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Texas just told the feds and city slickers alike to keep their hands — and their gift cards — off our firearms, because liberty doesn’t come with a store credit receipt.

Anthony Tata brings a Bronze Star in one hand and a social media rap sheet in the other, stepping into the Pentagon like a man who’s equally ready to brief Congress or torch it on cable news.

While the world argued over tanks and F-16s, the CIA quietly built a deniable war machine in the Ukrainian shadows—armed to the teeth, fluent in covert chaos, and operating under a silence so deep Congress could barely hear its own heartbeat.

Trump didn’t start sending missiles because he had a change of heart—he did it because getting outmaneuvered by Putin and boxed in by Europe made doing nothing look worse than pulling the trigger.

The Green Berets are back in Taiwan—not for a handshake and a photo op, but to train warriors on China’s doorstep for the kind of fight no one wants to talk about, but everyone knows could come.

In a move that smells more like a bureaucratic slap on the wrist than true accountability, the Secret Service sidelined six agents after a would-be assassin nearly turned Butler, Pennsylvania into Dealey Plaza 2.0.

Sean Duffy running NASA is like handing the keys to a spacecraft over to your cable news commentator—entertaining, sure, but maybe not the guy you want plotting a course to Mars. To be fair, it’s supposed to be a temporary gig. Let’s see who comes next.

The DOJ wants you to believe Epstein ran a global sex ring without clients, kept no records, and killed himself off-camera—because pretending none of it ever happened is easier than naming names.

On his first mission Scott Ruskan dropped into a biblical flood with nothing but a harness, grit, and the kind of calm resolve that makes you believe some men were born to drag others out of hell.

One man’s mad dash onto the Milan runway did more than end up in a jet propelled horror show—it exposed a security system flimsier than a paper umbrella in a monsoon.

When everything goes sideways and survival is on the line, the right tools—and a bit of grit—are what separate the prepared from the prey.

York didn’t need nods or Gucci gear to be lethal—he just needed faith, a clean rifle, and the will to get up and move forward when hell broke loose.