January 8th, Six a.m.
I’m in a Minnesota Holiday Inn. My alarm clock is the seismic snoring of an ICE agent I’m sharing a bed with. The TV is still frozen on the climactic scene of last night’s “art documentary,” which we watched and re-watched last night with detached, professional interest. I sweep a fortress of empty Miller Lite cans off the nightstand and shake the mountain beside me. “Derek. Derek, wake up.”
But I’m getting ahead of myself. My story really starts the morning before, in the same bed, next to the same man…..
January 7th, Six a.m.
One bloodshot eye opens. My bunkmate, Derek, looks at me like I’m the ghost of an ’80s prom date. “Johnny?” he grumbles, patting his rotund belly where his service pistol rests in one of many creases. “Five more minutes. The President needs me sharp.”
We are two days deep in the great, frost-rimmed state of Minnesota, hunting a swarm of illegal Somalis tied to what the White House calls “The Great American Grift.” Today’s agenda: raid a “daycare” and two “health centres.” First: Denny’s. Always Denny’s.
We’re part of President Trump’s special detachment—Operation Somali Extermination. I’m not sure about the name, but the President is the boss. Last month, we were rounding up Indian Uber drivers in “Operation Lyft Them Out.” (I for one can’t tell one Singh from the next.) Before that, it was “Operation Taco Munchers,” where we hunted down Mexicans working at Chipotles, and, of course, we raided all the Home Depots along the I-90. Derek says we’re doing God’s work. By “God,” he means Donald Trump. By “work,” he means scrubbing the country clean of what our internal memos cheerfully call “La Cucaracha”—mostly it’s folks let into the US without “Due Process” by Obama and Biden, who, Derek explains, “needed the votes.”
We All Scream for ICE … Cream
An hour later, we’re at Denny’s with the rest of our crew, halfway through a Grand Slam tectonic plate of food, Derek’s phone bleats. Hail to the Chief ringtone. Smiling, he slaps it on speaker.
“Johnny. Derek. My beautiful bros. I call you my beautiful bros because that’s what you are, like brothers to me. Bros, it sounds Black, but you’re not Black. You’re as white as snow … and ice. Beautiful ice.” The voice is a familiar cascade of gravel and grandeur. Commander Trump. He’s briefing us on “Tampon Tim” and how Trump’s favorite YouTube patriot, Nick Shirley, is “busting the African fraud hugely and widely open.” Then, to me: “Johnny, you run point on ‘Operation Daycare Deception’ starting today.” Trump has no idea what that means. I’ve learned he just loves the sound of mission phrases in his own voice.
The crew stares, wide-eyed. I’ve been anointed. Trump orders us to charge our feast to his “private presidential Denny’s account”—apparently a real thing—and we’re off, but not before we all drop numero dos in the Denny’s restroom. Locked and loaded. Ten grown men in their forties in tactical gear lift our bandanas like cowboys tying on dusters, and stride into the Minnesota dawn like the heroes we’ve been told we are.
ICE to Meet You
Embedding with ICE was disturbingly easy. I told them that I once did a stint as a Guardian Angel in 1980s NYC, and that I was canned by the LAPD for illegally discharging a firearm. Truth be told, I’d never fired a gun before basic training with ICE, which was essentially raiding a soy farm run by a group of VenUSAaliens.
Most of my crew are failed cops, medically discharged soldiers, or just pissed-off divorced dads who feel the American Dream was stolen by, and I quote from my own sworn declaration, “a bunch of foreign freeloading low IQ retards.” Trump says we’re the front line. The tip of the spear. The last sane men in a country crumbling into a woke, cucked, transgender lunatic asylum.
As an investigative reporter, this is my beat. I’ve gone undercover in a Gaza university encampment, posed as an international student at a Canadian donut shop, survived gender-affirming surgery in a British house of medical horrors, and even aided a group of leftists in starting the LA Fires of ’25. But nothing—and I mean nothing—prepared me for the sacred, syrup-scented call of duty as a federal agent in Trump’s paramilitary special forces, ICE.
Live and Lear
By 10 a.m., fueled by pancake plutonium and endless coffee, we roll into the parking lot of the Quality Learing Center—the very daycare Nick Shirley exposed on his YouTube channel. We spill out of our black Dodge Caravans, weapons drawn, moving across the ice in a slow, purposeful waddle and surround the front door.
“ICE!” Derek bellows, hammering on the glass. “Come out, or we come in! Your choice!”
“Lock and load, boys!” I yell, because someone has to.
Adrenaline is a curious thing. I thought I’d be writing a puff piece about these MAGA bros. You know, typical trigger-happy white guys who were too young for the Gulf Wars and too dense for the current drone dogfights with China. But after weeks with Derek and the crew, I’ve started to see the profound, beautiful complexity of it all. This isn’t cruelty. We are the last line of defense against compromised mayors, Biden-appointed judges, fake news, liberal social media, and a nation of soft men and women who vote for people who steal their taxes to feed illegals. This is the new civil war with a modern-day Robert E. Lee, aka Donald J. Trump, calling the shots from his Club Mar-a-Lago fortress.
Silence from the daycare.
Derek shoulder-checks the door. It groans open. We file into… an empty room. No toys. No crayon drawings. No transgender Sesame Street playing on a loop. Just a hollow shell—another Somali fraud front. A ghost operation.
Back in the parking lot, dejected, I call Commander Trump. “Failed mission, sir.”
“It’s only a failure when they win,” he booms, while chomping on his third breakfast of the day. “And they can’t win, Johnny, because we’re the winners. We can’t lose. We’re the greatest nation on earth!” Then, as a consolation, “Take the boys to Chick-fil-A for a beautiful feed. Tell the girls to charge it to my Diners Club card.”
I’m hanging up when the first snowball explodes against my temple.
I look up. A mob of middle-aged white women is emerging from behind midrange SUVs, screaming obscenities, pelting us with perfectly packed snowballs. “ICE Watchers,” is what the mainstream media calls these TDS gals.
“We’re under attack!” I yell, but Trump has already hung up, abandoning us in favor of his flapjacks. The snow melts down my neck, a cold, infuriating trickle. Rage, pure and hot, floods my veins.
“Let’s get ‘em!” I roar. “Then we hit Chick-fil-A!” I step from behind our minivan and stalk toward the lead vehicle— a Honda Pilot. A fat white woman is behind the wheel, her fatter and whiter girlfriend glaring from the passenger seat, wearing an “I’m with Stupid” T-shirt.
Iced Tea and Large Fries
“Freeze. ICE. Out of the car!” I snarl, as though my entire life has only been for this moment; a moment to make President Trump smile and say now that’s my beautiful brother.
The butchy passenger sneers. “Why don’t you get some lunch, big boy?”
Unbeknownst to her, I have a direct order from the President of the United States to do just that. I’m also sensitive about the weight I’ve put on since joining ICE. The Trump Diet consists entirely of fast food, all the time. It makes us slow, absent-minded, and always hungry. But this is how we keep going, fighting for a new day, a new meal, against the endless battle of illegal immigration.
My phone rings again. I fumble for it, my hand finding the familiar grip of my service weapon instead. Brain on fast food autopilot, I raise it to my ear and press.
The gunshot is tremendous, echoing across the parking lot. The round spiders the SUV’s windshield.
Silence. Then…the SUV ghost drives past me and smashes into the door of the Quality Learing Center. Like in a movie. I can’t comprehend what is happening. Derek grabs me and throws me into our van.
Later, Commander Trump calls me a hero for defending my men against the ‘snowball insurrection’. Back at ICE base of operations, the Holiday Inn, Derek presents me with a slab cake from Walmart and a 12-pack of Miller Lite. “For valor,” he says solemnly. “Cheer up, she deserved to die. She should’ve been at home with her shoes off, caring for her baby. Instead of throwing snowballs at federal agents.”
We eat our cake in silence, handfuls at a time, the TV playing our “art documentary” on a loop. I’m not entirely sure what we’re celebrating. All I know for certain is we didn’t send a single Somali back to Africa today …. and I may have diabetes.
