming, still writing checks to a government that would prefer my silence. But the air has gone stale. The ground brittle. The bags are slowly being packed. No matter how much I love the dirt I was born on, I cannot keep living among those who cheer for its decay.

As Epstein’s shadow lengthens, leaking the very thing they once claimed to crave, I’m telling you, if you are still holding on, this should be your final test. This should be the moment you realize these are not people coming back. These are not people who can be saved, these are people who can hurt you, who will hurt you if they are given the chance. They spent years begging for the list. Frothing about child sex rings, secret cabals, global pedophile networks. It was their catechism. Their holy crusade. Wait until the names drop, they warned. Then you’ll see. The entire Red Hat religion was built on a single grievance. The truth was being hidden. That somewhere in the basement of the FBI, behind the redactions and sealed indictments, behind the Deep State’s iron curtain, there were deep secrets. A list of monsters, and once unearthed, it would burn Hollywood to the ground. It would vindicate every Q drop, every Facebook screed, every basement podcast. That was the prophecy.

Now they’ve got their hands on the reins, Congress, the courts, the FBI, the DOJ. Their orange messiah is oozing back in the Oval. The locks protecting the secrets are broken. The doors are open, and when the light cracks through, what does their messiah do?

He slams the vault shut.

He calls it fake. He calls it rigged. He mocks the victims. He buries the truth beneath bluster and threats, because he knows what’s in those files. He knows who’s on that list.

So do they.

Names haven’t poured out, not because they don’t exist, but because the man they worship is damming the flood.

Because the names are too familiar.

Too close to home.

Too close to him.

Names they know.

Names they love.

Suddenly, the slogans stop. The posts vanish. The fury dries up.
The silence is no longer righteous.
It’s rotting.

Now they are running away from the thing they have spent over a decade saying they wanted.

Because they don't want the reality that the monsters aren’t cloaked in Hollywood gowns or coastal liberalism. They don’t want the reality that the monster is golfing at Mar-a-Lago. Speaking at CPAC. The monster wore their jersey, and now they need to look away.

Suddenly the memes vanish. The “save the children” banners go quiet. The righteous hysteria curdles into muttering denial. Or worse: Calculated, venomous deflection. They don’t care that their moral North Star now burns with Trump’s name etched into its core. They care that it makes them look bad. Their concern was never the victims. It was always the theater.

It was never about justice. Never about children. It was about permission. Permission to hate. To purge. To dominate. The outrage was a costume. The moral posturing a smokescreen. They never sought the truth. They sought a weapon.

Epstein doesn’t just haunt them. He unmasks them.

The list they once claimed would purify their movement now threatens to expose its soul, and they can’t bear it.

Epstein doesn’t fracture their mythology. He completes it.

He exposes what was always true:
That the moral rot wasn’t buried. It was beating at the center.
That the cover-up wasn’t Deep State sabotage. It was self-preservation.
That the crusade was never about justice. It was camouflage.

They were never trying to protect children.
They were trying to protect a fantasy.
Now that fantasy is collapsing, because the monster they hunted was never hiding in Hollywood or lurking in pizza parlors.

He was right there, in a red tie, promising revenge.

That’s the revelation:
The entire moral scaffolding of MAGA wasn’t betrayed.
It was a lie from the beginning.

This is who they are.

They didn’t seek the truth.
They sought a weapon.

They had no line when he bragged about sexual assault.

No line when he was found liable for rape.

No line when he hoarded nuclear secrets beside a toilet.

No line when he extorted Ukraine.

No line when he called the free press the enemy.

No line when he ripped infants from their mothers and stuffed them in cages.

No line when he praised Nazis.

No line when he pardoned war criminals.

No line when he called for blood.

No line when he attempted to overthrow democracy.

No line when he attacked judges.

No line when he attacked judges’ daughters.

They have no moral line. It does not exist.

They saw it all. Frame by frame. Quote by quote. Crime by crime.

They came back for more.

Not despite the barbarity, but because of it.

They never wanted a leader. They wanted a license.

Trump wasn’t the disease, Trump wasn't their answer. Trump was the permission slip.

Now, as the slow, sour light of Epstein-Gate spreads, they’re revealed for what they are: Not patriots, not parents, not protectors. Just husks. Just noise. Just empty vessels, eager to be filled with whatever poison their idol provides next.

They are not confused. They are not brainwashed. They are willing.

Willing to march into fascism.

Willing to applaud political arrests.

Willing to welcome the camps.

Willing to smile through rape, treason, extermination, so long as it’s their enemies who burn.

That is what makes them dangerous. Not the volume of their rage. Not the scale of their ignorance. Their bottomlessness. There is no crime too vile. No cruelty too stark. No betrayal too blatant. A person with no line is not a fellow citizen. A person with no morals is not your brother. A person with no moral code is a blade without a sheath. They are dry kindling praying for fire.

This isn’t politics. It’s pathology.

It’s not a disagreement about governance. It’s a death cult.

No policy. Only punishment.

No ideals. Only appetite.

No future. Only fire.

If you’re still clutching the hope that someone caught in this spiral might one day blink awake, see the blood on their hands, the ash in their teeth, I’m afraid you’re already standing too close to the pyre. Their delusion radiates heat. Their loyalty sparks kindling, and when the fire comes, it won’t stop to ask what you believed. Only whether you stayed.

Cut them off.
Not in rage.
Not in vengeance.
In recognition.

Because a person without a moral line will not pause when the screaming starts, and a person without a moral compass does not lose their way. They wait, quietly, hungrily, for someone to point them toward the fire.

They will not pause. They will not doubt.

When the arrests begin, they’ll call it cleansing.

When elections disappear, they’ll call it security.

When the camps open, they will not think twice. They will look away, or worse, they will volunteer.

The Epstein list is not just a scandal. It’s a mirror.

They turned from it, not because they didn’t recognize the reflection,

But because for the first time, they did.

There is no moral line left to cross.

Because there is no line at all, and there never was.

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