R.L. Pitts's Blog
April 28, 2026
THE NIGHT THE PRESS LAUGHED WHILE THE COUNTRY HELD ITS BREATH
Lemme tell you what it felt like.
It felt like watching the fire marshal host a barbecue inside a fireworks factory.
It felt like the nation’s so-called watchdogs showing up to the crime scene wearing matching collars and monogrammed leashes.
It felt like the American news media finally saying the quiet part out loud — not with words, but with the clink of champagne flutes.
Because if corruption ever wanted to stop hiding and just stretch its legs in public, it would look exactly like the Correspondents’ Dinner.
A whole ballroom of people who swear they’re holding power accountable, but somehow, they’re seated next to it, laughing with it, posing for photos beside it, and in bootlicking praise of it. The vibe was less “free press” and more “company retreat for the empire’s communications department.”
And y’all, because this country loves a plot twist, here comes the “uncertainty of the apparent assassination attempt.”
You ever watch a room full of people who claim to be brave, suddenly remember they have mortgages? You ever see a newsroom tryna report the truth while also trying not to offend the very forces that can yank their press credentials?
It was like watching a choir sing harmony while the church is burning.
Suddenly every anchor was speaking in that soft, hostage negotiator tone:
“We cannot confirm…” “It is unclear at this time…” “Authorities are investigating…”
Bay-bah, they were investigating the English language more than the event.
This wasn’t caution. This was choreography. This was the media doing the rhetorical limbo: how low can you go without actually kissing their asses?
And the absurdity of it all? The same press corps that spent the night feigning false modesty for being too cozy with power, suddenly couldn’t figure out how to name the moment staring them in the face.
They treated the whole thing like a weather advisory.
“Chance of political violence: 40%. Chance of journalistic spine: still pending.”
Meanwhile, fascism — the real kind, the slow creeping, flag waving, neighbor turning kind — doesn’t need a parade. It just needs a press corps too civil to call it by name. Too invested in access to risk accuracy. Too enamored with the glow of chandeliers to notice the shadows growing under the table.
And that’s what got me.
Because the Correspondents’ Dinner is not a celebration of journalism. It is a dress rehearsal for complicity. A room full of people who claim to speak truth to power, but only if the truth has been pre-approved by legal, PR, and the network’s consultants. A room where the truth hit harder than the reporting. A room where the crying gets drowned out by the alarms hollering.
And when the “apparent assassination attempt” hit the airwaves, the media didn’t rise to the moment — they folded into it. They wrapped themselves in euphemism like it was Kevlar. They treated clarity like a liability, tying themselves in whataboutism knots.
And me? I’m sitting in Glendale, watching the whole circus unfold, thinking:
America doesn’t hide its descent. It caters it. It livestreams it. It sells ad space during the commercial break.
And the press: the institution that swears it’s the last line of defense keeps showing up to the banquet wearing a bib, not armor.
#NightThePressSucked #BreathHeldNation #TearsInTheDark
It felt like watching the fire marshal host a barbecue inside a fireworks factory.
It felt like the nation’s so-called watchdogs showing up to the crime scene wearing matching collars and monogrammed leashes.
It felt like the American news media finally saying the quiet part out loud — not with words, but with the clink of champagne flutes.
Because if corruption ever wanted to stop hiding and just stretch its legs in public, it would look exactly like the Correspondents’ Dinner.
A whole ballroom of people who swear they’re holding power accountable, but somehow, they’re seated next to it, laughing with it, posing for photos beside it, and in bootlicking praise of it. The vibe was less “free press” and more “company retreat for the empire’s communications department.”
And y’all, because this country loves a plot twist, here comes the “uncertainty of the apparent assassination attempt.”
You ever watch a room full of people who claim to be brave, suddenly remember they have mortgages? You ever see a newsroom tryna report the truth while also trying not to offend the very forces that can yank their press credentials?
It was like watching a choir sing harmony while the church is burning.
Suddenly every anchor was speaking in that soft, hostage negotiator tone:
“We cannot confirm…” “It is unclear at this time…” “Authorities are investigating…”
Bay-bah, they were investigating the English language more than the event.
This wasn’t caution. This was choreography. This was the media doing the rhetorical limbo: how low can you go without actually kissing their asses?
And the absurdity of it all? The same press corps that spent the night feigning false modesty for being too cozy with power, suddenly couldn’t figure out how to name the moment staring them in the face.
They treated the whole thing like a weather advisory.
“Chance of political violence: 40%. Chance of journalistic spine: still pending.”
Meanwhile, fascism — the real kind, the slow creeping, flag waving, neighbor turning kind — doesn’t need a parade. It just needs a press corps too civil to call it by name. Too invested in access to risk accuracy. Too enamored with the glow of chandeliers to notice the shadows growing under the table.
And that’s what got me.
Because the Correspondents’ Dinner is not a celebration of journalism. It is a dress rehearsal for complicity. A room full of people who claim to speak truth to power, but only if the truth has been pre-approved by legal, PR, and the network’s consultants. A room where the truth hit harder than the reporting. A room where the crying gets drowned out by the alarms hollering.
And when the “apparent assassination attempt” hit the airwaves, the media didn’t rise to the moment — they folded into it. They wrapped themselves in euphemism like it was Kevlar. They treated clarity like a liability, tying themselves in whataboutism knots.
And me? I’m sitting in Glendale, watching the whole circus unfold, thinking:
America doesn’t hide its descent. It caters it. It livestreams it. It sells ad space during the commercial break.
And the press: the institution that swears it’s the last line of defense keeps showing up to the banquet wearing a bib, not armor.
#NightThePressSucked #BreathHeldNation #TearsInTheDark
April 20, 2026
When the Mirror Cracks: Mary Anne Tells the Truth About Today’s Amerrca
I step into this scene the way I always do when I’m talking to Mary Anne — not as some detached interviewer with a clipboard, but as a man who knows he’s in the presence of a woman who has already survived more America than America is willing to admit it has done.
I sit across from her at that kitchen table she treats like a command center. Elbows planted. Eyes steady. Back straight like she’s holding up the whole damn roof with her spine. Emm is somewhere in the back, tinkering with something that probably doesn’t need tinkering. G is outside, laughing with the wind like he’s got a private contract with joy.
I click on my recorder.
“Mary Anne,” I say, “what do you think about what’s happening in America today?”
She doesn’t answer right away. She gives me that look — the one that says, Boy, you sure you ready for what’s about to come out my mouth? Then she exhales, slow and deliberate, like she’s releasing a century of unpaid emotional labor.
MARY ANNE
“R.L., lemme tell you somethin’ real quick, and I’ma say it plain so you don’t gotta run it through no translator later.
Amerrca? Baby, Amerrca is doin’ what Amerrca always do — showin’ its whole ass and then pretendin’ it’s the moon.”
She leans back, folds her arms, and her earrings swing like punctuation marks.
“This place ain’t confused. Peoples keep sayin’ ‘the country’s lost its way’ like it ever knew where it was goin’. No, shuga.
"Amerrca is a flat-ass country — flat in imagination, flat in courage, flat in moral fiber. Ain’t got no lift, no curve, no shape to its soul. Just straight-line foolishness from sea to shinin’ sea.”
She taps the table twice.
“And the wild part? They act like we s’posed to be srprized. Like we ain’t been livin’ in the basement of this house while they throw parties upstairs and swear they don’t hear the water drippin’ on our heads.”
She leans forward.
“You ask me what I thaink? I thaink Amerrca is finally lookin’ in the mirror and seein’ the face we been describin’ for four hunn-nit years. And baby, she don’t like what she see. She thought she was gon’ catch her reflection and see liberty, justice, and a fresh blowout.
Instead she see a tired, crusty empire with split ends and no edges.”
She waves her hand.
“And now she havin’ a tantrum. A big one. The kind an infant has when you tell ’nem they can’t eat glue.”
ME
I nod, because she’s not wrong. She’s never wrong. Mary Anne speaks like a woman who has already buried illusions and planted truth in their place.
“Where do you think it’s headed?” I ask.
She laughs — that deep, knowing, I’ve-seen-this-movie-before laugh.
MARY ANNE
“Oh, baby, Amerrca is headed exactly where it’s been drivin’: off a cliff it built for itself. But here’s the thaing: Black folks? We been wearin’ seatbelts since Reconstruction. We stay ready.
We stay watchin’. We stay buildin’ our own exits while they argue about who gets to hold the steering wheel.”
She pauses, softens.
“And me? I’m watchin’ my husband, my son, my people. I’m watchin’ us return to ourselves. That’s what scares ’nem. Not the chaos. Not the politics. Not the headlines. What scares ’nem is the possibility — the proof — that we don’t need their permission to live free.”
She sits back, satisfied.
“So what do I thaink about Amerrca today? I thaink she’s finally meetin’ the consequences she ordered. And I thaink we — the ones who been carryin’ the weight — we finally settin’ it down.”
She points at me.
“And you better write that down just like I said it.”
#KitchenTableReckoning #FlatAssCountryTruths #MaryAnneDontMiss
I sit across from her at that kitchen table she treats like a command center. Elbows planted. Eyes steady. Back straight like she’s holding up the whole damn roof with her spine. Emm is somewhere in the back, tinkering with something that probably doesn’t need tinkering. G is outside, laughing with the wind like he’s got a private contract with joy.
I click on my recorder.
“Mary Anne,” I say, “what do you think about what’s happening in America today?”
She doesn’t answer right away. She gives me that look — the one that says, Boy, you sure you ready for what’s about to come out my mouth? Then she exhales, slow and deliberate, like she’s releasing a century of unpaid emotional labor.
MARY ANNE
“R.L., lemme tell you somethin’ real quick, and I’ma say it plain so you don’t gotta run it through no translator later.
Amerrca? Baby, Amerrca is doin’ what Amerrca always do — showin’ its whole ass and then pretendin’ it’s the moon.”
She leans back, folds her arms, and her earrings swing like punctuation marks.
“This place ain’t confused. Peoples keep sayin’ ‘the country’s lost its way’ like it ever knew where it was goin’. No, shuga.
"Amerrca is a flat-ass country — flat in imagination, flat in courage, flat in moral fiber. Ain’t got no lift, no curve, no shape to its soul. Just straight-line foolishness from sea to shinin’ sea.”
She taps the table twice.
“And the wild part? They act like we s’posed to be srprized. Like we ain’t been livin’ in the basement of this house while they throw parties upstairs and swear they don’t hear the water drippin’ on our heads.”
She leans forward.
“You ask me what I thaink? I thaink Amerrca is finally lookin’ in the mirror and seein’ the face we been describin’ for four hunn-nit years. And baby, she don’t like what she see. She thought she was gon’ catch her reflection and see liberty, justice, and a fresh blowout.
Instead she see a tired, crusty empire with split ends and no edges.”
She waves her hand.
“And now she havin’ a tantrum. A big one. The kind an infant has when you tell ’nem they can’t eat glue.”
ME
I nod, because she’s not wrong. She’s never wrong. Mary Anne speaks like a woman who has already buried illusions and planted truth in their place.
“Where do you think it’s headed?” I ask.
She laughs — that deep, knowing, I’ve-seen-this-movie-before laugh.
MARY ANNE
“Oh, baby, Amerrca is headed exactly where it’s been drivin’: off a cliff it built for itself. But here’s the thaing: Black folks? We been wearin’ seatbelts since Reconstruction. We stay ready.
We stay watchin’. We stay buildin’ our own exits while they argue about who gets to hold the steering wheel.”
She pauses, softens.
“And me? I’m watchin’ my husband, my son, my people. I’m watchin’ us return to ourselves. That’s what scares ’nem. Not the chaos. Not the politics. Not the headlines. What scares ’nem is the possibility — the proof — that we don’t need their permission to live free.”
She sits back, satisfied.
“So what do I thaink about Amerrca today? I thaink she’s finally meetin’ the consequences she ordered. And I thaink we — the ones who been carryin’ the weight — we finally settin’ it down.”
She points at me.
“And you better write that down just like I said it.”
#KitchenTableReckoning #FlatAssCountryTruths #MaryAnneDontMiss
April 13, 2026
The Glorification of Stupidity
(A Love Letter to the Proudly Uninformed)
Somewhere between the 24-hour news cycle, the TikTokification of human attention, and whatever fresh nonsense is trending under the hashtag “Do Your Own Research” (which somehow never involves a book), the media has decided to reassure America that it is perfectly fine — encouraged, even — to know absolutely nothing.
Not a little nothing. Not a sprinkle of nothing. But a deep fried, slow roasted, honey glazed, generational nothing.
And y’all, they serving it hot.
Once upon a time, ignorance was something people tried to hide. You’d whisper it. You’d tuck it behind your church program. You’d nod along in the meeting and pray nobody asked you to define “infrastructure.”
But now? Oh, now ignorance has a publicist, a sponsorship deal, and a three episode arc on a favorite streaming platform.
Turn on the TV and watch a panel of people who couldn’t pass a fifth grade civics quiz if you spotted them the “civics” and the “quiz,” confidently explaining world events with the authority of somebody who once skimmed a meme. And the media — bless their closed little minds— nods along like, “Yes, Brenda, fascinating point about the Roman Empire being founded in 1987 by Mr. Rogers.”
Because the new American gospel is simple: “Don’t worry about being right. Just be loud.”
And the media loves loud. Loud gets clicks.
Loud gets ad revenue. Loud keeps the lights on. Loud is the new literacy.
You can see it in the interviews. A reporter will ask a man on the street, “Sir, what do you think about the economic implications of—” and before she can finish, he’s already explaining how the moon landing was filmed in a Costco parking lot by Beyoncé’s cousin.
And instead of saying, “Sir, that is not even in the same ZIP code as reality,” the reporter smiles like she’s hosting a kindergarten talent show and says, “Thank you for your perspective.”
Your perspective. As if facts are a buffet and you can just pick the ones that match your outfit.
And don’t get me started on the morning shows. They’ll bring on a guest whose entire résumé is “went viral once for mispronouncing ‘tsunami’” and ask them to weigh in on geopolitics.
Meanwhile, the actual experts — the people who have degrees, data, and working brain cells — are backstage eating stale muffins because the producers said they “weren’t relatable enough.”
Relatable. That’s the new qualification. Not informed. Not accurate. Not capable. Just relatable — which is code for “knows as little as the audience.”
And the audience? Oh, they eat it up like its peach cobbler at the repast. Because nothing soothes the insecure soul like being told, “Chile, you don’t need to learn anything. You’re perfect just the way you are — uninformed, uncurious, and unbothered.”
It’s the participation trophy of intellect.
But here’s the part that really makes my left eye twitch: the media doesn’t just tolerate stupidity. They glamorize it. They polish it. They put a ring light on it and give it a theme song. They turn it into a personality trait. They make it aspirational.
Suddenly, knowing things is “elitist.” Reading is “snobby.” Critical thinking is “negative energy.” And asking questions is “attacking someone’s truth.”
Someone’s truth. Not the truth. Their truth. As if truth is a Build A Bear workshop where you can stuff it with whatever nonsense makes you feel tall.
But here’s the real danger: when stupidity becomes a brand, ignorance becomes a weapon. And the people swinging it around don’t even know which end is sharp.
So yes, the media keeps reassuring peeps it’s alright not to know anything. But lemme tell you something with the full weight of a Black man who has seen too much and suffered no fools:
It is not alright. It is not cute. It is not harmless. And it is not sustainable.
Because a nation that glorifies stupidity eventually becomes governed by it. And once that happens, y’all, you won’t need the news to reassure you that you don’t know anything — the consequences will do that for you.
But until then, the cameras keep rolling. The lights stay bright. And the media keeps whispering sweet nothings into America’s ear:
“Shhh… don’t think. Just vibe.”
Somewhere between the 24-hour news cycle, the TikTokification of human attention, and whatever fresh nonsense is trending under the hashtag “Do Your Own Research” (which somehow never involves a book), the media has decided to reassure America that it is perfectly fine — encouraged, even — to know absolutely nothing.
Not a little nothing. Not a sprinkle of nothing. But a deep fried, slow roasted, honey glazed, generational nothing.
And y’all, they serving it hot.
Once upon a time, ignorance was something people tried to hide. You’d whisper it. You’d tuck it behind your church program. You’d nod along in the meeting and pray nobody asked you to define “infrastructure.”
But now? Oh, now ignorance has a publicist, a sponsorship deal, and a three episode arc on a favorite streaming platform.
Turn on the TV and watch a panel of people who couldn’t pass a fifth grade civics quiz if you spotted them the “civics” and the “quiz,” confidently explaining world events with the authority of somebody who once skimmed a meme. And the media — bless their closed little minds— nods along like, “Yes, Brenda, fascinating point about the Roman Empire being founded in 1987 by Mr. Rogers.”
Because the new American gospel is simple: “Don’t worry about being right. Just be loud.”
And the media loves loud. Loud gets clicks.
Loud gets ad revenue. Loud keeps the lights on. Loud is the new literacy.
You can see it in the interviews. A reporter will ask a man on the street, “Sir, what do you think about the economic implications of—” and before she can finish, he’s already explaining how the moon landing was filmed in a Costco parking lot by Beyoncé’s cousin.
And instead of saying, “Sir, that is not even in the same ZIP code as reality,” the reporter smiles like she’s hosting a kindergarten talent show and says, “Thank you for your perspective.”
Your perspective. As if facts are a buffet and you can just pick the ones that match your outfit.
And don’t get me started on the morning shows. They’ll bring on a guest whose entire résumé is “went viral once for mispronouncing ‘tsunami’” and ask them to weigh in on geopolitics.
Meanwhile, the actual experts — the people who have degrees, data, and working brain cells — are backstage eating stale muffins because the producers said they “weren’t relatable enough.”
Relatable. That’s the new qualification. Not informed. Not accurate. Not capable. Just relatable — which is code for “knows as little as the audience.”
And the audience? Oh, they eat it up like its peach cobbler at the repast. Because nothing soothes the insecure soul like being told, “Chile, you don’t need to learn anything. You’re perfect just the way you are — uninformed, uncurious, and unbothered.”
It’s the participation trophy of intellect.
But here’s the part that really makes my left eye twitch: the media doesn’t just tolerate stupidity. They glamorize it. They polish it. They put a ring light on it and give it a theme song. They turn it into a personality trait. They make it aspirational.
Suddenly, knowing things is “elitist.” Reading is “snobby.” Critical thinking is “negative energy.” And asking questions is “attacking someone’s truth.”
Someone’s truth. Not the truth. Their truth. As if truth is a Build A Bear workshop where you can stuff it with whatever nonsense makes you feel tall.
But here’s the real danger: when stupidity becomes a brand, ignorance becomes a weapon. And the people swinging it around don’t even know which end is sharp.
So yes, the media keeps reassuring peeps it’s alright not to know anything. But lemme tell you something with the full weight of a Black man who has seen too much and suffered no fools:
It is not alright. It is not cute. It is not harmless. And it is not sustainable.
Because a nation that glorifies stupidity eventually becomes governed by it. And once that happens, y’all, you won’t need the news to reassure you that you don’t know anything — the consequences will do that for you.
But until then, the cameras keep rolling. The lights stay bright. And the media keeps whispering sweet nothings into America’s ear:
“Shhh… don’t think. Just vibe.”
April 12, 2026
Delusion Don’t Love You Back, Bless His Heart
You ever watch somebody lie to themselves so blatantly you start checking the room for hidden cameras? I’m talking about delusion so dense you need a blowtorch and a union break just to get through it.
The kind of self deception that doesn’t try to be subtle: just loud, wrong, and struttin’ like it’s collected rent.
There’s a special sorrow in watching a grown person tryna convince themselves of something that ain’t never been true, ain’t true today, and wouldn’t be true even if you wrapped it in scripture and sprinkled holy water on it.
They stand there, chest puffed out like Billy-Bob from the gym, repeating the lie like they’re tryna hypnotize themselves into a new reality.
I knew somebody like that once.
I called him “Bless His Heart,” because that’s the emergency brake you pull when the truth is too tragic to say out loud.
Bless His Heart had a spiritual gift for delusion.
He could stare a fact dead in the face and tell it, “You don’t go here.” Reality could tap him on the shoulder, show two forms of ID, and he’d still squint like, “Never seen you before in my life.”
One day, Bless His Heart decided he was six foot three.
Now, this man was five seven on tiptoe, with ambition filling his socks. But he woke up, stretched, and declared, “I’m tall now.”
No growth spurt. No miracle. No medical breakthrough.
Just pure, uncut imagination.
And he committed.
“Us tall folks gotta stick together,” he’d say, like he was part of some secret society of giants.
Tall where? Tall how? Tall by what—emotional height? But he said it with such conviction you almost wanted to believe him.
Almost.
Until he tried to reach the top shelf and had to drag over a chair like a toddler stealing cereal.
But that’s delusion’s favorite trick: it don’t need proof, just persistence.
And Bless His Heart was his own hype man, choir, and street team.
Then came the cover up lies. “I’m not short,” he insisted. “The shelves are too high.” Sir, the shelves are regular. You the one operating at travel size.
But he doubled down, chin trembling under the weight of his own nonsense.
Lie number three: “People only think I’m short because they’re threatened by my presence.” Presence? The only thing threatening was the way he kept rearranging reality like it was a futon in a dorm room.
By lie number four, he had built a whole Marvel origin story. “My family is tall. My spirit is tall. My destiny is tall.” Meanwhile, his driver’s license was in his wallet screaming, “FIVE SEVEN, SIR.”
And that’s where the humor turns into heartbreak. Delusion ain’t funny when you realize its fear wearing a cheap wig.
Bless His Heart wasn’t lying to trick us. He was lying to protect himself. He couldn’t stand the idea that the world had measured him—literally—and he came up short. So he built a fantasy tall enough to hide inside.
People will choose a beautiful lie over an honest truth even when the lie is wobbling like a card table at a domino tournament—one wrong breath and the whole thing finna give out.
They cradle it, defend it, baptize it, swear by it. Because admitting the truth feels like falling. And falling feels like nobody will catch you.
But truth don’t negotiate. It don’t need your belief or your permission. Truth just is. And sooner or later, it shows up, taps you on the forehead, and says, “Move.”
Bless His Heart finally met the truth when he walked into a low doorway and didn’t duck.
Reality introduced itself with a thud.
And in that moment, he learned the gospel: you can lie to the world all day, but lying to yourself is just heartbreak with a return policy.
#DelusionAintDevotion
#TruthGotReceipts
#LiesLeaveYouLonely
The kind of self deception that doesn’t try to be subtle: just loud, wrong, and struttin’ like it’s collected rent.
There’s a special sorrow in watching a grown person tryna convince themselves of something that ain’t never been true, ain’t true today, and wouldn’t be true even if you wrapped it in scripture and sprinkled holy water on it.
They stand there, chest puffed out like Billy-Bob from the gym, repeating the lie like they’re tryna hypnotize themselves into a new reality.
I knew somebody like that once.
I called him “Bless His Heart,” because that’s the emergency brake you pull when the truth is too tragic to say out loud.
Bless His Heart had a spiritual gift for delusion.
He could stare a fact dead in the face and tell it, “You don’t go here.” Reality could tap him on the shoulder, show two forms of ID, and he’d still squint like, “Never seen you before in my life.”
One day, Bless His Heart decided he was six foot three.
Now, this man was five seven on tiptoe, with ambition filling his socks. But he woke up, stretched, and declared, “I’m tall now.”
No growth spurt. No miracle. No medical breakthrough.
Just pure, uncut imagination.
And he committed.
“Us tall folks gotta stick together,” he’d say, like he was part of some secret society of giants.
Tall where? Tall how? Tall by what—emotional height? But he said it with such conviction you almost wanted to believe him.
Almost.
Until he tried to reach the top shelf and had to drag over a chair like a toddler stealing cereal.
But that’s delusion’s favorite trick: it don’t need proof, just persistence.
And Bless His Heart was his own hype man, choir, and street team.
Then came the cover up lies. “I’m not short,” he insisted. “The shelves are too high.” Sir, the shelves are regular. You the one operating at travel size.
But he doubled down, chin trembling under the weight of his own nonsense.
Lie number three: “People only think I’m short because they’re threatened by my presence.” Presence? The only thing threatening was the way he kept rearranging reality like it was a futon in a dorm room.
By lie number four, he had built a whole Marvel origin story. “My family is tall. My spirit is tall. My destiny is tall.” Meanwhile, his driver’s license was in his wallet screaming, “FIVE SEVEN, SIR.”
And that’s where the humor turns into heartbreak. Delusion ain’t funny when you realize its fear wearing a cheap wig.
Bless His Heart wasn’t lying to trick us. He was lying to protect himself. He couldn’t stand the idea that the world had measured him—literally—and he came up short. So he built a fantasy tall enough to hide inside.
People will choose a beautiful lie over an honest truth even when the lie is wobbling like a card table at a domino tournament—one wrong breath and the whole thing finna give out.
They cradle it, defend it, baptize it, swear by it. Because admitting the truth feels like falling. And falling feels like nobody will catch you.
But truth don’t negotiate. It don’t need your belief or your permission. Truth just is. And sooner or later, it shows up, taps you on the forehead, and says, “Move.”
Bless His Heart finally met the truth when he walked into a low doorway and didn’t duck.
Reality introduced itself with a thud.
And in that moment, he learned the gospel: you can lie to the world all day, but lying to yourself is just heartbreak with a return policy.
#DelusionAintDevotion
#TruthGotReceipts
#LiesLeaveYouLonely
April 7, 2026
Info on The Murderacracy Vol 2
This story is a work of fiction inspired by desired events. All characters, characterizations, incidents, locations, and dialogue are fictionalized and resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.
The Murderacracy, Vol. 2: The Currency of Return, Copyright 2026. All rights reserved.
www.rlpitts.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Identifier: ISBN 979-8-218-94513-8
Names: R.L. Pitts
Title: The Murderacracy, Vol. 2: The Currency of Return
Description: First Edition
Subject: Fantasy, Science Fiction, Adventure, Suspense, Thriller
My books may be published in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact your local bookseller or rl@rlpitts.com.
First Edition 2026
Edited by Janice Pitts
The Murderacracy, Vol. 2: The Currency of Return, Copyright 2026. All rights reserved.
www.rlpitts.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Identifier: ISBN 979-8-218-94513-8
Names: R.L. Pitts
Title: The Murderacracy, Vol. 2: The Currency of Return
Description: First Edition
Subject: Fantasy, Science Fiction, Adventure, Suspense, Thriller
My books may be published in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact your local bookseller or rl@rlpitts.com.
First Edition 2026
Edited by Janice Pitts
Info on The Murderacracy Vol 2
This story is a work of fiction inspired by desired events. All characters, characterizations, incidents, locations, and dialogue are fictionalized and resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.
The Murderacracy, Vol. 2: The Currency of Return, Copyright 2026. All rights reserved.
www.rlpitts.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Identifier: ISBN 979-8-218-94513-8
Names: R.L. Pitts
Title: The Murderacracy, Vol. 2: The Currency of Return
Description: First Edition
Subject: Fantasy, Science Fiction, Adventure, Suspense, Thriller
My books may be published in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact your local bookseller or rl@rlpitts.com.
First Edition 2026
Edited by Janice Pitts
The Murderacracy, Vol. 2: The Currency of Return, Copyright 2026. All rights reserved.
www.rlpitts.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Identifier: ISBN 979-8-218-94513-8
Names: R.L. Pitts
Title: The Murderacracy, Vol. 2: The Currency of Return
Description: First Edition
Subject: Fantasy, Science Fiction, Adventure, Suspense, Thriller
My books may be published in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact your local bookseller or rl@rlpitts.com.
First Edition 2026
Edited by Janice Pitts
April 2, 2026
The Murderacracy, Vol 2, the Currency of Return eBook Giveaway
The doors are open. “The Currency” is moving. And starting right now, readers can enter the official Goodreads Giveaway for a FREE Kindle copy of The Murderacracy Vol. 2: The Currency of Return.
This volume is sharp, unflinching, and rooted in the truth telling tradition—satire as testimony, story as survival. If you’ve been waiting to step back into this world, here’s your chance to claim your copy on day one.
Go to the Goodreads Giveaways and look for "The Murderacracy, Vol 2, the Currency of Return".
This volume is sharp, unflinching, and rooted in the truth telling tradition—satire as testimony, story as survival. If you’ve been waiting to step back into this world, here’s your chance to claim your copy on day one.
Go to the Goodreads Giveaways and look for "The Murderacracy, Vol 2, the Currency of Return".
March 30, 2026
The Currency Is Moving Again — Come Get Your Portion
Family,
If you’ve ever walked with me through The Quest for Fruit, if you ever held your breath inside Of Fury and Faith, if you ever let The Murderacracy sit on your chest and rearrange your understanding of this country’s rituals of power — then hear me now.
The story ain’t done. The testimony ain’t finished.
And the return has finally come due.
For the next 30 days, Goodreads is hosting an e book giveaway for my newest release, The Murderacracy Vol. 2: The Currency of Return — and I want you in that number.
This volume brings back the B family — Emmanuel (Emm), Mary Anne, and young Gabriel, now twelve and carrying more memory than any child should — more than a decade after the Second Civil War, when the Nagga’s stood their ground against the Bills, the Dekes, and the Crits. The world they inherit is cracked, scorched, and still whispering.
But the B family has always known how to listen to the land, the ancestors, and the stories that refuses to stay buried.
This book is about what comes after the fire.
After the betrayal. After the nation shows you its teeth and expects you to smile back.
It’s about return — not the soft kind, not the sentimental kind, but the kind that demands you reckon with who you were, who you became, and who you refuse to be ever again.
If you’ve already read the earlier works, this is your continuation. If they’re still sitting on your shelf or your Kindle, waiting for the right moment — this is your sign to pick them back up and finish the journey.
And if you’re new to this world, welcome. The door is open, but the truth inside will ask something of you.
Enter the giveaway. Share it with someone who needs a story that doesn’t flinch. Let the Currency of Return find you.
Thank you for walking with me, for reading with intention, and for believing that stories — our stories — can still carve out space for dignity, resistance, and joy.
Let’s continue the adventure. Let’s return together.
— R.L. Pitts
If you’ve ever walked with me through The Quest for Fruit, if you ever held your breath inside Of Fury and Faith, if you ever let The Murderacracy sit on your chest and rearrange your understanding of this country’s rituals of power — then hear me now.
The story ain’t done. The testimony ain’t finished.
And the return has finally come due.
For the next 30 days, Goodreads is hosting an e book giveaway for my newest release, The Murderacracy Vol. 2: The Currency of Return — and I want you in that number.
This volume brings back the B family — Emmanuel (Emm), Mary Anne, and young Gabriel, now twelve and carrying more memory than any child should — more than a decade after the Second Civil War, when the Nagga’s stood their ground against the Bills, the Dekes, and the Crits. The world they inherit is cracked, scorched, and still whispering.
But the B family has always known how to listen to the land, the ancestors, and the stories that refuses to stay buried.
This book is about what comes after the fire.
After the betrayal. After the nation shows you its teeth and expects you to smile back.
It’s about return — not the soft kind, not the sentimental kind, but the kind that demands you reckon with who you were, who you became, and who you refuse to be ever again.
If you’ve already read the earlier works, this is your continuation. If they’re still sitting on your shelf or your Kindle, waiting for the right moment — this is your sign to pick them back up and finish the journey.
And if you’re new to this world, welcome. The door is open, but the truth inside will ask something of you.
Enter the giveaway. Share it with someone who needs a story that doesn’t flinch. Let the Currency of Return find you.
Thank you for walking with me, for reading with intention, and for believing that stories — our stories — can still carve out space for dignity, resistance, and joy.
Let’s continue the adventure. Let’s return together.
— R.L. Pitts
March 24, 2026
Preamble to the Constitution of Naima, The Murderacracy Vol 2 the Currency of Return
We, the descendants of the unbroken, the kin of rupture and resurrection, do establish Naima—not as a place found, but as a future reclaimed— rooted in truth, born of repair, carried forward on sovereign breath.
In the aftermath of silence, we choose voice. In the wreckage of erasure, we choose memory. Where chains once held, we build networks.
Where wealth was stolen, we circulate return.
Sockcoin flows not as charity, but as receipt— a ledger of what was owed and a blueprint of what will never be taken again.
We have outlived The Murderacracy— that regime of sanctioned loss, of systematized forgetting— and from its ash, we script a different grammar of power.
Here in Naima, the child is sacred, the elder is honored, and justice is a living practice, not a paused performance.
We remember the names. We rewrite the maps. We rise not above history but through it— braiding resistance, ritual, and relentless love into the fabric of every law, every line, every life.
This nation is not made by borders, but by the will to imagine freely, to govern with both grit and grace, and to dream so vividly our ancestors mistake it for home.
Let these words be read beneath open sky and carried by every child who dares to inherit more than survival.
We are the children of rupture and rebuild— descendants of the taken, now returned. We claim Naima not as refuge, but as rebuke— to the world that called our roots unworthy and the systems that profited off our delay.
We have outlived The Murderacracy— that empire of sanctioned death and dignified theft— and in its ruins we plant reparative seed.
We rise where blood once pooled in silence.
We rise where names were stolen and rewritten.
We rise not with apology, but with architecture. Sockcoin flows not as kindness, but as keystone— delivering to every descendant of bondage $300,000 that says: You were always worth more.
In Naima, we do not beg for dignity. We legislate it. We do not whisper history. We teach it loudly.
Here, justice is not performance—it is presence. The elder is shielded. The youth are held. The land is loved, and the dream is deliberate.
We are not a nation forged in vengeance.
We are a nation formed in knowing. Our laws braid ritual and rigor. Our freedom is not borrowed. It is coded, crafted, and complete.
Let this preamble ring wherever someone doubts their worth. Let it echo in courtrooms, classrooms, cryptographic vaults. Let it be etched in stone and spoken in streets.
Naima lives. And so do we.
In the aftermath of silence, we choose voice. In the wreckage of erasure, we choose memory. Where chains once held, we build networks.
Where wealth was stolen, we circulate return.
Sockcoin flows not as charity, but as receipt— a ledger of what was owed and a blueprint of what will never be taken again.
We have outlived The Murderacracy— that regime of sanctioned loss, of systematized forgetting— and from its ash, we script a different grammar of power.
Here in Naima, the child is sacred, the elder is honored, and justice is a living practice, not a paused performance.
We remember the names. We rewrite the maps. We rise not above history but through it— braiding resistance, ritual, and relentless love into the fabric of every law, every line, every life.
This nation is not made by borders, but by the will to imagine freely, to govern with both grit and grace, and to dream so vividly our ancestors mistake it for home.
Let these words be read beneath open sky and carried by every child who dares to inherit more than survival.
We are the children of rupture and rebuild— descendants of the taken, now returned. We claim Naima not as refuge, but as rebuke— to the world that called our roots unworthy and the systems that profited off our delay.
We have outlived The Murderacracy— that empire of sanctioned death and dignified theft— and in its ruins we plant reparative seed.
We rise where blood once pooled in silence.
We rise where names were stolen and rewritten.
We rise not with apology, but with architecture. Sockcoin flows not as kindness, but as keystone— delivering to every descendant of bondage $300,000 that says: You were always worth more.
In Naima, we do not beg for dignity. We legislate it. We do not whisper history. We teach it loudly.
Here, justice is not performance—it is presence. The elder is shielded. The youth are held. The land is loved, and the dream is deliberate.
We are not a nation forged in vengeance.
We are a nation formed in knowing. Our laws braid ritual and rigor. Our freedom is not borrowed. It is coded, crafted, and complete.
Let this preamble ring wherever someone doubts their worth. Let it echo in courtrooms, classrooms, cryptographic vaults. Let it be etched in stone and spoken in streets.
Naima lives. And so do we.
March 16, 2026
The Currency Is Returning: A Goodreads Call to the Brave, the Curious, and the Unsettled
There are books that entertain, books that distract, books that pass the time. And then—every so often—there comes a book that refuses to simply sit on a shelf.
A book that walks into the room like an elder with a story you will sit down and listen to. A book that carries the weight of memory, the sting of truth, and the stubborn hope of a people who have survived everything designed to erase them.
The Murderacracy Vol. 2: The Currency of Return by R.L. Pitts is that kind of book.
And as its release approaches, Goodreads readers are being invited into something more than a reading experience.
They’re being invited into a reckoning. A remembering. A return.
To mark this moment, there will be a 100-book giveaway—a gesture not of marketing, but of offering. Because some stories are too urgent to wait for permission, too necessary to hide behind a paywall, too alive to be rationed.
This is one of them.
A Story Whiteness Has Always Feared
In The Currency of Return, Pitts continues the saga of a people who refuse to be defined by the systems that profit from their containment.
This is a story about Black self-sufficiency—not the sanitized, slogan-ready version, but the raw, ancestral, bone-deep kind.
The kind that makes oppressive systems nervous. The kind that makes gatekeepers sweat. The kind that has always been met with surveillance, sabotage, and slander.
Because nothing terrifies a Murderacracy more than a Black community that remembers its own power.
Pitts writes with the clarity of someone who has seen the machinery up close. He writes with the authority of someone who has survived it. And he writes with the tenderness of someone who still believes in the possibility of return—not to what was, but to what was stolen.
This volume is not a sequel so much as a continuation of testimony. It is the next breath after the gasp. The next step after the stumble. The next chapter in a long, unfinished sermon.
Why This Book Matters Now
Goodreads readers know the difference between a book that entertains and a book that transforms. The Currency of Return is firmly in the latter category.
At a time when truth is contested, history is redacted, and Black life is still treated as a negotiable line item, Pitts offers a narrative that refuses to be domesticated. He names the systems. He exposes the patterns. He calls out the quiet violence that hides behind polite institutions.
But he also does something rarer: he imagines Black freedom not as metaphor, but as blueprint.
This is a novel that insists on possibility. It insists on dignity. It insists on the right of a people to define themselves without permission.
And in a world that keeps trying to shrink Black life into something manageable, Pitts writes expansively—like someone who knows that survival is not the same as living.
The Giveaway: An Invitation, not a Contest
The 100 book Goodreads giveaway is not a gimmick. It is an act of return in itself.
It says: This story belongs to the people who need it. This truth belongs to the ones who have lived it. This book belongs in the hands of readers who are ready to confront, question, and rise.
Whether you are a longtime follower of Pitts’ work or stepping into The Murderacracy for the first time, this giveaway is your chance to join a community of readers who understand that literature is not just entertainment—it is witness.
A Final Word to the Readers
If you are drawn to stories that tell the truth without trembling, this book is for you. If you believe fiction can be a form of resistance, this book is for you. If you carry the memory of a people who have always found a way to return—this book is already yours.
R.L. Pitts has written a novel that refuses to whisper. It speaks boldly, lovingly, and unapologetically to the descendants of survival and the students of justice.
And now, through this Goodreads giveaway, it speaks directly to you.
The Currency is returning. The question is—are you ready to receive it?
A book that walks into the room like an elder with a story you will sit down and listen to. A book that carries the weight of memory, the sting of truth, and the stubborn hope of a people who have survived everything designed to erase them.
The Murderacracy Vol. 2: The Currency of Return by R.L. Pitts is that kind of book.
And as its release approaches, Goodreads readers are being invited into something more than a reading experience.
They’re being invited into a reckoning. A remembering. A return.
To mark this moment, there will be a 100-book giveaway—a gesture not of marketing, but of offering. Because some stories are too urgent to wait for permission, too necessary to hide behind a paywall, too alive to be rationed.
This is one of them.
A Story Whiteness Has Always Feared
In The Currency of Return, Pitts continues the saga of a people who refuse to be defined by the systems that profit from their containment.
This is a story about Black self-sufficiency—not the sanitized, slogan-ready version, but the raw, ancestral, bone-deep kind.
The kind that makes oppressive systems nervous. The kind that makes gatekeepers sweat. The kind that has always been met with surveillance, sabotage, and slander.
Because nothing terrifies a Murderacracy more than a Black community that remembers its own power.
Pitts writes with the clarity of someone who has seen the machinery up close. He writes with the authority of someone who has survived it. And he writes with the tenderness of someone who still believes in the possibility of return—not to what was, but to what was stolen.
This volume is not a sequel so much as a continuation of testimony. It is the next breath after the gasp. The next step after the stumble. The next chapter in a long, unfinished sermon.
Why This Book Matters Now
Goodreads readers know the difference between a book that entertains and a book that transforms. The Currency of Return is firmly in the latter category.
At a time when truth is contested, history is redacted, and Black life is still treated as a negotiable line item, Pitts offers a narrative that refuses to be domesticated. He names the systems. He exposes the patterns. He calls out the quiet violence that hides behind polite institutions.
But he also does something rarer: he imagines Black freedom not as metaphor, but as blueprint.
This is a novel that insists on possibility. It insists on dignity. It insists on the right of a people to define themselves without permission.
And in a world that keeps trying to shrink Black life into something manageable, Pitts writes expansively—like someone who knows that survival is not the same as living.
The Giveaway: An Invitation, not a Contest
The 100 book Goodreads giveaway is not a gimmick. It is an act of return in itself.
It says: This story belongs to the people who need it. This truth belongs to the ones who have lived it. This book belongs in the hands of readers who are ready to confront, question, and rise.
Whether you are a longtime follower of Pitts’ work or stepping into The Murderacracy for the first time, this giveaway is your chance to join a community of readers who understand that literature is not just entertainment—it is witness.
A Final Word to the Readers
If you are drawn to stories that tell the truth without trembling, this book is for you. If you believe fiction can be a form of resistance, this book is for you. If you carry the memory of a people who have always found a way to return—this book is already yours.
R.L. Pitts has written a novel that refuses to whisper. It speaks boldly, lovingly, and unapologetically to the descendants of survival and the students of justice.
And now, through this Goodreads giveaway, it speaks directly to you.
The Currency is returning. The question is—are you ready to receive it?
