My Nightmare Warrant Story – President Trahan

The Night It All Started

Man, let me tell you how a single night at a bar in Claremont turned into this endless nightmare that's still hanging over my head like a bad tattoo. I'm President Trahan—yeah, the guy running in the nonpartisan primary, trying to shake up the system, crush corruption, and rally the canceled. Word had started getting out about my United States Primary Presidential Campaign, and people were noticing. No more controlling the narrative. I leaned into it, started subtly promoting the message wherever I went. But silent opposition? Oh, it was there, lurking.

That night, I was just trying to unwind at this spot in Claremont. Place had some odd, off-putting decor—a figurine by the liquor cabinet and a painted tile design across the dining room wall. Made me side-eye the whole scene, but I wasn't there to judge the decor. I was there for a drink, maybe some conversation.

Then it hit me—the crowd swelled, people closing in, overwhelming. I felt trapped, like the energy shifted. I just wanted out. My exit through the front door? Blocked by this pink-haired girl. I tried to politely pass by, so I asked her to move, nothing aggressive, nothing intentional. Next thing I know, she spins around and screams at full volume: "You can't touch me like that!"

Shocked doesn't even cover it. I froze. What the hell? I hadn't touched her like that, all I did was try to leave. But she just kept going, escalating, turning absolutely nothing into a full-blown Karen meltdown. I stammered out a "what!?" and was shrugging and looking around like Vincent in Pulp Fiction as a reflex to the initial shock of this sudden screaming for no reason. Nothing made sense to me, I was in full blown survival mode. Suddenly I'm surrounded by a group of people getting way too in my space, telling me I had to leave, but I'm too busy defending myself against this lie she just blasted across the bar.

The Lies That Kept Growing

I got out eventually, but that was just the beginning. Turns out, she waited 3 or 4 months before even filing a report with the Claremont police. Then the charges came, and boom—warrant out of Pomona, California. Active. Still active.

My public defender's investigator interviewed her twice. First time? She claimed I grabbed a handful of her posterior. One hand. Second interview? The lie grew, like these things always do when nobody's checking them hard enough, and now it's two hands grabbing. Two hands! Escalating the story each time they talked to her, building this fantasy accusation into something bigger, uglier, meaner.

The DA? They knew they had jack for evidence. No video, no real witnesses who weren't biased, nothing solid. But under the LA County DA's controversial COVID-era policies, they refused to drop it. They weren't backing down, they wanted to hang me out to dry and laugh about it. These no good meany heads tried to shake me down with some janky plea deal that would've slapped me on the sex offender registry. What the actual hell? For something I didn't do? This was too much and they seemed like they were getting off on playing games with my actual life.

The Waiting Game and the Lingering Warrant

I realized this was a marathon, not a sprint. I'm indigent, disabled—can't afford some high-powered lawyer to fight forever. So I played their waiting game. Kept showing up, kept pushing back in the ways I could. Eventually, they dropped it from felony territory down to a misdemeanor. I went no contest—whatever, just make it end. I couldn't keep dragging this out, it was killing me. And now, even after the plea, it's lingering because of two things: 1, I couldn't afford the back and forth from Texas to California anymore. And 2, the DA dragged their feet and refused to kill the bogus case from the jump—in an office known for rejecting many misdemeanors but not this one.

Now? Every day I walk around knowing there's this active misdemeanor warrant for something I didn't do. It's mental anguish, straight up. Constant low-level stress, paranoia in crowds, second-guessing every interaction. And the practical hits? Brutal. I've missed multiple cruises with my family. Yeah, cruises. Cruise lines and ports check when you come back through customs/immigration. Outstanding warrant? They can arrest you right there at the dock, hand you over to locals. No sailing for me. Family trips canceled, memories not made, all because of this framed-up lie.

The Lowdown

It's not just the warrant—it's the principle. Framed over nothing, lie snowballing from one hand to two, system digging their heels into me instead of admitting it was BS. The pink-haired girl's story growing because nobody stopped it early. The opposition to my campaign? Maybe coincidence, maybe not. But it all feels ultra targeted, especially after you know who in California's sudden threats to run for the Oval. It was like they wanted to derail me any way they could. Hmm.

I'm still here, still running, still complying with law enforcement, still fighting the corruption. But damn, this warrant lingers like a shadow. Vegas dropped the bogus charges that were filed against me in Clark County, so why can't LA County do the same? One day I'm sure it'll get cleared proper, but until then, it's a daily reminder: sometimes the system doesn't care about the truth. It cares about control. I'm not letting it control me, and neither should you.