🧨 EPISODE 3: THE RAID THEY SWEAR WAS “ROUTINE”

There’s something uniquely nauseating about watching a state government pretend that a full‑blown law‑enforcement raid on an election office is just another day at the office. Like, “Oh don’t mind us, we’re just here with tactical vests and evidence boxes because we suddenly remembered we care about chain of custody.” Sure. And I suddenly remembered I enjoy CrossFit.

Let’s talk about Georgia, because of course it’s Georgia. The state that has turned election administration into a contact sport. The state where the phrase “routine procedure” now means “we brought enough armed personnel to film a mid‑budget Netflix thriller.” The state where the Secretary of State’s office can’t decide if it wants to run elections or reenact them with live ammunition.

So picture this:
It’s a Tuesday morning in Fulton County. The kind of morning where the biggest crisis should be that the office Keurig is clogged again. Election workers are doing what they always do — the unglamorous, untelevised, absolutely essential work of keeping democracy from collapsing under the weight of its own paperwork.

And then the door swings open and in comes a swarm of law enforcement like they’re raiding a cartel warehouse. Boxes. Gloves. Flashlights. The whole “CSI: Voter Fraud” starter kit. Except there’s no crime scene. No evidence of wrongdoing. No reason for any of this except the one they’ll never say out loud: intimidation works best when it looks official.

And then — because this whole thing wasn’t surreal enough — in the corner of the hallway, trying to blend into the wall like a raccoon in a trench coat, is Tulsi Gabbard. Hat pulled low. Jacket zipped up. The posture of someone who knows damn well she shouldn’t be there but is hoping no one recognizes her because she’s doing that thing where she pretends she’s just “observing.” Observing what? Democracy being kneecapped? A photo op for the next time she needs to prove her loyalty to the regime? A chance to cosplay as a spy in a B‑movie no one asked for?

Election workers saw her. Reporters saw her. Hell, the janitor saw her. And every single person had the same reaction:
Why the hell is she here?

But that’s the point, isn’t it?
The coup doesn’t just want to raid the office.
It wants to send a message.
It wants to say:
“We’re watching you. We’re above you. We can walk into your workplace with badges and cameras and political operatives and you can’t do a damn thing about it.”

And what did they take?
Everything.
Computers. Hard drives. USB sticks. Boxes of absentee ballot envelopes. The office’s entire 2024 chain‑of‑custody logs. A stack of provisional ballot forms. A binder labeled “Training Materials” that one officer held like it was radioactive. They even took the damn Sharpies — which, frankly, feels like performance art at this point.

When asked what they were looking for, one official muttered something about “irregularities,” which is the political equivalent of saying “vibes.” Another said they were “following up on a tip,” which is code for “someone’s cousin’s Facebook post got forwarded to the wrong person.” And the sheriff’s spokesperson gave the most honest answer of all:
“We can’t comment on an ongoing investigation.”
Translation:
“We don’t have anything, but we’re sure as hell not going to admit that.”

Meanwhile, the workers — the people who actually know how elections function — were left standing outside the building like evacuees from a natural disaster. One of them told a reporter, “I’ve never seen anything like this in twenty years.” Another said, “If they wanted to ask us questions, they could’ve just asked.” A third said, “I’m not coming back after this.” And that’s the one that should make every alarm bell in the country go off.

Because that’s the goal.
Not justice.
Not oversight.
Not accountability.
Fear.
Fear so thick you can taste it.
Fear so heavy it drives out the people who know what they’re doing.
Fear so corrosive it hollows out the system from the inside.

And the coup crowd knows exactly what happens next:
You raid the office.
You smear the workers.
You leak just enough to make it sound sinister.
You never file charges.
You never apologize.
You never correct the record.
You just let the suspicion rot.

And then — when the next election rolls around — you point to the rot you created and say,
“See? The system is broken. We need to take control.”

This wasn’t a raid.
It was a rehearsal.
A stress test.
A warning shot fired directly into the heart of election administration.

And if you think they’re done, you haven’t been paying attention.