Are you fucking kidding me?! - JoJoFromJerz
“Kill them all.” That was the order, plain, deliberate, and damnable, issued by the booze and bronzer brined Secretary of War Crimes, Pete Hegseth, as if American power were his personal cudgel and human life his disposable currency. The directive slithered down the chain of command like toxic runoff, moving through people who knew better, people trained specifically to identify unlawful orders, people who could see clearly what the drone feed had already revealed in stark, pitiless detail. Two men. Still alive. Clinging to what remained of a shattered vessel in Caribbean waters. Not threats. Not combatants. Not insurgents or pirates or militants emerging from the fog of war. Just two human beings trying to keep their grip on existence in the aftermath of a United States missile strike. And that alone should have been the line, the moment every person in that operation reached back to their training, to their conscience, to the most basic principles of lawful command, and said: No. These men are hors de combat. They cannot fight. They cannot flee. They cannot harm us. But this administration reveres the rule-shredders, because it was born from a twice-impeached, thirty-four-times-convicted felon who tried to choke democracy into submission on his way out the door, a man found liable for business fraud and sexual abuse, a man who brags about grabbing women as if their bodies were handrails, a professional grifter steeped in the theology of self-exemption, convinced that laws were crafted only for the unlucky, the unpowerful, and the unprotected. Because the fish rots from the head down. And so instead of restraint, they followed the command. Instead of refusing an unlawful order, the explicit duty etched into the Uniform Code of Military Justice, they passed it along. They complied. They aimed again. They fired again. And two men who posed no threat whatsoever were erased from the world in a second detonation. Let me say this plainly: If any other country had done this, we would call it what it is, a war crime. Because that is exactly what it was. I don’t need to know those men to care. I don’t need to see their childhood homes or learn their histories or confirm their innocence. I don’t need to admire them or pretend their lives were anything more or less than what the drone feed showed: two figures gripping splinters of a ruined vessel, two small, stubborn pulses of life flickering against a black sea. Not threats. Not combatants. Just two human beings still breathing, and therefore, in Pete Hegseth’s warped universe, eligible for execution for the crime of surviving. I don’t need to break bread with a drowning man to know he deserves a hand, not a missile. And let me add this, because the disinformation machine is already rolling like a tanker down a hill with no brakes. I have seen no evidence whatsoever that these men were drug traffickers. None. Not a scrap. Not a whisper. Not a single verifiable fact that supports the narrative Hegseth and this administration keep vomiting onto social media to justify the unjustifiable. And even if they were smugglers, even if they had been hauling cocaine clear across the hemisphere, explain to me how that squares with Donald Trump promising to pardon a man who brought five hundred tons of drugs into this country. Five hundred tons. The audacity of pretending to wage some righteous maritime crusade against so-called narco-terrorists while vowing clemency for an industrial scale trafficker isn’t hypocrisy; it is moral rot lacquered to look like law and order. It is the ethical equivalent of screaming “fire” while holding the goddamn match. But the truth still stands. Clinging to the wreckage of a sinking boat isn’t a capital crime. It never has been. What is immoral, illegal, and utterly indefensible is the act of turning that desperation into a death sentence, the act of executing men whose only offense was refusing to die quickly enough. Under the Hague Conventions. Under the Geneva Conventions. Under customary international law. Under the UCMJ. Under basic human decency. The rule is ancient and clear: When a combatant is hors de combat, you do not attack him. Period. Full stop. No exceptions for mood swings, political cosplay, or angling for Fox hits. But the Secretary of War Crimes wasn’t interested in laws. He was intoxicated by spectacle, a lacquered, spotlight-thirsty showman chasing the narcotic rush of domination. He wasn’t looking for justice; he was auditioning for mythology, curating a body count for an audience that mistakes savagery for strength and cruelty for courage. And the people under him, people who knew better, obeyed. Every single person who relayed that order, confirmed it, approved it, or carried it out is implicated in the same crime. You don’t get moral immunity because someone outranks you. “I was just following orders” is not a shield; it is a confession. This is personal for me, not abstract, not theoretical, because my father spent fifty years working for the Department of Defense, five decades of quiet mastery and moral seriousness in a place that once held itself to standards higher than ego or theatrics. I grew up revering those halls, revering the engineers and officers and strategists who carried their oaths like ballast, who understood that American power was never meant to be a stage prop for the insecure or the unhinged. To see that same institution now twisted into a backdrop for a weekend-warrior demagogue, a man who used to lurk around diners with a camera crew and now plays Mussolini for the ring light, is nauseating. It is a desecration. It is an insult to everyone who ever treated that work like service instead of spectacle. And they know it now. You can feel it in the way they’ve started twitching, hedging, recalibrating. What they assumed would vanish into the fog of classified operations has instead begun to bleed into daylight, and daylight is their natural predator. They thought they could blast two men into the sea and walk away clean, leave nothing but saltwater and silence behind, and suddenly people are watching, people are talking, people are connecting the dots faster than they can bury them. And that panic is beginning to show. Because once they realized the eyes were on them, once the whispers began to outrun their spin, they abruptly changed tactics. Suddenly survivors weren’t being executed; they were being repatriated with no arrests, no charges, no paperwork, no explanation. If these men were such monstrous narco-terrorists, why were they being quietly ferried home like misdelivered packages instead of prosecuted? Because this was never about justice. It was about performance, optics, cruelty polished for the camera. And this is why six members of Congress, veterans of our military and intelligence agencies, were compelled to release that stark video reminding service members that their oath is to the Constitution, not to Donald Trump or Pete Hegseth, that they are required by law and conscience to disobey unlawful orders, that loyalty to a man is not loyalty to a nation. And this is why Trump and Hegseth erupted, why they spat out threats of hanging and treason and vengeance. Because they were being called out for what they were already doing, and for what they wanted the freedom to keep doing without scrutiny. Both the Republican controlled House and the Republican controlled Senate have launched investigations into Secretary of War Crimes Hegseth. I don’t expect Republican courage. Please. That bar is so far below ground it’s sharing real estate with fossil fuel deposits. But I do expect the occasional involuntary spasm of self-preservation slathered in red, white, and blue drag. And if these cowards want even a shot at reclaiming the constitutional duty they traded for Trump-branded belly rubs, they can start by cracking open the dank storage closet where they abandoned their balls, scraping them off whatever rodent gnawed on them last, slapping them on the desk, and praying that somewhere inside that shriveled mess there’s a single surviving neuron capable of recognizing integrity. Because this is how democracies decay from the inside. This is how the rot burrows into the foundation. This is what authoritarianism looks like in its larval stage, smoke starting to curl under the locked door while the most comfortable people in the room pretend they don’t smell burning. And to the MAGA cultists telling me to cry harder, to the remedial civics dropouts crowing that this is what they voted for, bless their hollowed out hearts, here’s a truth they’ll understand about as well as they understand a toothbrush or a thesaurus: Authoritarian cruelty always starts with “them,” the distant, the foreign, the nameless, the people whose lives don’t look like ours. It always starts with the disposable. It never ends there. It always comes home. And when it does, it never bothers to ask how you voted. And if we’re lucky, accountability will arrive before they feel bold enough to turn this machinery of violence inward, before they decide that Americans can be erased in the name of “order” just as easily as men in distant waters. But whether it comes early or late, it’s coming. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But it’s coming all the same. War crimes don’t evaporate. Murder doesn’t vanish. Truth doesn’t stay buried, not even under bronzer and bluster. And when the hammer of justice finally falls, every person who carried out that order, relayed it, confirmed it, defended it, or stayed silent for a promotion or proximity to power will face the reckoning they earned. And I won’t care about their pleas for mercy, not when they showed none to the two men clinging to the last pieces of their shattered world. They weren’t just denied compassion; they were denied the most basic possibility of justice, a chance to stand before the law instead of being erased without a word. And when the reckoning circles back to the people who stole that from them, the scales won’t be cruel. They’ll simply, finally, be level.  |
