A story of betrayal and brotherhood as fake as the Navy SEAL impostors Don Shipley loves to expose.
Prologue: The Calm Before the Betrayal
February 2022. The world was limping out of COVID exile, and I felt lucky: a wife I loved, a cat to amuse me, a blog, and a hobby shop where I blasted rock ’n’ roll while cutting stained glass.
That’s when I stumbled across Detachment 656, Samuel F. Gearhart, Marine Corps League in Jefferson City, Missouri. A handsome building in Marine red and gold, calling itself Tun Tavern. Pickup trucks, sheriff patrol cars, Semper Fi bumper stickers — my kind of people, I thought.
I was welcomed, vetted, even scanned with my DD-214. Out of 120 members, only two of us were combat vets from Vietnam. The rest were lifers, supply guys, Motor T, bean counters. But I didn’t care. I was in.
Enter Jon Morgan, a retired Master Sergeant, gunning to become Commandant. He seemed down to earth. We got along. I told him he had my support and vote.
I offered my skills — built them a website, Facebook page, YouTube channel, content, videos, PR. They named me Web Sergeant. A one-man PR department, free of charge.
I thought I’d found brotherhood.
Instead, I’d found betrayal.
Part II: The Seduction
I threw myself into the work. Coffee Club three times a week. Editing the Barracks Bulletin newsletter. Representing the detachment at the Chamber of Commerce.
Then came Toys for Tots.
I didn’t want it, but Morgan leaned on me. Said I’d just be “the boss,” that volunteers would handle the grunt work. Only catch? I had to attend official Toys for Tots Foundation training in Fairfax, Virginia.
Two days of SOP drills, binders the size of the New York phonebook. Organized, professional, squared away.
When I got back, Morgan waved it all off. “Just guidance,” he said. “We’ve been running it our way for 20 years. Forget the reports, forget oversight.”
That was the first sign. I wasn’t swimming with the tide anymore. I was swimming upstream.
Part III: The Betrayal
As editor, I tried to modernize the Bulletin — move to digital instead of wasting time and stamps. Morgan agreed. Loyd Miller agreed. We voted. Done.
Then one morning, I show up to find the old stamp-and-staple assembly line cranking again. Why? Because one guy complained he didn’t use email.
“But I’m the editor,” I said. “Didn’t we agree?”
“Shut up, boot. Keep folding.”
I resigned that day.
From then on, I was cursed at, called Fat Boy, even challenged to fights — at 72 years old. Canes waving, threats flying. Brotherhood? More like a bad high school cafeteria.
I started skipping meetings just to avoid the abuse. But I kept the websites alive, because I thought the mission mattered.
Then Toys for Tots hit me like a freight train.
Volunteers demanded free hats and shirts. Then didn’t show. Sheriff’s Posse played cowboy instead of helping kids. Former coordinators sabotaged me, roaming town claiming they were in charge. Marijuana dispensaries ran “10% off your weed with a toy” campaigns — until I shut them down, earning a string of curses from the CEO of Shangri-La.
The sabotage was constant.
One day, I walked into the mall to find hundreds of boxes dumped without warning, overwhelming my two-person crew — one woman and her autistic 60-year-old sister.
And Jon Morgan? He mocked me in front of everyone:
“Well boys, Schaefer says we’re not needed here. Let’s go!”
I wanted to deck him. But I kept going. For the kids.
When I sent a volunteer to Walmart with $1,000 for special-needs toys, Morgan stormed in, high on pain meds, and roared:
“$1,000 for retards? Not on my watch!”
That was the turning point.
I called the Foundation. They told me flat out: You’re the boss. Not him. Even threatened to come straighten Morgan out themselves.
By Christmas, the campaign was a success:
- 4,000 kids served.
- $18,000 in the kitty (up from $12,000).
- No leftover inventory.
The Foundation called me the best coordinator Jeff City ever had.
But I was finished.
Part IV: The Meltdown & Arrest
Day after Christmas, I told the League: pay me $150 a month to keep your online presence alive, or I’m done.
No reply. Four days later, I pulled the plug. Website. Facebook. YouTube. All gone.
Then came the childish charge sheet. Dishonoring the Corps. Demanding my resignation “with prejudice.” I told them to pound sand.
Two days later, a sheriff’s deputy — “former Marine” — knocked on my door. I thought it was a prank. Until I admitted: yes, I shut it all down.
“Put your hands behind your back. You’re under arrest.”
Two felonies:
- Tampering with computer equipment.
- Unsavory business practices.
Booked, fingerprinted, belly chains. Six hours in a cell. My wife in tears. My neighbors gawking.
And here’s the part that cut deeper than the cuffs.
My wife — the woman I thought would always be in my corner — looked at me and said the words I couldn’t believe:
“You must have done something wrong to get arrested.”
She took their side. Believed the system over me.
That was the wound I couldn’t bandage. The marriage never recovered.
Part V: The Fallout
The deck was stacked. Even my attorney told me: this was a civil matter at worst. The prosecutor? Just bored.
The deputy who arrested me was now “digital forensics.” Looking for crimes on a computer without a hard drive.
Meanwhile, Morgan raged at the local paper for running a flattering Toys for Tots piece — because I was pictured, not him. He even called the Asian reporter a “stupid chink.”
This wasn’t about toys. This was about Morgan’s ego.
And then, out of nowhere, the prosecutor dropped the charges. No case. No crime. Just vendetta.
Deputy Dog called me: “Come pick up your computer.”
“Did you even look at it?” I asked.
“No.”
“You took it. You bring it back.”
Small victory.
But the price was steep: resignation “with prejudice.” Banned from the Marine Corps League for life.
I tried to expose Morgan. Tried to recover my attorney fees. Tried to make the sheriffs answer. But like cops, like doctors, they circled the wagons.
So I built my own weapon: a Facebook page. Jon Morgan Is a POS.
When others quit in disgust, I posted their stories. Sent Morgan the link. His only reply? A Google map of my Arizona address.
We know where you live, Schaefer. All we have to do is call our sheriff buddies in Yavapai County. They’ll arrest you again if you don’t shut up.
That’s their “brotherhood.” Threats and silence.
Friends tell me to move on. Forget it. Good advice, maybe. But righteous anger doesn’t fade.
I was betrayed — not by enemies, but by “brothers.” And that’s the kind of betrayal you don’t forgive.
Footnote: Names Taken, No Prisoners
I formally accuse the following ex-Marines of being a disgrace to the brotherhood, liars all:
- Dave “Captain Crunch” Hunter
- Perry “Foureyes” Mathis
- Loyd “the Wife Beater” Miller
…and the rest of the cowards who stood by and let this happen.
Semper Fuck You All.
Chatrodamus Predicts
The Few, The Proud, The Brotherhood? It’s real — when it’s earned. But when lifers and small men cling to power, they don’t build brotherhood. They build cults of ego. And like all frauds, they’ll be exposed in time. Just ask Don Shipley.