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A personal note

William Vicory… do you even remember who you used to be?

At the beach, cap and sunglasses, relaxing in a chair Holding a rack of ribs by the water On the couch with kids, smiling On a bridge with Mom, Hill Country backdrop Dinner out with the family at a long table Black and white candid at a restaurant Thumbs up pose together Holiday portrait, three together Selfie on the couch with a heart sticker Laughing together by a blue police box prop At the beach, cap and sunglasses, relaxing in a chair Holding a rack of ribs by the water On the couch with kids, smiling On a bridge with Mom, Hill Country backdrop Dinner out with the family at a long table Black and white candid at a restaurant Thumbs up pose together Holiday portrait, three together Selfie on the couch with a heart sticker Laughing together by a blue police box prop

The man who stood at the grill, smoke in the air, handing out plates of perfect brisket. The man with the endless stories — about being a Texas sheriff, about war, about adventures that felt larger than life. The man who took us to Mexico in the summer, walked the beaches with us, made my mom smile in ways that lit up the whole room. You brought her to new places — South Padre, the Oregon coast, the Hill Country — and you seemed proud to stand by her side. You met my friends, my girlfriends, shared laughs over dinners, taught us how to shoot, spent weekends like family should.

Open the Dossier

And now? That man is gone. Replaced by someone I barely recognize. Someone selfish. Someone cruel. Someone so far off the deep end I’m not sure you even know how to swim back. This is my eulogy to the William Vicory we all once knew — because he’s dead. And in his place stands a fraud I can’t trust, a stranger who’s burning down everything good he ever built. A warning to anyone who meets you now: The man you see is not the man I knew.