Steve Bannon's Prison Diary

What They Found In His Barbour Jacket

Day One.

Well, folks, it finally happened. The deep state managed to throw me into the bowels of the beast. Today is the darkest day in American history, engineered by the Clinton-Biden Global Crime Family, the Soros upload into OpenAI, the Bavarian Illuminati, the Aspen Institute and its lizard alien overlords, the Bush-Obama-Hapsburg family, the Fugger Bank, and the liberal shills at the New York Times.

As I entered this iron-clad fortress of oppression, otherwise known as the FCI Danbury, I realized this is the worst prison in the Biden Archipelago. Nothing can compare to the scene of brutality I saw on the grounds as tortured souls walked they yard.

I must remain strong and chronicle my Kampf.

The scene was nothing short of a dystopian nightmare—if you can picture Kafka, Orwell, and a Black Mirror episode having a love child, you'd get a pretty accurate picture of my arrival. As I strode in, head held high, I couldn't help but think, "Is this what you wanted, America? To see your greatest hero shackled by the very system he is trying to dismantle?"

In an outrage more suited to Lefortovo Prison than America, I was required to submit to the most grotesque of humiliations. First, the brutal servants of the Deep State required me to empty the pockets of my sacred Barbour Jacket, seizing what they called “contraband.”

My lawyers have vigorously protested the seizure of my property from my Barbour: eleven pens, a withered human ear, a pint bottle of Olde Ocelot Corn Liquor (empty), an autographed cock ring from the Seb Gorka Pleasures for Men line, a photo of me during my private exhumation of Princess Diana’s grave, a vial of blood (a gift from Comrade Stephen Miller), a package of gas-station herbal boner pills, and a complete hardbound edition of Project 2025. I’m just glad they bought my explanation that it was bound in calf skin. I hope they don’t DNA test it.

Next, they tried to break me.

In an exercise of cruelty so obscene and depraved that I have entered the ranks of the world’s most cruelly punished political prisoners. Alexi Navalny, Alexander Solzhenitsyn, Jeffrey Dahmer, and Ted Kaczynski would have been shocked at this cruel scene. With the blank stares of men ready and willing to enforce the will of our corrupt overlords, these so-called guards ensured a one-way trip to hell once I am free.

Yes, friends and War Room listeners, these brutes forced me to remove my polo shirts.

One layer would have been an outrage, but six? I will see these bastards hang. The first four layers were removed easily enough, given the brutish order, “Please remove your clothing and place it in the bin.” But the last two had been so close to my skin for so long that it required two Antifa super-soldiers to remove them.

They pulled the polos from my America First body and passed out from what they called “the stench,” but which I believe was what I call my “Patriot Musk.” This humiliation was increased when the first two Clinton-Soros goons were replaced by two more, these wearing hazmat suits and gas masks to hide their identity from the MAGA base.

I was placed in a strange contrivance, these cruel monsters called “a shower,” and forced to endure a fluid called “water” (which I believe Big Pharma made to control me) pouring over my body as I was scrubbed down with a toxic product called “soap” that was clearly part of a Deep State conspiracy to rob me of my vital essence. After a guard used an angle grinder to remove my two-inch toenails, I knew this hell on earth would continue until I issued a false confession, but the guards merely said, “Change into this.”

“This” was one more outrage by the Cheney-Kinzinger machine that controls society from its headquarters in a hollowed-out woke volcano: an orange jumpsuit. My lawyers had warned that if I could not don my polo layers per my religion, this version of the Black Dolphin would be leveled to the ground in lawsuits, but I was told, “This is your uniform.”

I told these slaves of the Deep State how it was, saying, “Folks, this comes straight from Joe Biden’s weaponized DOJ. MAGA will not take this. I promise you, if I have to have Donald Trump give a speech outside these walls and gather a crowd of Proud Boys, Oath Creepers, Three Percenters, Boogaloos, Laura Loomer, and have them storm this hellhole in a conspiracy to overthrow a free and fair election liberate me, I will. You’ll rue the day, I swear it on the grave of Alex Jones!”

Unmoved, they led me to my so-called “cell” and left me there to plot my revenge. It was another outrage, lacking all the trappings of a Chinese billionaire’s yacht. I was forced to use what they call “a toilet” and sleep on a mattress instead of defecating in the backyard of the Breitbart Embassy in Washington, as I am accustomed to doing and sleeping in a coffin full of the soil of my native land.

Tomorrow, I will meet my new minions and followers in what they call “Gen Pop.”

It’s lights-out in a few minutes, but I will end the libtard left-wing conspiracy that put me here, the one they call “laws.” I will not break even when they bring in Hillary Clinton to torture me. I will continue to write this diary of my struggle.

These last pages may look as if they are stained with tears, but they’re not. It was from thinking about Hillary torturing me. Don’t ask.

P.S. Charlie Kirk is eager to “smuggle your manifesto out to the world.” I told him it was perfectly legal for him to carry it out as a letter — even these brutal monsters from penal hell allow that one sign of civility — but he keeps giggling about “finally getting to use his prison wallet.”