🔥 On Screenshots and Ghosts

What happens when the people who should have your back start protecting the institutions instead.

It starts like this:

You bust your ass transcribing the case file of the first man to beat the U.S. government in court for the right to use medical cannabis—Robert Randall, U.S. v. Randall, 1976. You analyze the documents, publish them with context, and drag buried precedent back into the light, not for nostalgia, but for use. For justice. For veterans who still can’t get the medicine they need under federal care.

You don’t do this for clout. You do it because you’ve lived what that man lived: the bureaucratic gaslighting, the medical neglect, the weaponized diagnosis.

You turn his archive into a narrative weapon.
And then—right on cue—the ghosts come.

The ones who said “We need to get this history out there” start asking if your work is even valid.

They say:

“For the Chat documents to be valid, they must direct people to the original documents in the directory.”

Let me translate: “Your work doesn’t count unless it follows our format.”

Never mind that the screenshots match. Never mind that the narrative is accurate. Never mind that we’ve published 60+ articles backed by primary sources, footnotes, and a living archive that most people wouldn't touch because it's messy, painful, and unfinished.

Never mind that we’ve reached lawmakers, journalists, and other veterans who finally understand what this fight was really about.

They ask: “Where are the 54 screenshots?”
We ask: “Did you read the fucking words?”

Here's the part that really stings:

The ghosts saying this now are the same ones who thanked you profusely just days ago. Who knew they’d been sitting on a time bomb for decades and didn’t know how to light the fuse.

They said:

“Thank you for being our flame-thrower.”

Then they felt the heat.
Now they want to regulate the fire.

Let me be clear:
The 1976 case was the win.
Not the bureaucratic containment effort that followed.
Not the Compassionate IND paperwork.
Not the hushed compromise behind closed doors.
The precedent was forged in open court—by fighting, not filing.

Veterans today are in the same legal position Robert Randall was in:
Desperate for medicine. Denied by the government.
Forced to defend their health as a crime.

This isn’t just a matter of documentation.
It’s a matter of institutional betrayal.
Of being ghosted, doubted, slow-walked, and second-guessed—again—by the very people who claim to be allies.

You don’t get to ask a combat veteran, who’s spent decades in the weeds of federal fuckery, whether his work is “valid.”

You don’t get to ghost someone who built your digital legacy when you were still podcasting about it.

You don’t get to guilt-trip someone who took your dusty archive and made it dangerous again.

Veterans have always been asked to wait.
For discharge upgrades.
For housing.
For medicine.
For apologies.

But I’ve stopped waiting.

I’m not waiting for a perfect file directory.
I’m not waiting for permission to tell the truth.
And I’m not waiting for anyone’s version of “valid.”

This isn’t about ego.
This is about memory as a form of strategy.
It’s about honoring those who came before by refusing to let the bureaucracy write the ending.

So call it what you want.
We call it Gospel.

Screenshots and all.

—

By Ricardo André Pereyda San Nicolás
Co-Founder, International Veterans Leadership Committee (IVLC)
Keeper of the Gonzo Flame, Witness to the Record, Not Waiting Anymore