The truthbehind the rumors

Humble beginnings.

I was born and raised in Davenport, Iowa, the youngest of eight children. By the time I was ten, most of my siblings were already out of the house. I learned independence before I had a word for it.

I attended Sacred Heart, a Catholic grade school that gave me structure, accountability, and faith. Then I moved to South Chicago to live with my father, and the world changed. We lived in a small, roach- and mouse-infested trailer in Calumet Park. A kerosene heater was our heat. Open windows and fans were our air conditioning. Economic hardship was not something I studied from a distance. I woke up inside it.

I did not just witness adversity; I lived through it. Rather than surrender to the circumstances around me, I studied. I focused. I adapted. I learned to navigate difficult systems, lead without a spotlight, and stand firm when things got hard. Those lessons were not inspirational slogans to me. They were survival.

Quiet strength.

I was an introvert, more comfortable analyzing the world than participating in its noise. Video games—RPGs, strategy games, and shooters—became a mental proving ground. They rewarded patience, foresight, pattern recognition, and the ability to keep going after failure.

The world outside the screen was not so forgiving. I was small, reserved, different, and often underestimated. Growing up in South Chicago, I had to physically fight more times than I can count—not because I wanted to, but because I had to earn enough respect to be left alone. I learned that silence is only powerful when it is paired with strength.

I wrestled, played football, and tried basketball. I was not the fastest, strongest, or most naturally coordinated person on the field. What I lacked in raw talent, I replaced with persistence. I showed up. I trained. I failed. I came back. Again and again. That mindset became my superpower.

Spoken-word poetry and a small run of rap CDs gave me another way to survive. I was not just thinking through what happened to me. I was writing through it. Performing through it. Turning pressure into language before I understood how much I would need that ability later.

“I wasn’t the biggest. I wasn’t the fastest. But I refused to break—and that made all the difference.”

Forged at the Academy.

College was not part of my original plan. My father saw potential in me and pushed me to apply to the United States Naval Academy. That decision changed the direction of my life.

I earned a Bachelor of Science, boxed competitively for three years, and played cornerback on the sprint football team. For my Computer Engineering senior design, I built Bluebot: a solo Bluetooth-controlled robot with touch and voice controls, multiple-device pairing, an onboard microprocessor, and an omni-wheel platform capable of a zero-radius turn. I wrote the smartphone interface in Java and the onboard control logic in C++, connected the app to servo-based drive hardware, and built accelerometer steering plus forward-facing sonar for semi-autonomous obstacle avoidance. Bluebot earned the highest project grade I received during my four years at the Academy. The Academy sharpened my systems thinking and taught me to execute under pressure. It also tested every rough edge in me.

I earned the “Black N,” a satirical internal distinction that followed two major conduct offenses, seventy-two days of restriction, and marching tours for running an online business jailbreaking and reselling iPhones internationally. The same instinct that got me in trouble—the ability to see value, move technology, and build a market before anyone gave me permission—was a preview of the entrepreneur I would become.

I learned leadership there, but not the polished kind people put on résumés. I learned how to lead when I was tired, being watched, under pressure, and still expected to deliver. Competence. Consistency. Accountability. Those words became part of how I ran every business that followed.

I commissioned as a Surface Warfare Officer in 2011. Immediately afterward, I spent approximately six months teaching boxing to midshipmen at the Academy. I then transferred to Norfolk and served aboard USS Wasp—first as Operations Division Officer, then as Public Affairs Officer, and then in C5I as Radio Division Officer, where I earned my Officer of the Deck qualification. As PAO, I led senior visitors through the ship, managed media communications, edited major ship stories, and helped facilitate the Wasp’s 2012 Fleet Weeks in New Orleans, Port Everglades, New York City, and Boston. From there, I transferred to ACU-2 at Little Creek in Virginia Beach and served as Boat Group Officer, leading teams that supported landing craft and AAV operations.

The hustle became a brand.

Yoshi’s Tronics did not begin with a business loan, a roadmap, or a team of experts. It began in 2013 with hustle, instinct, a secondhand laptop, and a spare room in my Norfolk home.

The first operating model was completely online: I bought electronics on Craigslist and resold them on eBay exactly as I found them, without repairs or modifications. I was also buying storage units and flipping whatever held value. Electronics moved faster and sold for more, so I leaned into them hard. Within three months, I was shipping fifteen to twenty-five electronic items a day.

Within twelve months, a short-term kiosk at MacArthur Center grew into three kiosks: MacArthur Center in Norfolk, Patrick Henry Mall in Newport News, and Lynnhaven Mall in Virginia Beach. Within two years of starting the business, I closed the kiosks and opened my first bona fide brick-and-mortar store in an Ocean View shopping center in Norfolk. Someone could arrive for a repair, sell an old phone, or leave with a replacement. Every service strengthened the others.

The Norfolk store averaged about $30,000 a month. Around 2015, I opened a second storefront at Peninsula Town Center in Hampton, bringing the two-store monthly average to about $60,000. I filmed my first television commercial and—across the broader retail and online operation—reached more than $1.2 million in annual revenue by 2015. In 2016, I opened my first international Yoshi’s Tronics in Subic, Zambales, Philippines. I did not inherit a roadmap. I built it while the business was moving. Yoshi’s Tronics was no longer a hustle. It was a brand.

The operating figures in this chapter are my public account and are supported by confidential business records that remain private. I stand behind them.

Life after the cage.

People love a redemption story, but they forget that the scars do not disappear when a case ends. I was physically free and mentally shackled. The PTSD is real. The trust issues are real. The rage, anxiety, and nightmares are real. Some of it still lingers.

I refused to let that year define me. Instead, I used it. It sharpened my clarity and made me fearless in the face of public perception. It taught me how broken a system can feel from the inside and how important it is to own your narrative when other people are trying to write it for you.

I do not tell this part of my story for pity. I tell it for perspective. No matter how many rumors, smear campaigns, or attempts to erase my character have followed, I know what it means to face the worst and keep breathing.

“I’ve already been buried alive. And I walked out breathing.”

Everything I built afterward—my businesses, my reputation, my role as a father, and the communities around those businesses—came after people tried to reduce me to the worst thing ever said about me. That is why I protect my name. Nothing they do now gets to shake me loose from what I know about myself.

Back to the Quad Cities. Building while the case still followed me.

I moved back to the Quad Cities in 2018 while I was still on bond and still fighting the murder accusation. In May 2018, while wearing an ankle monitor, I restarted Yoshi’s Tronics QC from a NorthPark Mall kiosk. Within three months, I moved into a full inline store. Then I introduced something new: gaming.

I wanted more than a repair shop or electronics store. I wanted a space—a culture—where technology, community, and lifestyle converged. We hosted our first gaming tournament. That led to our first gaming lounge and then an interactive retail experience where customers could sit in RGB-lit gaming chairs, drink coffee, test devices, compete, and hang out instead of being rushed toward a register.

We invested in high-end consoles, sharper displays, fast repairs, and warranties I was willing to stand behind. By my internal records, quarterly revenue rose from about $63,000 to more than $88,000 as average sale value, customer retention, and word of mouth grew with it. Those records remain private, and I stand behind the figures as part of my story.

I did not wait for the public to restore my name before I started building again.

Beyond Tronics: culture, community, and another fight.

As Yoshi’s Tronics grew, so did my vision. In April 2022, I opened Yoshi’s Bar and Filipino Canteen, giving my mother’s love for cooking Filipino food a public home.

This was not just a bar and grill. I wanted people from different backgrounds to share a drink, eat authentic Filipino food, and feel at home in a space built with intention. Handcrafted cocktails, coffee, lumpia, lechon, music, and community were meant to live under one roof. But as the business gained momentum, I felt like I had stepped into a political minefield.

I was running a bar that did not look like the others. I was not backed by the local power structure or an old established network. I had a growing following, a proven brand, and an unapologetically independent mindset. I experienced the repeated liquor- license scrutiny, anonymous opposition, public whispers, and complaints as manufactured, selective, and politically motivated.

I stand by that assessment. I experienced the pressure as an orchestrated effort to paint me as irresponsible, volatile, or unfit to run a business. Perception can be weaponized. I was not only fighting for a license; I was fighting a narrative designed to isolate and exhaust me.

And yet, I kept showing up. I made sure every customer was welcomed, every plate left the kitchen with pride, and every drink reflected the quality I had built my name around. The fight did not erase what the place meant to my family or to the people who found a home there. A trip to Nashville and an introduction to an after-hours social club then gave shape to the next idea I believed could become something special.

Yoshi’s Island: the dream and the fight.

Yoshi’s Island was supposed to be something the Quad Cities did not already have: family fun by day, an adult social club by night, and a place where people could escape the noise without losing the feeling of community.

I envisioned mini golf for families and children, then billiards, air hockey, arcade games, and a BYOB social environment for adults. A daily, monthly, or annual membership could open the whole experience. It was not just another business venture. It was my vision for a safe, creative, and vibrant community space.

When a mini-golf course came up for sale in Hampton, the price was right, my offer was accepted, and I believed I had found the home for it. I attended Village meetings and told officials what I planned to build: family-friendly mini golf during the day and a controlled adult social environment at night. I did not hide the model.

By my account, Yoshi’s Island operated for nine months before Hampton enacted a BYOB ordinance that changed the conditions around the business. What troubled me was not only the new rule; it was the timing after officials had known my model. I experienced the change as a direct political hit aimed at forcing the concept out. That conclusion is my account, not an adjudicated finding.

I fought back. I filed suit challenging the ordinance, the process, and what I believe was political manipulation. I was not only fighting to save a venue. I was fighting for the right to create something new, innovate, and challenge a status quo that I believed wanted me gone. Win or lose, I will be proud that I fought that battle.

When the walls closed in again.

Early 2025 became one of the most financially and emotionally punishing periods of my life. The business fight, family conflict, public attacks, and legal pressure collided. I went from being with my child every day to sharply limited contact. It sent me into a depressive spiral. My ability to respond with restraint suffered, and people who were already attacking me saw an opening. Private family pain became public ammunition.

I will not publish a child’s name, schedule, family-court file, or every allegation to prove how ugly it became. But I will not water down the cost: at that time, being a present father was the thing I was living for, and feeling that role torn away broke something in me.

By March 2025, I knew fighting to keep the bar open was taking more than I was willing to sacrifice. I stepped away, surrendered the liquor license voluntarily, and worked fourteen- to sixteen-hour days, seven days a week, with one mission: rebuild a stable life and remain present for my family. I do not call that defeat. I call it choosing what mattered before the fight consumed everything.

Closing the chapter—with my head high

Yoshi’s Bar and Filipino Canteen taught me more about resilience, reputation warfare, and systemic power than any other business I have run. It also gave me another way to celebrate my culture, serve my community, and stand for something bigger than profit.

After surrendering the liquor license, I launched Yoshi’s Coffee Bar and Filipino Canteen. I kept building Yoshi’s Place, the hospitality business I had started in 2018 from an East Moline apartment where my mother and I lived. When it booked, I stayed with friends or family—and sometimes slept in my car—so the guest could have the space and the business could keep moving. I built the larger portfolio around themed stays, technology, personality, and an experience that felt more alive than an ordinary hotel room. I shifted the form of the work without surrendering the reason for it.

Entrepreneurship is not only about making money. It is about choosing legacy over silence—even when the fight is not fair.

What drives it all.

I am a father to two daughters. I am proud of the Naval Academy, the Navy, and every business I built, but fatherhood is the role that makes the rest of it matter. Another daughter entering my life in 2025 gave me renewed purpose when I badly needed it.

Today I am still building. Yoshi’s Tronics operates in the Quad Cities and San Antonio. Yoshi’s Place is growing from its Quad Cities history into a San Antonio property buildout. I am developing a sports-integrated future for Yoshi’s Bar while preserving the story of the original. I am still fighting for Yoshi’s Island and for the right to create something different.

This is not only about phones, food, rentals, or entertainment. It is about freedom. It is about legacy. It is about showing my daughters that no matter where you start, you can build something that outlives the noise.

“I’m a strategist shaped by adversity. A leader forged in service. A father committed to legacy. And a man who turns obstacles into fuel.”

I have been misrepresented. I have been judged. I have lived under pressure and survived consequences that refuse to fit inside somebody else’s clean summary. None of that gives anyone else the right to flatten my life into a headline. I am still here. I am still a father. I am still building. And this is still my story to tell.