A lull in the weekly parade of teachers across the U.S. being busted for sexual relationships with their students ended this week with a Minnesota teacher being hit with a jail sentence for meetups with a student and another educator in Kentucky banned from ever teaching again after pleading guilty to sexting with a pupil.
In the American political scene dominated by the GOP-Democrat duopoly, Libertarians like Kentucky congressional candidate Jeremy Todd are looking to offer voters an alternative as they head to the polls during the midterm elections.
"I think ultimately the Republican Party has abandoned… true conservatism, small government principles," Todd told Fox News Digital this week, asserting that "they may be more conservative than Democrats, but, to us true conservatives, that's not good enough."
Todd, who views himself as "right of MAGA," mounted his long-shot U.S. House bid after Rep. Thomas Massie lost the Republican primary in Kentucky's 4th Congressional District to Trump-backed former Navy SEAL Ed Gallrein. Democratic congressional candidate Melissa Strange is also running in the contest.
"We are welcoming people who are conservative, who believe in small, limited government, to my campaign and then to a larger movement that is probably gonna need to exist post the downfall of the Republican Party," Todd said.
Former National Counterterrorism Center Director Joe Kent, who quit his post earlier this year due to his opposition to the Iran war, and former Rep. Ron Paul, have both backed Todd.
In a Pew Research survey of U.S. adults released earlier this month, 5% of registered voters indicated that they would vote for another candidate other than the GOP and Democratic candidates in the U.S. House race in their district, while 15% were not sure about how they would vote. The poll, carried out Sept. 28-Oct. 4, had a margin of error among registered voters of plus or minus 1.8 percentage points.
Todd is not the only Libertarian running this election cycle looking to make an impact — but no candidate running under the Libertarian Party has ever been elected to the U.S. Congress.
Former Rep. Justin Amash of Michigan, who switched from Republican to Independent and then to Libertarian during his final term, became "the first LP member to serve in Congress," according to the Libertarian National Committee — but Amash, who served in the House for a decade, won all of his elections as a Republican.
Libertarian candidate Ted Brown is on the ballot for the 2026 Texas U.S. Senate race that features Trump-backed state Attorney General Ken Paxton and Democratic state Rep. James Talarico.
Brown earned only about 2.36% of the vote in the 2024 Texas U.S. Senate contest won by incumbent GOP Sen. Ted Cruz. He dismissed the criticism he says he gets regularly from Republicans that he is merely spoiling Paxton’s chances.
"They could avoid that problem by nominating a better candidate," Brown said, noting that he delivers the same message to Democrats.
"You can’t spoil a system that’s already rotten," Brown stated. "There are a lot of people making a protest vote, and there’s good reason to."
Bill Redpath, a former Libertarian National Committee (LNC) chair who is currently listed as an at-large LNC representative, is running in the special Ohio U.S. Senate race where Trump-backed Republican Sen. Jon Husted faces former Sen. Sherrod Brown, a Democrat.
Todd, while speaking to Fox News Digital, urged voters not to "buy into the lesser of two evils talk. Make sure you get out there and vote and give us a real shot because we can win this."
Todd, who supports Massie's bid to impeach War Secretary Pete Hegseth and the congressman's push to pass the Epstein Files Transparency Act II, is a fiscal hawk who advocates slashing government spending to address the much-discussed "affordability" issue.
"The affordability crisis is not a hoax," he said, suggesting that younger individuals particularly face this "stark reality."
"The only answer is we've got to cut government spending so that we stop money printing, so that we stop debasing and devaluing the currency and their wages have an opportunity to catch up. That's ultimately what's happening is we're printing money faster than wages can keep up with and it's kind of left an entire generation behind to the benefit of asset holders," Todd said.
"The easiest way you can cut government spending is get out of these stupid conflicts. We should not be paying billions of dollars to Ukraine to fight Russia. We should not be paying billions of dollars to come to Israel's defense," Todd asserted. "And last but not least, we should get out of this conflict in Iran. Just leave."
In a Sunday post on X, Todd called President Donald Trump "a warmonger."
During the Fox News Digital interview, Todd credited Trump with forging "the greatest coalition we've maybe ever seen in politics," noting that Trump delivered a speech at the Libertarian National Convention in 2024 to appeal to the voting bloc.
"We believe that the job of the United States military is not to wage endless regime-change wars around the globe," Trump told that Libertarian gathering in 2024, but "to defend America from attack and invasion here at home."
Todd said since delivering that speech, Trump has gone "back on all but essentially one of the promises, which is border security."
"We've not gotten deportations to the level that we wanted. We've gotten into another stupid and maybe the biggest and most ridiculous Middle Eastern conflict," Todd said.
The White House did not respond to Fox News Digital's requests for comment.
In a statement provided to Fox News Digital, Republican National Committee national press secretary Natalie Baldassarre declared, "President Trump has endorsed Ed Gallrein, a Navy SEAL and fifth-generation farmer who will represent the needs of working families in Congress. Republicans are focused on electing America First Republicans in Kentucky and around the country."
Trump, who has been traveling to various states to campaign for Republican candidates amid midterm election season, rallied in Kentucky's 4th Congressional District earlier this month, blasting Massie as "the worst."
Fox News Digital reached out to Massie to find out whether he'll vote in the congressional race, and, if so, how he will cast his ballot.
"I won't be voting for the AIPAC candidate," Massie tersely texted Fox News Digital, referring to the American Israel Public Affairs Committee.
Reports indicate that millions in AIPAC-linked funds were poured into the primary, with The New York Times saying, "This year, one of the group’s most high-profile wins was the ouster of Mr. Massie, a seven-term congressman who has called for ending military aid to Israel."
AIPAC did not provide comment to Fox News Digital for this report.
The Gallrein campaign responded to Fox News Digital’s request for comment on Massie with the following statement: "It is tragically fitting that his last act as congressman would be to once again, turn his back on his district and his party by siding with radical Democrats. This is exactly why voters fired him in May."
In an interview with a local news station, Todd said he would never run against Massie, but now, he’s "running for him."
Holbrook Mohr and Mitch Weiss | The Atavist Magazine | July 2026 | 2,284 words (8 minutes)
This is an excerpt from issue no. 178, “Toxic Lies.”
January 3, 2026
In the isolation ward of a hospital in Birmingham, Alabama, a nurse approaches Ron Fowler’s bed, cell phone extended in her hand.
“You have a call,” she says.
Fowler’s eyes flutter open. He tugs off his oxygen tube and, with trembling fingers, accepts the phone.
“Thanks,” he whispers, before turning his attention to us—the callers.
From his voice it’s clear that something is very wrong; he sounds nothing like his usual self. He’s due the next day to meet us for an interview in Paducah, Kentucky, where he and his friend Chuck Deuschle worked at a uranium-enrichment plant that helped fuel America’s nuclear arsenal. Years ago they blew the whistle on the government and its contractors for poisoning thousands of atomic workers. “Can’t make it,” Fowler chokes out. “Blood clots. Hospital. They may have to remove some toes—if those clots don’t reach my heart first. If they do…” He trails off, the terrible ending hanging in the air.
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Fowler, soon to turn 77, is desperate to talk before it’s too late—to pull up the memories one more time and commit them to the historical record. He and Deuschle had both moved to Kentucky to work at the nuclear plant, only to discover a grim secret: The facility was exposing people to dangerously high levels of radiation and toxic chemicals, and had concealed the truth about it from employees and the surrounding community. This went on for decades. Faced with a choice—either walk away or stay and sound the alarm—Fowler and Deuschle returned to work, day after day.
More than thirty years later, lying in the hospital with cancer, Fowler is certain that the plant doomed him to a slow, painful death. At 83, Deuschle is also fighting a serious health issue: an unexplained autoimmune disease. They believe their fellow whistleblowers—Deuschle’s wife, Kay, and their friend Garland “Bud” Jenkins—succumbed to illnesses caused by the plant. Still, they’d do it all again. Someone had to reveal the callous disregard the government and the plant’s operators had shown their own people.
Fowler and Deuschle have never shared their story in full—the details of what it was like to live, breathe, and possibly die from their commitment to the truth. But they want people to know, particularly in light of recent news reports: In August 2025, more than a decade after the plant was shut down, a private firm announced that it planned to revive uranium-enrichment operations there. To Fowler and Deuschle, it seems wrong to begin a new chapter in Paducah’s nuclear story. Many former employees are still seeking compensation for their exposure to radiation. Will future generations of workers be any safer?
Fowler struggles for each breath.
“Time’s up,” the nurse says gently, reaching for the phone. “You need to rest.”
Fowler grips the device tighter.
“Call tomorrow when you meet with Chuck,” he implores. “I’m staying alive until then.” He pauses for a moment. “Just make sure Chuck’s with you. Promise me.”
We promise.
1.
One morning in late 1991, Ron Fowler stood in front of the bathroom mirror, parting his hair to the side and noting the first strands of gray at his temples. His beard was neatly trimmed, his black slacks and white dress shirt crisply pressed. He was ready. Today would be his first day at the Paducah Gaseous Diffusion Plant, a uranium-enrichment facility about ten miles outside Paducah, Kentucky. This was more than just a job—it was the start of a new life.
Fowler was a health physicist, an expert in the science of radiation protection. For years he’d traveled the country to train workers at nuclear plants in safety protocols. The pay was great, but being on the road weeks at a time had worn him down. When he moved to Paducah in his early forties, Fowler had already lived in Illinois, Pennsylvania, Maryland, Virginia, and Arkansas. Paducah promised stability: the perfect place to settle through retirement. His wife’s parents even moved from Illinois to be nearby.
After eating breakfast—a sausage patty and a scrambled egg—he kissed his wife, Sandi, goodbye and slipped out the door. He steered his green Oldsmobile Delta 88 through the country roads outside Paducah and let his mind drift back to his childhood in Florence, South Carolina. Life there had been simple. His father, who dropped out of school in the fourth grade, supported the family by working on the railroad. Florence was a place where men had jobs, women tended to the home and children, everyone went to church, and neighbors helped neighbors who fell on hard times. Paducah felt just as close-knit. Folks looked out for one another, and honest labor was rewarded.
Situated on the Ohio River where it meets the Tennessee, Paducah owes its origins to trade; it was founded in 1827 by William Clark of the Lewis and Clark expedition and named for a powerful Native American tribe. The area is naturally beautiful—the city is surrounded by rolling hills and sprawling plains dotted with ponds. For Fowler, a keen fisherman, it was paradise. Paducah had about 27,000 residents when he arrived. It was big enough to have all the right shops, yet small enough that restaurant owners knew whether regulars preferred barbecue or fried catfish, the local staples.
As Fowler drove, the plant appeared in the distance. It spread over some 3,500 acres—750 of them secured by fences and gates—and sat amid modest homes and farms. The community was proud of this place because of its long history supporting the military. Originally, it was a TNT munitions factory, built during World War II. Later, as Cold War tensions escalated, officials scouted locations for a uranium feed facility to supply weapons-production sites in Piketon, Ohio, and Oak Ridge, Tennessee, with the material required to make nuclear bombs. Paducah native Alben Barkley leveraged his position as Harry S. Truman’s vice president, campaigning aggressively to repurpose the munitions factory in his hometown. He recognized that the project likely would inject billions into the local economy and transform living standards for the region’s blue-collar workforce.
Construction of the nuclear plant began in 1951. By the following year, it was enriching uranium for atomic bombs and the Navy’s nuclear fleet. Rising from the countryside, the gleaming buildings looked like modern marvels, and the economic windfall lifted Paducah residents’ spirits. Meanwhile, employees at the plant—everyone from nuclear technicians to welders, cooks, and janitors—were united in patriotic pride. Their jobs paid well, and the workers believed that they were helping fend off communism. It was no wonder Life magazine printed a photo spread of the site.
As the Cold War thawed, the mission changed but the jobs remained. The plant began recycling materials—gold, among other things—extracted from dismantled atomic weapons while continuing to enrich uranium, now for nuclear power plants instead of bombs. Wages allowed families to buy homes and cars and afford vacations—the American middle-class dream. The plant operated like a self-contained town for its 1,700 employees: It had its own security force, fire department, library, post office, and health clinic. A shuttle service ferried employees around the plant’s grounds. Workers participated in golf leagues and fishing tournaments. The Uranium Enrichment News kept everyone informed about goings-on at the site.
Though the plant was owned by the Department of Energy, it was run by contractors. Union Carbide initially oversaw operations, followed by Martin Marietta, which later merged with Lockheed to become Lockheed Martin. Management changed, but to employees that just meant a different name on their paychecks. The people on the ground were like family—fiercely loyal to one another and to the plant they called the Atomic City.
Fowler smiled as he drove through a security gate into a sprawling lot. He parked by the administrative building and checked in with a secretary, who called someone to escort him to his department. From there he would lead health and safety training sessions. The federal government had known as early as 1944 that radiation was hazardous and had issued policies to limit worker exposure. It was Fowler’s job to help ensure that regulations were enforced, to protect both employees and the surrounding community from contamination.
He had barely settled in when a coworker poked his head in.
“Want to see the place?”
The complex was huge—more than five hundred buildings connected by nearly twenty miles of access roads. Fowler was impressed until, as he rounded a corner on his tour, a yellow triangular sign with the radiation symbol caught his eye. There was no step-off pad in sight. In a nuclear facility, a step-off pad is a buffer zone between a hazardous area and a clean one. Workers at the Paducah site were supposed to remove radiation-tainted clothing and footwear before crossing through these zones to ensure they didn’t unwittingly transfer dangerous materials to other parts of the plant or transport it home with them.
Fowler flagged down a worker leaving the building where the warning sign was posted. “You don’t have a step-off pad down here,” Fowler said. The worker shrugged and said there was nothing to worry about.
“That sign says otherwise,” Fowler said. He explained that protocol required a pad and training for workers so they knew how to use it.
The worker’s expression was unchanged as he walked away.
Fowler’s pulse quickened as he imagined invisible particles on boot soles spreading throughout the plant or, worse, tracking onto kitchen floors or into rooms where children played. He hurried to his division manager’s office. The supervisor listened, then leaned back in his chair and tapped a pen on his desk calendar. He said he’d call a meeting about the issue.
That night at home, Fowler sat at the kitchen table watching Sandi cook. Normally, he’d have been joking with his wife about her limited culinary range—she often made breakfast for dinner—but tonight his mind was elsewhere. The sizzle from the stove filled the silence between them.
Sandi knew something was wrong. In the years since they first met at a bar in Joliet, Illinois, she’d become attuned to her husband’s moods. Despite his imposing frame—six foot two, 245 pounds—Fowler had always been the gentle sort and quick to laugh. Their courtship progressed quickly, and within four months of meeting Fowler had moved in to her family’s home in Aurora. They married there so her father, a former school principal paralyzed from a stroke, could attend.
“What is it, Ron?” Sandi asked, spatula in hand.
He sighed. “Something’s not right at work.”
“What do you mean?”
“The way they treat radiation—like it can’t hurt them. No precautions,” Fowler said.
“That doesn’t make sense,” Sandi replied, frowning.
“I know.” Fowler shook his head. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Uranium is a silvery-white radioactive metal. More than 99 percent of it found in nature is U-238, and the rest is U-235, an isotope that can sustain the chain reactions needed to fuel nuclear power production and atomic weapons. Enrichment is the process of increasing the concentration of U-235 in a supply of uranium. At different points, enrichment produces one powder Paducah workers called black oxide—not to be confused with the coating of the same name applied to some metals to improve corrosion resistance—and another, uranium tetraflouride, that’s known as green salt. Eventually, uranium hexafluoride, a colorless crystalline solid, is heated into a gas that’s pushed through microscopic porous barriers. This process, called gaseous diffusion, separates U-235 from U-238; at plants like the one in Paducah, it’s done hundreds of times in a cascade until the desired enrichment level is reached.
Uranium enrichment is hazardous business. Fowler knew that any leak, spill, or accident at the Paducah plant could damage kidneys and lungs, irritate skin, and increase cancer risk. More insidiously, simple mistakes or oversights by workers could have that same result. During his first few weeks on the job, Fowler explored the plant on his own, and what he found unsettled him. Employees worked in radioactive areas without protective suits or masks. Some couldn’t read and might not understand warning signs. People left the site after their shifts without changing clothes or showering, likely conveying radioactive dust home to their families. Some workers even warmed their lunch on top of machines in hazardous areas.
Fowler knew that things needed to change, and quickly. He took his concerns to the plant manager, Steve Polston, who heard him out and then called a meeting about step-off pads—the very issue Fowler had flagged on his first day. At the meeting, Fowler outlined the safety gaps he’d observed at the plant, but it seemed to him as though the senior managers in the room could barely feign interest. He heard what would become something of a refrain: “We’ve been doing it this way for years.” He was also told that Department of Energy officials visited the site regularly and hadn’t raised concerns.
More worried than ever, Fowler spent the next several months developing new safety protocols. He beamed with satisfaction as he handed the plan to Polston. In the period that followed, however, he became frustrated with how officials implemented the measures. Even when company-issued safety equipment was made available, Fowler noticed that much of it was obsolete. And he watched in disbelief as employees poked holes in respirator masks to smoke while working.
“I’m not making progress,” he told Sandi one night between sips from a can of Miller Lite. “No one is listening.” He likened his work to “scooping water out of the ocean.”
Sandi, who had studied his training manual to understand his work, gently touched his arm. “Be patient,” she suggested. “Maybe you just have to get to know the people better.”
Fowler’s shoulders dropped. “It seems like more than that,” he said.
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