“The Real Danger Begins When Truth Becomes Optional,” Frank Warns at Boise State Forum on Charlie Kirk Conspiracies
At a recent and emotionally charged fictional event held at Boise State University, an unexpected voice took the stage to deliver a message that silenced the packed auditorium. Frank, known more for his quiet presence than public declarations, stood at the podium and addressed what many in the room had been whispering about for weeks: the rapidly spreading conspiracy theories promoted by Candace Owens surrounding the imagined death of conservative figure Charlie Kirk.
With the weight of the moment pressing down, Frank didn’t flinch. He looked out across the sea of students — some angry, some confused, many simply overwhelmed — and called for clarity in an age where certainty is often manufactured instead of earned.
“We all feel something,” Frank began. “Shock. Sadness. Maybe even fear. But the moment we let those feelings override our demand for facts, we stop seeking truth — and start chasing shadows.”
He paused, letting the weight of that settle.
Then, with a voice both steady and unmistakably urgent, Frank turned directly to the swirling firestorm surrounding Owens’ allegations. “What begins as a question becomes a weapon when it’s fueled by fear, not evidence,” he said. “And right now, what we’re watching isn’t curiosity — it’s a collapse of critical thought.”
The crowd remained still. Even those who had come ready to challenge the official narrative seemed to pull back. Frank wasn’t mocking or dismissing the emotions that led people down these digital rabbit holes — he was naming the cost of abandoning discernment.
“Candace Owens is not the danger. She is the symptom,” he continued. “A symptom of a culture that rewards provocation more than proof. A symptom of a moment where popularity feels more powerful than principle. But if we follow that logic too far, we lose the very ground we’re standing on.”
He then gestured to the crowd of young faces, some of whom had likely scrolled through endless threads online, questioning what was real and what was manufactured. “You’re not wrong to ask questions,” Frank said. “You’re wrong when you stop listening to answers that don’t scare you enough to go viral.”
And then came the line that lingered long after the microphones were shut off:
“The real danger begins when truth becomes optional. When we stop requiring it. When we trade it for comfort, or drama, or a dopamine hit on our phones. That’s when we’ve lost more than just Charlie — we’ve lost ourselves.”
A murmur swept the room. Not outrage. Not applause. Something quieter. Something heavier.
In an era where information spreads faster than wildfire and facts are often drowned beneath tides of emotion and algorithmic outrage, Frank’s words served as both warning and invitation: to stay grounded, to resist easy narratives, and to remember that even in times of confusion, truth is not the enemy — fear is.
And as students filed out into the crisp Boise air, many glanced at their phones, paused before retweeting, and for perhaps the first time that week, asked themselves: What am I choosing to believe — and why?