A Coup is in the Air

There’s a strange musk hanging over Washington—not the tech bro, but the stench of a regime in rigour mortis. You can feel it in the slouched gait of Trump’s public appearances, the rasp in his voice that hints not at command but decay. The body is rotting, the brain is combative, and the distractions—a carnival of culture-war lunacy—are coming faster than subpoenas.

Here’s a diversion fresh from the Trump fog machine: rename the Commanders back to the Redskins and the Guardians back to the Indians—“out of respect,” he says, for Indigenous people. As if satire itself just resigned from irony overload. It’s not about honouring anyone; it’s about testing how far the spectacle can go before the whole stage collapses.

But the real show isn’t on the field—it’s in the shadows. And if you squint through the smoke, you’ll see something far more consequential: a whisper coup, one quietly rolling into place like a fog over Dillon, Montana. JD Vance—the hillbilly elegist turned ideological ventriloquist dummy—slipped out west to meet the Murdoch clan. Not for trout fishing. Not for bourbon.

He arrived aboard Air Force Two. Destination: the Murdoch ranch. Timing: impeccable. Just hours later, The Wall Street Journal, under the empire’s banner, dropped a bombshell about a 2003 birthday letter from Trump to Jeffrey Epstein—an alleged gem of lewd praise.

Coincidence? Only if you’ve never seen the old men of empire play chess.

There’s no public transcript of that meeting. No audio leaks. No post-mortem from Team Vance or the Murdoch camp. Just silence. And in the echo, a question: why would the VP be in the same room as Rupert and Lachlan Murdoch just before a nuke lands in Trump’s backyard?

This is the part of the movie where the music changes key.

Let’s be clear: the walls aren’t caving in all at once. This is bleed time—death by a thousand tiny, well-placed incisions. The narrative doesn’t blow up—it oozes.

Medias Touch is dropping receipts daily. Footage of Trump leering, groping, boasting, surrounding himself with a rotating carousel of teenage contestants and fragile egos. Women who were dismissed, bullied, paid off, or shamed are back and talking. Loudly. Visibly. Collectively.

Meanwhile, Trump, ever the messianic martyr, files a $10 billion defamation suit against the Murdochs, WSJ, and Dow Jones—overseen, no less, by an Obama-appointed judge. A deposition looms. Can you imagine Trump under oath, squirming in his oversized suit, grasping for the teleprompter that isn’t there, fuming that the law doesn’t bend like Fox & Friends?

He won’t get that far. This is a toilet bowl lawsuit—the kind that spirals once before it vanishes with a flush.

Back to Vance. The true believers don’t need Trump anymore—they need a vessel. And Vance, with his vacant eyes and ready compliance, is the perfect golem. He’ll read the lines. Sign the orders. Smile for the camera. Behind him: the architects of disinformation and dominion, lining up for their second act.

So yes—a coup is in the air. It doesn’t look like tanks or gunfire. It seems like handshakes in Montana, lawsuits in D.C., and choreographed collapse in prime time.

And if you want to see how it ends—follow the drip. It always leads to the flood.