The January 6 Rioters Have Suffered Enough

The misunderstood heroes of America deserve all our love and compassion.

Image: Joel Marklund/ZUMA

by Rich Herschlag

Though few if any Americans have noted the irony, in the short time since the January 6 insurrectionists were summarily released we’ve watched and listened as leftwing politicians, pundits, and ordinary citizens piled on in much the same way these rioters piled on to police officers on that fateful day. Not long after the release I had an epiphany.

The January 6 rioters are the new refugees. And they have suffered enough. While we on the center-left talk a good game when it comes to refugees across the globe, where are we when organically grown refugees are right here on the soil we call home? That is why my wife and I made the decision to go against the grain and open our doors to these misunderstood returning heroes.

A few phone calls and dark web emails later we welcomed our first rioter. Meeting our five-foot-nine, 248-lb bundle of joy was a thrill to be compared only to that of welcoming our first born so many years ago. While I’m not at liberty to divulge his name, I will say he’s from a Midwestern state, sports a variety of endearing SS tattoos, and sometimes answers to the nickname “Zeke.”

Admittedly the first few days were a bit rough. We offered Zeke a choice between the two empty nest bedrooms and he took the one with the loft bed and the old stereo. In less than 24 hours our younger daughter’s wall of high school band camp memories was covered by a large confederate flag, and her dresser carved up with what seemed like a thousand little swastikas implemented with an army knife. Zeke took care to defecate writ large right on my daughter’s oak desk and post photos of the event to various social media. Worse still, Kid Rock tunes were blasting from the room at three AM after we had made it abundantly clear this was a work night.

Around four in the morning I finally made a point of going in there to discuss any potential conflict and was met with bear spray to the face, a TASER to the chest, and a swift jackboot kick to the groin. In and out of consciousness, I could nonetheless see Zeke was vaping up a storm and I was not happy.

The next few days were ones of intense reflection and soul-searching for both me and my better half. Here we were, with apparently the best of intentions trying to make the Golden Rule a living, breathing partner in our lives, yet failing miserably. Writhing in misery in the back of an ambulance to an ER visit for which the deductible would hurt almost as much as the life-threatening injuries themselves, I wondered whether I was just kidding myself. How on earth could I have convinced myself that simply providing a victim of one of the greatest ever American catastrophes with a roof over his head, five thousand dollars cash, a freezer full of barbeque, a burner phone, and a loaded AR-15 with bump stock was sufficient to address what Zeke has been through? It was as if I was simply trying to buy a few patriotic brownie points—a cheap feather in a liberal’s MAGA cap.

From that moment on I was truly a changed man. No longer complacent to post on Truth Social that I had “done my share,” I started leaning in and looking inward. It began with an internet search that led me to a virtual trove of information about “reverse post-traumatic stress disorder.” RPTSD is a real thing and is almost always overlooked by attending physicians, well meaning social workers, cowering family members, jaded politicians, and ex-girlfriends seeking an order of protection. It turns out the “assailant” is at least as vulnerable to RPTSD as the “victim.”

In this insidious case, for every whack with a flagpole to the head of an officer, Zeke suffered a symmetrical impact to his sense of well being and spiritual equilibrium. For every spray of Mace down the esophagus of a person in blue, Zeke swallowed an array of unsettling memories that would prevent him from ever again getting eleven consecutive hours of sound sleep. For every crush of a large armored security door upon the beleaguered frame of a public servant, Zeke felt the window of opportunity closing on his own noble ambitions to one day lead his own well disciplined militia.

Thoroughly chastened, I vowed henceforth never to withhold from Zeke or for that matter any strange burly hairy Kevlar-vested visitor in the middle of the night my complete cache of personal resources. For starters, my wife agreed without reservation to at least begin making up for the dreadful absence of conjugal visits during the horrific four-and-a-half months Zeke served in a low security federal prison with full access to Netflix, Amazon Prime, Hulu, and a dozen other premium streaming platforms. Though some of the carnal screams through the paper thin 1970s Cape Cod stud walls I shared with Zeke and my bride were on occasion jarring on a night when I had to get up at the crack of dawn to file in person for Zeke’s full January 6 survivor’s benefits, I reminded myself of the limitless goodwill shown throughout history by towering figures such as Paul the Apostle, Saint Francis of Assisi, and Mike Lindell.

I knew also with the certainty of someone too long sheltered from the exploits of the bold and the brave how unfair it was to hold Zeke hostage one more day without the benefit of wheels he could truly call his own. While I admit to experiencing a moment of sticker shock when signing the vehicle purchase agreement for Zeke’s new 2025 Ford F-250, these foolish misgivings quickly evaporated as he exited the dealership straight through a large plate glass window. Through the sounds of 10,000 shards hitting the showroom floor and Zeke’s demonic yet infectious laugh, I felt for what was probably the first time in my heretofore pintsized life that I had finally given back something to the country that has given me so much.

Filled with the Spirit, I vowed not to rest on my laurels. It turned out I needed not only to seamlessly transfer to Zeke all my worldly possessions, but to work on myself. A friend introduced me to a 12-step program for the hosts of freed Capitol rioters. One—I admitted I was powerless over Donald Trump. Two—I came to believe that only a power greater than myself—Donald Trump—could restore me to patriotism. Three—I made a decision to turn my will and my life over to the care of Donald Trump as I understand him. Four—I humbly asked Donald Trump to remove all my remaining assets in exchange for some of his cryptocurrency. You get the idea.

These days I am homeless and living in the kind of men’s shelter that but for the grace of Trump, Zeke might have ended up in. My wife is pregnant with Zeke’s satanic child, which at our age is a miracle of Biblical proportions. She dutifully knits Proud Boys emblems and black hoods while in the next room Zeke, Stewart Rhodes, and some of the other indefatigable Oath Keepers plot the kidnapping of Governor Josh Shapiro.

Although my various gestures of kindness have ranged from the mundane (upping our Wi-Fi plan) to the perilous (I had never buried a human body before, let alone in my own front yard), I know at the same time that through abject submission to the whims of others greater than myself I have finally achieved the kind of notoriety and stature in my community I could never have attained by adhering to what was once referred to as “the law.” Today I answer to a Higher Law. A Higher Authority. And though the state charges against me now pending are something many might consider to be quite serious, my hopes, dreams, and prayers seek out a destiny greater than and well beyond this mortal coil—a pardon.

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