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If you’ve never heard of NIST SP 800-108 before, or NIST Special Publications in general, here’s a quick primer:
Special Publications are a type of publication issued by NIST. Specifically, the SP 800-series reports on the Information Technology Laboratory’s research, guidelines, and outreach efforts in computer security, and its collaborative activities with industry, government, and academic organizations. These documents often support FIPS (Federal Information Protection Standards).
Via NIST.gov
One of the NIST 800-series documents concerned with Key Derivation using Pseudorandom Functions is NIST SP 800-108, first published in 2009.
In October 2021, NIST published a draft update to NIST SP 800-108 and opened a comment period until January 2022. This update mostly included Keccak-based Message Authentication Codes (KMAC) in addition to the incumbent standardized designs (HMAC and CMAC).
Upon reviewing a proposal for NIST SP 800-108 revision 1 after its comment period opened, Amazon’s cryptographers discovered a novel security issue with the standard.
I was a co-author of the public comment that disclosed this issue, along with Matthew Campagna, Panos Kampanakis, and Adam Petcher, but take no credit for its discovery.
Consequently, Section 6.7 was added to the final revision 1 of the standard to address Key Control Security.
This post examines the attack against the initial SP 800-108 design when AES-CMAC is used as the PRF in KDF Counter mode.
This meme is the TL;DR of this blog postPreliminaries
(If you’re in a hurry, feel free to skip to the attack.)
NIST SP 800-108 specifies a “KDF in Counter Mode” that can be used with several PRFs, including AES-CMAC. It’s worth noting that this family of KDFs can be defined to use any arbitrary PRF, but only the PRFs approved by NIST for this use are recommended.
AES-CMAC is a one-key CBC-MAC construction. Some cryptographers, such as Matt Green, are famously not fond of CBC-MAC.
KDF Security and PRF Security
Yes, I will take any excuse to turn cryptography knowledge into wholesome memes.KDF stands for “Key Derivation Function”.
PRF stands for “Pseudo-Random Function”.
The security notion for KDF Security is stronger than PRF Security.
PRFs require a uniformly-distributed secret key, while KDFs can tolerate a key that is not uniformly random.
This matters if you’re, say, trying to derive symmetric encryption keys from a Diffie-Hellman shared secret of some sort, where the output of your DH() function has some algebraic structure.
Realistically, the difference between the two security notions matters a lot less in scenarios where you’re deriving sub-keys from a primary uniformly random cryptographic secret.
However, it does make your proofs nicer to achieve KDF security instead of merely PRF security.
Key Control Security
Let’s pretend, for simplicity, we have a generic
KDF()function that offers KDF Security. We don’t need to know how it works just yet.Because KDFs are thought of as PRFs, but stronger, it seems perfectly reasonable that you could use
KDF()in a setup where multiple inputs are provided, each from a different party, and the output would always be uniformly random.Further, even if all other parties’ inputs are known, it should remain computationally infeasible for one of the parties to influence the output of
KDF()to produce a specific value; e.g. a key with all bits zeroed.The assumption that this result is computationally infeasible when working with
KDF()is referred to as “Key Control Security”.Loss of Key Control Security in NIST SP 800-108
You already know where this is going…I’m going to explain the attack by way of example.
If you want a more formal treatment, I believe Appendix B of NIST SP 800-108 rev 1 has what you’re looking for.
Imagine that you’re designing an online two-party private messaging app. To ensure forward secrecy, you implement a forward-secure KDF ratchet, loosely inspired by Signal’s design.
For your KDF, you choose AES-CMAC in Counter Mode, because you’re designing for hardware that has accelerated AES instructions and want to avoid the overhead of hash functions.
(Aside: I guess this would also imply you’re most likely selecting AES-CCM for your actual message encryption.)
With each message, the sender commits some random bytes by encrypting them with their message. The recipient, after verifying the authentication tag and decrypting the message, possess knowledge of the same random bytes.
Both parties then use the random bytes and the current symmetric key to ratchet forward to a new 128-bit symmetric key.
The million dollar question is: Is this ratcheting protocol secure?
In the case of KDF in Counter Mode with AES-CMAC, if you have more than 16 bytes of input material, the answer is simply: No.
How The Attack Works
A two-block implementation of this KDF is normally computed as follows:
- Return
Don’t get intimidated by the notation. This is just AES encryption and XOR.
The messages and are defined in the KDF specification. In the scenario we sketched above, we assume the attacker can choose these arbitrarily.
To coerce a recipient to use an arbitrary 128-bit value (i.e., ) all an attacker needs to do is:
- Calculate
- Let some value
- Here, is the target value.
- Force
Notice that is the result of encrypting , and our attacker’s goal in step 3 can be achieved solely by manipulating (which exists independent of )?
That’s the vulnerability.
The public comments and Appendix B on the NIST document describe the actual steps of computing to force a chosen , which involve manipulating the structure of to achieve this result.
Feel free to check out both documents if you’re interested in the finer details.
What Can An Attacker Actually Do With This?
If an attacker controls both and …
Or if an attacker knows some and can control …
…then they can force the final KDF output to equal whatever 128-bit value they want you to use.
The most straightforward application of the loss of key control security is to introduce a backdoor into an application.
If the Underhanded Crypto Contest were still running this year, NIST SP 800-108 using AES-CMAC in Counter Mode would be an excellent basis for a contestant.
Does Anyone Actually Use NIST SP 800-108 This Way?
I’m not aware of any specific products or services that use this KDF in this way. I will update this section if someone finds any.
Is This A Deliberate Backdoor in a NIST Standard?
No.
I understand that, in the wake of Dual_EC_DRBG, there is a lot of distrust for NIST’s work on standardized cryptography.
However, I have no specific knowledge to indicate this was placed deliberately in the standard.
It is inaccurate to describe the loss of key control security in this context as a backdoor. Instead, it’s an unexpected property of the algorithms that can be used to create a clever backdoor. These are wildly different propositions.
At least, that was the case until it was disclosed to NIST in January 2022. 🙂
(I’m including an answer to this question, preemptively, in case someone overreacts when I publish this blog post. I hope it proves unnecessary, but I figured some caution was warranted.)
Mitigation Options
If you care about Key Control Security and use NIST SP 800-108, you should use HMAC or KMAC instead of CMAC. Only CMAC is impacted.
Revision 1 of NIST SP800-108 also outlines another mitigation that involves changing the inputs to include an additional (but reusable) PRF output for every block.
This tweak does change makes the KDF behave more like our intuition for PRFs, but in my opinion it’s better to avoid using CMAC entirely for KDFs.
Why Wasn’t This Widely Publicized?
As interesting and surprising as the loss of Key Control Security in a NIST standard is to cryptography nerds, it’s exactly not like Heartbleed or Log4shell.
That said, regardless of your personal feelings on NIST, if you’re interesting in not having findings like this slip through the cracks in the future, it’s generally worthwhile to pay attention to what NIST is up to.
https://scottarc.blog/2024/06/04/attacking-nist-sp-800-108/
#cybersecurity #framework #KDF #KDFSecurity #KeyDerivationFunctions #NIST #NISTSP800108 #PRFSecurity #security #standards #symmetricCryptography
-
If you’ve never heard of NIST SP 800-108 before, or NIST Special Publications in general, here’s a quick primer:
Special Publications are a type of publication issued by NIST. Specifically, the SP 800-series reports on the Information Technology Laboratory’s research, guidelines, and outreach efforts in computer security, and its collaborative activities with industry, government, and academic organizations. These documents often support FIPS (Federal Information Protection Standards).
Via NIST.gov
One of the NIST 800-series documents concerned with Key Derivation using Pseudorandom Functions is NIST SP 800-108, first published in 2009.
In October 2021, NIST published a draft update to NIST SP 800-108 and opened a comment period until January 2022. This update mostly included Keccak-based Message Authentication Codes (KMAC) in addition to the incumbent standardized designs (HMAC and CMAC).
Upon reviewing a proposal for NIST SP 800-108 revision 1 after its comment period opened, Amazon’s cryptographers discovered a novel security issue with the standard.
I was a co-author of the public comment that disclosed this issue, along with Matthew Campagna, Panos Kampanakis, and Adam Petcher, but take no credit for its discovery.
Consequently, Section 6.7 was added to the final revision 1 of the standard to address Key Control Security.
This post examines the attack against the initial SP 800-108 design when AES-CMAC is used as the PRF in KDF Counter mode.
This meme is the TL;DR of this blog postPreliminaries
(If you’re in a hurry, feel free to skip to the attack.)
NIST SP 800-108 specifies a “KDF in Counter Mode” that can be used with several PRFs, including AES-CMAC. It’s worth noting that this family of KDFs can be defined to use any arbitrary PRF, but only the PRFs approved by NIST for this use are recommended.
AES-CMAC is a one-key CBC-MAC construction. Some cryptographers, such as Matt Green, are famously not fond of CBC-MAC.
KDF Security and PRF Security
Yes, I will take any excuse to turn cryptography knowledge into wholesome memes.KDF stands for “Key Derivation Function”.
PRF stands for “Pseudo-Random Function”.
The security notion for KDF Security is stronger than PRF Security.
PRFs require a uniformly-distributed secret key, while KDFs can tolerate a key that is not uniformly random.
This matters if you’re, say, trying to derive symmetric encryption keys from a Diffie-Hellman shared secret of some sort, where the output of your DH() function has some algebraic structure.
Realistically, the difference between the two security notions matters a lot less in scenarios where you’re deriving sub-keys from a primary uniformly random cryptographic secret.
However, it does make your proofs nicer to achieve KDF security instead of merely PRF security.
Key Control Security
Let’s pretend, for simplicity, we have a generic
KDF()function that offers KDF Security. We don’t need to know how it works just yet.Because KDFs are thought of as PRFs, but stronger, it seems perfectly reasonable that you could use
KDF()in a setup where multiple inputs are provided, each from a different party, and the output would always be uniformly random.Further, even if all other parties’ inputs are known, it should remain computationally infeasible for one of the parties to influence the output of
KDF()to produce a specific value; e.g. a key with all bits zeroed.The assumption that this result is computationally infeasible when working with
KDF()is referred to as “Key Control Security”.Loss of Key Control Security in NIST SP 800-108
You already know where this is going…I’m going to explain the attack by way of example.
If you want a more formal treatment, I believe Appendix B of NIST SP 800-108 rev 1 has what you’re looking for.
Imagine that you’re designing an online two-party private messaging app. To ensure forward secrecy, you implement a forward-secure KDF ratchet, loosely inspired by Signal’s design.
For your KDF, you choose AES-CMAC in Counter Mode, because you’re designing for hardware that has accelerated AES instructions and want to avoid the overhead of hash functions.
(Aside: I guess this would also imply you’re most likely selecting AES-CCM for your actual message encryption.)
With each message, the sender commits some random bytes by encrypting them with their message. The recipient, after verifying the authentication tag and decrypting the message, possess knowledge of the same random bytes.
Both parties then use the random bytes and the current symmetric key to ratchet forward to a new 128-bit symmetric key.
The million dollar question is: Is this ratcheting protocol secure?
In the case of KDF in Counter Mode with AES-CMAC, if you have more than 16 bytes of input material, the answer is simply: No.
How The Attack Works
A two-block implementation of this KDF is normally computed as follows:
- Return
Don’t get intimidated by the notation. This is just AES encryption and XOR.
The messages and are defined in the KDF specification. In the scenario we sketched above, we assume the attacker can choose these arbitrarily.
To coerce a recipient to use an arbitrary 128-bit value (i.e., ) all an attacker needs to do is:
- Calculate
- Let some value
- Here, is the target value.
- Force
Notice that is the result of encrypting , and our attacker’s goal in step 3 can be achieved solely by manipulating (which exists independent of )?
That’s the vulnerability.
The public comments and Appendix B on the NIST document describe the actual steps of computing to force a chosen , which involve manipulating the structure of to achieve this result.
Feel free to check out both documents if you’re interested in the finer details.
What Can An Attacker Actually Do With This?
If an attacker controls both and …
Or if an attacker knows some and can control …
…then they can force the final KDF output to equal whatever 128-bit value they want you to use.
The most straightforward application of the loss of key control security is to introduce a backdoor into an application.
If the Underhanded Crypto Contest were still running this year, NIST SP 800-108 using AES-CMAC in Counter Mode would be an excellent basis for a contestant.
Does Anyone Actually Use NIST SP 800-108 This Way?
I’m not aware of any specific products or services that use this KDF in this way. I will update this section if someone finds any.
Is This A Deliberate Backdoor in a NIST Standard?
No.
I understand that, in the wake of Dual_EC_DRBG, there is a lot of distrust for NIST’s work on standardized cryptography.
However, I have no specific knowledge to indicate this was placed deliberately in the standard.
It is inaccurate to describe the loss of key control security in this context as a backdoor. Instead, it’s an unexpected property of the algorithms that can be used to create a clever backdoor. These are wildly different propositions.
At least, that was the case until it was disclosed to NIST in January 2022. 🙂
(I’m including an answer to this question, preemptively, in case someone overreacts when I publish this blog post. I hope it proves unnecessary, but I figured some caution was warranted.)
Mitigation Options
If you care about Key Control Security and use NIST SP 800-108, you should use HMAC or KMAC instead of CMAC. Only CMAC is impacted.
Revision 1 of NIST SP800-108 also outlines another mitigation that involves changing the inputs to include an additional (but reusable) PRF output for every block.
This tweak does change makes the KDF behave more like our intuition for PRFs, but in my opinion it’s better to avoid using CMAC entirely for KDFs.
Why Wasn’t This Widely Publicized?
As interesting and surprising as the loss of Key Control Security in a NIST standard is to cryptography nerds, it’s exactly not like Heartbleed or Log4shell.
That said, regardless of your personal feelings on NIST, if you’re interesting in not having findings like this slip through the cracks in the future, it’s generally worthwhile to pay attention to what NIST is up to.
https://scottarc.blog/2024/06/04/attacking-nist-sp-800-108/
#cybersecurity #framework #KDF #KDFSecurity #KeyDerivationFunctions #NIST #NISTSP800108 #PRFSecurity #security #standards #symmetricCryptography
-
If you’ve never heard of NIST SP 800-108 before, or NIST Special Publications in general, here’s a quick primer:
Special Publications are a type of publication issued by NIST. Specifically, the SP 800-series reports on the Information Technology Laboratory’s research, guidelines, and outreach efforts in computer security, and its collaborative activities with industry, government, and academic organizations. These documents often support FIPS (Federal Information Protection Standards).
Via NIST.gov
One of the NIST 800-series documents concerned with Key Derivation using Pseudorandom Functions is NIST SP 800-108, first published in 2009.
In October 2021, NIST published a draft update to NIST SP 800-108 and opened a comment period until January 2022. This update mostly included Keccak-based Message Authentication Codes (KMAC) in addition to the incumbent standardized designs (HMAC and CMAC).
Upon reviewing a proposal for NIST SP 800-108 revision 1 after its comment period opened, Amazon’s cryptographers discovered a novel security issue with the standard.
I was a co-author of the public comment that disclosed this issue, along with Matthew Campagna, Panos Kampanakis, and Adam Petcher, but take no credit for its discovery.
Consequently, Section 6.7 was added to the final revision 1 of the standard to address Key Control Security.
This post examines the attack against the initial SP 800-108 design when AES-CMAC is used as the PRF in KDF Counter mode.
This meme is the TL;DR of this blog postPreliminaries
(If you’re in a hurry, feel free to skip to the attack.)
NIST SP 800-108 specifies a “KDF in Counter Mode” that can be used with several PRFs, including AES-CMAC. It’s worth noting that this family of KDFs can be defined to use any arbitrary PRF, but only the PRFs approved by NIST for this use are recommended.
AES-CMAC is a one-key CBC-MAC construction. Some cryptographers, such as Matt Green, are famously not fond of CBC-MAC.
KDF Security and PRF Security
Yes, I will take any excuse to turn cryptography knowledge into wholesome memes.KDF stands for “Key Derivation Function”.
PRF stands for “Pseudo-Random Function”.
The security notion for KDF Security is stronger than PRF Security.
PRFs require a uniformly-distributed secret key, while KDFs can tolerate a key that is not uniformly random.
This matters if you’re, say, trying to derive symmetric encryption keys from a Diffie-Hellman shared secret of some sort, where the output of your DH() function has some algebraic structure.
Realistically, the difference between the two security notions matters a lot less in scenarios where you’re deriving sub-keys from a primary uniformly random cryptographic secret.
However, it does make your proofs nicer to achieve KDF security instead of merely PRF security.
Key Control Security
Let’s pretend, for simplicity, we have a generic
KDF()function that offers KDF Security. We don’t need to know how it works just yet.Because KDFs are thought of as PRFs, but stronger, it seems perfectly reasonable that you could use
KDF()in a setup where multiple inputs are provided, each from a different party, and the output would always be uniformly random.Further, even if all other parties’ inputs are known, it should remain computationally infeasible for one of the parties to influence the output of
KDF()to produce a specific value; e.g. a key with all bits zeroed.The assumption that this result is computationally infeasible when working with
KDF()is referred to as “Key Control Security”.Loss of Key Control Security in NIST SP 800-108
You already know where this is going…I’m going to explain the attack by way of example.
If you want a more formal treatment, I believe Appendix B of NIST SP 800-108 rev 1 has what you’re looking for.
Imagine that you’re designing an online two-party private messaging app. To ensure forward secrecy, you implement a forward-secure KDF ratchet, loosely inspired by Signal’s design.
For your KDF, you choose AES-CMAC in Counter Mode, because you’re designing for hardware that has accelerated AES instructions and want to avoid the overhead of hash functions.
(Aside: I guess this would also imply you’re most likely selecting AES-CCM for your actual message encryption.)
With each message, the sender commits some random bytes by encrypting them with their message. The recipient, after verifying the authentication tag and decrypting the message, possess knowledge of the same random bytes.
Both parties then use the random bytes and the current symmetric key to ratchet forward to a new 128-bit symmetric key.
The million dollar question is: Is this ratcheting protocol secure?
In the case of KDF in Counter Mode with AES-CMAC, if you have more than 16 bytes of input material, the answer is simply: No.
How The Attack Works
A two-block implementation of this KDF is normally computed as follows:
- Return
Don’t get intimidated by the notation. This is just AES encryption and XOR.
The messages and are defined in the KDF specification. In the scenario we sketched above, we assume the attacker can choose these arbitrarily.
To coerce a recipient to use an arbitrary 128-bit value (i.e., ) all an attacker needs to do is:
- Calculate
- Let some value
- Here, is the target value.
- Force
Notice that is the result of encrypting , and our attacker’s goal in step 3 can be achieved solely by manipulating (which exists independent of )?
That’s the vulnerability.
The public comments and Appendix B on the NIST document describe the actual steps of computing to force a chosen , which involve manipulating the structure of to achieve this result.
Feel free to check out both documents if you’re interested in the finer details.
What Can An Attacker Actually Do With This?
If an attacker controls both and …
Or if an attacker knows some and can control …
…then they can force the final KDF output to equal whatever 128-bit value they want you to use.
The most straightforward application of the loss of key control security is to introduce a backdoor into an application.
If the Underhanded Crypto Contest were still running this year, NIST SP 800-108 using AES-CMAC in Counter Mode would be an excellent basis for a contestant.
Does Anyone Actually Use NIST SP 800-108 This Way?
I’m not aware of any specific products or services that use this KDF in this way. I will update this section if someone finds any.
Is This A Deliberate Backdoor in a NIST Standard?
No.
I understand that, in the wake of Dual_EC_DRBG, there is a lot of distrust for NIST’s work on standardized cryptography.
However, I have no specific knowledge to indicate this was placed deliberately in the standard.
It is inaccurate to describe the loss of key control security in this context as a backdoor. Instead, it’s an unexpected property of the algorithms that can be used to create a clever backdoor. These are wildly different propositions.
At least, that was the case until it was disclosed to NIST in January 2022. 🙂
(I’m including an answer to this question, preemptively, in case someone overreacts when I publish this blog post. I hope it proves unnecessary, but I figured some caution was warranted.)
Mitigation Options
If you care about Key Control Security and use NIST SP 800-108, you should use HMAC or KMAC instead of CMAC. Only CMAC is impacted.
Revision 1 of NIST SP800-108 also outlines another mitigation that involves changing the inputs to include an additional (but reusable) PRF output for every block.
This tweak does change makes the KDF behave more like our intuition for PRFs, but in my opinion it’s better to avoid using CMAC entirely for KDFs.
Why Wasn’t This Widely Publicized?
As interesting and surprising as the loss of Key Control Security in a NIST standard is to cryptography nerds, it’s exactly not like Heartbleed or Log4shell.
That said, regardless of your personal feelings on NIST, if you’re interesting in not having findings like this slip through the cracks in the future, it’s generally worthwhile to pay attention to what NIST is up to.
https://scottarc.blog/2024/06/04/attacking-nist-sp-800-108/
#cybersecurity #framework #KDF #KDFSecurity #KeyDerivationFunctions #NIST #NISTSP800108 #PRFSecurity #security #standards #symmetricCryptography
-
If you’ve never heard of NIST SP 800-108 before, or NIST Special Publications in general, here’s a quick primer:
Special Publications are a type of publication issued by NIST. Specifically, the SP 800-series reports on the Information Technology Laboratory’s research, guidelines, and outreach efforts in computer security, and its collaborative activities with industry, government, and academic organizations. These documents often support FIPS (Federal Information Protection Standards).
Via NIST.gov
One of the NIST 800-series documents concerned with Key Derivation using Pseudorandom Functions is NIST SP 800-108, first published in 2009.
In October 2021, NIST published a draft update to NIST SP 800-108 and opened a comment period until January 2022. This update mostly included Keccak-based Message Authentication Codes (KMAC) in addition to the incumbent standardized designs (HMAC and CMAC).
Upon reviewing a proposal for NIST SP 800-108 revision 1 after its comment period opened, Amazon’s cryptographers discovered a novel security issue with the standard.
I was a co-author of the public comment that disclosed this issue, along with Matthew Campagna, Panos Kampanakis, and Adam Petcher, but take no credit for its discovery.
Consequently, Section 6.7 was added to the final revision 1 of the standard to address Key Control Security.
This post examines the attack against the initial SP 800-108 design when AES-CMAC is used as the PRF in KDF Counter mode.
This meme is the TL;DR of this blog postPreliminaries
(If you’re in a hurry, feel free to skip to the attack.)
NIST SP 800-108 specifies a “KDF in Counter Mode” that can be used with several PRFs, including AES-CMAC. It’s worth noting that this family of KDFs can be defined to use any arbitrary PRF, but only the PRFs approved by NIST for this use are recommended.
AES-CMAC is a one-key CBC-MAC construction. Some cryptographers, such as Matt Green, are famously not fond of CBC-MAC.
KDF Security and PRF Security
Yes, I will take any excuse to turn cryptography knowledge into wholesome memes.KDF stands for “Key Derivation Function”.
PRF stands for “Pseudo-Random Function”.
The security notion for KDF Security is stronger than PRF Security.
PRFs require a uniformly-distributed secret key, while KDFs can tolerate a key that is not uniformly random.
This matters if you’re, say, trying to derive symmetric encryption keys from a Diffie-Hellman shared secret of some sort, where the output of your DH() function has some algebraic structure.
Realistically, the difference between the two security notions matters a lot less in scenarios where you’re deriving sub-keys from a primary uniformly random cryptographic secret.
However, it does make your proofs nicer to achieve KDF security instead of merely PRF security.
Key Control Security
Let’s pretend, for simplicity, we have a generic
KDF()function that offers KDF Security. We don’t need to know how it works just yet.Because KDFs are thought of as PRFs, but stronger, it seems perfectly reasonable that you could use
KDF()in a setup where multiple inputs are provided, each from a different party, and the output would always be uniformly random.Further, even if all other parties’ inputs are known, it should remain computationally infeasible for one of the parties to influence the output of
KDF()to produce a specific value; e.g. a key with all bits zeroed.The assumption that this result is computationally infeasible when working with
KDF()is referred to as “Key Control Security”.Loss of Key Control Security in NIST SP 800-108
You already know where this is going…I’m going to explain the attack by way of example.
If you want a more formal treatment, I believe Appendix B of NIST SP 800-108 rev 1 has what you’re looking for.
Imagine that you’re designing an online two-party private messaging app. To ensure forward secrecy, you implement a forward-secure KDF ratchet, loosely inspired by Signal’s design.
For your KDF, you choose AES-CMAC in Counter Mode, because you’re designing for hardware that has accelerated AES instructions and want to avoid the overhead of hash functions.
(Aside: I guess this would also imply you’re most likely selecting AES-CCM for your actual message encryption.)
With each message, the sender commits some random bytes by encrypting them with their message. The recipient, after verifying the authentication tag and decrypting the message, possess knowledge of the same random bytes.
Both parties then use the random bytes and the current symmetric key to ratchet forward to a new 128-bit symmetric key.
The million dollar question is: Is this ratcheting protocol secure?
In the case of KDF in Counter Mode with AES-CMAC, if you have more than 16 bytes of input material, the answer is simply: No.
How The Attack Works
A two-block implementation of this KDF is normally computed as follows:
- Return
Don’t get intimidated by the notation. This is just AES encryption and XOR.
The messages and are defined in the KDF specification. In the scenario we sketched above, we assume the attacker can choose these arbitrarily.
To coerce a recipient to use an arbitrary 128-bit value (i.e., ) all an attacker needs to do is:
- Calculate
- Let some value
- Here, is the target value.
- Force
Notice that is the result of encrypting , and our attacker’s goal in step 3 can be achieved solely by manipulating (which exists independent of )?
That’s the vulnerability.
The public comments and Appendix B on the NIST document describe the actual steps of computing to force a chosen , which involve manipulating the structure of to achieve this result.
Feel free to check out both documents if you’re interested in the finer details.
What Can An Attacker Actually Do With This?
If an attacker controls both and …
Or if an attacker knows some and can control …
…then they can force the final KDF output to equal whatever 128-bit value they want you to use.
The most straightforward application of the loss of key control security is to introduce a backdoor into an application.
If the Underhanded Crypto Contest were still running this year, NIST SP 800-108 using AES-CMAC in Counter Mode would be an excellent basis for a contestant.
Does Anyone Actually Use NIST SP 800-108 This Way?
I’m not aware of any specific products or services that use this KDF in this way. I will update this section if someone finds any.
Is This A Deliberate Backdoor in a NIST Standard?
No.
I understand that, in the wake of Dual_EC_DRBG, there is a lot of distrust for NIST’s work on standardized cryptography.
However, I have no specific knowledge to indicate this was placed deliberately in the standard.
It is inaccurate to describe the loss of key control security in this context as a backdoor. Instead, it’s an unexpected property of the algorithms that can be used to create a clever backdoor. These are wildly different propositions.
At least, that was the case until it was disclosed to NIST in January 2022. 🙂
(I’m including an answer to this question, preemptively, in case someone overreacts when I publish this blog post. I hope it proves unnecessary, but I figured some caution was warranted.)
Mitigation Options
If you care about Key Control Security and use NIST SP 800-108, you should use HMAC or KMAC instead of CMAC. Only CMAC is impacted.
Revision 1 of NIST SP800-108 also outlines another mitigation that involves changing the inputs to include an additional (but reusable) PRF output for every block.
This tweak does change makes the KDF behave more like our intuition for PRFs, but in my opinion it’s better to avoid using CMAC entirely for KDFs.
Why Wasn’t This Widely Publicized?
As interesting and surprising as the loss of Key Control Security in a NIST standard is to cryptography nerds, it’s exactly not like Heartbleed or Log4shell.
That said, regardless of your personal feelings on NIST, if you’re interesting in not having findings like this slip through the cracks in the future, it’s generally worthwhile to pay attention to what NIST is up to.
https://scottarc.blog/2024/06/04/attacking-nist-sp-800-108/
#cybersecurity #framework #KDF #KDFSecurity #KeyDerivationFunctions #NIST #NISTSP800108 #PRFSecurity #security #standards #symmetricCryptography
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https://www.bytesde.com/1918769/ Ich bin Matt Adams, pensionierter Armeeanwalt und Demokrat, der für den 12. Kongressbezirk von New Jersey kandidiert. Frag mich alles! #America #UnitedStates #UnitedStatesOfAmerica #US #USA #USAPolitics
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I’m Matt Adams, Retired Army Lawyer and Democrat running for Congress NJ’s 12 District. Ask Me Anything! https://www.byteseu.com/2055846/ #America #Politics #UnitedStates #UnitedStatesOfAmerica #US #USPolitics #USA #USAPolitics
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Icomera Congratulates CTO Mats Karlsson on Receiving Sweden’s Polhem Prize 2025 https://www.byteseu.com/1556931/ #ChiefTechnologyOfficer #ChristopherPolhem #gothenburg #Icomera #MatsKarlsson #PolhemPrize #Sweden #SwedishAssociationOfGraduateEngineers #TechnologicalInnovation #WhollyOwnedSubsidiary
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“Did you have any orange juice today?”*…
… if so, it’s less and less likely that it was from Florida.
The canonical articles on the Florida orange juice industry are John McPhee’s two-parter from The New Yorker from the 1960s. But that was then.
Alex Sammon has picked up the baton, with an article on the brutal, unrelenting decline of that business…
Quiet fell over the room, which was neither full nor very loud to begin with, and the 2026 Florida Citrus Show began.
“It should be a great day,” began the event’s first speaker. “Rain should hold off today, even though we definitely need more rain.” No one laughed.
There was no need to say that things were bad. Everyone knew it. The mood wasn’t sour—citrus farmers could handle sour. It was something else. Postapocalyptic. Florida is in the midst of its worst drought in 25 years, but the dry spell actually ranked far down on the list of challenges these bedraggled growers were facing.
In 2003, the mighty Florida orange industry produced 242 million boxes of fruit, with 90 pounds of oranges per box, most of which went on to become orange juice. Now, not even 25 years later, the United States Department of Agriculture was forecasting a pitiful 12 million boxes of oranges, the least in more than 100 years, the worst year since last. A decline of more than 95 percent.
And everyone knew, more or less, that even that figure was not happening. “Twelve million? I would doubt it,” Matt Joyner, CEO of Florida Citrus Mutual, the state’s largest trade group, told me. There was chatter that even 11 million might be out of reach. Could the total end up being less than that, just seven figures? In Florida, the citrus capital of the world, you are today more likely to see the oranges printed on the state’s 18 million license plates than a box of actual fruit.
Rick Dantzler, chief operating officer of the Citrus Research and Development Foundation, took the podium. He was blunt. “It’s been a dumpster fire of a year,” he said.
On the list of immediate problems: the implementation of tariffs and retaliatory tariffs, then the government shutdown, then a stunning, historic freeze, days long, at the end of January and early February, that besieged the fragile orange trees.
And yet those, too, were just footnotes to the even larger problem. Already, Florida had lost about three-quarters of its citrus growers. The last of them, these spent survivors, these hangers-on, had trudged to the Citrus Show to talk about the real problem, which was the disease.
In 2005, Florida first got signs of a new affliction in its groves called citrus greening disease. It also has a Chinese name, Huanglongbing, or HLB, because it came from China, where oranges also came from in the first place.
Citrus greening disease is caused by a bacterial infection that is delivered by the gnawing of the Asian citrus psyllid. (It’s now believed the psyllid first turned up near the Port of Miami in 1998.) The flea-sized psyllid bites the leaves and transmits the disease, which slowly chokes out the tree’s vascular system from the inside, taking years to finally show itself. By the time a tree is displaying symptoms—three to five years, in most cases—it’s too late…
Read on for an explanation of how this catastrophe has materialized and for a consideration of what it means for Central Florida (and the other major supplier, Brazil, which is also suffering).
“Who Killed the Florida Orange?” from @alexsammon.bsky.social in @slate.com.
Other comestible news from Florida: “A deadly bacteria is creeping up the Atlantic Coast. How worried should you be?“
* Harold Brodkey, First Love and Other Sorrows: Stories
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As we contemplate the consequences of climate change and contagion, we might consider an alternative to orange juice on this, National Raisin Day. But while raisins are richly nutricious, they are not so strong on Vitamin C, so we’ll have to keep looking…
#citrus #CitrusGreeningDisease #climateChange #concentrate #culture #Florida #FloridaOranges #history #NationalRaisinDay #orangeJuice #orangeJuiceConcentrate #oranges #politics #raisins #Science -
The Cost of the Clean Exit: When the System Protects the Liar
3,572 words, 19 minutes read time.
Grant Miller sat in the clinical, blue-light glow of his home office, the low hum of three synchronized monitors serving as the only soundtrack to the wreckage of a decade. On the center screen, a spreadsheet acted as a cold, digital autopsy of ten years of his life. As a systems architect, Grant didn’t have “hobbies”; he had projects that required infrastructure, precision, and an uncompromising adherence to the truth. When he first walked into the local “Learn to Skate” rink with a camera bag and a laptop, he wasn’t looking for a plaque or a pat on the back. He saw a system that was broken—a chaotic, paper-trail operation where registrations were lost in overstuffed filing cabinets and the club’s “digital presence” was a joke. Over the next ten years, Grant didn’t just volunteer; he engineered. He built a fortress. By the time the dust settled, he had clocked over $65,000 in professional volunteer hours based on federal labor standards, and his private servers groaned under the weight of 100,000 high-resolution images captured on $10,000 of his own professional gear. He was the invisible backbone of the club, the man who turned a disorganized mess into a streamlined, encrypted powerhouse that parents actually trusted with their data and their children’s milestones.
The sheer volume of the work was staggering when viewed through the lens of objective data. We are talking about ten years of Saturday mornings spent in sub-zero rinks, ten years of weeknights spent editing thousands of RAW files to ensure every kid in the program had a hero shot that made them feel like an Olympian. Grant didn’t just take pictures; he managed the club’s identity. He built the website, secured the databases, and handled the tech support that the board was too technologically illiterate to understand. In the world of non-profits, a man like Grant is a unicorn—a high-level professional providing enterprise-grade solutions for the price of a lukewarm coffee. But the danger of being the man who builds the system is that you eventually become the only person who knows how the gears actually turn, and in a landscape ruled by small-town egos, that technical mastery is often viewed not as an asset, but as a threat to the established order of those who prefer to rule in the dark.
In the world of small-town sports politics, efficiency is a direct threat to those who thrive on opacity and “good old boy” networks. For years, the club’s board elections had been tainted by what the locals quietly called “funny business.” It was a shadowy, manual practice where Sarah, the Skating Director, and her inner circle would physically call members over the phone, pressuring them to cast votes for her hand-picked candidates in direct violation of the club’s own bylaws. It was a system built on social engineering and intimidation, a way to ensure that the “inner circle” remained unchallenged and that the director’s personal fiefdom remained intact. Sarah wore her high-level credentials with the national Figure Skating Association like a medieval mace, using her title to silence dissent and maintain a status quo that favored her cronies over the actual growth of the program. She didn’t want a fair vote; she wanted a coronation every cycle.
To kill this corruption and bring the club into the twenty-first century, Grant had implemented a third-party, industry-standard voting system years prior. He didn’t build the software—he was too smart for that—but he selected a platform that offered absolute integrity, two-factor authentication, and a verifiable audit trail. It was a secure tool designed to ensure that every member had a private, un-pressured voice, effectively stripping Sarah of her ability to manipulate the outcomes through late-night phone calls and locker-room arm-twisting. Ironically, that very system is still used by the club today, a testament to its reliability and Grant’s foresight in building something that could withstand the very rot he was trying to excise. But the moment the digital tally finally reflected a result that Sarah couldn’t control, the “funny business” shifted from the voting booth to a direct, surgical strike on Grant Miller’s reputation.
The transition from “valued volunteer” to “enemy of the state” happened with the flick of a bureaucratic switch. When the election results didn’t go Sarah’s way, she didn’t look in the mirror; she looked for a scapegoat. Using her high-level influence and her direct line to the national Figure Skating Association, she filed an informal grievance that was as calculated as it was malicious. She accused Grant of “digital manipulation,” claiming that he had used his administrative access to rig the election results through the third-party software. It was a character-assassinating smear designed to hit a technical professional where it hurts most: his integrity. She banked on the Association’s fundamental ignorance of technology, knowing that to a group of aging administrators, “software” was a magic black box that could be easily manipulated by a “hacker” in their midst. She didn’t need proof; she only needed to trigger the investigation to isolate Grant and cast a shadow of doubt over the entire digital infrastructure he had built.
The move was a masterclass in institutional bullying. Suddenly, the man who had donated $65,000 worth of his life to the program was being treated like a criminal in a defensive crouch. The Association, instead of looking at Sarah’s history of “funny business” or the verifiable logs of the third-party system, reflexively protected their director. They launched an inquiry that forced Grant to spend weeks of his own time—time he could have spent with his family or on his actual career—defending his honor against a baseless lie. This is the raw reality of the volunteer grind: the moment you stop being a “useful tool” and start being a “check on power,” the institution will turn on you with a cold, mechanical indifference that would make a corporate HR department blush. Grant found himself in a fight he never asked for, forced to prove a negative against a woman who had spent years treating the club’s bylaws like suggestions.
Grant didn’t retreat into anger; he retreated into the data. While Sarah was busy playing the victim in rink-side whispers and backroom meetings, Grant was operating with the cold, methodical precision of a man who knew that in a digital world, every lie leaves a footprint. He understood that the burden of proof in an institutional inquisition is rarely on the accuser, so he built a defense that was mathematically irrefutable. He spent dozens of hours—hours on top of the decade he’d already sacrificed—compiling a forensic dossier that documented every interaction with the voting software. He didn’t just tell them he didn’t rig the election; he showed them the server logs, the encrypted handshakes, and the third-party security protocols that made it impossible for an administrator to alter an individual ballot once cast. He presented a timeline of every email sent, every website modification made, and every administrative login, cross-referenced against the club’s own bylaws which Sarah had so casually ignored for years.
The sheer density of the evidence was a silent middle finger to the incompetence of the board. Grant produced a document that mapped the “funny business” of previous years—the phone call logs and the manual tallies that didn’t add up—and contrasted it with the sterile, unassailable integrity of the digital system he had implemented. He was forcing the Association to look at the mirror, showing them that the only person with a history of manipulation was the woman pointing the finger. For a man who lived by the logic of “if-then” statements, the hearing wasn’t an emotional plea for his reputation; it was a technical demonstration of Sarah’s malice. He sat across from the Association representatives—people who likely struggled to reset their own Wi-Fi routers—and spoke to them in the language of objective truth. He didn’t ask for their trust; he demanded they acknowledge the data.
The hearing was a collision between professional competence and bureaucratic ego. Grant watched as the Association reps flipped through his forensic audit with the glazed eyes of people who had realized they were in way over their heads. They had walked into the room expecting to slap the wrist of a “rogue volunteer” and instead found themselves staring at a mountain of evidence that implicated their own director in years of procedural misconduct. They saw the locks on the third-party system, they saw the clean logs, and they saw the verified results that matched the will of the members perfectly. There was no “hacker,” no “manipulation,” and no “rigging.” There was only a man who had done his job too well and a woman who had tried to destroy him for it. The truth was sitting on the table, cold and heavy, but the institution wasn’t interested in truth; it was interested in liability.
The final verdict arrived not with a bang, but with a whimper—a two-paragraph email that was a masterclass in corporate-filtered non-apology. The Association stated they could “find no fault” in Grant’s actions, a clinical way of admitting he was innocent without actually saying he had been wronged. There was a weak, throwaway sentence about the “inconvenience of the investigation,” but no mention of the ten years of service, the $65,000 in labor, or the 100,000 photos that had built their brand. Even more galling was the silence regarding Sarah. There was no reprimand, no suspension, and no acknowledgment of her baseless smear campaign. She was allowed to keep her office and her title, protected by a system that values the survival of the hierarchy over the character of its builders. The Association had looked at a decade of loyalty and a month of character assassination and decided that the status quo was worth more than a man’s honor.
In the immediate aftermath, Grant felt the weight of the “sunk cost fallacy” pulling at his gut. Ten years. Over a hundred thousand images of kids learning to find their edges, of parents crying in the stands, of a community he thought he was part of. He looked at the hard drives in his office—$10,000 worth of gear and an archive of a decade’s worth of growth—and realized that the club didn’t deserve a single byte of it. The “Actionable Fix” in this scenario wasn’t to stay and fight a guerrilla war against Sarah’s ego; it was to perform a total, scorched-earth decoupling of his identity from the program. He wasn’t just a volunteer leaving a post; he was an architect reclaiming his blueprints. He realized that Sarah had successfully weaponized the institution to run off its most valuable asset, and the board was too weak or too complicit to stop her.
The raw truth that every high-level volunteer eventually learns is that the institution doesn’t love you back. It is a machine that consumes “useful idiots” until they become “inconvenient truths,” and then it discards them with a form letter. Grant’s exit wasn’t a retreat; it was an evacuation of value. He deleted his administrative access, handed over the keys to the digital fortress he had built, and walked away with the one thing Sarah could never touch: his integrity. He understood that the club would likely devolve back into the “funny business” of phone-call voting and paper-trail chaos within a year, and he finally stopped caring. Forgiveness, for Grant, was the cold realization that he no longer owed his energy to a group of people who would trade his decade of sacrifice for a director’s comfort.
The first Saturday morning after his resignation was the loudest silence Grant had ever experienced. For ten years, the rhythmic scratch of toe picks, the deep hum of blades carving precise circles, and the echoes of classical scores over the PA system had been the heartbeat of his weekend. Now, sitting in his kitchen with a cup of coffee that didn’t need to be rushed, he felt the phantom weight of the camera bag on his shoulder. He looked at his gear—the Nikon bodies, the 70-200mm f/2.8 lens that had captured a hundred thousand tiny triumphs—and realized they were just tools again, no longer weapons of a community’s legacy. The realization hit him with the cold precision of a data point: he had been a ghostwriter for a story that the lead character was trying to delete. Sarah still held the keys to the rink, but she no longer held the keys to his time, a currency that, once spent, offers no refunds.
The “funny business” resumed almost immediately. Reports filtered back through the grapevine of the old “phone tree” tactics resurfacing, of board meetings descending back into the opaque, disorganized chaos that had defined the era before Grant’s digital intervention. The club was regressing, shedding its professional skin and returning to its form as a petty fiefdom. It was the natural state of an organization that chooses a comfortable lie over a demanding truth. Grant watched from the sidelines, not with the bitterness of a man who had lost, but with the detached observation of a scientist watching a predictable chemical reaction. When you remove the structural integrity of a building—the architect and the foundation—it doesn’t collapse all at once; it leans until it eventually becomes uninhabitable.
While the Association’s weak apology sat in his inbox like a digital insult, the real “audit” of Grant’s decade came from the people Sarah couldn’t control: the parents. His private gallery links began to see a spike in traffic. Families were downloading the archives, realizing that the man who had documented their children’s lives from their first wobbles to their high school graduations was gone. Those 100,000 photos weren’t just data; they were the only evidence of a decade of growth that the club had essentially disowned. Grant realized that by attacking his integrity, Sarah had inadvertently highlighted his value. Every high-resolution shot was a reminder of a standard she could never replicate with a smartphone and a grudge.
The $65,000 in volunteer hours was gone, a sunk cost in the ledger of his life, but the forensic defense he had built remained a masterclass in tactical self-preservation. He had proven that a man with a paper trail is a man who cannot be easily erased. He had shown that even in a rigged game, the player who keeps the best records can walk away with his name intact. This is the raw truth for any man in the trenches of a volunteer organization: build the system, but keep the logs. Serve the community, but never trust the institution. The only thing you truly own at the end of a ten-year grind is your reputation and the data that proves you were the one who held the line when everyone else was busy making phone calls.
Grant Miller eventually closed the spreadsheet. He archived the folder labeled “Skating Club Litigation” and moved it to a backup drive, a dark corner of his digital life that he intended to visit only if the “funny business” ever crossed the line into legal territory again. He wasn’t waiting for Sarah to be fired, and he wasn’t waiting for the Association to grow a spine and offer a real apology. That would be giving them more of his life, and he had already donated enough. The final transaction was the act of clicking “Logout” for the last time—not just from a server, but from a narrative that no longer served him.
Author’s Note
In the world of “sanitized” faith, we’re told forgiveness is a warm, fuzzy reconciliation. We’re fed a version of grace that expects a man to just “shake hands and forget” while his reputation is still bleeding out. But the reality of the grind teaches a harder truth: Sometimes, forgiveness is the tactical decision to stop trying to collect a debt from a bankrupt person. It’s handing the bill to a higher authority and walking off the job site.
For the men who know me, you’ll recognize the skeleton of this story. It’s loosely based on my own ten-year tour in the trenches—a decade of professional-grade labor met with a calculated strike at my integrity. Note that all specific names and locations have been changed to protect everyone involved. For a man in my field, a formal accusation of “manipulation” or “rigging” is a direct hit on my livelihood. I operate under a strict standard of professional appearance; a smear like this could ha
Even years later, I still feel the weight. Every year when the house lights dim and the ice shows begin, the struggle resurfaces like a ghost in the rafters. It’s a seasonal reminder of a wound that hasn’t fully closed—not because of a lack of faith, but because I refuse to lie about the truth. I still run the ice show circuit, taking the photos and giving them away for free, promoting the achievements of these young athletes and the sport itself. I do the work because the work has value to those skaters and thier families.
I’ve had to face the bitter reality that the people who launched this path of destruction were never held accountable—and in all likelihood, they never will be on this side of eternity. Even though her actions and that path of wreckage continue to this day, there was no grand moment of justice, no public clearing of my name, and no professional consequence for the liar. From what I’ve been told, this began long before I arrived and has left a trail of destroyed lives in its wake. This includes one individual handed a lifetime ban from skating—a move reminiscent of the Tonya Harding fallout—simply for trying to protect a skater from abuse. That wake of destruction remains active, and the wreckage continues to pile up. I have to believe that one day, God will say “enough.” This is my way of turning this situation over to God.
In Enemies of the Heart, Andy Stanley identifies Anger as the result of a “debt” mindset—the conviction that “you owe me.” When a bureaucrat smears your name or devalues a decade of your life, they create a massive debt. We wait for the apology or the admission of guilt to “balance the books,” but a bankrupt person can’t pay you back. Stanley’s solution isn’t “feelings”; it’s a business decision: Cancel the debt. You aren’t saying what they did was right; you’re deciding you will no longer wait for a thief to return what they stole.
I’ve heard the fake apologies—the corporate-speak non-apologies meant to shift the blame. Specifically: “I’m sorry you got your feelings hurt.” Let’s be blunt: that’s a tactical maneuver, not an apology. It ignores the lie, the rigged system, and the malicious intent. It treats a professional betrayal like an emotional glitch on your part. It’s the cowards’ way out.
Understand this: there is no commandment that forces you to associate with people like this. In my opinion, based on the Word, there are actually commandments not to associate with them. Scripture doesn’t call us to be door-mats for the deceptive. It tells us to “have nothing to do with them” (2 Timothy 3:5) and to “shun” those who persist in division and deceit. Forgiveness is about your heart’s freedom from their debt; it is not a legal requirement to invite a known liar back to your table.
“Forgive and forget” is a myth. Even the resurrected Christ carries the record of what was done to Him.
“Then I saw a Lamb, looking as if it had been slain, standing in the center of the throne…” — Revelation 5:6 (NIV)
The scars on the resurrected Christ prove that memory and mercy are not mutually exclusive. Those wounds are the eternal record of the price He paid. He hasn’t “forgotten” the cost; He absorbed the debt so the bill never reaches the one who owed it. Forgiveness isn’t forgetting; it’s absorbing the hit.
I wrote this for the men who still struggle, like I do, with the hard facts. I wrote it for the men who have done the work, kept the logs, and watched the “system” protect the liar. If you’re in those shoes, understand this: Your integrity isn’t defined by their inability to tell the truth. I know that one day God will hold them accountable, even if they never face justice on this earth. Scripture is clear: “It is mine to avenge; I will repay,” says the Lord. Sometimes, the most masculine thing you can do is shake the dust off your boots, cancel the debt, and leave the final audit to the only Judge who actually keeps the books.
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D. Bryan King
Sources
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The views and opinions expressed in this post are solely those of the author. The information provided is based on personal research, experience, and understanding of the subject matter at the time of writing. Readers should consult relevant experts or authorities for specific guidance related to their unique situations.
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Fort Jefferson, Dry Tortugas, Florida, view from the sea, 1946 (Vacation photograph collection of President Harry Truman, November 1946, U.S. National Archives and Records Administration, public domain).
Still stationed at Fort Jefferson in Florida’s Dry Tortugas in July 1863, Lieutenant-Colonel George W. Alexander and the members of Companies F, H and K baked in the unrelenting heat while on duty and sought refuge in the cooler spaces of the fort and island when not. The inferior quality of water available to them continued to wreak havoc on their health. That month alone, twenty-three members of the regiment and twenty-six of the prisoners they were guarding were admitted to the fort’s post hospital with a range of ailments, including six cases of fever (five bilious remittent and one intermittent), seven with intestinal-related diseases (four with dysentery, two with chronic diarrhea, and one with hemorrhoids/piles that were likely caused by the prior two conditions), and three with inflammatory diseases or infections (boils or carbuncles, funiculitis, odontalgia (toothache), orchitis, otitis (earache), along with assorted injuries, including abrasions, sprains and hernia issues.
Meanwhile, the members of Companies A, B, C, D, E, G, and I were still stationed at Fort Taylor in Key West, Florida, under the command of the regiment’s founder, Colonel Tilghman H. Good. They too waged their own battles with the heat and disease.
* Note: The members of Company D had just returned to Fort Taylor from Fort Jefferson in mid-May 1863.
Taking time to record his thoughts in his diary throughout July, Private Henry J. Hornbeck of Company G noted that he was “busy in office” during the first two days of the month as he “procured Henry Kramer Company B as cook for our mess” on 1 July and as the “U.S. Gunboat Bermuda arrived from New Orleans,” that same afternoon, “having an old mail for this place, which had passed here, and had gone on there, some time ago…. Weiss & myself took a short walk towards the barracks, accompanying Pretz & Lawall. After which returned to office…. Ginkinger, Whiting & myself then went in bathing off the wharf. Retired at 11 p.m.”
On July 3, he noted, “Could not sleep tonight on account of the heat, sitting up greater portion of the night.”
First Lieutenant George W. Huntsberger, Company G, 47th Pennsylvania Volunteers, circa 1863 (public domain).
The year was also proving to be an unforgettable one for the 47th Pennsylvania Volunteer Infantry in an entirely different way—many of the carte de visite images taken of its members were taken in 1863, according to historian Lewis Schmidt, who has stated that the photographer of choice for the regiment’s officers was Moffat & Simpson on Duval Street in Key West.
Members of the regiment who were still serving at Fort Taylor during this time commemorated the Fourth of July in grand style as “the celebrations began at Key West at 9 AM,” according to Schmidt. Following an inspection and review of the five companies stationed at the fort by Brigadier-General Woodbury, “the regiment marched in a ‘street parade through the principal streets of the city in heat of 110 degrees Fahrenheit and the dust almost suffocating’. After which ‘each detachment was taken to their quarters, dismissed, and then to enjoy themselves as best they could… Col. Good fired the National Salute of 35 guns from Fort Taylor at Meridian [noon]…. There was a great amount of firing from the vessels in the harbor in honor of the day.’”
According to Private Hornbeck, his holiday was only partially duty free with “No work in office.” But he still had an early start to what became a very long, but memorable Fourth.
Rose at 4 a.m. went with Ginkinger to Slaughter House, procured rations of fresh beef for our mess. Mennig & Myself went to fish market, purchased two fish. Took a cup of coffee at café opposite Provost Marshals Office. After breakfast Whiting & myself played a game of billiards, then witnessed the parade of 47th P. V. 5 Companies with Band & Col. & Staff. Review by the Genl. At Headquarters. Dispersed at 11 a.m. Weather extremely hot. Provost Guard quarters finely decorated. Flags hoisted at great many places. Firing squibs &c, salute by Fort Taylor & Gunboats in harbor, as usual on such occasions. Remained in office all day. After supper Ginkinger & myself visited Capt. Bell, then went with Serg’t. Mink to procure ice cream at a Colored Woman’s establishment, after which returned to office. Many of boys, as usual upon such occasions, being today pretty well curried. Today the San Jacinto relieved the Magnolia as Flag Ship for this port. After taking a sea bath retired at 11 p.m.
From the perspective of C Company Musician Henry D. Wharton:
The city was gaily dressed in flags, and the prettiest thing of the kind was that at the guard station, under Lt. Reese of Company C. Five flags were suspended from the quarters, with wreaths, while the whole front of the enclosure of the yard was covered with evergreens and the red, white, and blue. The Navy had their vessels dressed in their best ‘bib and tucker’, flags flying fore and aft, of our own and those of all nations. It was a pretty sight, and in a measure paid for the fatigue of the boys on their march. At 12 noon, both Army and Navy fired a national salute of thirty five guns.
A day later, Private Hornbeck noted “News very bad. Lee’s army still in Pennsylvania making bad havoc,” and on July 7, “Weather sultry & mosquitoes again at work.” During this time, he was also hard at work updating the regiment’s commissary paperwork to enable the commissary staff to issue rations to members of the regiment later that week. On July 9, he recorded the following:
Busy today, moving the office next door to Provost Marshal’s office, fine place. Tug Reaney returned from Havana having a mail…. News very bad from Pa. Rebels about to attack Harrisburg. The Militia confident of holding the place. Bridges &c burnt on the Susquehanna…. Steamer Creole passed by this evening Pilot Boat brought in a paper up to July 3 reports 9000 Rebels to be Captured between Carlisle & Chambersburg. Genl. Hooker relieved from Command of Army of Potomac and Genl. Meade his successor, general satisfaction by this change…. Weather cool this evening.
Around this same time, Major William Gausler, who had been appointed by senior Union Army leaders to serve as the provost marshal of Key West, described the influence that the 47th Pennsylvania’s presence was having on local residents, noting “morals of the city in a good state,” and ascribing at least part of that success to C Company’s First Lieutenant William Reese:
The days are quiet, but the nights are a busy time for Lt. Reese at the guard station…. Woe betide those who imbibe sufficient to make them weak in the knees, for a soft plank in the lockup will be their bed, and a fine in the morning…. Reese is playing the deuce [with local residents selling liquor illegally] in the way of confiscating the ardent-stuff, sure to kill at forty yards. A few days ago he captured ‘eleven five gallon demijohns under the floor of a house, and another in a barrel covered with flowers in the lower part of the yard, where the [local resident] had been selling it to the sailors and soldiers in bottles containing scarcely a pint, at the exorbitant price of three dollars a bottle. A nice profit, as the stuff costs fifty five cents per gallon, clear of duties, being smuggled in at night.’”
That bootlegger was fined $400, according to Schmidt.
Captain Henry Durant Woodruff, commanding officer of Company D, 47th Pennsylvania Volunteers (public domain).
Also according to Schmidt, additional festivities ensued on July 16, 1863 when members of Company D “presented a magnificent sword, sash, and belt” to Captain Woodruff “at the US Barracks in Key West.”
The company was formed in front of their quarters at 8 AM, across the barracks ground from Company C, and Pvt. George W. Baltozer, a 24 year old teacher from Perry County, made the following remarks on behalf of the company:
‘The motives that assemble us on the present occasion are based on our mature confidence, the martial skill, the intrepid heroism, and the undaunted intrepidity of our leader in arms. It is manifestive of our consciousness of your noble ability to wield in the defence [sic] of the rights of our country, this glittering weapon, that we place it in your protective hand. Receive it, sir, as a token of our estimation of your promotion of our ease and comfort in quietude, and for your chivalrous spirit on the sanguine field, when the heavens glared with fire, and the earth trembled ‘neath cannons’ roar. May it never rest in its scabbard ’till rebellion is crushed and traitorism is banished from the land, and peace spread her white wings from the St. John’s to the sunny banks of the Rio Grande. May it ever bespeak in the heart of him that wields it, bravery, loyalty, heroism, and philanthropy. That it may ever benefit you in the hour of peril, and that you may undauntingly use it as opportunity is afforded, is the very ardent wish of your most obedient servants.'”
Captain Woodruff then responded to this touching tribute by presenting a surprisingly lengthy address to his men:
My companions in arms, your beautiful present is accepted with sincere satisfaction and heartfelt thanks. It affords the satisfaction that you still respect and have confidence in your commander, and he is thankful not only for the value of this noble gift, but for the rich token of your kind regard. And while I wear these arms and accoutrements, emblematical of my rank and office, may they never be worn unworthily, or the noble donors have cause to blush for the ungallant act of the wearer.
Two years have nearly elapsed since we have been associated as commander and commanded. Two years of privation and toil, yet your love for the cause and your ardor to serve your country has not abated.
When you entered upon this gigantic struggle, you were not prompted by large bribes or bounties, or intimidated by being forced in service by conscription. But inspired by a noble patriotism, you cheerfully volunteered for the longest period known to law.
Your conduct thus far has been in accordance with the honorable principles which caused you to volunteer. No discipline too strict, no privations too great, no toil too sore, but that your indomitable spirits have been able to accomplish, to undergo and overcome. And now allow me to say to you that I am proud of the noble men who compose this company; I am proud of your generous and gallant conduct; I am proud of your association; I am proud of the honor you have this day conferred upon your Captain.
In looking forward, I have no fears for you in the future, whatever you may be called on to do—in garrison—in the tented field, or on the sanguined plain, it will be bravely—it will be well done. Then until rebels and traitors shall become extinct, or have grounded their arms, and acknowledged the supremacy of the government and the law, let this our motto be: Give us death or give us liberty.
In his own account of that event, Sergeant Alan Wilson noted that Captain Woodruff’s speech was received with three cheers by the men of D Company and a reception at which they ate and drank heartily in his honor.
Two days later, on Sunday, July 18, two privates from Company B—Charles Knauss and Allen Newhard—missed the regiment’s regularly scheduled inspection at Fort Taylor. Absent from morning through evening, they returned to their quarters. In response to their unexcused absence, their superior officers confined them to the guard house for three days and fined them each five dollars.
On July 22, Captain Henry S. Harte conducted a formal inspection of his F Company soldiers, who were dressed in full uniform and carrying their rifles for the event. That same day, B Company Private William Geist was reported as being drunk in his company’s barracks. Citing previous episodes of drunkenness, he was ordered by his superior officers “to stand upon the head of a barrel in front of the guard quarters for six successive days from 7 to 10 AM, and be confined in the guard house in the interval,” according to Schmidt.
In a letter penned around this same time, I Company Private Alfred Pretz wrote:
The weather is pleasant here, nothing short of it. Here we are set down on a small key in the ocean with the cooling sea breezes continually blowing over us so that, although the rays of the sun parch the ground and wither the herbage, the air in the shade is temperate. From 10 to 3 we keep in doors, the early mornings are fine, the evenings are cool. We have the moonlight at night now too which makes it delightful. I have just returned from Fort Taylor. Col. Good was here with his carriage at 12 and asked me whether I would ride back to the fort with him. Of course, I went transacted a little business for headquarters down there and walked back, over a mile. It would be impossible, I believe, to walk so far at this time of day if the breeze were not so strong and cooling. Tomorrow evening the Colonel is to be presented with a magnificent sword by the citizens of Key West ‘as a token of [their] appreciation of his merits as a gentlemen and soldier,’ so the Chairman of the Committee of Arrangements said at their meeting the other evening. The sword was made to order in New York and cost $750. I have not seen it. I will describe it to you as soon as I have seen it. The Yellow Fever season commences about the 1st of August. I don’t think we will have any of it this year, as there are none of the usual signs. We haven’t had a death in the regiment in the last month. There are few sick.
Colonel Tilghman H. Good, commanding officer, 47th Pennsylvania Volunteers (public domain image, circa 1863).
Colonel Good received that sword from the citizens of Key West during a festive event on Saturday, July 25, according to Schmidt.
At 4 PM, Companies C and D which were stationed at the barracks, were marched to Fort Taylor where Companies A, B, and I were stationed. The companies were formed in a line under command of Col. Good and marched through several street to the front of the Custom House, where they formed in a square column at 5 PM, with the Colonel on his horse ‘in his regular position’ in front of the troops. ‘A fine stand had been erected on the piazza of the building, seats were placed for the ladies, flags were stretched across the streets, and everything so arranged as to give it the appearance of a holiday. On the stand were Rear Admiral Bailey, Capt. Templeton of the Navy, Gen. Woodbury and staff, Captains Hook and McFarland of the Army; besides Thomas J. Boynton, U.S. District Attorney, for the Southern District of Florida.’
Two citizens came down from the platform and Col. Good dismounted from his horse and took his cap in his hand, stepped between the two men and was escorted to the platform at the cheers of his men. He was presented with the sword, sash, and belt by Mr. Maloney, a Key West lawyer.
Maloney then delivered the following address:
The people of Key West have called upon me to represent them today, and in their name and on their behalf to present you with a sword as a token of their regard, and in appreciation of your merits as a gentleman and soldier. And permit me to say, sir, that heretofore in instances almost without number have I been called upon to serve this people, during a residence of 28 years among them. And that many of those calls have been attended with positions of honor, trust, and emolument; but upon no occasion have I felt the honor more great, or my sympathies more in accord with the good people of this island, than upon the present occasion.
You first came to our island, sir, nearly two years ago. You came then as a subordinate, but at the head of a regiment, which had met the armed enemies of the government of the United States on the fields of Virginia, and had shown its discipline and bravery in battle, which attracted the favorable attention of the General soon after appointed to the command of this island; and which caused your regiment to be selected by him to serve under his command at this point.
Transferred from Virginia to Key West. From scenes of carnage to the peaceful abode of an unarmed and loyal people, you met the inhabitants of this island, as they deserved to be met and as they met you, and all who came before you bearing the flag of the Union and the command at this post.
After a very short sojourn on the island, but not before you had succeeded in making a favorable impression on the inhabitants, the government found it necessary to transfer your regiment to South Carolina where it was expected fighting was to be done. And it was with pride and pleasure that your friends here learned that you met the enemy at Pocotaligo and Jacksonville and demonstrated that the most modest could be the most brave.
Unfortunately for us, sir, the transfer operated to bring into chief command on this island, one who had yet to learn to meet an armed foe. And I refrain from speaking of the administration, or more correctly speaking, the maladministration of that officer only because he is absent.
Wiser councils, and a good providence returned you to us, as chief in command, at a moment of great peril to a large number of our inhabitants, and you signalized your assumption of command by inaugurating renewed confidence in the good faith of the government of the United States. By discountenancing a vile system of clandestine attacks upon the reputation of quiet law abiding citizens. And by bringing order out of general confusion.
Your administration of affairs as chief of command was short, but such as to attract the respect sand esteem of the greater portion of the people of this island; and without disparagement to others, I can confidently say that no military officer of the United States more wisely and prudently governed on this island than yourself.
The citizens of Key West, in appreciation of your merits as a gentleman and a soldier, through me, now present this sword, asking your acceptance of the same, confident that they confide it to the hands of an officer who knows both how and when to use it.
In response, Colonel Good said:
Gentlemen, I accept at your hands this magnificent gift, and beg of you to accept in return my most heartfelt thanks. Duly sensible that no acts of mine as an individual have merited it, I shall regard the presentation of this testimonial as evidence of your attachment to the cause I have the honor to represent, and of your devotion to our common country. It shall ever serve as an additional memento, if one were needed, to remind me of the pleasant days passed among you, and of the loyalty of your citizens, to whom I am already greatly indebted for many kindnesses. It shall be sacredly preserved and I hope no act of mine will ever disgrace it or cause you to regret of your generosity. I am a man of action, gentlemen, and I know you will in these times, particularly, excuse a lengthy speech from me, it not being a soldier’s vocation. Imagine all a grateful heart could prompt the most eloquent to utter, and you will have the correct idea of my feelings.
A reception then followed, during which the 47th Pennsylvania’s Regimental Band performed Bully for You and other numbers and the assembled crowd of Key West residents and men from the 47th Pennsylvania gave rousing cheers for Colonel Good, the Army and Navy of the United States and its senior military officers, President Abraham Lincoln, and America’s Union. As the event wound down, the regiment’s various companies marched back to their respective quarters.
August 1863
Officers’ quarters and parade grounds, interior of Fort Jefferson, Dry Tortugas, Florida, 1898 (U.S. National Park Service and National Archives and Records Administration, public domain).
During the month of August, forty-nine of the inhabitants of Fort Jefferson were admitted to the fort’s post hospital, twenty-nine of whom were members of the 47th Pennsylvania Volunteer Infantry. Among those admitted from the regiment were twenty-five soldiers who had contracted infectious or inflammatory diseases or developed other types of infections. Conditions identified during this period included: anthrax/fungus infections (two cases), bilious remittent or intermittent fevers (nine cases); conjunctivitis; constipation, dysentery/diarrhea, enuresis/bed wetting or other intestinal complaints (eleven cases); funiculitis and orchitis, as well as cases of cramp, debilitas, hemorrhage, and rheumatism.
That same month, the men stationed at Fort Jefferson continued their routine of morning infantry drills, followed by artillery practice in the afternoon, with Second Lieutenant Christian K. Breneman appointed as the fort’s post adjutant, Company K’s First Lieutenant David Fetherolf appointed as “A.A.G.M. & A.A.C.S. of Post in accordance with Spec. Order #98 HQ Fort Jefferson,” and Privates Alexander Blumer (Company B), Charles Detweiler (Company A), John Schweitzer (Company A), Charles Shaffer (Company E), and John Weiss (Company F) assigned to responsibilities, respectively, as a company clerk, nurse, baker, quartermaster department member, and ordnance department member. In addition, other members of the regiment were assigned to guard duty.
Lighthouse, Key West, Florida, early to mid-1800s (Florida for Tourists, Invalids, and Settlers, George M. Barbour, 1881, public domain).
Their routine changed dramatically for one day, however; on Thursday, August 6, 1863—the date President Abraham Lincoln had proclaimed as a nationwide day of Thanksgiving and reflection—and a date on which 47th Pennsylvanians at both of garrison sites most certainly took time to reflect on all that they had endured since enlisting.
While the majority of enlisted men and lower ranking officers stationed in the Dry Tortugas observed the national holiday there at Fort Jefferson, many of their superior officers headed to Fort Taylor, where every store in town was closed to ensure wider participation in the commemorative events that had been scheduled there, which C Company’s Henry Wharton described in his August 23, 1863 letter to the Sunbury American:
Thanksgiving, or the day set apart by the President for prayer and to return thanks to Him who has the control of battles, was properly observed by the Army and Navy at this place. The proclamation of the President was read from the pulpits of the different churches on the Sunday evening previous, and invitation extended to all who wished to participate in the services on that occasion. General Woodbury issued a circular requesting all of his command to observe the day in a becoming manner and to attend Divine service at their usual places of worship.– He ordered that all drills and policeing [sic] should be dispensed with, so that the men were at liberty to spend the day as their feelings best dictated. The invitation of the Clergy was accepted, and the Military, by companies attended church. Company C, headed by Captain Gobin and Lieutenant Oyster, marched to the Episcopal church, where an eloquent discourse was delivered by the Rev. Dr. Herrick, but owing to the great crowd many were compelled to retire, thus losing an intellectual treat that would have benefitted them more than the mere listening to a common sermon. The Reverend gentleman of this church has been very kind to our regiment in reserving seats for their accommodation. One act of his speaks for itself, viz: on our arrival here he addressed a note to the Colonel of the 47th, inviting the officers and men to attend the services at St. Marks church, and mentioned particularly that the seats were free.
On the Saturday following Thanksgiving a Yacht race came off on the waters between Sand Key Light House and Key West.– Some thirty boats were entered. Boats of all kinds, from a Captains gig to a thirty or forty ton schooner. The wind was fine and a splendid day they had for the purpose.– Each boat had a flag that it might be known, and as they moved off, the fleet made a grand display. From the ramparts of Fort Taylor the sight was magnificent, for from that point one had a full view, and an opportunity afforded of following the different parties, with the eye, until they gained the turning point and their return to the starting ground. A steam tug followed the party, having on board ladies, the committee and guests, who had a jolly time of it, and an opportunity of tripping the ‘light, fantastic toe,’ to the fine music of the 47th Band, lead by that excellent musician, Prof. Bush. Quartermaster Lock’s schooner ‘Nonpareil’ won the race, out distancing all of its competitors. Of that fact I was certain, for how else could it be, when its name belongs to the ‘art, preservative of all arts’ – printing.
Last Wednesday brought two-thirds of the ‘three years’ of the ‘Sunbury Guards’ to a close, when Lieut. Reese surprised the boys, agreeably, by giving them an entertainment. In this the Lieut., took the start of the other officers of the company, but as all joined in devouring the good things furnished, every one was in a good humor and satisfied, no matter who was the caterer for the occasion. Company C is blessed with good officers – men who do, as they wish to be done by. This little celebration had a good effect, for if there was any misunderstanding, previously, it is now settled, and no better conducted or well regulated family, where good feeling are exhibited, can be found among the soldiers of Uncle Sam. Our company is slightly envied on account of their good grub, but for this the boys should not be blamed for Gobin, who has charge of the company savings, is continually hunting the market for the best it affords, and Sergeant Piers and Johnny Voonsch serve it up in their best style, proving to others that soldiers can, if they good [sic] cooks, live a well as any ‘other man.’
The nomination of Governor Curtin for re-election was well received, and if they had the right to vote there would be no fear of the next Chief Magistrate of Pennsylvania being a copperhead. The decision of Judge Woodward, depriving the soldier of a vote, is looked upon as a bribe for not re-enlisting; and indeed it is, for does it not give the bounty of the right of suffrage to every elector who stays at home? The voting men of the 47th Regiment, Pennsylvania Volunteers, are as a unit for the re-election of Andrew G. Curtin.
Blockade running is nearly played out, and is confined to Mobile and Wilmington, N.C. Very few vessels of this sort are brought into this port at present, owing to the strict watch that is kept on the above named places; however, a day or two ago, the U.S. Steamer De Soto brought in two very large river steamers laden with cotton. The cotton is being transferred to other vessels and will soon be sent North, where it will be put in market for sale.
One of the houses belonging to the Engineer Department was entirely destroyed by fire on last Thursday. It was occupied by the laborers as a sleeping apartment. How the fire originated is unknown, but it is supposed to have caught from a tobacco pipe of one of the men, or from a spark of the locomotive that is used in hauling material for the outside works at Fort Taylor. The boys are all very well and in fine spirits, only a little more active life, and occasional brush with the enemy, they think, would give them a better appetite and enable them to enjoy the rations fournished [sic] by Government….
Fort Jefferson and its wharf (Harper’s Weekly, August 26, 1865, public domain; click to enlarge).
As the month of August wore on, one of the 47th Pennsylvanians assigned to guard duty at Fort Jefferson was H Company’s Corporal George W. Albert, who was stationed at the wharf in the Dry Tortugas on August 24. Standing guard at the regimental post designated as No. 6, he was assigned to night duty, and was relieved the next morning at 8 a.m.
That same day, General Woodbury arrived at the Tortugas for an inspection. He was impressed by the regiment’s level of discipline according to H Company Captain James Kacy, who later wrote: “Men were fully armed and ready for march, splendid appearance…. Gen. Woodbury would not part with the 47th if he does not have to, and all the people at Key West and the Tortugas are pleased with the 47th more than any other regiment.”
With respect to the civilian population at Fort Jefferson and across Florida’s Dry Tortugas, life was also often surprisingly busy. According to Emily Holder, who was making a life with her physician-husband at a house on the fort’s grounds during this time:
The latter part of August 1863, Mr. Hall, who with his wife, had been long with us, was ordered away. He was a very efficient officer and we heard long afterwards that his bravery under fire was remarkable. Their departure was most tantalizing to them and to us somewhat amusing. It showed more clearly than anything else would our isolated condition, for our only legitimate means of getting away was by sail; whenever we had steam conveyance it was by special favor.
We had given some farewell entertainments to Mr. And Mrs. Hall, and Saturday afternoon saw them on board the boat that was to carry them directly to Pensacola. When ready to sail the wind suddenly failed, and the vessel could not get away from the wharf.
The doctor went down and brought them back with him to tea after which they returned to the boat, hoping that during the night a breeze would spring up, but in the morning there the boat lay, and they breakfasted with the colonel. Later all went down again to see them off, as a breeze gently flapped the flag, but it was dead ahead, making it impossible to get out of the narrow channel, which in some places was not wide enough for two vessels to pass each other, and beating out was impossible, so they came up to tea again and spent the evening.
The next morning the doctor looked out of the window and exclaimed: “There they go!” when suddenly as we were watching, the masts became perfectly motionless. We knew only too well what that meant. They had run on to the edge of the reef, within hailing distance of the Fort, and the doctor with others, went out and spent the morning with them, as they refused to come on shore again. Mr. Hall said he was going to “stand by the ship.”
In the course of the day, by kedging as the sailors call it, putting out the anchor and pulling the boat up to it, then throwing it out again further on, they managed to crawl to the first buoy, and there lay in the broiling sun….
Someone replied that it was fortunate that the Wishawken had captured the Atlanta and that the Florida after running the blockade from Mobile under the British colors, rarely came near our coast, for they certainly would have been captured had there been a privateer in those waters.
The next morning when we went on top of the Fort, the sails of the schooner were just a white speck on the northern horizon, and we could hear music from the steamer, which was bringing Colonel Goode [sic] for his monthly inspection of the troops.
Our rains continued occasionally later than usual, one in the middle of September almost ending in a hurricane; so rough was it that the Clyde, a long, graceful, English-built steamer, that came in for coal with the Sunflower, had to remain several days. The Clyde had quite a serious time in reaching the harbor. We watched it through a porthole with great anxiety. It was too strong a wind for us to venture on the ramparts, but we could walk all about inside seeing everything that came in from our safe lookout.
Colonel Goode [sic] on his last trip had left the regiment band for us awhile, so that guard mount and dress parade were important features, while the naval officers went about visiting the various houses, keeping us bright and gay while they were weather bound.
The high winds ended in a severe norther—an almost unheard of thing so early in the season. Later we saw by a paper that they had snow in New York the latter part of August; it might have been the same cold wave that swept down over the Gulf, for it housed us shivering.
While the band was with us the ramparts were the favorite places for viewing dress parade, and the colonel gave the ladies all the pleasure he could, having the band play on parade during the evening.
A remittent fever broke out and we were ill for three weeks. It was very much like the break-bone fever; extreme suffering in the limbs and back seemed to be the prevailing feature of the attacks. At the same time they were digging a ditch around close to the wall of the Fort, which made it pass between the house and kitchen as the latter was in the casemates.
The rains, of course, swelled the size of the brook so that the bridge over it, when the wind blew, as it seemed to most of the time, was rather an insecure passage, as it was five feet wide and from three to four deep, and to cross that every time one went into the kitchen was no small annoyance, and the contrivances to get the meals into the dining-room got required no little ingenuity.
Meanwhile, as summer progressed, the 47th Pennsylvania Volunteers continued to weaken Florida’s abilities to supply and transport food and troops throughout the area held by the Confederate States of America by capturing livestock and farm produce, as well as disrupting the manufacture of salt.
They also continued to train, keeping their battle skills sharp in readiness for the moment they would be ordered back into the fray in order to finally extinguish the faction of “fire-eaters” bent on dissolving the United States and all that the nation had stood for since its founding.
Sources:
- Bates, Samuel P. History of Pennsylvania Volunteers, 1861-5, vol. 1. Harrisburg, Pennsylvania: B. Singerly, State Printer, 1869.
- “Florida’s Role in the Civil War: ‘Supplier of the Confederacy.’” Tampa, Florida: Florida Center for Instructional Technology, College of Education, University of South Florida, retrieved online January 15, 2020.
- Holder, Emily. “At the Dry Tortugas During the War.” San Francisco, California: Californian Illustrated Magazine, 1892 (part four, retrieved online, March 28, 2024, courtesy of Lit2Go, the website of the Educational Technology Clearinghouse at the Florida Center for Instructional Technology, College of Education, University of South Florida).
- “History: Crops (Historic Florida Barge Canal Trail).” Historical Marker Database, retrieved online December 30, 2023.
- Owsley, Frank Lawrence, and Harriet Fason Chappell. King Cotton Diplomacy: Foreign Relations of the Confederate States of America. Chicago, Illinois: University of Chicago Press, 1959.
- “Preventing Diplomatic Recognition of the Confederacy, 1861–1865,” and “The Alabama Claims, 1862–1872,” in “Milestones: 1861–1865.” Washington, D.C.: Office of the Historian, Foreign Service Institute, United States Department of State, retrieved online December 30, 2023.
- Schmidt, Lewis G. A Civil War History of the 47th Regiment of Pennsylvania Veteran Volunteers. Allentown, Pennsylvania: Self-published, 1986.
- Wharton, Henry. Letters from the Sunbury Guards. Sunbury, Pennsylvania: Sunbury American, 1861-1868.
#003366 #47thPennsylvania #47thPennsylvaniaInfantry #47thPennsylvaniaRegiment #47thPennsylvaniaVolunteers #47thRegimentPennsylvania #98 #America #AmericanCivilWar #AmericanHistory #Army #CivilWar #DryTortugas #FloridaAndSouthCarolina #FortJefferson #FortTaylor #History #Infantry #KeyWest #PennsylvaniaHistory #PennsylvaniaInTheCivilWar #TheUnionArmy #Tortugas #USMilitaryAndTheUnionArmy
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The Cost of the Clean Exit: When the System Protects the Liar
3,572 words, 19 minutes read time.
Grant Miller sat in the clinical, blue-light glow of his home office, the low hum of three synchronized monitors serving as the only soundtrack to the wreckage of a decade. On the center screen, a spreadsheet acted as a cold, digital autopsy of ten years of his life. As a systems architect, Grant didn’t have “hobbies”; he had projects that required infrastructure, precision, and an uncompromising adherence to the truth. When he first walked into the local “Learn to Skate” rink with a camera bag and a laptop, he wasn’t looking for a plaque or a pat on the back. He saw a system that was broken—a chaotic, paper-trail operation where registrations were lost in overstuffed filing cabinets and the club’s “digital presence” was a joke. Over the next ten years, Grant didn’t just volunteer; he engineered. He built a fortress. By the time the dust settled, he had clocked over $65,000 in professional volunteer hours based on federal labor standards, and his private servers groaned under the weight of 100,000 high-resolution images captured on $10,000 of his own professional gear. He was the invisible backbone of the club, the man who turned a disorganized mess into a streamlined, encrypted powerhouse that parents actually trusted with their data and their children’s milestones.
The sheer volume of the work was staggering when viewed through the lens of objective data. We are talking about ten years of Saturday mornings spent in sub-zero rinks, ten years of weeknights spent editing thousands of RAW files to ensure every kid in the program had a hero shot that made them feel like an Olympian. Grant didn’t just take pictures; he managed the club’s identity. He built the website, secured the databases, and handled the tech support that the board was too technologically illiterate to understand. In the world of non-profits, a man like Grant is a unicorn—a high-level professional providing enterprise-grade solutions for the price of a lukewarm coffee. But the danger of being the man who builds the system is that you eventually become the only person who knows how the gears actually turn, and in a landscape ruled by small-town egos, that technical mastery is often viewed not as an asset, but as a threat to the established order of those who prefer to rule in the dark.
In the world of small-town sports politics, efficiency is a direct threat to those who thrive on opacity and “good old boy” networks. For years, the club’s board elections had been tainted by what the locals quietly called “funny business.” It was a shadowy, manual practice where Sarah, the Skating Director, and her inner circle would physically call members over the phone, pressuring them to cast votes for her hand-picked candidates in direct violation of the club’s own bylaws. It was a system built on social engineering and intimidation, a way to ensure that the “inner circle” remained unchallenged and that the director’s personal fiefdom remained intact. Sarah wore her high-level credentials with the national Figure Skating Association like a medieval mace, using her title to silence dissent and maintain a status quo that favored her cronies over the actual growth of the program. She didn’t want a fair vote; she wanted a coronation every cycle.
To kill this corruption and bring the club into the twenty-first century, Grant had implemented a third-party, industry-standard voting system years prior. He didn’t build the software—he was too smart for that—but he selected a platform that offered absolute integrity, two-factor authentication, and a verifiable audit trail. It was a secure tool designed to ensure that every member had a private, un-pressured voice, effectively stripping Sarah of her ability to manipulate the outcomes through late-night phone calls and locker-room arm-twisting. Ironically, that very system is still used by the club today, a testament to its reliability and Grant’s foresight in building something that could withstand the very rot he was trying to excise. But the moment the digital tally finally reflected a result that Sarah couldn’t control, the “funny business” shifted from the voting booth to a direct, surgical strike on Grant Miller’s reputation.
The transition from “valued volunteer” to “enemy of the state” happened with the flick of a bureaucratic switch. When the election results didn’t go Sarah’s way, she didn’t look in the mirror; she looked for a scapegoat. Using her high-level influence and her direct line to the national Figure Skating Association, she filed an informal grievance that was as calculated as it was malicious. She accused Grant of “digital manipulation,” claiming that he had used his administrative access to rig the election results through the third-party software. It was a character-assassinating smear designed to hit a technical professional where it hurts most: his integrity. She banked on the Association’s fundamental ignorance of technology, knowing that to a group of aging administrators, “software” was a magic black box that could be easily manipulated by a “hacker” in their midst. She didn’t need proof; she only needed to trigger the investigation to isolate Grant and cast a shadow of doubt over the entire digital infrastructure he had built.
The move was a masterclass in institutional bullying. Suddenly, the man who had donated $65,000 worth of his life to the program was being treated like a criminal in a defensive crouch. The Association, instead of looking at Sarah’s history of “funny business” or the verifiable logs of the third-party system, reflexively protected their director. They launched an inquiry that forced Grant to spend weeks of his own time—time he could have spent with his family or on his actual career—defending his honor against a baseless lie. This is the raw reality of the volunteer grind: the moment you stop being a “useful tool” and start being a “check on power,” the institution will turn on you with a cold, mechanical indifference that would make a corporate HR department blush. Grant found himself in a fight he never asked for, forced to prove a negative against a woman who had spent years treating the club’s bylaws like suggestions.
Grant didn’t retreat into anger; he retreated into the data. While Sarah was busy playing the victim in rink-side whispers and backroom meetings, Grant was operating with the cold, methodical precision of a man who knew that in a digital world, every lie leaves a footprint. He understood that the burden of proof in an institutional inquisition is rarely on the accuser, so he built a defense that was mathematically irrefutable. He spent dozens of hours—hours on top of the decade he’d already sacrificed—compiling a forensic dossier that documented every interaction with the voting software. He didn’t just tell them he didn’t rig the election; he showed them the server logs, the encrypted handshakes, and the third-party security protocols that made it impossible for an administrator to alter an individual ballot once cast. He presented a timeline of every email sent, every website modification made, and every administrative login, cross-referenced against the club’s own bylaws which Sarah had so casually ignored for years.
The sheer density of the evidence was a silent middle finger to the incompetence of the board. Grant produced a document that mapped the “funny business” of previous years—the phone call logs and the manual tallies that didn’t add up—and contrasted it with the sterile, unassailable integrity of the digital system he had implemented. He was forcing the Association to look at the mirror, showing them that the only person with a history of manipulation was the woman pointing the finger. For a man who lived by the logic of “if-then” statements, the hearing wasn’t an emotional plea for his reputation; it was a technical demonstration of Sarah’s malice. He sat across from the Association representatives—people who likely struggled to reset their own Wi-Fi routers—and spoke to them in the language of objective truth. He didn’t ask for their trust; he demanded they acknowledge the data.
The hearing was a collision between professional competence and bureaucratic ego. Grant watched as the Association reps flipped through his forensic audit with the glazed eyes of people who had realized they were in way over their heads. They had walked into the room expecting to slap the wrist of a “rogue volunteer” and instead found themselves staring at a mountain of evidence that implicated their own director in years of procedural misconduct. They saw the locks on the third-party system, they saw the clean logs, and they saw the verified results that matched the will of the members perfectly. There was no “hacker,” no “manipulation,” and no “rigging.” There was only a man who had done his job too well and a woman who had tried to destroy him for it. The truth was sitting on the table, cold and heavy, but the institution wasn’t interested in truth; it was interested in liability.
The final verdict arrived not with a bang, but with a whimper—a two-paragraph email that was a masterclass in corporate-filtered non-apology. The Association stated they could “find no fault” in Grant’s actions, a clinical way of admitting he was innocent without actually saying he had been wronged. There was a weak, throwaway sentence about the “inconvenience of the investigation,” but no mention of the ten years of service, the $65,000 in labor, or the 100,000 photos that had built their brand. Even more galling was the silence regarding Sarah. There was no reprimand, no suspension, and no acknowledgment of her baseless smear campaign. She was allowed to keep her office and her title, protected by a system that values the survival of the hierarchy over the character of its builders. The Association had looked at a decade of loyalty and a month of character assassination and decided that the status quo was worth more than a man’s honor.
In the immediate aftermath, Grant felt the weight of the “sunk cost fallacy” pulling at his gut. Ten years. Over a hundred thousand images of kids learning to find their edges, of parents crying in the stands, of a community he thought he was part of. He looked at the hard drives in his office—$10,000 worth of gear and an archive of a decade’s worth of growth—and realized that the club didn’t deserve a single byte of it. The “Actionable Fix” in this scenario wasn’t to stay and fight a guerrilla war against Sarah’s ego; it was to perform a total, scorched-earth decoupling of his identity from the program. He wasn’t just a volunteer leaving a post; he was an architect reclaiming his blueprints. He realized that Sarah had successfully weaponized the institution to run off its most valuable asset, and the board was too weak or too complicit to stop her.
The raw truth that every high-level volunteer eventually learns is that the institution doesn’t love you back. It is a machine that consumes “useful idiots” until they become “inconvenient truths,” and then it discards them with a form letter. Grant’s exit wasn’t a retreat; it was an evacuation of value. He deleted his administrative access, handed over the keys to the digital fortress he had built, and walked away with the one thing Sarah could never touch: his integrity. He understood that the club would likely devolve back into the “funny business” of phone-call voting and paper-trail chaos within a year, and he finally stopped caring. Forgiveness, for Grant, was the cold realization that he no longer owed his energy to a group of people who would trade his decade of sacrifice for a director’s comfort.
The first Saturday morning after his resignation was the loudest silence Grant had ever experienced. For ten years, the rhythmic scratch of toe picks, the deep hum of blades carving precise circles, and the echoes of classical scores over the PA system had been the heartbeat of his weekend. Now, sitting in his kitchen with a cup of coffee that didn’t need to be rushed, he felt the phantom weight of the camera bag on his shoulder. He looked at his gear—the Nikon bodies, the 70-200mm f/2.8 lens that had captured a hundred thousand tiny triumphs—and realized they were just tools again, no longer weapons of a community’s legacy. The realization hit him with the cold precision of a data point: he had been a ghostwriter for a story that the lead character was trying to delete. Sarah still held the keys to the rink, but she no longer held the keys to his time, a currency that, once spent, offers no refunds.
The “funny business” resumed almost immediately. Reports filtered back through the grapevine of the old “phone tree” tactics resurfacing, of board meetings descending back into the opaque, disorganized chaos that had defined the era before Grant’s digital intervention. The club was regressing, shedding its professional skin and returning to its form as a petty fiefdom. It was the natural state of an organization that chooses a comfortable lie over a demanding truth. Grant watched from the sidelines, not with the bitterness of a man who had lost, but with the detached observation of a scientist watching a predictable chemical reaction. When you remove the structural integrity of a building—the architect and the foundation—it doesn’t collapse all at once; it leans until it eventually becomes uninhabitable.
While the Association’s weak apology sat in his inbox like a digital insult, the real “audit” of Grant’s decade came from the people Sarah couldn’t control: the parents. His private gallery links began to see a spike in traffic. Families were downloading the archives, realizing that the man who had documented their children’s lives from their first wobbles to their high school graduations was gone. Those 100,000 photos weren’t just data; they were the only evidence of a decade of growth that the club had essentially disowned. Grant realized that by attacking his integrity, Sarah had inadvertently highlighted his value. Every high-resolution shot was a reminder of a standard she could never replicate with a smartphone and a grudge.
The $65,000 in volunteer hours was gone, a sunk cost in the ledger of his life, but the forensic defense he had built remained a masterclass in tactical self-preservation. He had proven that a man with a paper trail is a man who cannot be easily erased. He had shown that even in a rigged game, the player who keeps the best records can walk away with his name intact. This is the raw truth for any man in the trenches of a volunteer organization: build the system, but keep the logs. Serve the community, but never trust the institution. The only thing you truly own at the end of a ten-year grind is your reputation and the data that proves you were the one who held the line when everyone else was busy making phone calls.
Grant Miller eventually closed the spreadsheet. He archived the folder labeled “Skating Club Litigation” and moved it to a backup drive, a dark corner of his digital life that he intended to visit only if the “funny business” ever crossed the line into legal territory again. He wasn’t waiting for Sarah to be fired, and he wasn’t waiting for the Association to grow a spine and offer a real apology. That would be giving them more of his life, and he had already donated enough. The final transaction was the act of clicking “Logout” for the last time—not just from a server, but from a narrative that no longer served him.
Author’s Note
In the world of “sanitized” faith, we’re told forgiveness is a warm, fuzzy reconciliation. We’re fed a version of grace that expects a man to just “shake hands and forget” while his reputation is still bleeding out. But the reality of the grind teaches a harder truth: Sometimes, forgiveness is the tactical decision to stop trying to collect a debt from a bankrupt person. It’s handing the bill to a higher authority and walking off the job site.
For the men who know me, you’ll recognize the skeleton of this story. It’s loosely based on my own ten-year tour in the trenches—a decade of professional-grade labor met with a calculated strike at my integrity. Note that all specific names and locations have been changed to protect everyone involved. For a man in my field, a formal accusation of “manipulation” or “rigging” is a direct hit on my livelihood. I operate under a strict standard of professional appearance; a smear like this could ha
Even years later, I still feel the weight. Every year when the house lights dim and the ice shows begin, the struggle resurfaces like a ghost in the rafters. It’s a seasonal reminder of a wound that hasn’t fully closed—not because of a lack of faith, but because I refuse to lie about the truth. I still run the ice show circuit, taking the photos and giving them away for free, promoting the achievements of these young athletes and the sport itself. I do the work because the work has value to those skaters and thier families.
I’ve had to face the bitter reality that the people who launched this path of destruction were never held accountable—and in all likelihood, they never will be on this side of eternity. Even though her actions and that path of wreckage continue to this day, there was no grand moment of justice, no public clearing of my name, and no professional consequence for the liar. From what I’ve been told, this began long before I arrived and has left a trail of destroyed lives in its wake. This includes one individual handed a lifetime ban from skating—a move reminiscent of the Tonya Harding fallout—simply for trying to protect a skater from abuse. That wake of destruction remains active, and the wreckage continues to pile up. I have to believe that one day, God will say “enough.” This is my way of turning this situation over to God.
In Enemies of the Heart, Andy Stanley identifies Anger as the result of a “debt” mindset—the conviction that “you owe me.” When a bureaucrat smears your name or devalues a decade of your life, they create a massive debt. We wait for the apology or the admission of guilt to “balance the books,” but a bankrupt person can’t pay you back. Stanley’s solution isn’t “feelings”; it’s a business decision: Cancel the debt. You aren’t saying what they did was right; you’re deciding you will no longer wait for a thief to return what they stole.
I’ve heard the fake apologies—the corporate-speak non-apologies meant to shift the blame. Specifically: “I’m sorry you got your feelings hurt.” Let’s be blunt: that’s a tactical maneuver, not an apology. It ignores the lie, the rigged system, and the malicious intent. It treats a professional betrayal like an emotional glitch on your part. It’s the cowards’ way out.
Understand this: there is no commandment that forces you to associate with people like this. In my opinion, based on the Word, there are actually commandments not to associate with them. Scripture doesn’t call us to be door-mats for the deceptive. It tells us to “have nothing to do with them” (2 Timothy 3:5) and to “shun” those who persist in division and deceit. Forgiveness is about your heart’s freedom from their debt; it is not a legal requirement to invite a known liar back to your table.
“Forgive and forget” is a myth. Even the resurrected Christ carries the record of what was done to Him.
“Then I saw a Lamb, looking as if it had been slain, standing in the center of the throne…” — Revelation 5:6 (NIV)
The scars on the resurrected Christ prove that memory and mercy are not mutually exclusive. Those wounds are the eternal record of the price He paid. He hasn’t “forgotten” the cost; He absorbed the debt so the bill never reaches the one who owed it. Forgiveness isn’t forgetting; it’s absorbing the hit.
I wrote this for the men who still struggle, like I do, with the hard facts. I wrote it for the men who have done the work, kept the logs, and watched the “system” protect the liar. If you’re in those shoes, understand this: Your integrity isn’t defined by their inability to tell the truth. I know that one day God will hold them accountable, even if they never face justice on this earth. Scripture is clear: “It is mine to avenge; I will repay,” says the Lord. Sometimes, the most masculine thing you can do is shake the dust off your boots, cancel the debt, and leave the final audit to the only Judge who actually keeps the books.
Call to Action
If this story struck a chord, don’t just scroll on. Join the brotherhood—men learning to build, not borrow, their strength. Subscribe for more stories like this, drop a comment about where you’re growing, or reach out and tell me what you’re working toward. Let’s grow together.
D. Bryan King
Sources
Disclaimer:
The views and opinions expressed in this post are solely those of the author. The information provided is based on personal research, experience, and understanding of the subject matter at the time of writing. Readers should consult relevant experts or authorities for specific guidance related to their unique situations.
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The Cost of the Clean Exit: When the System Protects the Liar
3,572 words, 19 minutes read time.
Grant Miller sat in the clinical, blue-light glow of his home office, the low hum of three synchronized monitors serving as the only soundtrack to the wreckage of a decade. On the center screen, a spreadsheet acted as a cold, digital autopsy of ten years of his life. As a systems architect, Grant didn’t have “hobbies”; he had projects that required infrastructure, precision, and an uncompromising adherence to the truth. When he first walked into the local “Learn to Skate” rink with a camera bag and a laptop, he wasn’t looking for a plaque or a pat on the back. He saw a system that was broken—a chaotic, paper-trail operation where registrations were lost in overstuffed filing cabinets and the club’s “digital presence” was a joke. Over the next ten years, Grant didn’t just volunteer; he engineered. He built a fortress. By the time the dust settled, he had clocked over $65,000 in professional volunteer hours based on federal labor standards, and his private servers groaned under the weight of 100,000 high-resolution images captured on $10,000 of his own professional gear. He was the invisible backbone of the club, the man who turned a disorganized mess into a streamlined, encrypted powerhouse that parents actually trusted with their data and their children’s milestones.
The sheer volume of the work was staggering when viewed through the lens of objective data. We are talking about ten years of Saturday mornings spent in sub-zero rinks, ten years of weeknights spent editing thousands of RAW files to ensure every kid in the program had a hero shot that made them feel like an Olympian. Grant didn’t just take pictures; he managed the club’s identity. He built the website, secured the databases, and handled the tech support that the board was too technologically illiterate to understand. In the world of non-profits, a man like Grant is a unicorn—a high-level professional providing enterprise-grade solutions for the price of a lukewarm coffee. But the danger of being the man who builds the system is that you eventually become the only person who knows how the gears actually turn, and in a landscape ruled by small-town egos, that technical mastery is often viewed not as an asset, but as a threat to the established order of those who prefer to rule in the dark.
In the world of small-town sports politics, efficiency is a direct threat to those who thrive on opacity and “good old boy” networks. For years, the club’s board elections had been tainted by what the locals quietly called “funny business.” It was a shadowy, manual practice where Sarah, the Skating Director, and her inner circle would physically call members over the phone, pressuring them to cast votes for her hand-picked candidates in direct violation of the club’s own bylaws. It was a system built on social engineering and intimidation, a way to ensure that the “inner circle” remained unchallenged and that the director’s personal fiefdom remained intact. Sarah wore her high-level credentials with the national Figure Skating Association like a medieval mace, using her title to silence dissent and maintain a status quo that favored her cronies over the actual growth of the program. She didn’t want a fair vote; she wanted a coronation every cycle.
To kill this corruption and bring the club into the twenty-first century, Grant had implemented a third-party, industry-standard voting system years prior. He didn’t build the software—he was too smart for that—but he selected a platform that offered absolute integrity, two-factor authentication, and a verifiable audit trail. It was a secure tool designed to ensure that every member had a private, un-pressured voice, effectively stripping Sarah of her ability to manipulate the outcomes through late-night phone calls and locker-room arm-twisting. Ironically, that very system is still used by the club today, a testament to its reliability and Grant’s foresight in building something that could withstand the very rot he was trying to excise. But the moment the digital tally finally reflected a result that Sarah couldn’t control, the “funny business” shifted from the voting booth to a direct, surgical strike on Grant Miller’s reputation.
The transition from “valued volunteer” to “enemy of the state” happened with the flick of a bureaucratic switch. When the election results didn’t go Sarah’s way, she didn’t look in the mirror; she looked for a scapegoat. Using her high-level influence and her direct line to the national Figure Skating Association, she filed an informal grievance that was as calculated as it was malicious. She accused Grant of “digital manipulation,” claiming that he had used his administrative access to rig the election results through the third-party software. It was a character-assassinating smear designed to hit a technical professional where it hurts most: his integrity. She banked on the Association’s fundamental ignorance of technology, knowing that to a group of aging administrators, “software” was a magic black box that could be easily manipulated by a “hacker” in their midst. She didn’t need proof; she only needed to trigger the investigation to isolate Grant and cast a shadow of doubt over the entire digital infrastructure he had built.
The move was a masterclass in institutional bullying. Suddenly, the man who had donated $65,000 worth of his life to the program was being treated like a criminal in a defensive crouch. The Association, instead of looking at Sarah’s history of “funny business” or the verifiable logs of the third-party system, reflexively protected their director. They launched an inquiry that forced Grant to spend weeks of his own time—time he could have spent with his family or on his actual career—defending his honor against a baseless lie. This is the raw reality of the volunteer grind: the moment you stop being a “useful tool” and start being a “check on power,” the institution will turn on you with a cold, mechanical indifference that would make a corporate HR department blush. Grant found himself in a fight he never asked for, forced to prove a negative against a woman who had spent years treating the club’s bylaws like suggestions.
Grant didn’t retreat into anger; he retreated into the data. While Sarah was busy playing the victim in rink-side whispers and backroom meetings, Grant was operating with the cold, methodical precision of a man who knew that in a digital world, every lie leaves a footprint. He understood that the burden of proof in an institutional inquisition is rarely on the accuser, so he built a defense that was mathematically irrefutable. He spent dozens of hours—hours on top of the decade he’d already sacrificed—compiling a forensic dossier that documented every interaction with the voting software. He didn’t just tell them he didn’t rig the election; he showed them the server logs, the encrypted handshakes, and the third-party security protocols that made it impossible for an administrator to alter an individual ballot once cast. He presented a timeline of every email sent, every website modification made, and every administrative login, cross-referenced against the club’s own bylaws which Sarah had so casually ignored for years.
The sheer density of the evidence was a silent middle finger to the incompetence of the board. Grant produced a document that mapped the “funny business” of previous years—the phone call logs and the manual tallies that didn’t add up—and contrasted it with the sterile, unassailable integrity of the digital system he had implemented. He was forcing the Association to look at the mirror, showing them that the only person with a history of manipulation was the woman pointing the finger. For a man who lived by the logic of “if-then” statements, the hearing wasn’t an emotional plea for his reputation; it was a technical demonstration of Sarah’s malice. He sat across from the Association representatives—people who likely struggled to reset their own Wi-Fi routers—and spoke to them in the language of objective truth. He didn’t ask for their trust; he demanded they acknowledge the data.
The hearing was a collision between professional competence and bureaucratic ego. Grant watched as the Association reps flipped through his forensic audit with the glazed eyes of people who had realized they were in way over their heads. They had walked into the room expecting to slap the wrist of a “rogue volunteer” and instead found themselves staring at a mountain of evidence that implicated their own director in years of procedural misconduct. They saw the locks on the third-party system, they saw the clean logs, and they saw the verified results that matched the will of the members perfectly. There was no “hacker,” no “manipulation,” and no “rigging.” There was only a man who had done his job too well and a woman who had tried to destroy him for it. The truth was sitting on the table, cold and heavy, but the institution wasn’t interested in truth; it was interested in liability.
The final verdict arrived not with a bang, but with a whimper—a two-paragraph email that was a masterclass in corporate-filtered non-apology. The Association stated they could “find no fault” in Grant’s actions, a clinical way of admitting he was innocent without actually saying he had been wronged. There was a weak, throwaway sentence about the “inconvenience of the investigation,” but no mention of the ten years of service, the $65,000 in labor, or the 100,000 photos that had built their brand. Even more galling was the silence regarding Sarah. There was no reprimand, no suspension, and no acknowledgment of her baseless smear campaign. She was allowed to keep her office and her title, protected by a system that values the survival of the hierarchy over the character of its builders. The Association had looked at a decade of loyalty and a month of character assassination and decided that the status quo was worth more than a man’s honor.
In the immediate aftermath, Grant felt the weight of the “sunk cost fallacy” pulling at his gut. Ten years. Over a hundred thousand images of kids learning to find their edges, of parents crying in the stands, of a community he thought he was part of. He looked at the hard drives in his office—$10,000 worth of gear and an archive of a decade’s worth of growth—and realized that the club didn’t deserve a single byte of it. The “Actionable Fix” in this scenario wasn’t to stay and fight a guerrilla war against Sarah’s ego; it was to perform a total, scorched-earth decoupling of his identity from the program. He wasn’t just a volunteer leaving a post; he was an architect reclaiming his blueprints. He realized that Sarah had successfully weaponized the institution to run off its most valuable asset, and the board was too weak or too complicit to stop her.
The raw truth that every high-level volunteer eventually learns is that the institution doesn’t love you back. It is a machine that consumes “useful idiots” until they become “inconvenient truths,” and then it discards them with a form letter. Grant’s exit wasn’t a retreat; it was an evacuation of value. He deleted his administrative access, handed over the keys to the digital fortress he had built, and walked away with the one thing Sarah could never touch: his integrity. He understood that the club would likely devolve back into the “funny business” of phone-call voting and paper-trail chaos within a year, and he finally stopped caring. Forgiveness, for Grant, was the cold realization that he no longer owed his energy to a group of people who would trade his decade of sacrifice for a director’s comfort.
The first Saturday morning after his resignation was the loudest silence Grant had ever experienced. For ten years, the rhythmic scratch of toe picks, the deep hum of blades carving precise circles, and the echoes of classical scores over the PA system had been the heartbeat of his weekend. Now, sitting in his kitchen with a cup of coffee that didn’t need to be rushed, he felt the phantom weight of the camera bag on his shoulder. He looked at his gear—the Nikon bodies, the 70-200mm f/2.8 lens that had captured a hundred thousand tiny triumphs—and realized they were just tools again, no longer weapons of a community’s legacy. The realization hit him with the cold precision of a data point: he had been a ghostwriter for a story that the lead character was trying to delete. Sarah still held the keys to the rink, but she no longer held the keys to his time, a currency that, once spent, offers no refunds.
The “funny business” resumed almost immediately. Reports filtered back through the grapevine of the old “phone tree” tactics resurfacing, of board meetings descending back into the opaque, disorganized chaos that had defined the era before Grant’s digital intervention. The club was regressing, shedding its professional skin and returning to its form as a petty fiefdom. It was the natural state of an organization that chooses a comfortable lie over a demanding truth. Grant watched from the sidelines, not with the bitterness of a man who had lost, but with the detached observation of a scientist watching a predictable chemical reaction. When you remove the structural integrity of a building—the architect and the foundation—it doesn’t collapse all at once; it leans until it eventually becomes uninhabitable.
While the Association’s weak apology sat in his inbox like a digital insult, the real “audit” of Grant’s decade came from the people Sarah couldn’t control: the parents. His private gallery links began to see a spike in traffic. Families were downloading the archives, realizing that the man who had documented their children’s lives from their first wobbles to their high school graduations was gone. Those 100,000 photos weren’t just data; they were the only evidence of a decade of growth that the club had essentially disowned. Grant realized that by attacking his integrity, Sarah had inadvertently highlighted his value. Every high-resolution shot was a reminder of a standard she could never replicate with a smartphone and a grudge.
The $65,000 in volunteer hours was gone, a sunk cost in the ledger of his life, but the forensic defense he had built remained a masterclass in tactical self-preservation. He had proven that a man with a paper trail is a man who cannot be easily erased. He had shown that even in a rigged game, the player who keeps the best records can walk away with his name intact. This is the raw truth for any man in the trenches of a volunteer organization: build the system, but keep the logs. Serve the community, but never trust the institution. The only thing you truly own at the end of a ten-year grind is your reputation and the data that proves you were the one who held the line when everyone else was busy making phone calls.
Grant Miller eventually closed the spreadsheet. He archived the folder labeled “Skating Club Litigation” and moved it to a backup drive, a dark corner of his digital life that he intended to visit only if the “funny business” ever crossed the line into legal territory again. He wasn’t waiting for Sarah to be fired, and he wasn’t waiting for the Association to grow a spine and offer a real apology. That would be giving them more of his life, and he had already donated enough. The final transaction was the act of clicking “Logout” for the last time—not just from a server, but from a narrative that no longer served him.
Author’s Note
In the world of “sanitized” faith, we’re told forgiveness is a warm, fuzzy reconciliation. We’re fed a version of grace that expects a man to just “shake hands and forget” while his reputation is still bleeding out. But the reality of the grind teaches a harder truth: Sometimes, forgiveness is the tactical decision to stop trying to collect a debt from a bankrupt person. It’s handing the bill to a higher authority and walking off the job site.
For the men who know me, you’ll recognize the skeleton of this story. It’s loosely based on my own ten-year tour in the trenches—a decade of professional-grade labor met with a calculated strike at my integrity. Note that all specific names and locations have been changed to protect everyone involved. For a man in my field, a formal accusation of “manipulation” or “rigging” is a direct hit on my livelihood. I operate under a strict standard of professional appearance; a smear like this could ha
Even years later, I still feel the weight. Every year when the house lights dim and the ice shows begin, the struggle resurfaces like a ghost in the rafters. It’s a seasonal reminder of a wound that hasn’t fully closed—not because of a lack of faith, but because I refuse to lie about the truth. I still run the ice show circuit, taking the photos and giving them away for free, promoting the achievements of these young athletes and the sport itself. I do the work because the work has value to those skaters and thier families.
I’ve had to face the bitter reality that the people who launched this path of destruction were never held accountable—and in all likelihood, they never will be on this side of eternity. Even though her actions and that path of wreckage continue to this day, there was no grand moment of justice, no public clearing of my name, and no professional consequence for the liar. From what I’ve been told, this began long before I arrived and has left a trail of destroyed lives in its wake. This includes one individual handed a lifetime ban from skating—a move reminiscent of the Tonya Harding fallout—simply for trying to protect a skater from abuse. That wake of destruction remains active, and the wreckage continues to pile up. I have to believe that one day, God will say “enough.” This is my way of turning this situation over to God.
In Enemies of the Heart, Andy Stanley identifies Anger as the result of a “debt” mindset—the conviction that “you owe me.” When a bureaucrat smears your name or devalues a decade of your life, they create a massive debt. We wait for the apology or the admission of guilt to “balance the books,” but a bankrupt person can’t pay you back. Stanley’s solution isn’t “feelings”; it’s a business decision: Cancel the debt. You aren’t saying what they did was right; you’re deciding you will no longer wait for a thief to return what they stole.
I’ve heard the fake apologies—the corporate-speak non-apologies meant to shift the blame. Specifically: “I’m sorry you got your feelings hurt.” Let’s be blunt: that’s a tactical maneuver, not an apology. It ignores the lie, the rigged system, and the malicious intent. It treats a professional betrayal like an emotional glitch on your part. It’s the cowards’ way out.
Understand this: there is no commandment that forces you to associate with people like this. In my opinion, based on the Word, there are actually commandments not to associate with them. Scripture doesn’t call us to be door-mats for the deceptive. It tells us to “have nothing to do with them” (2 Timothy 3:5) and to “shun” those who persist in division and deceit. Forgiveness is about your heart’s freedom from their debt; it is not a legal requirement to invite a known liar back to your table.
“Forgive and forget” is a myth. Even the resurrected Christ carries the record of what was done to Him.
“Then I saw a Lamb, looking as if it had been slain, standing in the center of the throne…” — Revelation 5:6 (NIV)
The scars on the resurrected Christ prove that memory and mercy are not mutually exclusive. Those wounds are the eternal record of the price He paid. He hasn’t “forgotten” the cost; He absorbed the debt so the bill never reaches the one who owed it. Forgiveness isn’t forgetting; it’s absorbing the hit.
I wrote this for the men who still struggle, like I do, with the hard facts. I wrote it for the men who have done the work, kept the logs, and watched the “system” protect the liar. If you’re in those shoes, understand this: Your integrity isn’t defined by their inability to tell the truth. I know that one day God will hold them accountable, even if they never face justice on this earth. Scripture is clear: “It is mine to avenge; I will repay,” says the Lord. Sometimes, the most masculine thing you can do is shake the dust off your boots, cancel the debt, and leave the final audit to the only Judge who actually keeps the books.
Call to Action
If this story struck a chord, don’t just scroll on. Join the brotherhood—men learning to build, not borrow, their strength. Subscribe for more stories like this, drop a comment about where you’re growing, or reach out and tell me what you’re working toward. Let’s grow together.
D. Bryan King
Sources
Disclaimer:
The views and opinions expressed in this post are solely those of the author. The information provided is based on personal research, experience, and understanding of the subject matter at the time of writing. Readers should consult relevant experts or authorities for specific guidance related to their unique situations.
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The Cost of the Clean Exit: When the System Protects the Liar
3,572 words, 19 minutes read time.
Grant Miller sat in the clinical, blue-light glow of his home office, the low hum of three synchronized monitors serving as the only soundtrack to the wreckage of a decade. On the center screen, a spreadsheet acted as a cold, digital autopsy of ten years of his life. As a systems architect, Grant didn’t have “hobbies”; he had projects that required infrastructure, precision, and an uncompromising adherence to the truth. When he first walked into the local “Learn to Skate” rink with a camera bag and a laptop, he wasn’t looking for a plaque or a pat on the back. He saw a system that was broken—a chaotic, paper-trail operation where registrations were lost in overstuffed filing cabinets and the club’s “digital presence” was a joke. Over the next ten years, Grant didn’t just volunteer; he engineered. He built a fortress. By the time the dust settled, he had clocked over $65,000 in professional volunteer hours based on federal labor standards, and his private servers groaned under the weight of 100,000 high-resolution images captured on $10,000 of his own professional gear. He was the invisible backbone of the club, the man who turned a disorganized mess into a streamlined, encrypted powerhouse that parents actually trusted with their data and their children’s milestones.
The sheer volume of the work was staggering when viewed through the lens of objective data. We are talking about ten years of Saturday mornings spent in sub-zero rinks, ten years of weeknights spent editing thousands of RAW files to ensure every kid in the program had a hero shot that made them feel like an Olympian. Grant didn’t just take pictures; he managed the club’s identity. He built the website, secured the databases, and handled the tech support that the board was too technologically illiterate to understand. In the world of non-profits, a man like Grant is a unicorn—a high-level professional providing enterprise-grade solutions for the price of a lukewarm coffee. But the danger of being the man who builds the system is that you eventually become the only person who knows how the gears actually turn, and in a landscape ruled by small-town egos, that technical mastery is often viewed not as an asset, but as a threat to the established order of those who prefer to rule in the dark.
In the world of small-town sports politics, efficiency is a direct threat to those who thrive on opacity and “good old boy” networks. For years, the club’s board elections had been tainted by what the locals quietly called “funny business.” It was a shadowy, manual practice where Sarah, the Skating Director, and her inner circle would physically call members over the phone, pressuring them to cast votes for her hand-picked candidates in direct violation of the club’s own bylaws. It was a system built on social engineering and intimidation, a way to ensure that the “inner circle” remained unchallenged and that the director’s personal fiefdom remained intact. Sarah wore her high-level credentials with the national Figure Skating Association like a medieval mace, using her title to silence dissent and maintain a status quo that favored her cronies over the actual growth of the program. She didn’t want a fair vote; she wanted a coronation every cycle.
To kill this corruption and bring the club into the twenty-first century, Grant had implemented a third-party, industry-standard voting system years prior. He didn’t build the software—he was too smart for that—but he selected a platform that offered absolute integrity, two-factor authentication, and a verifiable audit trail. It was a secure tool designed to ensure that every member had a private, un-pressured voice, effectively stripping Sarah of her ability to manipulate the outcomes through late-night phone calls and locker-room arm-twisting. Ironically, that very system is still used by the club today, a testament to its reliability and Grant’s foresight in building something that could withstand the very rot he was trying to excise. But the moment the digital tally finally reflected a result that Sarah couldn’t control, the “funny business” shifted from the voting booth to a direct, surgical strike on Grant Miller’s reputation.
The transition from “valued volunteer” to “enemy of the state” happened with the flick of a bureaucratic switch. When the election results didn’t go Sarah’s way, she didn’t look in the mirror; she looked for a scapegoat. Using her high-level influence and her direct line to the national Figure Skating Association, she filed an informal grievance that was as calculated as it was malicious. She accused Grant of “digital manipulation,” claiming that he had used his administrative access to rig the election results through the third-party software. It was a character-assassinating smear designed to hit a technical professional where it hurts most: his integrity. She banked on the Association’s fundamental ignorance of technology, knowing that to a group of aging administrators, “software” was a magic black box that could be easily manipulated by a “hacker” in their midst. She didn’t need proof; she only needed to trigger the investigation to isolate Grant and cast a shadow of doubt over the entire digital infrastructure he had built.
The move was a masterclass in institutional bullying. Suddenly, the man who had donated $65,000 worth of his life to the program was being treated like a criminal in a defensive crouch. The Association, instead of looking at Sarah’s history of “funny business” or the verifiable logs of the third-party system, reflexively protected their director. They launched an inquiry that forced Grant to spend weeks of his own time—time he could have spent with his family or on his actual career—defending his honor against a baseless lie. This is the raw reality of the volunteer grind: the moment you stop being a “useful tool” and start being a “check on power,” the institution will turn on you with a cold, mechanical indifference that would make a corporate HR department blush. Grant found himself in a fight he never asked for, forced to prove a negative against a woman who had spent years treating the club’s bylaws like suggestions.
Grant didn’t retreat into anger; he retreated into the data. While Sarah was busy playing the victim in rink-side whispers and backroom meetings, Grant was operating with the cold, methodical precision of a man who knew that in a digital world, every lie leaves a footprint. He understood that the burden of proof in an institutional inquisition is rarely on the accuser, so he built a defense that was mathematically irrefutable. He spent dozens of hours—hours on top of the decade he’d already sacrificed—compiling a forensic dossier that documented every interaction with the voting software. He didn’t just tell them he didn’t rig the election; he showed them the server logs, the encrypted handshakes, and the third-party security protocols that made it impossible for an administrator to alter an individual ballot once cast. He presented a timeline of every email sent, every website modification made, and every administrative login, cross-referenced against the club’s own bylaws which Sarah had so casually ignored for years.
The sheer density of the evidence was a silent middle finger to the incompetence of the board. Grant produced a document that mapped the “funny business” of previous years—the phone call logs and the manual tallies that didn’t add up—and contrasted it with the sterile, unassailable integrity of the digital system he had implemented. He was forcing the Association to look at the mirror, showing them that the only person with a history of manipulation was the woman pointing the finger. For a man who lived by the logic of “if-then” statements, the hearing wasn’t an emotional plea for his reputation; it was a technical demonstration of Sarah’s malice. He sat across from the Association representatives—people who likely struggled to reset their own Wi-Fi routers—and spoke to them in the language of objective truth. He didn’t ask for their trust; he demanded they acknowledge the data.
The hearing was a collision between professional competence and bureaucratic ego. Grant watched as the Association reps flipped through his forensic audit with the glazed eyes of people who had realized they were in way over their heads. They had walked into the room expecting to slap the wrist of a “rogue volunteer” and instead found themselves staring at a mountain of evidence that implicated their own director in years of procedural misconduct. They saw the locks on the third-party system, they saw the clean logs, and they saw the verified results that matched the will of the members perfectly. There was no “hacker,” no “manipulation,” and no “rigging.” There was only a man who had done his job too well and a woman who had tried to destroy him for it. The truth was sitting on the table, cold and heavy, but the institution wasn’t interested in truth; it was interested in liability.
The final verdict arrived not with a bang, but with a whimper—a two-paragraph email that was a masterclass in corporate-filtered non-apology. The Association stated they could “find no fault” in Grant’s actions, a clinical way of admitting he was innocent without actually saying he had been wronged. There was a weak, throwaway sentence about the “inconvenience of the investigation,” but no mention of the ten years of service, the $65,000 in labor, or the 100,000 photos that had built their brand. Even more galling was the silence regarding Sarah. There was no reprimand, no suspension, and no acknowledgment of her baseless smear campaign. She was allowed to keep her office and her title, protected by a system that values the survival of the hierarchy over the character of its builders. The Association had looked at a decade of loyalty and a month of character assassination and decided that the status quo was worth more than a man’s honor.
In the immediate aftermath, Grant felt the weight of the “sunk cost fallacy” pulling at his gut. Ten years. Over a hundred thousand images of kids learning to find their edges, of parents crying in the stands, of a community he thought he was part of. He looked at the hard drives in his office—$10,000 worth of gear and an archive of a decade’s worth of growth—and realized that the club didn’t deserve a single byte of it. The “Actionable Fix” in this scenario wasn’t to stay and fight a guerrilla war against Sarah’s ego; it was to perform a total, scorched-earth decoupling of his identity from the program. He wasn’t just a volunteer leaving a post; he was an architect reclaiming his blueprints. He realized that Sarah had successfully weaponized the institution to run off its most valuable asset, and the board was too weak or too complicit to stop her.
The raw truth that every high-level volunteer eventually learns is that the institution doesn’t love you back. It is a machine that consumes “useful idiots” until they become “inconvenient truths,” and then it discards them with a form letter. Grant’s exit wasn’t a retreat; it was an evacuation of value. He deleted his administrative access, handed over the keys to the digital fortress he had built, and walked away with the one thing Sarah could never touch: his integrity. He understood that the club would likely devolve back into the “funny business” of phone-call voting and paper-trail chaos within a year, and he finally stopped caring. Forgiveness, for Grant, was the cold realization that he no longer owed his energy to a group of people who would trade his decade of sacrifice for a director’s comfort.
The first Saturday morning after his resignation was the loudest silence Grant had ever experienced. For ten years, the rhythmic scratch of toe picks, the deep hum of blades carving precise circles, and the echoes of classical scores over the PA system had been the heartbeat of his weekend. Now, sitting in his kitchen with a cup of coffee that didn’t need to be rushed, he felt the phantom weight of the camera bag on his shoulder. He looked at his gear—the Nikon bodies, the 70-200mm f/2.8 lens that had captured a hundred thousand tiny triumphs—and realized they were just tools again, no longer weapons of a community’s legacy. The realization hit him with the cold precision of a data point: he had been a ghostwriter for a story that the lead character was trying to delete. Sarah still held the keys to the rink, but she no longer held the keys to his time, a currency that, once spent, offers no refunds.
The “funny business” resumed almost immediately. Reports filtered back through the grapevine of the old “phone tree” tactics resurfacing, of board meetings descending back into the opaque, disorganized chaos that had defined the era before Grant’s digital intervention. The club was regressing, shedding its professional skin and returning to its form as a petty fiefdom. It was the natural state of an organization that chooses a comfortable lie over a demanding truth. Grant watched from the sidelines, not with the bitterness of a man who had lost, but with the detached observation of a scientist watching a predictable chemical reaction. When you remove the structural integrity of a building—the architect and the foundation—it doesn’t collapse all at once; it leans until it eventually becomes uninhabitable.
While the Association’s weak apology sat in his inbox like a digital insult, the real “audit” of Grant’s decade came from the people Sarah couldn’t control: the parents. His private gallery links began to see a spike in traffic. Families were downloading the archives, realizing that the man who had documented their children’s lives from their first wobbles to their high school graduations was gone. Those 100,000 photos weren’t just data; they were the only evidence of a decade of growth that the club had essentially disowned. Grant realized that by attacking his integrity, Sarah had inadvertently highlighted his value. Every high-resolution shot was a reminder of a standard she could never replicate with a smartphone and a grudge.
The $65,000 in volunteer hours was gone, a sunk cost in the ledger of his life, but the forensic defense he had built remained a masterclass in tactical self-preservation. He had proven that a man with a paper trail is a man who cannot be easily erased. He had shown that even in a rigged game, the player who keeps the best records can walk away with his name intact. This is the raw truth for any man in the trenches of a volunteer organization: build the system, but keep the logs. Serve the community, but never trust the institution. The only thing you truly own at the end of a ten-year grind is your reputation and the data that proves you were the one who held the line when everyone else was busy making phone calls.
Grant Miller eventually closed the spreadsheet. He archived the folder labeled “Skating Club Litigation” and moved it to a backup drive, a dark corner of his digital life that he intended to visit only if the “funny business” ever crossed the line into legal territory again. He wasn’t waiting for Sarah to be fired, and he wasn’t waiting for the Association to grow a spine and offer a real apology. That would be giving them more of his life, and he had already donated enough. The final transaction was the act of clicking “Logout” for the last time—not just from a server, but from a narrative that no longer served him.
Author’s Note
In the world of “sanitized” faith, we’re told forgiveness is a warm, fuzzy reconciliation. We’re fed a version of grace that expects a man to just “shake hands and forget” while his reputation is still bleeding out. But the reality of the grind teaches a harder truth: Sometimes, forgiveness is the tactical decision to stop trying to collect a debt from a bankrupt person. It’s handing the bill to a higher authority and walking off the job site.
For the men who know me, you’ll recognize the skeleton of this story. It’s loosely based on my own ten-year tour in the trenches—a decade of professional-grade labor met with a calculated strike at my integrity. Note that all specific names and locations have been changed to protect everyone involved. For a man in my field, a formal accusation of “manipulation” or “rigging” is a direct hit on my livelihood. I operate under a strict standard of professional appearance; a smear like this could ha
Even years later, I still feel the weight. Every year when the house lights dim and the ice shows begin, the struggle resurfaces like a ghost in the rafters. It’s a seasonal reminder of a wound that hasn’t fully closed—not because of a lack of faith, but because I refuse to lie about the truth. I still run the ice show circuit, taking the photos and giving them away for free, promoting the achievements of these young athletes and the sport itself. I do the work because the work has value to those skaters and thier families.
I’ve had to face the bitter reality that the people who launched this path of destruction were never held accountable—and in all likelihood, they never will be on this side of eternity. Even though her actions and that path of wreckage continue to this day, there was no grand moment of justice, no public clearing of my name, and no professional consequence for the liar. From what I’ve been told, this began long before I arrived and has left a trail of destroyed lives in its wake. This includes one individual handed a lifetime ban from skating—a move reminiscent of the Tonya Harding fallout—simply for trying to protect a skater from abuse. That wake of destruction remains active, and the wreckage continues to pile up. I have to believe that one day, God will say “enough.” This is my way of turning this situation over to God.
In Enemies of the Heart, Andy Stanley identifies Anger as the result of a “debt” mindset—the conviction that “you owe me.” When a bureaucrat smears your name or devalues a decade of your life, they create a massive debt. We wait for the apology or the admission of guilt to “balance the books,” but a bankrupt person can’t pay you back. Stanley’s solution isn’t “feelings”; it’s a business decision: Cancel the debt. You aren’t saying what they did was right; you’re deciding you will no longer wait for a thief to return what they stole.
I’ve heard the fake apologies—the corporate-speak non-apologies meant to shift the blame. Specifically: “I’m sorry you got your feelings hurt.” Let’s be blunt: that’s a tactical maneuver, not an apology. It ignores the lie, the rigged system, and the malicious intent. It treats a professional betrayal like an emotional glitch on your part. It’s the cowards’ way out.
Understand this: there is no commandment that forces you to associate with people like this. In my opinion, based on the Word, there are actually commandments not to associate with them. Scripture doesn’t call us to be door-mats for the deceptive. It tells us to “have nothing to do with them” (2 Timothy 3:5) and to “shun” those who persist in division and deceit. Forgiveness is about your heart’s freedom from their debt; it is not a legal requirement to invite a known liar back to your table.
“Forgive and forget” is a myth. Even the resurrected Christ carries the record of what was done to Him.
“Then I saw a Lamb, looking as if it had been slain, standing in the center of the throne…” — Revelation 5:6 (NIV)
The scars on the resurrected Christ prove that memory and mercy are not mutually exclusive. Those wounds are the eternal record of the price He paid. He hasn’t “forgotten” the cost; He absorbed the debt so the bill never reaches the one who owed it. Forgiveness isn’t forgetting; it’s absorbing the hit.
I wrote this for the men who still struggle, like I do, with the hard facts. I wrote it for the men who have done the work, kept the logs, and watched the “system” protect the liar. If you’re in those shoes, understand this: Your integrity isn’t defined by their inability to tell the truth. I know that one day God will hold them accountable, even if they never face justice on this earth. Scripture is clear: “It is mine to avenge; I will repay,” says the Lord. Sometimes, the most masculine thing you can do is shake the dust off your boots, cancel the debt, and leave the final audit to the only Judge who actually keeps the books.
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D. Bryan King
Sources
Disclaimer:
The views and opinions expressed in this post are solely those of the author. The information provided is based on personal research, experience, and understanding of the subject matter at the time of writing. Readers should consult relevant experts or authorities for specific guidance related to their unique situations.
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The Cost of the Clean Exit: When the System Protects the Liar
3,572 words, 19 minutes read time.
Grant Miller sat in the clinical, blue-light glow of his home office, the low hum of three synchronized monitors serving as the only soundtrack to the wreckage of a decade. On the center screen, a spreadsheet acted as a cold, digital autopsy of ten years of his life. As a systems architect, Grant didn’t have “hobbies”; he had projects that required infrastructure, precision, and an uncompromising adherence to the truth. When he first walked into the local “Learn to Skate” rink with a camera bag and a laptop, he wasn’t looking for a plaque or a pat on the back. He saw a system that was broken—a chaotic, paper-trail operation where registrations were lost in overstuffed filing cabinets and the club’s “digital presence” was a joke. Over the next ten years, Grant didn’t just volunteer; he engineered. He built a fortress. By the time the dust settled, he had clocked over $65,000 in professional volunteer hours based on federal labor standards, and his private servers groaned under the weight of 100,000 high-resolution images captured on $10,000 of his own professional gear. He was the invisible backbone of the club, the man who turned a disorganized mess into a streamlined, encrypted powerhouse that parents actually trusted with their data and their children’s milestones.
The sheer volume of the work was staggering when viewed through the lens of objective data. We are talking about ten years of Saturday mornings spent in sub-zero rinks, ten years of weeknights spent editing thousands of RAW files to ensure every kid in the program had a hero shot that made them feel like an Olympian. Grant didn’t just take pictures; he managed the club’s identity. He built the website, secured the databases, and handled the tech support that the board was too technologically illiterate to understand. In the world of non-profits, a man like Grant is a unicorn—a high-level professional providing enterprise-grade solutions for the price of a lukewarm coffee. But the danger of being the man who builds the system is that you eventually become the only person who knows how the gears actually turn, and in a landscape ruled by small-town egos, that technical mastery is often viewed not as an asset, but as a threat to the established order of those who prefer to rule in the dark.
In the world of small-town sports politics, efficiency is a direct threat to those who thrive on opacity and “good old boy” networks. For years, the club’s board elections had been tainted by what the locals quietly called “funny business.” It was a shadowy, manual practice where Sarah, the Skating Director, and her inner circle would physically call members over the phone, pressuring them to cast votes for her hand-picked candidates in direct violation of the club’s own bylaws. It was a system built on social engineering and intimidation, a way to ensure that the “inner circle” remained unchallenged and that the director’s personal fiefdom remained intact. Sarah wore her high-level credentials with the national Figure Skating Association like a medieval mace, using her title to silence dissent and maintain a status quo that favored her cronies over the actual growth of the program. She didn’t want a fair vote; she wanted a coronation every cycle.
To kill this corruption and bring the club into the twenty-first century, Grant had implemented a third-party, industry-standard voting system years prior. He didn’t build the software—he was too smart for that—but he selected a platform that offered absolute integrity, two-factor authentication, and a verifiable audit trail. It was a secure tool designed to ensure that every member had a private, un-pressured voice, effectively stripping Sarah of her ability to manipulate the outcomes through late-night phone calls and locker-room arm-twisting. Ironically, that very system is still used by the club today, a testament to its reliability and Grant’s foresight in building something that could withstand the very rot he was trying to excise. But the moment the digital tally finally reflected a result that Sarah couldn’t control, the “funny business” shifted from the voting booth to a direct, surgical strike on Grant Miller’s reputation.
The transition from “valued volunteer” to “enemy of the state” happened with the flick of a bureaucratic switch. When the election results didn’t go Sarah’s way, she didn’t look in the mirror; she looked for a scapegoat. Using her high-level influence and her direct line to the national Figure Skating Association, she filed an informal grievance that was as calculated as it was malicious. She accused Grant of “digital manipulation,” claiming that he had used his administrative access to rig the election results through the third-party software. It was a character-assassinating smear designed to hit a technical professional where it hurts most: his integrity. She banked on the Association’s fundamental ignorance of technology, knowing that to a group of aging administrators, “software” was a magic black box that could be easily manipulated by a “hacker” in their midst. She didn’t need proof; she only needed to trigger the investigation to isolate Grant and cast a shadow of doubt over the entire digital infrastructure he had built.
The move was a masterclass in institutional bullying. Suddenly, the man who had donated $65,000 worth of his life to the program was being treated like a criminal in a defensive crouch. The Association, instead of looking at Sarah’s history of “funny business” or the verifiable logs of the third-party system, reflexively protected their director. They launched an inquiry that forced Grant to spend weeks of his own time—time he could have spent with his family or on his actual career—defending his honor against a baseless lie. This is the raw reality of the volunteer grind: the moment you stop being a “useful tool” and start being a “check on power,” the institution will turn on you with a cold, mechanical indifference that would make a corporate HR department blush. Grant found himself in a fight he never asked for, forced to prove a negative against a woman who had spent years treating the club’s bylaws like suggestions.
Grant didn’t retreat into anger; he retreated into the data. While Sarah was busy playing the victim in rink-side whispers and backroom meetings, Grant was operating with the cold, methodical precision of a man who knew that in a digital world, every lie leaves a footprint. He understood that the burden of proof in an institutional inquisition is rarely on the accuser, so he built a defense that was mathematically irrefutable. He spent dozens of hours—hours on top of the decade he’d already sacrificed—compiling a forensic dossier that documented every interaction with the voting software. He didn’t just tell them he didn’t rig the election; he showed them the server logs, the encrypted handshakes, and the third-party security protocols that made it impossible for an administrator to alter an individual ballot once cast. He presented a timeline of every email sent, every website modification made, and every administrative login, cross-referenced against the club’s own bylaws which Sarah had so casually ignored for years.
The sheer density of the evidence was a silent middle finger to the incompetence of the board. Grant produced a document that mapped the “funny business” of previous years—the phone call logs and the manual tallies that didn’t add up—and contrasted it with the sterile, unassailable integrity of the digital system he had implemented. He was forcing the Association to look at the mirror, showing them that the only person with a history of manipulation was the woman pointing the finger. For a man who lived by the logic of “if-then” statements, the hearing wasn’t an emotional plea for his reputation; it was a technical demonstration of Sarah’s malice. He sat across from the Association representatives—people who likely struggled to reset their own Wi-Fi routers—and spoke to them in the language of objective truth. He didn’t ask for their trust; he demanded they acknowledge the data.
The hearing was a collision between professional competence and bureaucratic ego. Grant watched as the Association reps flipped through his forensic audit with the glazed eyes of people who had realized they were in way over their heads. They had walked into the room expecting to slap the wrist of a “rogue volunteer” and instead found themselves staring at a mountain of evidence that implicated their own director in years of procedural misconduct. They saw the locks on the third-party system, they saw the clean logs, and they saw the verified results that matched the will of the members perfectly. There was no “hacker,” no “manipulation,” and no “rigging.” There was only a man who had done his job too well and a woman who had tried to destroy him for it. The truth was sitting on the table, cold and heavy, but the institution wasn’t interested in truth; it was interested in liability.
The final verdict arrived not with a bang, but with a whimper—a two-paragraph email that was a masterclass in corporate-filtered non-apology. The Association stated they could “find no fault” in Grant’s actions, a clinical way of admitting he was innocent without actually saying he had been wronged. There was a weak, throwaway sentence about the “inconvenience of the investigation,” but no mention of the ten years of service, the $65,000 in labor, or the 100,000 photos that had built their brand. Even more galling was the silence regarding Sarah. There was no reprimand, no suspension, and no acknowledgment of her baseless smear campaign. She was allowed to keep her office and her title, protected by a system that values the survival of the hierarchy over the character of its builders. The Association had looked at a decade of loyalty and a month of character assassination and decided that the status quo was worth more than a man’s honor.
In the immediate aftermath, Grant felt the weight of the “sunk cost fallacy” pulling at his gut. Ten years. Over a hundred thousand images of kids learning to find their edges, of parents crying in the stands, of a community he thought he was part of. He looked at the hard drives in his office—$10,000 worth of gear and an archive of a decade’s worth of growth—and realized that the club didn’t deserve a single byte of it. The “Actionable Fix” in this scenario wasn’t to stay and fight a guerrilla war against Sarah’s ego; it was to perform a total, scorched-earth decoupling of his identity from the program. He wasn’t just a volunteer leaving a post; he was an architect reclaiming his blueprints. He realized that Sarah had successfully weaponized the institution to run off its most valuable asset, and the board was too weak or too complicit to stop her.
The raw truth that every high-level volunteer eventually learns is that the institution doesn’t love you back. It is a machine that consumes “useful idiots” until they become “inconvenient truths,” and then it discards them with a form letter. Grant’s exit wasn’t a retreat; it was an evacuation of value. He deleted his administrative access, handed over the keys to the digital fortress he had built, and walked away with the one thing Sarah could never touch: his integrity. He understood that the club would likely devolve back into the “funny business” of phone-call voting and paper-trail chaos within a year, and he finally stopped caring. Forgiveness, for Grant, was the cold realization that he no longer owed his energy to a group of people who would trade his decade of sacrifice for a director’s comfort.
The first Saturday morning after his resignation was the loudest silence Grant had ever experienced. For ten years, the rhythmic scratch of toe picks, the deep hum of blades carving precise circles, and the echoes of classical scores over the PA system had been the heartbeat of his weekend. Now, sitting in his kitchen with a cup of coffee that didn’t need to be rushed, he felt the phantom weight of the camera bag on his shoulder. He looked at his gear—the Nikon bodies, the 70-200mm f/2.8 lens that had captured a hundred thousand tiny triumphs—and realized they were just tools again, no longer weapons of a community’s legacy. The realization hit him with the cold precision of a data point: he had been a ghostwriter for a story that the lead character was trying to delete. Sarah still held the keys to the rink, but she no longer held the keys to his time, a currency that, once spent, offers no refunds.
The “funny business” resumed almost immediately. Reports filtered back through the grapevine of the old “phone tree” tactics resurfacing, of board meetings descending back into the opaque, disorganized chaos that had defined the era before Grant’s digital intervention. The club was regressing, shedding its professional skin and returning to its form as a petty fiefdom. It was the natural state of an organization that chooses a comfortable lie over a demanding truth. Grant watched from the sidelines, not with the bitterness of a man who had lost, but with the detached observation of a scientist watching a predictable chemical reaction. When you remove the structural integrity of a building—the architect and the foundation—it doesn’t collapse all at once; it leans until it eventually becomes uninhabitable.
While the Association’s weak apology sat in his inbox like a digital insult, the real “audit” of Grant’s decade came from the people Sarah couldn’t control: the parents. His private gallery links began to see a spike in traffic. Families were downloading the archives, realizing that the man who had documented their children’s lives from their first wobbles to their high school graduations was gone. Those 100,000 photos weren’t just data; they were the only evidence of a decade of growth that the club had essentially disowned. Grant realized that by attacking his integrity, Sarah had inadvertently highlighted his value. Every high-resolution shot was a reminder of a standard she could never replicate with a smartphone and a grudge.
The $65,000 in volunteer hours was gone, a sunk cost in the ledger of his life, but the forensic defense he had built remained a masterclass in tactical self-preservation. He had proven that a man with a paper trail is a man who cannot be easily erased. He had shown that even in a rigged game, the player who keeps the best records can walk away with his name intact. This is the raw truth for any man in the trenches of a volunteer organization: build the system, but keep the logs. Serve the community, but never trust the institution. The only thing you truly own at the end of a ten-year grind is your reputation and the data that proves you were the one who held the line when everyone else was busy making phone calls.
Grant Miller eventually closed the spreadsheet. He archived the folder labeled “Skating Club Litigation” and moved it to a backup drive, a dark corner of his digital life that he intended to visit only if the “funny business” ever crossed the line into legal territory again. He wasn’t waiting for Sarah to be fired, and he wasn’t waiting for the Association to grow a spine and offer a real apology. That would be giving them more of his life, and he had already donated enough. The final transaction was the act of clicking “Logout” for the last time—not just from a server, but from a narrative that no longer served him.
Author’s Note
In the world of “sanitized” faith, we’re told forgiveness is a warm, fuzzy reconciliation. We’re fed a version of grace that expects a man to just “shake hands and forget” while his reputation is still bleeding out. But the reality of the grind teaches a harder truth: Sometimes, forgiveness is the tactical decision to stop trying to collect a debt from a bankrupt person. It’s handing the bill to a higher authority and walking off the job site.
For the men who know me, you’ll recognize the skeleton of this story. It’s loosely based on my own ten-year tour in the trenches—a decade of professional-grade labor met with a calculated strike at my integrity. Note that all specific names and locations have been changed to protect everyone involved. For a man in my field, a formal accusation of “manipulation” or “rigging” is a direct hit on my livelihood. I operate under a strict standard of professional appearance; a smear like this could ha
Even years later, I still feel the weight. Every year when the house lights dim and the ice shows begin, the struggle resurfaces like a ghost in the rafters. It’s a seasonal reminder of a wound that hasn’t fully closed—not because of a lack of faith, but because I refuse to lie about the truth. I still run the ice show circuit, taking the photos and giving them away for free, promoting the achievements of these young athletes and the sport itself. I do the work because the work has value to those skaters and thier families.
I’ve had to face the bitter reality that the people who launched this path of destruction were never held accountable—and in all likelihood, they never will be on this side of eternity. Even though her actions and that path of wreckage continue to this day, there was no grand moment of justice, no public clearing of my name, and no professional consequence for the liar. From what I’ve been told, this began long before I arrived and has left a trail of destroyed lives in its wake. This includes one individual handed a lifetime ban from skating—a move reminiscent of the Tonya Harding fallout—simply for trying to protect a skater from abuse. That wake of destruction remains active, and the wreckage continues to pile up. I have to believe that one day, God will say “enough.” This is my way of turning this situation over to God.
In Enemies of the Heart, Andy Stanley identifies Anger as the result of a “debt” mindset—the conviction that “you owe me.” When a bureaucrat smears your name or devalues a decade of your life, they create a massive debt. We wait for the apology or the admission of guilt to “balance the books,” but a bankrupt person can’t pay you back. Stanley’s solution isn’t “feelings”; it’s a business decision: Cancel the debt. You aren’t saying what they did was right; you’re deciding you will no longer wait for a thief to return what they stole.
I’ve heard the fake apologies—the corporate-speak non-apologies meant to shift the blame. Specifically: “I’m sorry you got your feelings hurt.” Let’s be blunt: that’s a tactical maneuver, not an apology. It ignores the lie, the rigged system, and the malicious intent. It treats a professional betrayal like an emotional glitch on your part. It’s the cowards’ way out.
Understand this: there is no commandment that forces you to associate with people like this. In my opinion, based on the Word, there are actually commandments not to associate with them. Scripture doesn’t call us to be door-mats for the deceptive. It tells us to “have nothing to do with them” (2 Timothy 3:5) and to “shun” those who persist in division and deceit. Forgiveness is about your heart’s freedom from their debt; it is not a legal requirement to invite a known liar back to your table.
“Forgive and forget” is a myth. Even the resurrected Christ carries the record of what was done to Him.
“Then I saw a Lamb, looking as if it had been slain, standing in the center of the throne…” — Revelation 5:6 (NIV)
The scars on the resurrected Christ prove that memory and mercy are not mutually exclusive. Those wounds are the eternal record of the price He paid. He hasn’t “forgotten” the cost; He absorbed the debt so the bill never reaches the one who owed it. Forgiveness isn’t forgetting; it’s absorbing the hit.
I wrote this for the men who still struggle, like I do, with the hard facts. I wrote it for the men who have done the work, kept the logs, and watched the “system” protect the liar. If you’re in those shoes, understand this: Your integrity isn’t defined by their inability to tell the truth. I know that one day God will hold them accountable, even if they never face justice on this earth. Scripture is clear: “It is mine to avenge; I will repay,” says the Lord. Sometimes, the most masculine thing you can do is shake the dust off your boots, cancel the debt, and leave the final audit to the only Judge who actually keeps the books.
Call to Action
If this story struck a chord, don’t just scroll on. Join the brotherhood—men learning to build, not borrow, their strength. Subscribe for more stories like this, drop a comment about where you’re growing, or reach out and tell me what you’re working toward. Let’s grow together.
D. Bryan King
Sources
Disclaimer:
The views and opinions expressed in this post are solely those of the author. The information provided is based on personal research, experience, and understanding of the subject matter at the time of writing. Readers should consult relevant experts or authorities for specific guidance related to their unique situations.
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#accountability #AndyStanley #betrayal #biblicalForgiveness #CareerReputation #CharacterAssassination #CorporateGaslighting #dataIntegrity #DebtCancellation #DigitalManipulation #DocumentingTruth #ElectionRigging #enemiesOfTheHeart #FakeApologies #FigureSkatingAssociation #ForensicAudit #ForgivenessVsReconciliation #InstitutionalCorruption #InstitutionalCowardice #IntegrityInTech #LeadershipAccountability #masculineFaith #moralCourage #NonProfitPolitics #PhotographyArchives #ProfessionalIntegrity #recoveringFromBetrayal #ResurrectedScars #Revelation56 #ShakingTheDust #SkatingDirector #SmallTownCorruption #SmearCampaigns #StandardOfAppearance #standingFirm #SystemsArchitect #TheSlainLamb #ThirdPartyVotingSystems #VengeanceIsMine #VolunteerBurnout -
Made a funky normal-map thing in HTML/JS. Source code is available!
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#BirdSite accidentally released users' private images - secret nudes and other sensitive content.
Why does anyone still use it?
https://futurism.com/the-byte/twitter-accidentally-made-users-secret-nudes-public
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#BirdSite accidentally released users' private images - secret nudes and other sensitive content.
Why does anyone still use it?
https://futurism.com/the-byte/twitter-accidentally-made-users-secret-nudes-public
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TIL that on macOS, clicking the active application in the dock will rotate focus between its open windows. 🤯
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30.marts Rūjienas mežā. Zied baltais vizbulis. Lido taureņi, bites, ir aktīvas skudras un citi kukaiņi. Arī ceļmalā tika pamanīta pirmā varde.
#mežs #forest #pavasaris #spring #nature #daba #naturephotography #latvija #latvia #lv
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For #MAUIUIJuly Day 6, Ed has shown us how to create a scrollable text display in #dotnetmaui
https://byte217.com/net-maui-scrolling-text-display/ -
It's #MAUIUIJuly day 5! Check out this awesome post from Ed showing how to manage different screen sizes - and you have to see his ObservablePageLayout!!
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@dave_hone and Matt Wedel have both posted about their new paper on theropods biting Morrison formation sauropod bones.
It seems Dave Hone's blog doesn't have the activitypub wordpress plugin enabled, but svpow does.
https://archosaurmusings.wordpress.com/2023/11/14/theropods-bit-sauropods-too/
https://svpow.com/2023/11/14/new-paper-theropod-bite-marks-on-morrison-sauropod-bones/
paper:
Lei R, Tschopp E, Hendrickx C, Wedel MJ, Norell M, Hone DWE. 2023.
https://peerj.com/articles/16327/ -
Every morning during #MathsWeekScot a new puzzle set by The Scottish Mathematical Council will be shared on BBC Bitesize. You'll get a hint to solve it & the answers will be posted after 12:00 each day. Today's puzzle is now live! mathsweek.scot/schools/math... #MathsToday #UKMathsChat #EduSky 🎓
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Cold Slither – Cold Slither Review
By Tyme
More inclined toward Thundarr the Barbarian or He-Man and the Masters of the Universe, a much younger Tyme was still no stranger to the wily cartoon exploits of G.I. Joe: A Real American Hero. So, my nerdy interest piqued when I saw Cold Slither writhe up from the sump pit. It seems the inimitable toy makers at Hasbro had teamed up with the folks at Reigning Phoenix Music to bring guitarist/vocalist Zartan (Gus Rios: Gruesome) and his ruthless band of Dreadnok’s—featuring Ripper on guitar (Matt Harvey: Gruesome, Exhumed), Torch on bass (Ross Sewage: Exhumed, Impaled), and Buzzer on drums (Andy Selway: KMFDM)—to life. For those unfamiliar, the episode, which first aired in December 1985, found Cobra cohorts Destro and the Baroness plotting a subliminal message scheme intended to brainwash society using music created for a fake heavy metal band, Cold Slither, and restore Cobra Commander to prominence, furthering his goal of world domination. Conceptually speaking, I think this is pretty damn cool, but my job is to let you know if Cold Slither is worthy of your time, or if this particular snake would make a better pair of boots.
Cold Slither play souped-up dad metal that mainly taps a vein of ’80s / ’90s arena and alt-rock tropes. Driving riffs, pounding drums, and shred(ish) solos dominate most of the musical landscape, full of ear-wormy hooks and anthemic bravado. Themed lyrics are expectedly juvenile, and whether you want them to or not, choruses are abhorrently catchy, (“Zartan’s Revenge,” “These Fluffies Are Fatal”), sticking to your brain like taxicab floor chewing gum. After a brief address by Cobra Commander himself, the album launches with a revised, more metallic version of the song that started it all 40 years ago, “Cold Slither.” Still corny as hell, the re-imagined track at least comes across heavier than the synth-laden original. After that, nine tracks of new Cold Slither material drawing influence mostly from the original episode and sounding like second-tier ’80s metal peddled by the likes of Black ‘n Blue, Keel, and others back in the day, albeit here slightly more aggressive. This Cold Slither reps basic, family-friendly metal designed to sell action figures and comic books, bringing those G.I. Joe die-hards to the comic-con yard in clouds of nostalgia instead of weed, to rock out with the kids.
Mostly uninspiring, there were a few moments on Cold Slither that got my head bobbing, if only slightly. With its doomy pace and sludgy riffs, the Alice in Chains-like “Snakes on the Bayou” possesses a swagger that I connected with, while the thrashy three-minute speedster “Torched” had me tenuously feeling early Bay Area vibes. I also enjoyed the straightforward, groove-drenched riffs on “Master of Disguise,” another palatable rocker with a decent solo and one of those catchy choruses that I found myself humming later on. While it’s clear the guys in Cold Slither embarked on a journey far removed from their main gigs, they do a decent job of pulling the concept together and executing the vision.
Filled with G.I. Joe sound bites, separating the Cold Slither concept from the content wasn’t easy, which further emphasized that Cold Slither is more a marketing tie-in than it is a heavy metal record. Musically, my biggest gripe is with the vocals. Stepping from behind the drum kit of his day job to pick up guitar and vocal duties, Rios’ Zartan does a workable job here; however, his clean vocal range seems limited to four or five mid-baritone notes that he never stretches beyond. Doing him no favors either are the vocal arrangements, written such that each song’s vocal pattern and cadence sounded nearly identical. More dynamic vocals might have added a more maniacally villainous edge to the diabolical, Cold Slither plot.
I get what everyone, including Cold Slither, tried to do here, and I’m sure those who bought a ticket to see these songs played live by a band in full regalia on July 24th at the San Diego Comic-Con will have a good time. A much younger me may have even bought the action figure set, comic book, and ticket to the con to snag my exclusive vinyl variant. Cold Slither, however, amounts to little more than an elaborately conceived homage to one cult cartoon episode, where the music transcends no further than the intrinsic nostalgia it evokes. Hopefully, Hasbro has no plans to bring the Average Joe Band to life anytime soon.
Rating: 2.0/5.0
DR: 5 | Format Reviewed: 320kbps mp3
Label: Reigning Phoenix Music
Websites: Cold Slither | Facebook
Releases Worldwide: July 25th, 2025#20 #2025 #AliceInChains #AmericanMetal #BlackNBlue #ColdSlither #HeavyMetal #Jul25 #Keel #ReigningPhoenixMusic #Review #Reviews
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Looking at it a bit more closely - if I ignore the top clock signal which is a bit wild, the rest of the traffic looks perfectly cromulent. Second #Transputer Link is acking as expected, and reflecting the received byte back.
I’ve slowed the click down 10x, but it still has gaps. Can’t explain that yet, nor the link overrun error I see in the test harness.
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Today I am thankful for developers of #CookieBanners that can be closed with the escape button. I know you didn't want to make that eldritch horror of a #UI, but you made it slightly more bearable.
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@Jon6705
I recall many years ago whilst an engineering student at #ExeterUniversity watching that and having our fluid dynamics tutor explaining super critical flow [analogous to supersonic flow in a gas], hydraulic jumps [to subcritical flow], Stilling basins etc etc.
Fun to watch but the maths made my head hurt.
Nice pub there too. 👍
