The scent of coffee curled through the kitchen like a peace offering. Brad stood zipped up by the window, arms folded, shoes still wet from the driveway. He hadn’t sat down yet, and that said enough.
“I want to know what you think,” he said, skipping hello. “About the Charlie Kirk shooting.”
I kept my voice level. “I think it’s murder. Horrific. Indefensible. Anyone justifying that is off the rails.”
He nodded once, barely. Then: “Still. This is what happens when you normalize that word.”
“What word?”
“Fascist.” His jaw clenched. “You throw tha on OK t around long enough, someone decides it’s open season. That’s the problem.”
We’ve known each other thirty years. Once, we were both “small c” conservatives. Balanced budgets. Personal liberty. Keep government lean, keep your nose out of my business. But over time, the Republican Party and conservatism changed. I worried about the cost, wealth inequality, the Citizens United decision, and privacy erosion. Brad started quoting Tucker Carlson.
Brad was former Navy, a lawyer, then FBI. He still believed in institutions. Me? I wasn’t so sure anymore. But I still listened when he spoke, which is why this conversation hurt. The tension wasn’t political. It was personal.
I said what I knew. “The shooter’s motives aren’t clear. No manifesto. No party affiliation. Some of those engravings were meme soup. It doesn’t add up to ideology.”
Brad didn’t listen. “You call someone a fascist, debate’s over. Next step is, do whatever it takes. That’s the danger.”
He wasn’t loud. Just certain. That’s what stuck with me after he left—maybe he was right. So I went looking. Not for arguments—I’ve had enough of those—but for history. For expertise.