Jamiemccarthytv

Tag: criminals

  • EVERY WORD IS ROPE

    Some of us were dumb enough to think we were chosen. Destined for greatness. I was one of those fools.

    Then life swung for the skull—my father gone when I was just twenty-four, my son gone at nineteen. That’s the punchline. And I’m still here, scribbling like a clown juggling knives at his own funeral.

    Every line I write turns to rope. And rope’s a funny bastard—you can climb it, you can hang from it. Lifeline and noose, same damn thing.

    And here’s where I laugh at myself: I can’t stand writers who always find a way to make it about them. But don’t mistake this for that—this isn’t me making it about me. This is me making it about you, making it about me. That’s the kind of pretzel you twist into when you’ve got nothing left but your own shadow to wrestle with.

    Greatness? That’s the carrot they dangle so you’ll chase yourself into the grave. The truth is simpler: I’m under the gallows, grinning through broken teeth, laughing at my own execution, and the only reason I keep writing is because hanging myself with my own words is the one thing I’ve ever done well.

  • DOWN THE RABBIT HOLE

    They always called it a rabbit hole
    like it was some playful spiral,
    a psychedelic slide into harmless madness.
    But this hole stinks.
    Like burned paper and blood on old currency squeezed together by melting rubberbands.
    Like the back alley of a failed empire.

    I didn’t fall —
    I was pushed.
    By smiling men in tailored suits,
    by ads that knew my name before I did,
    by the unblinking god-eye of surveillance wrapped in convenience.
    They called it progress.
    I called it a muzzle with a firmware update.

    The rabbit?
    He was half-rat, half-fed.
    A jittery informant with bugs stitched into his fur.
    He sold me a map in exchange for my fingerprints.
    Told me,
    “You’re not gonna like what you find,
    but you already paid the toll.”

    We passed the Mad Hatter —
    ex-Blackrock, now peddling immortality
    through neural lace and lithium smiles.
    His tea was laced with lithium, too.
    Served in a chipped mug etched with OWN NOTHING. BE HAPPY.
    Said free will was a glitch in the old system,
    and the new patch fixed it.
    “Congratulations. You’re cured of choice.”

    The Cheshire Cat was just teeth.
    Rows and rows of them —
    each one a microphone,
    a camera,
    a contract.
    He spoke in brand slogans and court settlements.
    His grin was sponsored by Pfizer.
    And Meta.
    And Lockheed.

    Deeper still:
    a hallway made of CRT TVs,
    each screen playing a different lie on loop:
    Weapons of mass destruction.
    Flatten the curve.
    Hope and change.
    Trust the science.
    God Bless the Troops.
    Epstein died alone.
    The vote was secure.
    Everything is fine.

    The Queen of Hearts ran an NGO now,
    dressed in recycled virtue-signaling and diversity hires.
    She didn’t shout off with their heads anymore —
    she just clicked shadowban
    and let the algorithm do the killing.

    I found a room.
    Locked.
    Inside:
    documents stamped TOP SECRET in 1965,
    pages soaked in oil and redacted like a priest’s confession.
    Operation Northwoods.
    COINTELPRO.
    Project Stargate.
    And something called “The Adjustment Bureau.”
    No files, just a single line:
    THEY MOVE FASTER THAN YOU CAN THINK.

    And that’s when I saw it —
    not in ink,
    but in code.

    A string of data,
    buried like a landmine:
    Jack McCarthy.
    Snapchat geolocation.
    Aron Miranda.
    Proximity trigger.
    Behavioral prediction confidence: 93.6%.
    Outcome: Fatal.
    Status: Acceptable Risk.

    I stopped breathing.
    Not out of fear,
    but because I finally understood:
    It wasn’t a coincidence.
    It was an execution.
    Sanctioned by silence,
    written by code,
    delivered by convenience.

    This isn’t a rabbit hole.
    It’s Hell’s sewer system.
    A machine that eats your sons
    and calls it a glitch.
    A system that makes you watch,
    and then tells you you’re crazy for screaming.

    I used to call it theory,
    Now I call it murder.

  • Father of Madness

    “They say time heals all wounds.”

    Who in the fuck are they?

    Some bureaucrats of grief, clocking in, clocking out, wielding the second hand like a scalpel, deciding when the wound has been stitched,

    when the blood should dry,

    when the rage should settle into something softer.

    Time—the prison, the con artist, the liar.

    It doesn’t heal. It magnifies.

    It twists the knife while whispering lullabies.

    It counts the days like a debt collector, reminding me of every second Jack no longer breathes, and every hour the bastard who gave him poison does.

    And still, they tell me time is the answer.

    That I should let it pass, let it work.

    I want to take that very hand of time,

    the well-intended, patronizing hand,

    and smash it for 19 straight minutes

    with a dead blow hammer,

    until the gears stop turning,

    until the numbers scatter like broken teeth,

    until time itself finally understands

    what it means to be overwhelmingly crushed. 

    Miranda, devil in a hoodie, dealer for pocket change was never a scapegoat.

    He was a man who knew exactly what he handed over.

    I wonder if he ever wakes up sweating,

    if he ever feels the shadow behind him,

    if he ever senses the weight of me

    staring at the back of his skull.

    Sixty ways in a minute,

    three hundred sixty in an hour,

    eight thousand six hundred forty in a day—

    I could carve my grief into his flesh.

    I could become time,

    the father of madness,

    breaking him down into seconds,

    watching him beg for a mercy

    that he never gave to Jack.

    But there is no justice.

    Only the slow, excruciating unraveling of the world going around the sun, 

    where killers breathe and sons are buried.

    There is no closure, no grand moment of reckoning.

    There is only the hell of waking up each day,

    wishing for ghosts,

    praying for gruesome vengeance,

    and knowing—the only end is mine.

  • FATHER SICARIO

    The streets pulse like open veins, black tar slick, the night a slow bleeding thing. Neon hums. Buzzing flies. A dealer on the corner licking his lips, pulling at his collar like he knows. Like he smells it. The reek of old grief turned to something else. Something with teeth.

    I move through the alleyways, pockets heavy with ghosts, fingers tapping the weight of the thing inside my coat. Not a gun. No. Something older. Something sharper. A father’s rage honed to the edge.

    And then there’s the voice in my head, Del Toro-cool, a slow drawl:
    Jack is gone.
    Jack is gone.
    Jack is gone.

    And someone has to pay.

    I remember the last time I saw his hands—calloused, taped up, always ready for a fight. But he never saw this one coming. Didn’t know the rules. Didn’t know the game was rigged before he even stepped in the ring.

    He was a fighter.
    This dead city made him a corpse.

    I light a cigarette, let the smoke coil in my lungs. The dealer sees me now. A flicker of something in his eyes. Recognition? No, not yet. But he will.

    He shifts his weight, sniffs. He thinks I’m just another buyer. Another lost man looking to fill the hole in his chest with powder and promises.

    But I’m not here to buy.

    I’m here to collect.

    I step forward, slow, deliberate, the way a lion moves before the pounce. He starts to speak—some rehearsed pitch, some poison-laced gospel—but I cut him off.

    “Shut your mouth. You’ve already said enough.”

    And then I show him.

    The steel. The weight. The cold certainty of a father who has nothing left to lose.

    His hands go up. Shaking. Sweat pools in the hollow of his throat. A scared animal now. His mouth moves faster than his brain, words tumbling out, desperate, sloppy.

    “I—I didn’t know, man, I didn’t know, I swear! I just—It wasn’t personal.”

    And then there’s the voice in my head, Del Toro-cool, a slow drawl:
    “For me, it is personal.”

    I press the blade against his ribs, just enough for him to feel the promise behind it. I lean in close, my voice low, steady.

    Miranda, pleading like an 8-year-old, who’s lost his blanket and thinks crying will bring it back.

    “I didn’t know!”

    I’m somewhere between uncontrollable rage and elation, but 100% locked in the moment.

    “Well, now you do.”

    His breath stutters. A whimper caught in his throat.

    I exhale smoke in his face, watch the fear seep into his bones.

    No prayers.
    No deals.
    No mercy.

    Only the reckoning.

    FATHER SICARIO (Del Torro Cool)

  • Silence is the killer when you look the other way. (How virtuous)

    the newsreaders smirk behind the desk,

    their teeth polished white,

    their words unpolished and dull.

    the world’s on fire,

    but no one wants to say where the match came from.

    they shuffle papers,

    nod solemnly at the camera,

    and move on.

    next story.

    young girls with broken eyes walk streets that don’t care for them,

    their stories—

    torn, gutted, and stitched with silence.

    a thousand screams swallowed by a fear

    greater than justice,

    greater than truth—

    the fear of being called a name.

    racist. islamophobe.

    Or phrases like Resident Alien.

    they weigh heavier than the suffering of the small,

    the forgotten,

    the torn apart.

    the rapists walk free because the culture has grown soft,

    too soft to call evil by its name.

    and isn’t that convenient?

    for them, I mean.

    they know the game.

    play your cards right—

    and the good people will look the other way.

    good people.

    they don’t want to seem bad,

    don’t want to upset the order,

    don’t want to be labeled.

    better to let the girl bleed in a corner

    than risk being impolite.

    virtue signaling is the new religion.

    you wave the right flag,

    tweet the right slogan,

    kneel at the right altar—

    and you’re forgiven.

    it doesn’t matter what’s behind it:

    indifference,

    ignorance,

    or worse.

    the mask is enough.

    but what about the girls?

    the ones they pretend to care about?

    their bodies are battlegrounds

    for a war no one wants to admit is happening.

    the press won’t write it,

    the cops won’t fight it,

    and the priests of tolerance preach

    their sermons of silence.

    it’s a goddamn joke.

    we scream about progress,

    about justice,

    but only in the ways that won’t cost us anything.

    and the victims pile up in the shadows.

    this world isn’t just ass-backwards—

    it’s in full throttle reverse

    marching proudly backwards into oblivion

    while the banners of virtue flap overhead.

    but you can’t eat banners.

    you can’t heal wounds with hashtags.

    and you sure as hell can’t hide the blood forever.

    eventually,

    the truth crawls out of the dark.

    it always does.

    the question is:

    will anyone be left to give a damn when it does?

    (Remember when the U.K stood for something?)

  • The Only Side

    The channels, the magazines, the sites—they’re all peddling the same poison under different labels, like snake oil in a kaleidoscope. The pundits, the hacks, the echo chambers disguised as platforms of truth: one chorus chants, “Democracy is over,” while the other screams, “They’re coming for your freedom!” Different flags, same battle hymn.

    Some call it the Matrix, a web of manipulation so dense you can’t tell truth from propaganda. But let’s not flatter ourselves with cinematic metaphors. This isn’t some grand sci-fi conspiracy. This is humanity, stripped bare, its truest colors bleeding through like wine stains on cheap carpet. The educated look down on the working class with the smug disdain of someone who’s forgotten who fixes their plumbing or grows their food. And yet, why? Because intelligence without wisdom is just arrogance with better grammar.

    The working class isn’t innocent either—eyes glued to screens, buying into their preferred flavor of outrage. They, too, love a good villain, and they’ll take whatever bogeyman the talking heads serve up.

    And the intellectuals, oh, the intellectuals. They are often intensely stupid. The kind of stupid that comes with thinking you’re immune to manipulation because you’ve read Marx or Hayek or, god help us, a Twitter thread. They call themselves critical thinkers, but their critiques are as hollow as the echo chambers they inhabit.

    What if one had to actually pick a side? Thank god we don’t, because there’s only one side: theirs. And “they” don’t care which team jersey you wear, as long as you’re on the field, playing their game. Democracy? Freedom? Those are just words they use to keep us running laps, convinced we’re winning something while they laugh from the VIP lounge.

    So pick a side, if you must. Red or blue, left or right, Coke or Pepsi. It doesn’t matter. The scoreboard is rigged, the game already decided. And when it’s over, the only winners will be the ones who sold us the tickets. 

  • Lights, Lawsuits, and Lunacy

    Lights, Lawsuits, and Lunacy

    There he is, another fat cat in a fine suit,

    a man with too much money

    and not enough sense.

    They always start the same way:

    hungry, scrappy, with a spark in their eyes,

    climbing over corpses just to taste

    the champagne fizz of fame.

    But the climb turns sour—

    it always does.

    The money grows heavier,

    the women get younger,

    and the lies stack taller

    than their penthouses.

    And now he’s cornered.

    Accusations like alley rats

    gnawing at his gold-plated ego,

    lawsuits snapping like

    cheap whiskey shots at last call.

    He denies, of course—

    they always deny.

    Truth is just another currency

    they barter for silence.

    The tabloids call it shocking.

    The fans call it betrayal.

    I call it Tuesday.

    Another kingpin,

    another scandal,

    another reminder

    that the glint of the spotlight

    hides more shadows than light.

    But don’t worry,

    he’ll be back.

    They all come back.

    The world loves a man who sins,

    as long as he sins with style.

    And us?

    We’ll keep buying the albums,

    dancing to the beats,

    clapping for the encore

    while the bodies pile up backstage.

    Because we’re all drunk on something—

    power, fame, or just cheap beer.

    And none of us want to wake up

    to the hangover of reality.

    There’s a mirror there and we certainly don’t like the way it lights our own lunacy.

  • The High Isn’t Coming

    god is the new obedience.

    the rest of us? just junkies chasing the first high. eyes glazed, hands outstretched for the next hit of belonging. the tribe, the party, the movement—they offer you a fix, say you’re one of them now, part of something bigger. they sell you purpose in a pill, a flag to wrap around your shoulders like a noose disguised as a security blanket. but here’s the thing—just like the junk dealer’s push, it’s all laced with something lethal. the high doesn’t last. it never does. you wake up sick, needing more. always needing more. and the cold truth is, the club you think you’re part of? it doesn’t exist—not the way they sold it to you.

    talking heads and politicians, like junk peddlers, know the game. they cut it just right, enough to keep you hooked, just shy of dead—or at least, that was the plan. but the bodies are stacking up. 279 die every day from counterfeit killers. more dead recruits than Vietnam, and these aren’t soldiers, just citizens swallowing the lie. it’s all poison. they toss you a pill, tell you to vote, tell you it matters. but it’s counterfeit, a placebo laced with sweet nothings. you down it, even though it chokes you every time, feel good for a minute, like you’ve made a difference, like you’re part of something righteous. but what’s in that pill? more poison. just another way to keep you tethered to a system that doesn’t give a shit if you live or die. hell, they’d prefer you sick, obedient, just healthy enough to show up and follow orders.

    and they need you to chase it again—the high of belonging, the sweet lie that you’re on the “right side.” but there is no side. it’s grey. the world is grey, the people are grey. the skies are always grey, the streets paved in grey since day one. I’ve walked down that avenue, eyed grey faces lost in the grey mundane of their everyday. everything’s muted, colorless, lifeless—just the way they want it. they need you blind, seeing in black and white, picking one of two flavors, because they need you to believe you have choice. But you’re just another number on that team jersey they sold you at the concession stand. they know you’re never actually going to be a real player on the squad. that’s why the numbers are grey—just bright enough to keep you loyal and coming back for more counterfeit salvation.

    i’m done with their game. i’m done swallowing their pills. i’ll walk through the grey, hands dirty, eyes wide open, because that’s where the truth is. the rest of them? let ‘em keep chasing that first high, keep lining up for another spoonful of sweetened bullshit. i prefer the chaos, the mess. i want the real thing, the uncut stuff—bitter and sweet, raw and true. not the garbage they keep the masses hooked on.

    it’s all an illusion, this belonging. a drug they sell to keep you numb, keep you thinking you’re alive, when really, you’re just another junkie in line, waiting for your next fix. the question is, when do you wake up and realize—the high isn’t coming?

  • Uncivil Savages

    Uncivil Savages

     

    Here we are, a nation of uncivil savages.  

    Bumping into walls, knocking over the furniture, 

    blind to the fact that the room we’re in 

    isn’t even ours. 

     

    Identity? What a joke. 

    It’s a mess of recycled sound bites and half-truths, 

    spun out like the web of a spider high on bad dope. 

    George Orwell’s laughing his ass off in the back, 

    maybe sipping whiskey, shaking his head. 

     

    It’s not the left. It’s not the right. 

    It’s just jabs and crosses, a nice little show. 

    The real damage, the real kill, 

    comes with the headkick you never see, 

    brought to you by your friendly neighborhood 

    Weapons of Mass Distraction.

     Flying elephants, underground donkeys— 

    who gives a damn? 

    We’re all shopping at the same supersized mall 

    jacked up on steroids, neon lights buzzing overhead, 

    propaganda posters hanging like cheap art 

    next to racks of aborted dreams. 

     And what are we doing? 

    800 million eyes, glued to glowing screens, 

    watching, waiting, scrolling past the snakes 

    slithering under the walls. 

     They’re coming for the kids first, 

    turning them into slaves. 

    Then they’ll poison the rest of us, 

    and we’ll call it anxiety, 

    pop a pill and go back to pretending 

    we’re free.

    So tell me—is this what freedom looks like?

  • Anything goes in Wayne County

    Anything goes in Wayne County

    ◦ Wayne County Circuit Court, Detroit, Michigan.

    If a criminal wants to commit a crime and get away with it, Wayne County Circuit Court in Detroit is the place to be. Take Aron Miranda, a 24-year-old who sold counterfeit pills laced with fentanyl, resulting in the death of a Birmingham boy. Miranda was also caught with 11 illegal firearms, cocaine, fentanyl, and a mass of pills he sold mainly through Snapchat.

    Miranda’s arrest was made by Birmingham police since the victim was from Oakland County—Detroit police were not involved. Birmingham handed Miranda over with all the evidence needed for a conviction. Yet, in a predictable turn, Wayne County dropped the ball. Despite the overwhelming evidence and serious charges, Miranda received a minor personal bond and no tether. The expectation that he would voluntarily return for his court date was naive, given his criminal background.

    Now, Miranda is a fugitive. Some believe he fled the country; others think he’s still in Detroit, continuing his criminal activities. There’s little confidence in Wayne County’s efforts to apprehend him. If you’re a criminal looking for a safe haven, Detroit seems ideal. You can sell drugs, kill people, and even if caught, walk away scot-free.

    In a city where law enforcement appears ineffective, what’s stopping criminals from flocking here? In Detroit, it seems, the line between criminal and free citizen is blurred by a justice system that fails to enforce the law.

    You don’t have to have much of an imagination to envision how vigilante’s are born……