Ourland

“He [Kash Patel] wrote three ‘Plot Against the King’ children’s books, allegorical tales in which Kash the Wizard heroically leads a battle on behalf of King Donald to identify the bad guys who were scheming to elect Hillary Queenton on Choosing Day. The books, he said, teach ‘the importance of service, mission, and faith.’” – from an article in The New Yorker, November 2025

Part Two of the Ingenious Gentleman 
Kash Quixote of Garden City
Chapter VIII

Regarding the good fortune of the valorous Kash Quixote in the fearful and never imagined sally of thwarting election fraud, along with other vomitous events worthy of joyful remembrance.

As they were walking, Kash Quixote and his faithful squire, Sancho Panza, came across two elderly friars leading a horsedrawn carriage down a rocky path toward a town in which several voting stations had been erected for Choosing Day, a contentious national event that Kash Quixote, in his infinite wisdom, had snuffed out as rigged in favor of Hillary Queenton, for he was steadfastly true and just in his manner, and always, as they say, did his own research. Presently a strong gust of wind blew through the forest and flung open the canvas door of the carriage, revealing the form of a person who, to Kash Quixote’s discerning eyes, appeared to be of Mexican descent. The minority’s presence raised the ire of our fearless hero, for in that very instant he was convinced he understood the friars’ motives for keeping the gentleman hidden inside of the carriage, and in the name of the Great King Donald he so infinitely revered, this curious man, whose sidekick had given the reputable title of Patriot of the Bulging Eyes, would not stand for such deplorable schemes.

“Follow my lead, dear Sancho,” said Kash Quixote. “For I have read the exalted tomes of Q’Anon and listened to Steve Bannon’s ‘War Room’ podcast until my ears have leaked spinal fluid, and through these mediums I have absorbed and digested to the point of excretion the vital nutrients necessary to become a legendary patriot errant!” 

Sancho Panza was consistently impressed, if not a bit confounded, by his master, for during the three days he had been enlisted as his unwavering chum, Sancho had never encountered a man so pious and informed in the ways of so-called patriotism, yet so startlingly inept at carrying out the pillars of his beloved ideology. That chasm, in Sancho Panza’s view, was endlessly perplexing, for just the previous day, Kash Quixote’s horse, Rocihegseth, lapped up a substantial amount mead that Sancho Panza had spilled and broke free of his reins, galloping to a nearby pasture, determined to mate with a mare who was standing idly and chewing her cud. This well-bred mare was owned by a group of harmless-looking old friars, and shortly after Rocihegseth lustfully mounted the frightened female stead, the friars, who no longer seemed quite so harmless, bludgeoned Rocihegseth senseless with their walking canes. This prompted Kash Quixote to rise to the defense of his loyal and incapacitated mount, but our fearless leader, being vastly outnumbered, was vigorously pummeled to a pulpy mess by the cane-wielding friars, who were much more heavy-handed than our hero was expecting. This violent incident was just one of the umpteen beatings the Patriot of the Bulging Eyes had suffered over the previous 72 hours, so Sancho Panza, who’d witnessed his master making a 16th-century ass of himself with impressive regularity, could hardly be blamed for his hesitancy when Kash Quixote implored him to follow as he approached the two friars and their carriage, a move that, in Sancho Panza’s view, would lead to almost certain demise.

Sancho Panza was consistently impressed, if not a bit confounded, by his master, for during the three days he had been enlisted as his unwavering chum, Sancho had never encountered a man so pious and informed in the ways of so-called patriotism, yet so startlingly inept at carrying out the pillars of his beloved ideology.

“Forgive me, your grace, if I am ignorant in the ways of patriotism,” said Sancho Panza. “But what issue do we take with these innocent-seeming friars?”

“You should talk less and listen more,” Kash Quixote said, annoyed at his subordinate’s inability to grasp the importance of the mission. “And above all else, mirror your master’s lead.” 

Kash Quixote, whose muscles were still throbbing from the previous day’s beating, spurred Rocihegseth forward to intercept the carriage that he knew, with the conviction of a conspiracy theorist, was moving toward the towns’ voting booths with malicious intent. The great patriot unsheathed his broadsword and dramatically flung it over his head in an uncoordinated attempt to punctuate the words he was about to utter, which were as follows:

“Halt there! I am the great Kash Quixote of Garden City, and it is my duty as a patriot errant to roam the countryside as an obedient protector of the honorable King Donald, exemplifying and enforcing, through reckless violence and aggression, the virtues of service, mission, and faith. As such, I demand that you reveal who you are hiding in your dubious little carriage there, and also to explain your motives for heading to town on this immensely consequential Choosing Day, for all patriots errant worth their salt know that a widespread plot against the king is afoot!”

The two friars looked quizzically at Kash Quixote, as if they were encountering the village drunkard, or some slobbering lunatic who’d just escaped from the nearby asylum. 

“Who did you say you are again?” the eldest friar asked. 

The foremost patriot in all the land rolled his bulging eyes and scoffed, then said: “I shall repeat myself once more, but not again: I am Kash Quixote of Garden City, and I have been sent here by his orangeness, King Donald, to ensure that the sanctity of Choosing Day remains intact. I demand that you reveal the person hidden there in your rather conspicuous-looking carriage!” 

The friars glanced at each other and shrugged. They saw no reason to shield their human luggage from the lunatic demanding to see it, for it was in their honest opinion that they had nothing to hide, and if the history of the account relayed to me is accurate, were genuinely unaware that Choosing Day was even taking place on this fateful afternoon. The older-looking friar stepped forward and uttered these words:

“Your curiously wide-eyed honor,” he said, gently pulling back the canvas opening of the carriage. “We have no desire to participate in Choosing Day, in fact, we were unaware that such an event was even being held today. We are merely taking this man, our friend, Mr. Lopez, to the doctor, for he broke his leg while constructing a home for his wife and two children.”

Kash Quixote saw that there was, indeed, a man of seemingly Mexican descent lying inside of the carriage, but he refused to look any closer at the injury, for he felt that he had obtained all the  necessary evidence to incriminate the two elderly friars, who must’ve been pushing 90 years old, on the totally imagined charge of being unpatriotic traffickers of illegal humans.

“Have you snuck him across the border from the Badlands to the South?” Kash Quixote asked. “For it is my belief, or better yet my knowledge, that illegals are being funneled into this country in a pathetic attempt to increase the number of votes for the nasty, evil, and quite frankly, fugly Hillary Queenton.” 

“Sir,” the bald friar said, his liver-spotted brow reddening. “We only desire to take this man, who is a verified citizen of this great land, to the doctor. For his leg, as I hope you can see, has assumed the shape of a slithering serpent, on account of the injury.” 

Kash Quixote glanced into the carriage and saw that the leg was, in fact, floppy as a snake, and the sight of such a grotesque disfigurement caused history’s most infamous patriot errant, who was notably weak-stomached, to expel the contents of his tummy down the side of Rocihegseth. Sancho Panza, seeing such a vile concoction erupt from his master’s esophagus, followed suit, blowing thick chunks into the mane of the jackass on top of which he sat. This vomitous cacophony sent Rocihegseth into an frightened panic, for the horse had never heard such horrendously guttural noises in all of his short life, and also because he was still slightly hungover from the mead he’d lapped up the previous day. The dehydrated and bleary-eyed horse sprinted frantically ahead, and in short order slammed headlong into the sturdiest oak in the forest, sending The Patriot of the Wide-Eyes tumbling to the stiff ground below like a sack of rotten onions, where he landed on his back with a THUMP that forced all of the air out of his lungs. The elderly friars looked at one another in astonished amusement, as the now potentially injured and bile-covered middle-aged man writhed around in the dirt, moaning and wheezing like a terminally ill geriatric on the verge of departing this mortal coil. 

If there’s one thing this narrator has learned while compiling this blatantly true history of Kash Quixote, it’s that this particular patriot errant was never one to allow a small setback, such as vomiting on himself then falling off a horse, to dampen the overwhelming sense of duty he felt to impose King Donald’s version of truth and justice upon every helpless fool who happened to cross his blighted path.

If there’s one thing this narrator has learned while compiling this blatantly true history of Kash Quixote, it’s that this particular patriot errant was never one to allow a small setback, such as vomiting on himself then falling off a horse, to dampen the overwhelming sense of duty he felt to impose King Donald’s version of truth and justice upon every helpless fool who happened to cross his blighted path. Or, to put it another way, this Patriot of the Bulging Eyes never once considered, not even in his rare and fleeting instances of mental clarity, that giving up might be the wise thing to do. Call it courage, call it foolishness, or call it some combination of the two, but it was this undying sense of purpose that motivated the honorable and certainly concussed Kash Quixote to pull himself off of the forest floor, and after wiping the viscous puke from a busted lip he’d incurred from the fall, drowsily unsheathed his broadsword and proceeded to slur the following words in the general direction of the increasingly-entertained friars:

“Clever that you would break this man’s leg in an attempt to elicit pity within my soul. But I shall have no pity for this deception, for empathy is a fallacy and quite possibly illusory, and I will do everything within my power to uphold the inalienable truths of his majesty King Don –”

But before Kash Quixote could finish his inspirational monologue, the eldest friar whacked him in the face with a cane with such force that the patriot errant spit out two of his teeth and instantly lost consciousness, collapsing on the ground in a motionless heap. Sancho Panza, seeing the sad state to which his wise master had been reduced, moved valiantly and erroneously atop his jackass toward the deceptively potent friars. The old men made quick work of him, incapacitating his jackass with a swift thwack to one of its knees, causing Sancho Panza to tumble to the ground next to his battered and unconscious master. The two friars, whose skin was so wrinkled that one could’ve reasonably considered them already deceased, proceeded to rain blows upon a helpless Sancho with such vigor that he, too, descended into the realm of the comatose.

The uncommonly testy old gentlemen didn’t stop there, offended as they were by the affront and inconvenience dealt to them by Kash Quixote, whom they were now convinced was an absolute madman who had most certainly escaped from the asylum. So for the better part of 15 minutes, the friars stomped and pummeled, whacked and pounded, then stomped and pummeled some more, the pair of motionless bodies splayed there on the ground, until their aging arms and legs were exhausted from the workout. The violence exacted on Kash Quixote and Sancho Panza that afternoon made the numerous beatings that the patriot errant and his sidekick had incurred during the previous three days seem like child’s play in comparison. 

When the two old friars were content with their day’s work, they dusted off their hands, apologized to the injured citizen in the carriage for delaying his visit to the doctor, and continued towards town, no worse for the wear. As they took their first steps back along the path, the least-decrepit of the two men remarked that if such a pitiless man was an acolyte of King Donald, then maybe the three of them should participate in this so-called Choosing Day after all, to cast a vote for, what was her name, Hillary Queenton. 

---

For 14 hours Kash Quixote and his faithful squire lay unconscious. The day grew hot, and the two muggy bodies began to perspire while heaped together in what can only be described as a sad little pile of failure. The stench, if anyone had been around to smell it, would’ve been characterized as an unbearable mixture of goat cheese and fungal rot. Night fell. It began to rain cold heavy drops, but this disturbance did nothing to rouse the two heroes of our story. At some point, a family of deer shat within several feet of Kash Quixote’s badly bruised head. Rocihegseth and the jackass, who had escaped mostly uninjured, lapped up the mead that had spilled from Sancho Panza’s flask, and after procuring a rather pleasant little buzz for themselves, fell into the most rejuvenating sleep either one of the faithful mounts had experienced since they had been commissioned to endure such distressing feats of strength duty. Crickets chirped without cessation until the darkness started to melt away in the early morning hours of the following day.

The stench, if anyone had been around to smell it, would’ve been characterized as an unbearable mixture of goat cheese and fungal rot. Night fell. It began to rain cold heavy drops, but this disturbance did nothing to rouse the two heroes of our story. At some point, a family of deer shat within several feet of Kash Quixote’s badly bruised head.

Kash Quixote began to stir just after sunrise, his mouth stained with dried blood, his bones and muscles feeling as though they’d been trampled by 10,000 rather stout horses. As the haze of the previous day’s events started to fill his mind, the Patriot of the Bulging Eyes began to warp the truth of everything that had happened, as he was wont to do, being so drunk with visions of patriotism and heroism, justice and duty. His mind accurately recalled the initial encounter with the friars, that much cohered with reality, but everything thereafter in Kash Quixote’s version of events deviated wildly from the truth of the matter, for in the patriot errant’s interpretation, he had courageously fought and defeated the friars, turning them back from whence they came before they could make it into town to cast an illegal vote for Hillary Queenton. Our glorious hero was so overwhelmingly satisfied with himself that he felt the urge to awaken his sidekick and tell him the good news. He screamed:

“Sancho, we are heroes! In the name of King Donald, we are heroes!” 

The devoted chum continued to lay so silent and so still that a passerby would’ve surely concluded the man had been dead for several days. Yet Kash Quixote refused to play to a vacant audience, so he kicked and prodded his sore underling until he began to groggily emerge from his slumber, which had been a very satisfying one, indeed, for it had offered a brief respite from the reality of his situation, which was, of course, that he was doomed to follow a madman around the countryside and cater to his every misguided and often painful whim. When Sancho Panza returned to his wits, relatively speaking, Kash Quixote shouted the following words:

“Wake up, Sancho, for we have done the king’s bidding! We have beaten back moral decay by steering from the polls those devious friars and their falsely injured illegal! Oh glorious day that shines upon us now, what ecstasy I find myself in for having utterly fulfilled my destiny as a valorous patriot errant!”

Sancho Panza, confused and severely concussed, had not the faintest recollection of the previous day’s events, and thus no idea what his master was so shrilly hollering about and, in turn, worsening his already devastating headache. So he deferred, as he always did, to blind sycophancy, in an effort to appease what, in his skewed estimation, may have been the one true defender of patriotism left in the land, or at least the most spirited.

“By my faith, that is fantastic,” he moaned through the blinding pain. “What magnificent sally shall your grace undertake next?”

Kash Quixote thought for a moment, then an insidious grin, which was now missing four teeth, crept across his face, for even as he laid there vulgarly beaten, it was clear that the friar’s vicious cane-whacks, which Kash Quixote had no recollection of anyway, had not injured the sense of obligation he felt toward King Donald. The wise and just patriot errant turned his gaze upward toward the canopy and, after giving a small yip of pain, for the movement had worsened several bone fractures, declared: 

“I think I shall run the Federal Bureau of Investigation.” 

And so the most notorious patriot errant in human history did just that, and the details of his improbable rise to an esteemed position he was roundly unqualified for, and for which was justified under the guise of what King Donald deemed a “meritocracy,” shall be joyfully and farcically recounted in the following chapter of this seemingly never-ending tome. The next installment in this unequivocally true epic will also chronicle the equally-improbable rise of his drunken horse, Rocihegseth, to Secretary of Defen…pardon me, Secretary of War, a position that the stead was just as unfit for as Kash Quixote was for his, given that he was the first drunken horse to ever be named to such a noble role.