In the Middle East, apostasy’s a death sentence—loyalty’s ironclad. America’s not that brutal, but stray from the political faith, and the knives come out. Elon Musk and Donald Trump learned fast. Musk, once a Democratic sugar daddy, and Trump, a decades-long donor who bankrolled their campaigns, were left-wing royalty—until they bolted. Trump’s 2015 Republican jump flipped the table. The Democrats didn’t just snub him; they drew blood—or so the pattern suggests. There have been three near-misses since: one in 2016 and two in 2024. Musk, now Trump’s $119 million wingman, gets his own heat—security rumors whisper U.S. Marshals on his team. In a nation cleaved by polarization, defection’s a gamble. The Democrats demand Trump disprove their shadows—Russia, riots, whatever. By their own rulebook, they’ve got to clear their name here too.
Rewind to Vegas, June 18, 2016. Trump’s at Treasure Island, Mystère Theater buzzing. Michael Steven Sandford, a 20-year-old Brit overstaying his visa, slips in. He’s no proven party stooge, but he’s got a plan—laid bare to the Secret Service post-arrest. Drove from California, popped 20 rounds at a range to warm up, then targeted Officer Ameel Jacob’s Glock 17. Fake an autograph request, grab the gun, fire “one or two shots” at Trump onstage. He expected to die—told agents as much. The holster held; cops pounced. Guilty plea, was sentenced to 11 months, and was deported. Lone nut? Maybe. But no evidence proves the Democrats didn’t nudge him—or didn’t cheer quietly.
Then 2024: Butler, Pennsylvania, July 13—Trump’s ear nicked, a bystander dead. September 15, West Palm Beach—Ryan Routh, rifle ready, nabbed near Trump’s golf course. Three hits since the apostasy. Democrats cry “no link” to them—same as they demand Trump disprove Russian puppets or Capitol plots. Their standard: you’re guilty till you prove otherwise. No smoking gun ties Sandford, Crooks, or Routh to a DNC memo, but nothing clears the slate either. Motive’s there—Trump’s a traitor to their tribe. Means? Opportunity? They’ve got donors and deniability. Prove it’s not them.
Musk’s in the grinder, too. Once their green-tech messiah, he’s now Trump’s X-lord, pumping out posts and ferreting out government waste to NGOs linked to Democrats. The left doesn’t debate—they demonize. A deleted post on Biden-Harris threats gets a White House smack: “irresponsible.” Security whispers—Marshals deputized?—fit the vibe, true or not. By the Democrats’ own logic, they’re on the hook: no proof they’re not gunning for him too. Polarization is the forge, and Trump and Musk are the heretics. Sandford’s grab, Routh’s scope—no paper trail, sure, but the long knives gleam. Disprove it, Dems. That’s your rule.
In the Middle East, apostates face the sword. Here, it’s rhetorical gunfire—maybe worse. Last night’s event wasn’t just policy; it was war. Trump’s ‘90s Democrat mirror—border hawks, efficiency drives, balanced books, and a liberal social twist—proves he’s still their heretic, and the knives stay sharp.
To be fair, Trump masterfully set a diabolical trap, amplifying their Trump Derangement Syndrome. Paraphrasing his words: “I could cure a disease that would kill millions, slash crime to historic lows, or balance the budget for the first time in decades”—he pointed at the Democrats—“and they’d never clap for America’s good fortune. I’ve stood here five times, and those Democrats have never cheered my achievements or my guests. That’s no way to be! Democrats, for just this night, join us in celebrating America’s wins.” Then, in true Trump style, he played Oprah’s “everyone gets a prize.” He invited Laken Riley’s mother—whose daughter fell to a murderer’s hands—alongside a deserving high school senior accepted to West Point, and a 13-year-old Black boy, a brain cancer survivor, his scars bearing witness to his trials. That boy’s image is etched in my mind; I weep recalling it. Ambitious to become a police officer, he wore a uniform with an honorary badge from a department that swore him in.
Trump turned to the Secret Service Director, requesting the boy’s induction. The Director handed over credentials, and the boy leapt into a powerful hug around the Director’s neck—I’m still weeping. The Democrats? Silent. Those not glaring daggers played games on their phones. Trump announced the West Point acceptance—nothing. Laken Riley’s mother, present at Butler, Pennsylvania, where a Democrat-sent assassin (directly or via murderous rhetoric) nearly killed Trump, heard his vow: “Before taking the stage, I told her Laken’s death won’t be in vain. If re-elected, I’ll sign a law—‘Laken’s Law’—locking up rapist and murderer aliens.” Her eyes welled with red tears as he spoke. The national grief would have been unbearable had the assassin’s bullets struck and killed her too. Trump then renamed a Wildlife Preserve in Laken’s memory—still nothing from the heinous, murderous Democrats. The only time they stood and clapped? For Ukraine.
In closing, no hatred is too vast for these cancerous Democrats! Their apostate zeal, mirroring Islam’s fatwa against heretics, rejects Trump’s ‘90s Democrat echoes—border strength, efficiency, and a balanced budget to secure America’s future—while Musk, their fallen green-tech idol, exposes their NGO rot on X. Three assassination shadows (Sandford, Butler, Routh) since 2015 prove the stakes. By their “disprove a negative” creed, they’re guilty—no evidence clears their hand. This isn’t politics; it’s a tribal purge, a warning etched in their silence.
Published by Editor, Sammy Campbell.