In Georgia I entered a Chick-fil-A drive-thru line of forty cars.
I turned off my engine. I prepared to wait the way my ancestors waited out a siege.
Six minutes later I was holding chicken.
I do not know what happened to the other thirty-nine cars. The line moved like water that had somewhere to be.
A young woman walked between the cars taking orders on a small tablet, on foot, in the sun, smiling like the sun was her idea.
I said thank you.
She said, "My pleasure."
I did not think about it then. I should have.
At the window I thanked the young man for the food.
"My pleasure."
I thanked him for the sauce.
"My pleasure."
I thanked him for thanking me—
"My pleasure."
I want to be clear about what was happening.
This was a duel.
In Japan I trained in courtesy for forty years. Bowing angles. Seasonal greetings. The correct depth of apology for seventeen distinct situations.
I was a white belt in that drive-thru.
I escalated. I used my most formal English. I thanked him on behalf of my entire family line.
He said, "My pleasure," and gave me extra sauce.
Extra sauce. Unprovoked. A counterattack.
I returned the next day to reclaim my honor.
It was Sunday. The restaurant was closed.
All of them were closed. In the entire country. They close every Sunday, and they have closed every Sunday since the beginning, because the founder made a promise, and the promise did not expire when he did.
I stood in the empty parking lot and understood I had lost twice.
Once to a teenager with sauce.
Once to a man I will never meet, who kept his word so long it became a building.
In my country we say a samurai's word is his life.
I had never seen a restaurant say it back.
I returned Monday. I ordered. And this time I said it first, before she could.
"My pleasure."
She smiled and said, "It sure is."
America, I surrender.
It was my pleasure.
Hello Mrs. Owens,
You told millions of people that Tyler Robinson "wasn't even there." That you felt "confident stating that Tyler Robinson did not kill murder Charlie Kirk."
He was on camera. Prone on the Losi rooftop at 12:22. Shot at 12:23:28. DNA on the screwdriver at 30 quintillion to one. DNA on the rifle at 1.7 octillion to one. He told his family what he did. His parents helped him surrender. He texted his roommate: "I am, I'm sorry." He engraved "Hey Fascist! Catch!" on the ammunition a month before he used it.
You said police "didn't even question" Lance Twiggs. He was interviewed twice. FBI the morning after. Joint state-federal team seven months later. His own attorney. Voluntary phone surrender. You laughed when you said it.
You told Shawn Ryan a shaped charge killed Charlie. That PETN was in his microphone. The medical examiner says gunshot wound. Bullet fragments were recovered from his body. A .30-06 Mauser with Robinson's DNA was found in the woods. Neither side — not prosecution, not defense — has mentioned explosives. Not once in four days.
You said the shot came from below. The Losi building is above the amphitheater.
You called Erika Kirk a "clinical psychopath" to an audience of millions. You said the assassination was "an occult ritual." You said Charlie was "sitting in a pentagram." You told people Israel killed him because he refused Netanyahu.
You made over a hundred episodes. You built a franchise on a dead man's name.
And the hardest fact of all: Tyler Robinson's own defense lawyers — the people whose entire career is on the line to get him acquitted — have refused to make a single one of your arguments. Not one. They're challenging DNA methodology. They are doing their jobs. You were doing something else entirely.
Charlie Kirk changed my life. He platformed my work when nobody knew who I was. He had my back when I was doxxed. I was the ten-thousandth most important person in his world and I will never be able to repay him.
So I did what I know how to do. I read every transcript. I watched every hour of testimony. I cataloged your claims and I held them up against what was said under oath.
Every single one failed.
I don't know why you did this. I'm not going to speculate on your motives, because that would make me exactly the kind of analyst I've spent my career refusing to be. But I know what you did. You told people confident lies about a dead man's murder, and millions of them believed you, and some of them turned that belief into threats against his widow.
The trial continues. And every day of sworn testimony is another day your words get tested against reality... under oath, on the record, where it counts.
I'll be here for all of it... because just as Charlie defended me, I will do what little I can to defend his legacy and @TPUSA and @MrsErikaKirk from evil.
Look, if you’ve been listening to people who told you Tyler Robinson did not shoot Charlie, it’s not too late to stop. A lot of people get caught up in dumb conspiracies sometimes. But you do not have to continue down this road just because you’ve followed it for awhile.
The greater part of wisdom is acknowledging real evidence now and learning from the experience not to listen to people who exploited your grief over Charlie to feed you slop and make money off you.
You CAN stop and turn around. You can stop participating in the evil attacks on Charlie’s widow today.
The demon is you, Candace, or is in you.
The demon is Tyler Robinson, or was in him.
The demon is not Charlie’s wife.
The demon is not Charlie’s closest friends.
The demon is not the organization Charlie bled to build and grow.
The demon is not Israel, who has nothing to do with any of this, or the Federal Government who had nothing to do with this, or the Egyptians or the French or any of the other people and institutions you have slandered for money and fame.
Your narcissism and sociopathy and self-interest and resentment and grief have all commingled into something truly sinister. What you have become and what you have done can only be answered in the blood of the very Christ Jesus you blaspheme for cheap points and clicks.
You are playing games with your soul, Candace, and with people’s lives.
It is a game you lose automatically just by playing.
You sit on top of the world of fame, but you are falling into the pit of hell itself.
You’re leading others there, too, and being cheered on by those already lost.
God have mercy on your soul.