It was 2022, or maybe even earlier, when my life—and my family’s life—was ripped apart. The United States government, through its relentless attacks by the weaponized DOJ, decided I was the enemy. No jury, no trial, just a sudden, suffocating assault that left me questioning everything: my worth, my future, and my ability to protect my children and provide for my family.
They didn’t just come for me; they came for my son Max, my daughter Victoria, and my ex-wife Martine—everyone tied to me by blood or love. They tried to break me down and destroy my family, and despite the hardship, I’m still standing, fighting to expose the ugly truth and give a warning to other Americans: what can happen to me can and will happen to you if we don’t clear out the DOJ and end weaponized government.
I woke to a pounding on my door at 5 a.m., the kind that stops your heart. Six FBI agents, armed to the teeth, stormed in like they were raiding a cartel. They dragged me out, half-dressed, in a spectacle that felt ripped from the playbooks of Roger Stone or Jeff Clark’s arrests.
It was Friday, a calculated move to ensure I’d be locked up through the weekend, no bail hearing until Monday. When I asked one agent what this was about, he smirked, “You like the showtime we gave you?” Confused, I pressed him. “The bullhorn, the lights, the 5 a.m. raid,” he said. “The full showtime.”
The FBI’s theatrics weren’t just intimidation—they were psychological warfare. Now, every knock at my door sends a jolt through me. Is it them again? The FBI? Probation? They’ve broken me to the point where I flinch at shadows, haunted by the thought of their return.
Hellbound and Down 