This is Renegate Talk Radio.

We are watching the call of the rare purple-haired booby as it calls out for a clue in the distance.

The strange bird supervenes upon its territory, oblivious to the protector it disturbs with great commotion and abandonment.

This needs to stop.

I'm also, you know, I'm a disabled veteran, nothing veteran.

I've never been deployed or anything like that.

But, you know, my values for joining the military and joining the army, like, this, this

shit hurts to see.

This shit hurts on such a crazy level to watch these wannabies do this shit, you know?

They don't know what they're doing at all.

Unseen by the booby, yet perilously close, lies the object of its fervent search.

Ice is here! I sit here!

A single tantalizing clue, perhaps a glint of something metallic, half buried among the leaf litter, far across the clearing.

And now, it calls.

The bird throws back its head, the long, slender neck arching in a gesture, both graceful

and absurd, reverberating off ancient tree trunks, carrying for hundreds of meters in search of an answer that does not come.

Oblivious to all else, the booby leans forward, wings half unfurled in excitement,

its vibrant crest of purple filaments quivering with each powerful expulsion of breath.

There's, we have to show up with guns.

We have to.

There's no other way around it.

Their protector bird, whether they know it or not, is known as U.S. immigration and

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