No Masters, No Kings
A Dispatch from the Anti-Fascist Frontlines
For The Nomad Files and the GSUS Underground Tribune
Existential Nomad is the creator of “The Nomad Files,” a Substack publication chronicling a life on the move. A former chef of 35 years, his writing uses a gonzo lens to explore the places, culture, and politics he’s encountered along the way.
Orlando: October 18, 2025
The night before No Kings, I was able to fall asleep early, a rare victory against the chemical chaos of my own brain. My ADHD, as usual, wanted to keep me awake all night, a frantic projectionist running films of the day to come. It wanted me to plan my every move, to visualize conversations I’d have with comrades at the federal courthouse, to script encounters, to map out the entire protest grid. It’s an exhausting, relentless engine. But for once, blessed silence.
I rose from my slumber and got ready. The fit for the day: purple tartan, a direct nod to my roots and the rebellious spirit that comes with wearing a kilt in public, much like the one seen in my official-unofficial portrait:
The look was topped with my helmet, a piece that truly encapsulates the internal state. This isn’t just any helmet; it’s a horror-themed masterpiece, a grayscale canvas of skulls, grasping tentacles, and faces frozen in tormented screams. It’s a busy, chaotic landscape, lovingly adorned with essential life-advice stickers like “IT GETS WORSE BEFORE IT GETS WORSE,” a gold star for “did the bare minimum,” and the friendly invitation, “Let’s Start A Cult!”.
It’s my own personal memento mori for the road. With a necessary, thick slathering of SPF 70—I am white as fuck and burn easily—I was finally ready to face the fascists.
Then, the universe laughed. Right in my face.
It’s Saturday. “Brightline” doesn’t run on weekends. This is a critical piece of data that I remembered only after sitting on the desolate platform, staring at a digital sign that confirmed my mistake, in Spanish. As if to punctuate the absurdity of existence, my vape, my one small comfort, slipped from my hand, fell to the concrete, and broke the glass. A tactical retreat to my existential lair was required to replace the globe. The universe was testing me.
I had planned to be at the courthouse by 9 a.m., fresh and ready. After all the ridiculous setbacks, I found myself zipping down Orange Avenue on a “Lime” scooter I rented with my app, throttle jammed to the floor. What a sight that must have been for the brunch-going onlookers. A 260-pound man in a purple kilt, wind flapping the tartan, wearing that chaotic horror helmet, rolling down the middle of the street like a budget-conscious, suburban barbarian. I was a rolling contradiction, and I loved it.
I arrived at the courthouse to find the rally well underway. It wasn’t just a crowd; it was a sea of people, a beautiful, swirling circus of community. The air was thick with sunscreen, collective energy, and the distant thumping of a P.A. system. There were inflated characters everywhere—a giant lobstah, the obligatory baby Trump in a diaper, unicorns, dinosaurs, a whole gaggle of gay bananas dancing in a clump, and even a Pokémon dance party breaking out on the courthouse steps. It was a spectacle, a gorgeous explosion of protest and joy.
For me, the rally started rough. I had crossed the road to get some full crowd shots, a better angle on the beautiful madness. There was some yellow caution tape that I had to duck under on the other side. Immediately, I felt a hand on my chest—hard. Not a push, a plant. It struck me right into the situation, all senses firing. A very angry-faced pig was on the other end of that arm.
”Don’t you know what a fucking police line is?” he barked, spittle flying.
To which I replied, instinct taking over, “Get your fucking hands off me, pig!” Then, pointing at the flimsy plastic, “It says ‘caution’ asshole, not ‘police.’”
He postured. I postured. The stalemate broke. I went back to the other side. Jaywalked even, right in front of him. A small, petty, necessary act of defiance. Fuckin’ ACAB, am I right?
Things improved immediately. I ran into State Representative Anna Eskamani, who was making an appearance at No Kings before heading out to Orlando Pride. Downtown Orlando was one giant, sprawling rally, though Pride has the corporate backers and glittering floats. She and I actually follow each other on Instagram, that weird, parasocial connection of the modern age. We’d never met in person. She mentioned that it was nice to put a face to my persona, a moment of strange validation. The Nomad exists, apparently. I was able to ask Miss Eskamani a couple of questions, a brief moment of real journalism in the midst of the circus.
Existential Nomad: This is the Existential Nomad. I’m here at No Kings Orlando, at The Federal Courthouse. I found State Representative Anna Eskamani.
So, why are you out here, Anna?
Anna Eskamani: First of all, to be in the presence of like-minded people. It’s so rejuvenating in this political climate right now. But of course, we’re standing for a government that’s representative of its constituents, that serves our needs and doesn’t demonize immigrants. It doesn’t ignore the affordable housing crisis. It doesn’t give tax breaks to billionaires and take away healthcare coverage. So we’re here united in our love for this country and our love for one another.
Existential Nomad: So Anna, I know you’re working class because I know your history. If there were a national strike, would you support that?
Anna Eskamani: Yes. Honestly, I think one of the only ways to really exercise our power is by the purse and by our labor. I even look at what happened... [with] all the people that exercised their economic power... that’s really what led to [change]. So it’s important.
Existential Nomad: Well, you know, you’re one of the people who’s going to hold these people accountable for all this illegal stuff they’re doing.
Anna Eskamani: 100%.
Existential Nomad: Have a good day, Anna, and thank you so much.
Note: Anna helped me out muchly during COVID, and dealing with the Florida Department of Economic Opportunity (which had made unemployment benefits a fucking challenge). Along with Greg Angel (local reporter) was able to get my unemployment issues fixed.
After that, I went on a picture-taking quest, coddlewomping as it were, wandering through the crowd whilst listening to the speakers. I found some great posters, costumes, and comrades. The creative energy was palpable, a physical force. The signs were a mix of biting satire and blunt, beautiful truths. I saw one depicting Trump screaming “GIVE ME MY PRIZE!” under the headline “NOBEL PIECE OF 💩 PRIZE,” a perfect, juvenile summary of the man-child’s entire ethos.
Then, I spotted a lovingly illustrated grandma in curlers and a purple sweater, flashing a peace sign, her shirt emblazoned with the words “I AM AUNT TIFA”.
It was a brilliant piece of propaganda, reclaiming a term the right has tried so hard to demonize and wrapping it in the unassailable armor of a sweet old lady.
The messaging was clear and diverse. A stark, stenciled sign declared, “THIS ADMINISTRATION IS PRO-FA” with a swastika emphatically crossed out beneath it
—no nuance, just facts. A bit further on, a simple, clever poster offered a moment of poetic resistance, showing a monarch butterfly with the text, “THE ONLY MONARCH WE NEED”.
And, of course, the pop-culture callouts were on point. My favorite was a hand-painted SpongeBob-themed sign, featuring a disgusted-looking fish declaring, “OH BROTHER, THIS GUY STINKS!!” next to a cut-out picture of Trump’s scowling face.
Wandering through this beautiful circus, I found Mary Poppins and Indiana Jones, standing side-by-side. For the day, they had officially broken canon to exist in the same universe together, united by a common enemy. Both, it turns out, are vehemently against fascism. Mary Poppins, looking practically perfect, held a sign reading, “SUPER CALLOUS FACIST RACIST EXTRA BRAGGADOCIOUS.” Meanwhile, Indy, looking every bit the weary adventurer in his fedora, had a simple orange sign: “NAZIS. I HATE THESE GUYS.”.
It was perfect. Of course, these two would be here. I was able to secure a short interview with them. One could actually say they are, in fact, antifa. Like me.
This is Existential Nomad down here at Orlando No Kings. I’m standing here with Mary Poppins, and you will never guess... Indiana Jones. And in this universe, they are friends. Indy, why are you here?
Indiana Jones: Nazis. I hate these guys.
Existential Nomad: Alright, alright. Are you both working-class people? *both nod* Okay. If there were a national strike today, and we got 3.5% of the population in agreement, would you support that?
[Both confirm affirmative]
Existential Nomad: Outstanding, outstanding. Thank you very much. Thank you, Mary Poppins and Indiana Jones.
In all, I estimate at least five thousand patriots were in attendance at No Kings Orlando. The vibe was chill, focused, and the message was proactive. A small, pathetic counter-protest gathered across the street—five lonely fascists and bootlickers with their hateful flags, their voices completely drowned out by the constant honking horns of supportive cars and the sheer, overwhelming energy on our side of the street. No mention of the bitter irony that they, the working-class people they claim to be, have more in common with us than with the billionaires and wannabe dictators they’re simping for. They’re trying so hard to perpetuate the fabricated culture war, to fight over pronouns and flags, rather than focusing on the class war we so desperately need.
This is what they fear. Not just the signs or the chants, but the joy. The gay bananas, the Pokémon, the superheroes, the kilted nomads on scooters—all of us, together, realizing who the real enemy is.
Eat the rich.
No masters.
No kings.
Here is the movie I created from the event:
You rock comrade