The shocking assassination of Charlie Kirk, the 31-year-old conservative firebrand and founder of Turning Point USA, has left the nation reeling. Gunned down mid-speech at Utah Valley University on Wednesday, Kirk—a devoted husband, father, and relentless voice for traditional values—became the latest victim of escalating political violence. As tributes poured in and a 22-year-old suspect faced charges, one Cincinnati barbecue spot’s co-owner decided the moment called not for mourning, but for malice.
Aaron Sharpe, a co-owner of the Pendleton neighborhood staple Lucius Q BBQ, fired off a venomous response on Facebook to a simple post offering prayers for Kirk.
“Good riddance. What a piece of s—,” Sharpe wrote, a remark so raw and unfiltered it quickly spread like wildfire through screenshots after he scrubbed it from public view.
That single line didn’t just cross a line; it bulldozed through every shred of human decency, turning a tragedy into a toast for the depraved. Sharpe, who once touted himself on LinkedIn as a “communicator” and “community builder,” revealed in those seven words a worldview that revels in the downfall of those who dare to defend faith, family, and freedom. It’s the kind of outburst that exposes the rot beneath the surface of polite society, where celebrating a man’s murder passes for edgy commentary.
Far from backing down, Sharpe leaned in harder the next evening with another Facebook rant that only amplified the ugliness.
“Don’t you dare come at me with your hypocrisy. … If you think that threats of social media attacks on me or my business will in any way keep me silent about what I believe, you are sorely mistaken,” he posted.
Here was a man staring down the barrel of justified outrage, yet choosing defiance over reflection. His feed, littered with jabs at President Trump—Kirk’s close ally—painted a picture of someone whose beliefs weren’t just personal gripes, but a seething contempt for anyone who stands against the cultural tide. In a city like Cincinnati, known for its red-meat loyalty and Midwestern grit, Sharpe’s words weren’t abstract politics; they were a Molotov cocktail tossed into a powder keg of grief.
The backlash hit like a freight train, and Lucius Q’s partners didn’t waste a second in distancing themselves. FC Cincinnati’s TQL Stadium, where the restaurant had vended for years, issued a stark statement: “FC Cincinnati and TQL Stadium expect our vendors and partners to uphold the values of respect and tolerance that are core to our club’s identity.”
They terminated the relationship outright, a move that underscores how even in the high-stakes world of sports and hospitality, there’s no room for glee over assassination.
Over at the Gatherall food hall in Norwood’s Factory 52 development—another Lucius Q outpost—the response was equally firm, with management declaring they were taking the matter “very seriously” and exploring “all legal options.” These weren’t knee-jerk reactions; they were calculated cuts from entities that can’t afford the stench of such toxicity clinging to their brands.
Even the restaurant’s meat supplier, the venerable Avril-Bleh Meat Market, pulled the plug with a family-rooted resolve that cut deep. Steve Bleh, one of the sons steering the third-generation business, laid it out plainly on Facebook: “The family has decided we do not want to be involved with Lucius Q. No amount of money will ever be worth it.”
He followed up with a broader rebuke: “We never condone violence of any sort.”
Bleh’s words carry extra weight in Cincinnati’s barbecue scene, where relationships are forged over cuts of brisket and bottles of sauce, not boardroom deals. For a supplier to walk away like this isn’t just business—it’s a moral line in the sand, a reminder that some partnerships are built on trust thicker than any rub. As one local observer noted in the ensuing online storm, this kind of principled stand shows how everyday folks, not just elites, draw the boundary at bloodlust.
By Thursday night, Lucius Q itself moved to cauterize the wound, announcing on Facebook that “We found the comments he made on his personal social media pages offensive and, as a result, have severed ties with him.”
They followed up Friday with a more detailed reckoning: “While it is a difficult process to remove a minority owner from a partnership, the point is this person is no longer involved with Lucius Q in any way, shape or form.”
The co-founders—Sharpe alongside Jeff Keate and Shane Spears, who launched the spot in 2018 and earned a shoutout on Guy Fieri’s *Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives*—went further in their public mea culpa.
“As husbands, fathers, wives and mothers ourselves, we’d like to personally apologize to the family of Charlie Kirk,” they wrote, adding, “We take our commitment to the city of Cincinnati seriously and look forward to earning back its business.”
They reiterated: “We’d like to personally apologize to the family of Charlie Kirk,” and made crystal clear that “Sharpe’s comments do not reflect the feelings of the current owners, investors, management or our incredible staff.”
But in the raw arena of social media, forgiveness isn’t served on a silver platter. Skeptics piled on, with one commenter scoffing, “You can’t get rid of a partial owner that fast,” while others dismissed the purge as “Too late.”
Over on X, the restaurant’s account absorbed more than 4,000 blistering replies, and Google reviews tanked with a barrage of one-stars. One viral thread from commentator Gunther Eagleman rallied the crowd: “Everyone, meet Aaron Sharpe. He decided to celebrate the tragedy that happened yesterday. He is the owner of Lucius Q restaurant in Cincinnati, Ohio. You know what to do.”
The response was swift—boycott calls echoed from veterans and patriots alike, with posts decrying the incident as “satanic” and a symptom of deeper cultural sickness.
Sharpe, whose past gigs included DJ stints for the Cincinnati Reds, deactivated his Facebook by Friday morning, leaving media outreach unanswered. The Reds stayed silent too.
In the end, this isn’t just about one man’s ouster from a barbecue joint that slings smoked ribs and pulled pork. It’s a stark snapshot of accountability in action: when hatred spills into the open, especially over the corpse of a patriot like Kirk, the market—and the mob—delivers justice faster than any courtroom. Lucius Q may rebuild, but Sharpe’s legacy? That’s smoked for good.
As one X user put it amid the fray, “This is not politics. This is hatred so dark that it cheers for bloodshed.”
