Rehearsing Valhalla: Reflections on Kash Patel

He walks like a sermon about himself. The badge gleams like a mirror, and he loves what he sees.

He’s been rehearsing heroism in the bathroom—jaw locked, eyes narrowed—saying Valhalla like it’s a password to relevance.

There’s a crowd outside rallying round their cages, humming the new anthem about freedom. All melody, no meaning. They call it strength, but it’s just fear with better branding.

I’ve seen a thousand of them: men who want to sound like thunder and end up coughing on their own smoke. They talk about watches and duty and gods, and what they really want is to be told they still matter.

He salutes himself before turning off the lights, hand cutting the air too sharp—a gesture borrowed from a darker reel. The foot shifts, almost a goose step. Small, but it’s there. The muscle memory of obedience masquerading as pride.

The room claps. No one hears the hinges closing.

This is how the fucking cage gets built: with applause and good intentions, with words like duty and watch, with the comfort of knees on carpet and flags that look prettier from below.

And history won’t listen. It’ll just spit his name out later, after the cameras fade, after the myth goes stale.

And I’ll be here, in a bar where we import your mythology secondhand, watching another patriot try to drink himself into godhood—wondering how many times you’ll rally round the same damn cage before you notice the door was never fucking locked.

Outpost 404