Texas Just Took the Most Savage
In a bold move to force absent lawmakers back to the Capitol, the Texas House just voted to revoke direct deposit access for the derelict Democrat members who fled the state. They will not receive their paychecks until they physically return to Texas grounds.
But that’s not all — each absent member is being charged $500 per day for every day they remain away. The fines are stacking up quickly, and frustration is boiling over in Austin.
This comes after weeks of political gridlock, with Democrats breaking quorum to block voting legislation. Texas leaders say enough is enough, and this latest measure is designed to hit where it hurts — their wallets.
The standoff has ignited fierce debate across the nation. Supporters say the lawmakers abandoned their duty and deserve the consequences. Critics claim the move is political retaliation.
One thing is certain: the longer they stay away, the bigger the bill they’ll face when they return.
Supreme Court OKs Trump Admin Deportations to South Sudan
The Supreme Court has cleared the path for the Trump administration to deport a group of immigrants held at a U.S. military base in Djibouti to South Sudan.
In a brief opinion issued on Friday, the justices affirmed that their prior order, which stayed a federal judge’s ruling in Massachusetts that had restricted the government’s ability to deport immigrants to countries not explicitly named in their removal orders, applies in full to the eight immigrants currently in U.S. custody in Djibouti.
The order came less than two weeks after the high court temporarily stayed a ruling by U.S. District Judge Brian Murphy, whose order barred the federal government from deporting immigrants to “third countries”—those not explicitly named in their removal orders—without first ensuring, through a series of safeguards, that the individuals would not face torture upon deportation.
Murphy’s May 21 ruling found that the government violated his April 18 order by attempting to deport eight men to South Sudan. The U.S. has evacuated all non-emergency personnel from South Sudan, and the State Department advises against travel there due to “crime, kidnapping, and armed conflict.”
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The flight carrying the immigrants bound for South Sudan instead landed in nearby Djibouti, where the men have since been held at a U.S. military base.
On May 27, the Trump administration appealed to the Supreme Court to stay Murphy’s April 18 order, seeking permission to proceed with “third country” removals while the legal battle over the practice unfolds.
U.S. Solicitor General D. John Sauer contended that Murphy’s “judicially created procedures are currently wreaking havoc on the third-country removal process” and “disrupt[ing] sensitive diplomatic, foreign policy, and national-security efforts.”
Lawyers representing the immigrants facing potential third-country removals urged the justices to uphold Murphy’s order. They emphasized that the government could still proceed with these deportations, but Murphy’s order “simply requires” the Trump administration “to comply with the law” in doing so.
Several hours after the Supreme Court responded to the Trump administration’s first request, made on June 23, Murphy then claimed that his May 21 order remained unaffected by the high court’s decision.
The Trump administration returned to the Supreme Court the following day, requesting that the justices clarify the federal government’s authority to proceed with deporting the immigrants currently held in Djibouti. Sauer urged the court to act swiftly to address what he called Murphy’s “unprecedented defiance” of the court’s authority.
In Thursday’s brief, an unsigned 7-2 opinion, the majority indicated that the court’s “June 23 order stayed the April 18 preliminary injunction in full. The May 21 remedial order cannot now be used to enforce an injunction that our stay rendered unenforceable.”
Two of the Supreme Court’s liberals, Justices Sonia Sotomayor and Ketanji Brown Jackson, dissented, while the third liberal, Justice Elena Kagan, sided with the court’s conservative majority.
She noted that she had previously disagreed with the Supreme Court’s original ruling permitting third-country removals to proceed. “But a majority of this court saw things differently, and I do not see how a district court can compel compliance with an order that this court has stayed,” she wrote.
The eight illegal immigrants include individuals from Cuba, Vietnam, and Laos, reports noted.
Sotomayor’s dissent contended that “[w]hat the Government wants to do, concretely, is send the eight noncitizens it illegally removed from the United States from Djibouti to South Sudan, where they will be turned over to the local authorities without regard for the likelihood that they will face torture or death.”
She argued that the court should not have considered the government’s request at all, as the government should have made its arguments in the lower courts first. Moreover, she suggested that the Supreme Court’s “continued refusal to justify its extraordinary decisions in this case, even as it faults lower courts for failing to properly divine their import, is indefensible.”
I FOUND A TODDLER BESIDE HER UNCONSCIOUS MOTHER - THEN I READ THE NOTE IN HER HAND
The rain on Highway 9 took the heat out of Marcus’s engine block before the metal could even cool down on its own.
It was two in the morning, the kind of wet, black night where the asphalt turns into a mirror reflecting nothing back except the yellow line split down the center. Marcus kept his hands firm on the handlebars of his ’98 Harley Electra Glide. The rumble between his knees was the only sound for ten miles in any direction, deep and steady, like a heavy iron pulse. His leather jacket was soaked through at the shoulders, heavy with rain that smelled of wet pine needles, exhaust, and cold dirt.
He wasn't riding toward anything. That was the point. When a man spends five years behind state walls and comes out to find the house he grew up in sold off for back taxes, he stops paying attention to street signs. He just rides until the gas light comes on, fills the tank with crumpled twenties earned from wrenching on diesel rigs, and rides until the road runs out of dry land.
Then the headlight beam caught the glint.
It wasn’t a deer’s eye or a reflector on a mail pole. It was a sharp, jagged flash of red plastic—a broken tail-light lens sitting in the middle of the northbound lane.
Marcus let off the throttle, the engine braking down to a low, rhythmic thrum. He swung the heavy bike toward the shoulder, his high beam cutting through the rain. Fifty yards down the embankment, where the steel guardrail ended near a concrete culvert, a silver sedan sat wedged sideways into the ditch. The front end was crumpled up like a crushed beer can, the hood buckled into a sharp V against a willow tree. Steam hissed off the radiator, mixing with the fog rising off the mud.
“Damn it,” Marcus muttered into his collar.
He pulled the Harley onto the gravel shoulder, clicked the kickstand down, and killed the ignition. Silence swallowed the road instantly, heavy and suffocating, broken only by the drip of rainwater off his helmet visor and the rhythmic tick-tick-tick of his cooling exhaust pipes.
He grabbed a heavy flashlight from his saddlebag, clicked it on, and slid down the muddy slope, his boots sinking two inches into the muck.
The driver’s side window was shattered into a spiderweb of safety glass, half caved inward. Marcus shone the beam inside.
A young woman sat slumped over the steering wheel. Her dark hair was wet, plastered across her forehead and cheek. A thin stream of blood had dried along her jawline, running down from a nasty gash near her temple. Her chest was rising and falling, but the breaths were shallow, rattling softly in her throat.
“Hey,” Marcus called out, pounding his fist against the rear door frame. “Hey! Can you hear me?”
She didn't move. Her fingers were still locked around the rim of the steering wheel, her knuckles white and stiff. Marcus reached through the broken glass, feeling for the pulse at her neck. It was there—racing, weak, but steady.
Then he heard the sound.
It wasn't a cry or a scream. It was a tiny, wet hitch of breath coming from the tall grass six feet behind the rear bumper.
Marcus spun the flashlight around, the white beam cutting across the weeds.
Sitting in the mud, half-shielded by the rear wheel well, was a child.
She couldn't have been more than two years old. She wore a bright pink quilted jacket covered in mud splatters, little yellow rubber boots, and had tufts of fine blond hair sticking up in the rain. She wasn't crying. Her eyes were impossibly wide, dark brown, and completely fixed on the flashlight beam. She sat perfectly still in the freezing mud, shivering so hard her teeth clicked together like small stones.
“Jesus,” Marcus breathed.
He dropped to his knees in the mud, bringing himself down to her level. He killed the bright center beam of the flashlight, aiming it at the ground so he wouldn't blind her.
“Hey there, little bit,” Marcus said. His voice was low, gravelly, unused to talking softly. It sounded like two river rocks grinding together. “You okay?”
The little girl didn't shrink back. She didn't move at all. She just stared at him through the rain, her small chest heaving inside the pink coat.
In her right hand, pressed tight against her stomach, she was clutching a piece of paper. It was torn from a yellow legal pad, folded into a tight, damp square, her tiny mud-stained fingers locked around it like a vise.
Marcus reached out slowly, keeping his big, calloused hands where she could see them. He smelled of tobacco, wet leather, and old motor oil, but the girl didn't pull away.
“Let me see that, kiddo,” Marcus said softly.
He gently touched her fingers. They were ice cold. He pried them back carefully, taking the wet yellow paper from her grip. She let it go without a sound, her eyes never leaving his face.
Marcus unpinned his leather jacket, pulled the girl out of the mud, and tucked her straight inside against his wool-lined vest. She was so light she felt like a bundle of wet clothes. The moment her face hit the warmth of his chest, she buried her nose into his flannel shirt and stayed dead silent.
Holding her tight with his left arm, Marcus unfolded the wet paper with his thumb and forefinger. The ink was smeared by raindrops, written in a frantic, slanted hand that dug deep into the paper.
The first line made his heart hit his ribs like a hammer.
To whoever finds my daughter.
Marcus squinted through the drizzle, holding the paper under the beam of his light.
Her name is Lily. She is two years old. My name is Clara Mitchell. If you are reading this, I am either dead or they have found us. I have no family left. No mother, no father, no one to call. There is no one to protect her. Please do not give her to the state. Please do not let Thomas find her. I am begging you, stranger, whoever you are—keep her safe. Take the bag in the trunk. Take everything inside it. Just keep my baby safe.
Marcus read the lines twice. The ink bled into the yellow paper as the rain fell over his wrist.
He looked down at his chest. Lily’s small head was tucked under his chin now, her body trembling against his heartbeat.
From up on the highway, the distant whine of an engine cut through the night.
Marcus froze. He didn't turn his flashlight toward the road. He stayed down in the dark of the ditch, listening.
A heavy black pickup truck crested the hill, moving slowly. It didn't have its high beams on. It drifted along the shoulder, its engine idling low and greasy. As it passed the spot where Marcus’s Harley was parked, the truck slowed almost to a crawl. A spotlight mounted near the driver’s side mirror swept over the gravel, flicked down into the ditch for a second, and then moved on.
The truck didn't stop. It accelerated into the dark, its red tail-lights disappearing around the bend toward the state line.
Marcus looked back at the smashed silver sedan, then down at the yellow paper in his fist, and finally at the little girl trembling inside his coat.
The quiet on the highway felt different now. It didn't feel empty anymore. It felt like a trap.
