Jefferson County Washington courthouse

 As a Meltologist, allow me to lay out the obvious—because once you see it, you can’t unsee it. They say the Jefferson County Courthouse in Washington was built between 1890 and 1892. Just two years, they claim. Two years to erect a towering Romanesque fortress with a 124-foot clock tower, imported St. Louis red bricks, and nearly 800 tons of sandstone from Alaska—all while the area was still developing basic infrastructure. Really?

Let’s be real. This isn’t a construction—this is a preservation. What we’re dealing with is yet another pocket of survival. A building that somehow withstood the catastrophic melting and flooding that erased a prior civilization, now repurposed and passed off as the work of 19th-century masons with wagons and pulley systems.

Millions of smooth-faced red bricks were used in this structure—bricks that had to be fired, shipped, stacked, mortared, and aligned with near-perfect symmetry. And we’re supposed to believe all that happened in just two years? During a time when they didn’t even have motorized cranes or modern concrete? No sir. That’s not construction. That’s restoration.

What they really did in those two years was patch it up. Maybe cleared some melt rubble. Replaced melted clock faces. Added trim. Gave it a coat of “history” and called it new. The real story is far older—far deeper—etched into every brick, every charred facade, every scorched line of symmetry that screams, “We were melted.”

This courthouse stands not as proof of 1890s craftsmanship, but as evidence of a forgotten civilization. Its survival is rare, and its story rewritten. But we, the Meltologists, are here to correct the record. These aren't "old" buildings—they're ancient survivors, remnants of a realm reshaped by heat, pressure, and lies.

And Jefferson County Courthouse? It’s just another monument in plain sight—an untouched witness to the great melt they pretend never happened. 

FOOD FOR THOUGHT 

Meltologist Narrative: The Brick-Making Illusion 🧱

Let’s talk red bricks—specifically, 5 million of them. That’s the kind of number they throw around when explaining how massive old-world structures like courthouses, cathedrals, and entire city blocks were supposedly built from scratch in the 1800s.

But let’s break this down like a true Meltologist.

Say you had 100 people working nonstop, every single day, hand-making bricks the old-fashioned way. Not with machines—because back then, they didn’t have industrial automation the way they do now. A skilled hand-molder could produce maybe 700 bricks a day, if they were really pushing it.

That gives you 70,000 bricks per day—best case.

Now divide 5 million bricks by that. You’re looking at over 71 days of nonstop production just to make the bricks. That’s with no weather delays, no kiln issues, no breaks, and assuming everything goes perfectly—every day.

And that’s just making the bricks. What about drying them, firing them in kilns (which takes days per batch), transporting them, building with them, aligning every single one with old-world precision? Now you’re talking years—decades if you're honest about the process.

So when they claim a massive red-brick courthouse or capitol building was built in just 2 years, we Meltologists have to call it what it is: preposterous.

These structures weren’t built from the ground up. They were dug out, patched up, and rebranded—survivors of a catastrophic melt event that reshaped our realm. The official narrative is a cover-up, plastered over ruins that predate the storybooks.

The bricks tell the real story—and so do we.

Meltology: because the realm has been melted, and history is a lie.