Hey, Eric Munchel. A few days ago you were breaking into the Capitol, decked out in paramilitary gear and carrying plastic restraints.
Now you’re in jail.
It’s weird. I don’t hear you yelling any longer. I don’t see you screaming, pointing, seeking out Democrats to tie up and, perhaps, kill. I don’t see you behaving like the ISIS thugs you probably once bemoaned. I can’t find you on Parler, because it’s pretty much gone and besides—being in jail and all—you don’t have your phone.
The photo atop this entry is your mug shot. Your mug shot. Remember how cool you felt last week? Storming through Washington after (and this is mere guess) a hearty breakfast of raw pig meat, carpet cleaner and a refreshing cranberry juice spritzer? Remember when all those MAGA folks looked up to you as a leader? As The Man? That was friggin’ awesome, bruh! You brought it like a mofo! Hells yeah! Trump till I die!
What are you gonna do now?
Where are you gonna go?
That job at the bar—gone. That ability to roam the nooks of the Internet, unseen—gone. Wherever you go and whatever you do, you will be tarred and feathered as the dickwad who stormed the Capitol, armed with plastic restraints, then allowed his ID to be revealed nationwide. For fuck’s sakes, it’s been more than 40 years and we still don’t know who the Zodiac Killer was. But, in less than a week, Eric Munchel has been arrested.
I’m actually curious, as I write this and as you sit on a cold toilet, munching on the corners of a ham-and-mold white bread sandwich alongside your cellmate, Tattooed Larry the 500 Pound Sodomite: Do you have any regrets or doubts? Is there a part of you thinking, “Eh, maybe we took this too far …” or “Perhaps spirited debate would have served us better …”?
Or are you sleeping soundly on your steel cot, dreaming of a conjugal visit from Donald Trump and an eat-for-free lifetime pass to Mar-o-Lago?
Fight on, Eric.