Sounds like fiction, doesn’t it? Something out of Stalin’s playbook. But this is the real-life horror show playing out in the land of deep-dish pizza, machine politics, and corrupt judges who smile as they trample the Constitution. Steve Fanady is rotting in the Cook County Jail, now entering his fourth year, not because he broke the law, but because two vindictive ex-wives want a luxury retirement they didn’t earn. And a bunch of hack judges are more than happy to oblige. Fanady has no history of violence. What he does have is a beautiful young daughter who misses him dearly and a target painted on his back. You see, years ago, Fanady lived somewhat large. Nice home, serious income, the kind of lifestyle that makes divorce lawyers drool. Now he’s flat broke, burned by endless legal fees, and being punished for money he doesn’t have. Money that exists only in the imaginations of greedy ex-spouses, delusional lawyers and judges. A trial judge actually guessed that Fanady had millions...

  Forget the fairy tales of six-shot or less showdowns. We’re long past that. Today’s shootouts often involve dozens of fired rounds. Just flip on the news and look at the crime scene photos. Those yellow markers next to all those shell casings? That’s modern reality. The much-hyped 9mm round? Overrated. It’s everywhere, sure, but don’t fool yourself into thinking you’ll get a clean, one-shot stop. You won’t. The only smart answer is to carry a dependable semi-automatic pistol and carry it with at least two spare magazines. I don’t recommend those oversized, awkward extended mags. They get in the way and can screw up your draw or your aim. Instead, practice fast and clean magazine changes until they’re second nature. Now let’s talk about what happens in the dark. You need a compact, high-lumen flashlight. Not to fumble for your keys, but to blind and disorient a potential threat before they can close the gap. Darkness is the predator’s playground—don’t let it become your grave. ...

If you know me, you know this. I live for cameras. Big ones, small ones, hidden ones. They’re expensive, unforgiving, and absolutely essential to doing this job right. Use them correctly, and you’re a star. Use them wrong, or worse, not at all and you’re just another hack with a license. Let me hit you with two hard truths: 1. The best camera is the one in your hand. 2. The worst photo is the one you didn’t take. You’ve got a miracle of technology sitting in your pocket—your smartphone. But like most people, you barely use it. And when you do, you shoot vertical video like a teenage TikTok addict. Knock it off. We live in a widescreen world. Your phone shoots 16:9 for a reason. Want your footage to look professional, not pathetic? Turn that damn phone sideways. No one needs ten feet of floor and a ceiling fan in the shot. Legal Landmines Before you start playing James Bond, don’t be a dumbass. Never, ever record in places where there’s a reasonable expectation of privacy. Bathro...

When the Volstead Act was finally repealed, Americans were told that the nightmare was over and liquor could once again flow from taps across the land. That’s the official story. The truth? The liquor never stopped flowing. The only thing that really changed was the sudden drop in gunfire between rival bootlegger gangs. With Prohibition’s end, the blood-soaked streets of Chicago and Kansas City quieted. Peace—however tenuous—returned. But Congress wasn’t satisfied. They were spooked by years of gangland carnage and wanted a silver bullet to make sure it never happened again. They knew they couldn’t outright ban guns. The Second Amendment was still standing in their way like a stone fortress. So they pulled a sneaky, unconstitutional end-run: The National Firearms Act of 1934. This wasn’t legislation. It was sabotage. They created a backdoor registration scheme, tied to a brutal $200 tax—a small fortune during the Great Depression—on items like machine guns, silencers, short-barreled...

I’ve spent decades around principled, conservative Americans who love the Constitution and cherish liberty. At some gatherings, people show films and clips tracing our nation’s founding, exposing early financial corruption, and detailing how control of our monetary system shifted from public to private hands. There’s some disturbing truth in that history, no question. But where the movement veers off the rails is in its legal fantasyland, a place no court in this country takes seriously. Despite the slick rhetoric and seductive promise of freedom from taxes, licenses, and legal responsibility, the cold truth is this: the courts have repeatedly shut down these theories. Every time. Let’s talk names. Winston Shrout, one of the movement’s more vocal figureheads, was convicted in 2017 of issuing fake financial instruments — worthless documents he claimed could discharge debts. He’s now doing ten years in federal prison. Heather Ann Tucci-Jarraf, a former attorney turned sovereign adher...

There’s no doubt anymore. Wednesday night’s bloodbath outside the Artis Lounge on Chicago Avenue wasn’t random. It was a hit. And the primary target appears to have been Mello Buckzz, real name Melanie Doyle, and her boyfriend Devonte Terrell Williamson, 23, who was among the four killed when gunmen opened fire into a crowd of mostly women. Eighteen people were shot. Four are dead. But this wasn’t just senseless violence. This was a music industry beef that ended the way too many of them do in blood. In Chicago’s underground rap scene, egos are bigger than the paychecks, and everyone with a SoundCloud link thinks they’re the next mogul. Look around and you’ll find promoters, producers, and self-declared A&Rs who model themselves after Suge Knight, and not in a good way. They want power. They want control. And sometimes, they want revenge. The rap world has long been haunted by the shadows of men like Suge, think of Irv Gotti, Birdman, Big Meech, and others who blurred the lines b...

Another bloodbath exploded in the heart of Chicago’s so-called “River North”,   not exactly a war-torn country, but you wouldn’t know it from the body count. Eighteen people shot. Four are dead. And once again, the media tiptoes around the real issue like it’s made of glass. This isn’t about skin color. It’s about a toxic, self-destructive culture that’s been coddled, glorified, and excused for far too long. Politicians won’t touch it. Journalists won’t name it. And until someone grows a spine and calls it what it is, we’ll just keep counting bodies. Here’s the scene: a group of mostly women was gathered outside the Artis Lounge at 311 W. Chicago Ave., fresh off a rapper party. Suddenly, a dark SUV rolls up. Gunmen open fire into the crowd like it’s open season. Screams, chaos, bodies hitting the pavement. Blood everywhere. Mello Buckzz,  real name Melanie Doyle was apparently the host of this glamorous disaster. Her boyfriend and best friend are among the dead. That doesn’...