The Burger King
PART I — HAVE IT YOUR WAY

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Kenny Glavan.

This little man thinks he's a lot. He really does. He walks around Biloxi like he owns the place—Council President, hotel executive, industry lobbyist, aspiring mayor. He's got the gavel in one hand and a hotel keycard in the other, and he genuinely believes that nobody sees the difference between public service and self-service.

Spoiler: we see it.

Ward 6 Councilman. President of the Biloxi City Council. Area Director of Hotel Operations at Lodging & Leisure LLC. President of the Mississippi Hotel and Lodging Association. DUI on his record. Named in two federal lawsuits—one antitrust, one civil rights. And the man who tried to silence a citizen at a public meeting, couldn't explain why, got told "why don't you try," and folded like a lawn chair.

That's Kenny. Let's take a closer look at what a lot actually looks like.

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The Fox Guarding the Henhouse

Here's a question even Kenny should be able to understand: should the president of the hotel industry's lobbying organization be allowed to sit on a city council and vote on laws that regulate the hotel industry's biggest competitor?

In any city with a pulse, the answer is absolutely not. In Biloxi? Sure, why not. Rules are for other people.

Kenny Glavan is not some councilman who happens to work in hospitality on the side. No, no. This man is the Area Director of Hotel Operations at Lodging & Leisure LLC—a company that operates hotels right here on the Mississippi Gulf Coast. And just in case that wasn't enough conflict of interest, he's also the President of the Mississippi Hotel and Lodging Association—the entire statewide trade organization that lobbies on behalf of every hotel in Mississippi against short-term rental platforms like Airbnb and VRBO.

And from that seat on the Biloxi City Council—the seat the people of Ward 6 trusted him with—he votes on short-term rental ordinances. Every. Single. Time. Without blinking. Without recusing. Without shame.

This is not a technicality. This is not a gray area. This is a man whose entire professional existence—his salary, his title, his industry standing—depends on hotel revenue, and he sits in a position of legislative power and uses it to destroy the competition. It's not even subtle. It's the most naked conflict of interest on the Gulf Coast, and he does it in front of cameras.

And when people called it a conflict of interest, Kenny called it "troubling."

The only thing troubling, Kenny, is that you thought nobody would notice.

But here's the part that really makes you laugh: this drunk, conflicted dude gets high on presiding over a city council for a 50,000-population city. That's what gets him going. Not running a Fortune 500. Not governing a state. Not leading anything that matters on a national scale. Kenny Glavan's power trip is banging a gavel at a Biloxi, Mississippi city council meeting—population less than a college football stadium—and acting like he's running the United States Senate.

And the worst part? He thinks he's cool.

He genuinely thinks this is impressive. He walks out of those Tuesday night meetings thinking people are awed. He looks in the mirror and sees a leader. A power player. A man of consequence. He doesn't see what everyone else sees: a hotel middle-manager cosplaying as a politician, a DUI virtuoso who lectures people about decorum, and a groupie who latched onto FoFo Gilich's machine because he couldn't build anything of his own.

It's hilarious. It really is. This man struts around like he's somebody. Like presiding over a Tuesday night city council meeting where they debate parking meters and Jerry Creel's paycheck makes him a statesman. Like the title "Council President" on a city of 50K is the same as "Speaker of the House." Kenny, brother—the PTA has more constituents than you.

And yet this is the hill he chose to die on. This is the stage where he decided to play dictator. A city council chamber in South Mississippi. With cameras rolling. And a citizen who doesn't scare.

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Airbnb Noticed

In 2025, Airbnb filed a federal lawsuit against the City of Biloxi. And they didn't file it because the weather was nice. The complaint alleged that the City of Biloxi conspired with the Mississippi Hotel and Lodging Association—Kenny Glavan's organization, the one he presides over—to restrict short-term rentals and boost hotel profits.

Let that sink in. A billion-dollar company filed a federal antitrust lawsuit and said, in so many words: your Council President is running a racket.

The complaint alleged that when the Biloxi Planning Commission proposed creating a district where short-term rentals would be permitted—a reasonable, market-based compromise that would have benefited property owners and tourists alike—Glavan killed it. Not with an argument. Not with data. Not with policy analysis. Not with anything resembling governance. With a vote.

He was, according to the complaint, the deciding vote that sank the proposal. The man who runs hotels voted to kill the hotel competition. The man who leads the anti-Airbnb lobby cast the ballot that buried Airbnb. And he sat right there in his council chair and did it without so much as a disclosure, let alone a recusal.

The audacity. The smallness of it. A little man, in a little chair, in a little town, rigging a little vote to protect his little empire. And he thought nobody was watching.

Direct pecuniary interest? He runs hotels that compete with STRs. Indirect pecuniary interest? He presides over the trade association that lobbies to restrict STRs. Conflict with the public interest? The public had a proposal on the table to expand housing options, and he killed it to protect hotel revenue.

If that's not a conflict of interest, the term has no meaning.

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The Billion-Dollar Lawyers Agree

Update — March 23, 2026: It's not just us saying it anymore.

Airbnb's legal team—attorneys from Kellogg, Hansen, Todd, Figel & Frederick in Washington, D.C., and Phelps Dunbar right here in Gulfport—just filed a 28-page memorandum in federal court opposing the City of Biloxi's motion to dismiss. Case No. 1:25-cv-00333-TBM-RPM, ECF Document 19. And they didn't mince words.

The City tried to argue it was immune from antitrust law under something called Parker immunity—the legal doctrine that says states can't be sued for anticompetitive regulations. But here's the problem, Kenny: Biloxi is not a state. It's a municipality. And municipalities, as the Supreme Court has made crystal clear, remain subject to antitrust liability.

That's not Airbnb's opinion. That's not our opinion. That's the Supreme Court of Mississippi saying, in plain English, that what Kenny Glavan did is exactly what zoning authority cannot be used for. The state's own highest court has "long held" this position. And it's binding on the federal court hearing this case.

But it gets worse. The memorandum lays out what Airbnb calls an arrangement "unheard of anywhere else in the United States": every time a homeowner in Biloxi applies for a short-term rental permit, the City is required by its own ordinance to send a copy of that application to the Mississippi Hotel and Lodging Association—the trade group Kenny Glavan presides over. The HLA called this information "vital." The City placed no restrictions on what the HLA could do with it.

Read that again. The City of Biloxi enshrined in law that every time someone tries to compete with the hotel industry, the hotel industry's own lobbying organization—run by a sitting City Councilman—gets the applicant's name, address, and business details handed to them on a silver platter. Nowhere else in America does this happen. Nowhere.

"The lobbyists literally are the government." That's not from this website. That's from Reason Magazine. And Airbnb's billion-dollar legal team thought it was important enough to put in a federal court filing.

You know what the word antitrust means? Break it apart. Anti. Trust. Against trust. No trust. That's the whole law in two syllables. When the government and a private industry get so tangled up that you can't tell where City Hall ends and the hotel lobby begins—when the Council President is the lobby president, when every permit application goes straight to the competition, when the deciding vote on your right to rent your own house comes from the man whose paycheck depends on you not renting it—that's what no trust looks like. The law writes itself.

The memorandum also spells out the damage: since the HLA and Biloxi crushed short-term rental competition, hotel room rates in Biloxi have risen significantly faster than inflation, while the number of Airbnb listings flatlined. The hotels got richer. The consumers got poorer. And Kenny Glavan sat at the head of the table the entire time, collecting a paycheck from both sides.

And here's the legal kill shot: Biloxi didn't even try to defend itself on the merits.

Read that again. The City of Biloxi—faced with a federal complaint alleging it conspired with a private trade group to crush competition—did not argue that there was no conspiracy. Did not argue that the restraint of trade wasn't real. Did not argue that consumers weren't harmed. Did not argue that hotel rates didn't spike. Did not argue that Airbnb listings didn't flatline. Did not argue that Kenny Glavan didn't have a conflict of interest. Did not argue that the permit-sharing scheme with the HLA wasn't anticompetitive.

They conceded every single element. The conspiracy. The restraint of trade. The relevant market. The harm to consumers. The standing. All of it. Not disputed. Not challenged. Not even addressed.

Because they can't defend it. There is no defense. When your Council President is simultaneously the president of the hotel lobby, and he casts the deciding vote to kill the hotel lobby's competition, and your city hands every competitor's permit application directly to the hotel lobby—what exactly are you going to say? "That's not what it looks like"? It's exactly what it looks like. It's what it is.

So instead of defending the indefensible, Biloxi's lawyers ran to the only hiding spot they could find: immunity. "You can't sue us because we're the government." That's it. That's the whole defense. Not "we didn't do it"—but "you can't touch us for doing it."

Here's the problem, Kenny: Biloxi is not a state. It's a municipality. And municipalities, as the Supreme Court has made crystal clear, remain subject to antitrust liability. The Parker immunity doctrine protects states acting in their sovereign capacity. Biloxi is not Mississippi. Biloxi is a city of 50,000 people run by a hotel groupie with a DUI record and a gavel he doesn't know how to use.

Biloxi argued that the Supreme Court's 1991 decision in Omni gave them blanket protection. Airbnb's lawyers pointed out what Biloxi conveniently forgot: in 2013, the Supreme Court issued FTC v. Phoebe Putney, which tightened the immunity standard. Biloxi didn't even cite Phoebe Putney in their motion. The case that controls the outcome of their own immunity defense—and they pretended it didn't exist.

And here's what stings: Airbnb's complaint calls Kenny Glavan out by name—identifies him as the HLA president, the hotel executive, and the deciding vote. But Airbnb sued the City of Biloxi, not Glavan personally. They didn't name him as a defendant. We did. Petrini & Fusco v. Glavan et al. names Kenny Glavan in his individual capacity. His name. His money. His problem. What Airbnb's billion-dollar legal team described in their memorandum, we put in a caption. And now a federal judge has both filings on the same desk.

Under Phoebe Putney, a municipality doesn't get immunity just because the state gave it generic zoning power. The state must have "clearly articulated and affirmatively expressed" an intent to displace competition. Mississippi did the opposite. Mississippi's Supreme Court said zoning cannot be used to restrict competition. Period.

Airbnb's lawyers put it perfectly: under Biloxi's theory, any city with generic zoning authority could "mandate that restaurant lots may be used for McDonalds but not Burger Kings."

The irony writes itself.

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Who Does Kenny Work For?

Here's something most people in Biloxi don't know: Kenny Glavan doesn't own anything.

He doesn't own the Margaritaville Resort—the 23-story, 371-room tower on Beach Boulevard. He doesn't own the White House Hotel on the beach. He doesn't own Hotel Legends or the Sapphire Supper Club. He doesn't own Paradise Pier or the observation wheel or the amusement park. He doesn't own the Centennial Plaza resort complex in Gulfport or the Markham Hotel downtown. He doesn't own any of it.

Kenny Glavan is the help.

All of those properties—a hospitality empire spanning Biloxi, Gulfport, and Vicksburg—belong to one company: Lodging & Leisure Investments, LLC. Headquartered at 195 Beach Boulevard, same address as the Margaritaville Resort. And the people behind Lodging & Leisure are Greg and Lori Stewart.

Greg Stewart. That Greg Stewart. Let's talk about Greg.

After the disbarment, something interesting happened. The businesses—one by one—started showing up under a different name. Not Greg's name. His wife's.

Lori Stewart is now listed as the Member/Manager of the White House Hotel. She appears as a principal on entity after entity across the Lodging & Leisure portfolio. The hotels, the developments, the construction company (LNG Construction, LLC—L for Lori, N for Nathan, G for Greg). When a business needs a face that doesn't come with a federal extortion conviction and four disbarment denials, it's Lori's face.

We're not saying there's anything illegal about that arrangement. We're saying you should know about it. Because when Kenny Glavan sits on the Biloxi City Council and votes on zoning, development, and short-term rental ordinances—he's not just protecting the hotel industry in the abstract. He's protecting this specific empire, owned by these specific people, with this specific history.

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The Retreat

Lodging & Leisure's newest project is called The Retreat. It's a 55-and-older senior housing development at 1735 Tribe Drive, right across from the A.J. Holloway Sports Complex in Biloxi. Phase one: 10 cottage homes. Full buildout: 50 units. Future phases include an apartment complex and commercial retail.

The company's own contact page—lodgingleisure.com—lists 1735 Tribe Drive as its mailing address. Their social media links point directly to @theretreatbiloxi. This isn't a side project. This is the company's flagship residential development.

And who went on camera to promote it?

That guy. The rise-and-shine inspector himself. The man who shows up at other people's properties with armed police escorts and stop-work orders goes on local television to promote a housing development built by his Council President's employer. The man who writes code violations against citizens who file federal lawsuits becomes a cheerleader for a company whose owner operates entirely through his wife’s name.

Selective enforcement doesn't get more obvious than this. If you're Lodging & Leisure, you get Jerry Creel on camera singing your praises. If you're anyone else, you get Jerry Creel at your door with a badge and a gun.

And The Retreat itself? Marketing calls it "upscale coastal living." Amenities include a clubhouse, gym, private movie theater, coffee bistro, sauna, four indoor pickleball courts, a year-round pool, and an indoor walking track. Rents run $1,795 to $2,195 a month for seniors aged 55 and older.

Drive by it sometime. See if "upscale coastal living" is the phrase that comes to mind. Or whether it looks more like identical gray boxes behind a fence—the kind of architecture that makes you wonder whether the residents chose to live there or were assigned there.

That's Lodging & Leisure. That's Greg and Lori Stewart. That's the company that pays Kenny Glavan. And that's the next chapter of this investigation.

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The Machine Never Stopped

If you've read the Dixie Mafia Framework, you already know how Biloxi works. If you haven't, here's the short version:

In 1987, a councilwoman named Margaret Sherry started making noise about The Strip—the row of clubs on Veterans Avenue run by Mike Gillich Jr., a Croatian immigrant's son with deep ties to organized crime. She criticized the corruption. She threatened the machine. So the machine had her murdered. Her and her husband, Judge Vincent Sherry. Both shot in their home. September 14, 1987.

The fixer was Pete Halat—their own lawyer, who'd been embezzling from the Sherrys' estate. Halat became Mayor of Biloxi in 1989, while the FBI was still investigating the murders. He hired Cliff Kirkland as his Chief Administrative Officer. Halat served 18 years federal. Gillich died in 2012.

And then, in 2015, Mike Gillich Jr.'s nephew—Andrew "FoFo" Gilich—became Mayor of Biloxi. His first move? He hired Cliff Kirkland back. The same Cliff Kirkland that Pete Halat had employed. Same man. Same job. Different decade. Kirkland is now serving 35 years for nine counts of child molestation.

FoFo's cousin—Mike Gillich Jr.'s own son, Michael Gillich III—got his strip club approved under FoFo's administration in 2018. He's now serving 12 years for child sexual abuse.

47 years combined prison time for crimes against children. Both from the same mayor's orbit. Both hired or approved by the same machine.

That's the pipeline. And it's not history. It's right now.

See the pattern? The machine doesn't promote talent. It promotes loyalty. You prove you'll do what you're told—vote the right way, silence the right people, protect the right interests—and you get moved up. Halat groomed Kirkland. FoFo rehired Kirkland. And now FoFo is grooming Kenny Glavan.

Kenny didn't get to that Council President seat because Ward 6 was impressed by his vision for Biloxi. He got there because he does what the machine needs him to do. He votes to protect the hotel industry that funds the operation. He silences citizens who criticize city officials. He presides over executive sessions where deals are made behind closed doors. He is, in every functional sense, the next piece on the board.

The Dixie Mafia didn't die. It evolved. From strip clubs and murder to City Hall and code enforcement. From bullets to Stop Work Orders. From a kingpin on Veterans Avenue to a mayor who's a friend of the cartel and a Council President who's a friend of whoever's paying.

Different decade. Different suits. Same machine.

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The Night He Tried to Be King

On March 3, 2026, the Biloxi City Council held a regular public meeting. On the agenda: a raise for Jerry Creel—the Building Official currently named in three separate federal lawsuits, the man documented committing perjury, conducting Sunday surveillance, and enforcing code with armed police escorts. That guy. A raise. For him.

At the outset, the Council voted to suspend its rules of order. Remember that. It's going to be important when Kenny tries to enforce rules that no longer exist.

During citizen comment, the undersigned addressed the Council in opposition to Creel's raise. The undersigned referred to Creel as "a criminal"—a characterization backed by sworn testimony, federal court filings, and enough documented evidence to fill this entire website. Which it does.

Kenny didn't like that. Not one bit. You could see it on his face. The little man behind the big desk got uncomfortable.

"That's improper."

Improper. Interesting word. So the undersigned asked a simple question: What constitutes "proper" conduct at a public meeting?

Kenny couldn't answer.

He couldn't answer because there was no answer. The Council had suspended its rules of order at the start of the meeting. There was no conduct standard in effect. No rule to cite. No time limit to enforce. No procedural basis for anything he was doing. Kenny Glavan was making it up as he went along—freestyle governance from a man who can't even freestyle his way out of a DUI checkpoint.

The undersigned pressed: "How can you tell me what is improper if you don't know what proper is?"

Silence.

A government official who cannot articulate the standard he is enforcing is applying no standard at all. He is exercising unbridled discretion to silence a viewpoint he doesn't like. The Supreme Court has a word for that. It's called viewpoint discrimination, and it is unconstitutional in every category of government forum. Rosenberger v. Rector & Visitors of Univ. of Va., 515 U.S. 819, 829-30 (1995).

But the Burger King wasn't done embarrassing himself. Oh no. He had more in the tank. Watch what this genius does next:

"Will you remove him? Remove him."

The undersigned responded: "Why don't you try."

Nobody moved.

Not one single person in that chamber lifted a finger. Not the police. Not security. Not the janitor. The citizen just told the Council President of Biloxi, Mississippi—population 50,000, GDP of a gas station—to try it. To his face. On camera. And Kenny Glavan, the big man, the Burger King, the presiding officer of the most important city council in the history of mediocrity—blinked.

He folded. Like a cheap lawn chair in a hurricane. The bluff was called and there was nothing behind it. No authority. No courage. No follow-through. Just a little man with a big title who found out what happens when someone doesn't scare.

So what did they do? What every bully does when the first kid fights back. They turned to an easier target.

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Two Words

Jarrod Lewis Fusco—credentialed member of the Society of Professional Journalists and founder of Biloxi Politics Uncensored—was in the chamber that night. He said three words.

That was it. Three words. Parliamentary procedure. The most vanilla, Robert's-Rules-of-Order, by-the-book thing a human being can say at a public meeting. It's literally the equivalent of raising your hand and saying "excuse me."

Mayor "FoFo" Gilich—the senile, Biden-like protégé of a failed mafioso family—erupted: "Take them out."

"Take them out." You know, if you're the nephew of a convicted Dixie Mafia kingpin and you're trying to prove to the public that you're not a mafioso—maybe don't scream "take them out" on camera at a public meeting. Just a thought, FoFo.

And Police Chief Christopher De Back—a man appointed by Gilich six weeks earlier, still warm in the chair—personally seized Fusco and physically escorted him from the chamber. Not a patrol officer. Not a security guard. The Chief of Police of the City of Biloxi himself put his hands on a credentialed journalist and walked him out of a public meeting.

For saying "point of order."

Let that sit with you for a moment. A credentialed journalist. Removed by the chief of police. For three words of parliamentary procedure. Because Kenny Glavan and FoFo Gilich didn't like what was being said about their boy Jerry Creel.

With the critics silenced and the journalist ejected, the Council entered executive session—closed doors, no public, no cameras, no accountability. They emerged, returned to open session, and voted 4 to 3 to approve Jerry Creel's raise.

Read that again. They silenced the opposition, closed the doors, and then voted yes. The man whose conduct is the subject of three federal lawsuits—perjury, retaliatory enforcement, Sunday surveillance—got a raise. The people who opposed it got silenced, threatened, and police-escorted out like criminals.

And the Biloxi City Council posted the entire thing to YouTube. Themselves. On their own channel. Because they're not just corrupt—they're dumb.

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A Pattern, Not an Incident

The March 3 meeting was not an isolated event. It was the latest in a documented pattern of retaliation against citizens who challenge the machine.

That's the pattern. Stop-work orders with armed police. Criminal prosecution timed to federal filings. Government-channel retaliation against a citizen. Christmas Eve surveillance. Service denial to a plaintiff's wife. Speech suppression at a public meeting. Executive sessions with the doors locked.

And where is Kenny Glavan in all of this? Right where you'd expect him—at the head of the table. He's the presiding officer who silences the speech. He's the gavel that shuts the door. He's the little man with the big chair who decided that the way to handle criticism is to make it illegal.

Except it's not illegal, Kenny. It's the First Amendment. And you're about to get a very expensive lesson in how it works.

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The DUI Club

Before we go any further, we need to talk about the drinking.

Kenny Glavan—the arbiter of "proper" conduct, the man who lectures citizens on decorum, the presiding officer who decides who gets to speak and who gets removed—doesn't just have a DUI on his record.

We're working with contacts inside law enforcement to obtain the complete records. What we have confirmed is that the man who told a citizen he was being "improper" at a public meeting has been so improperly drunk, so many times, that the State of Mississippi had to take his picture, put it in the system, and eventually put a device on his car—an ignition interlock that requires the driver to blow into a breathalyzer before the engine will start.

And that's where it gets interesting. Because in 2015, when then-Mayor A.J. Holloway was hospitalized, Kenny Glavan stepped in as interim mayor. Council President becomes acting mayor—standard succession. But what wasn't standard was the car situation. Sources indicate that around this period, with his personal vehicle equipped with an interlock device—the kind the court orders when you keep getting DUIs—Kenny may have had access to the mayor's vehicle. A city vehicle. A vehicle that does not have a breathalyzer strapped to the steering column.

We are investigating this. When we have the full records—every arrest, every charge, every disposition, every device order—it will be its own article. With the mugshots. All of them.

But here's the part that makes the DUI story go from embarrassing to poetic.

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A Match Made in Court

Remember what Greg Stewart—Kenny Glavan's boss, the owner of the hotel empire Kenny serves—was convicted of?

He paid a Tunica County sheriff's deputy to absent himself from justice court proceedings so that DUI cases would be dismissed. Five of them. That was the federal extortion charge. That was why he was disbarred. That was the crime.

Greg Stewart's federal conviction was for making DUI cases disappear.

Kenny Glavan has multiple DUIs.

We're not suggesting Greg Stewart made Kenny's DUI cases go away. We don't have evidence of that. What we are saying is this: look at the company this man keeps. Look at the people he chose to work for. Look at the ecosystem he chose to embed himself in. A man with a pattern of drunk driving—working for a man convicted of corrupting the justice system to make drunk driving charges vanish. And together, through his wife's name, they've built an empire that Kenny protects from his seat on the City Council.

Which brings us to the person whose name is actually on all of it.

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The Woman Behind the Man Behind the Man

Everyone focuses on Kenny. Everyone focuses on Greg. But the person whose signature is on the corporate filings, whose name appears as Member/Manager on entity after entity, whose legal authority controls the hotels, the construction company, the developments, and the money—is Lori Stewart.

Not Greg. Greg can't sign anything of consequence anymore. He's a disbarred felon. His name on a business license is a liability. His face on a corporate filing raises questions that no bank, no licensing board, and no government agency wants to answer. So the empire runs through Lori.

Lori Stewart is listed as Member/Manager of the White House Hotel. She's listed as a principal on the entities behind the Margaritaville Resort. She's co-owner of LNG Construction, LLC—L for Lori, N for Nathan (their son), G for Greg—a company that installs acoustical ceilings, gutters, and closet systems. She's connected to Pointe at Bay Cove. She's connected to The Retreat. She serves as Corporate Director of Sales at MMI Hotel Group, where she "leads strategic sales initiatives and drives revenue growth."

Revenue growth. Let's talk about that.

When Kenny Glavan sits on the Biloxi City Council and votes to crush Airbnb, he's not protecting some abstract "hotel industry." He's protecting Lori Stewart's revenue growth. When hotel room rates rise faster than inflation because short-term rental competition has been legislated out of existence, that money flows to Lori Stewart's entities. When the HLA receives a copy of every competitor's permit application—information the HLA called "vital"—it benefits Lori Stewart's hotels.

She is the legal owner. She is the corporate authority. She is the one whose name the banks see, whose signature the state recognizes, whose authority the business filings reflect. Greg may have built the empire, but Lori runs it. And Kenny Glavan is her employee who happens to also run the City Council.

When this investigation continues in Part II, Lori Stewart will not be a footnote. She'll be the focus. Every entity. Every filing. Every property. Every contract. Every dollar that flows from the ordinances Kenny Glavan votes on, through the hotels and developments she controls, into the accounts of a family whose patriarch pled guilty to federal extortion.

The mugshot at the top of this page is Kenny's. But the signature at the bottom of the checks is Lori's. And in the end, it's always about the money.

Kenny, when you're deciding who's being improper—maybe start with the mirror. And the breathalyzer. And the woman who signs your paycheck.

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The King Gets Served

Kenny Glavan is now a named defendant in Petrini & Fusco v. Glavan et al., a federal civil rights action filed in the United States District Court for the Southern District of Mississippi.

He's named in his individual capacity. Not the City picking up the tab. Not the taxpayers bailing him out. Him. Kenny Glavan, personally. His name. His money. His problem.

He's not alone. The complaint names six defendants: Glavan, Mayor Gilich, Police Chief De Back, Building Official Jerry Creel, CAO Richard Weaver, and the City of Biloxi. The complaint identifies four separate conspiracies, all connected through one common nexus: the Mayor's office.

But Kenny gets his own special distinction. He's the one who had the gavel. He's the one who played king for a night. He's the one who told a citizen he was being "improper" and couldn't define the word. He's the one who ordered a removal and watched nobody move. He's the one who folded like origami when someone called his bluff.

He wanted to be king of a 50,000-person city council chamber. Now he gets to be king of a federal courtroom. Congratulations, Kenny. You made it to the big leagues.

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The Heir Apparent

Word around Biloxi is that Kenny Glavan is being groomed to succeed Mayor "FoFo" Gilich when Gilich's time is finally up. The cartel's succession plan. The next generation. The heir.

More like the groupie.

Kenny Glavan didn't build anything. He didn't create a business. He didn't win a landmark case or write a piece of legislation or lead a movement. He attached himself to FoFo Gilich's machine like a barnacle on a shrimp boat and rode it to a council seat. He's the guy who shows up early, laughs at the boss's jokes, votes the way he's told, and waits for his turn. A self-entitled man who thinks proximity to power is power. Another Croatian in the Biloxi machine—same playbook as FoFo, same sense of entitlement, same belief that this city belongs to them.

Let's inventory the candidate, shall we?

A hotel middle-manager cosplaying as a politician. A DUI virtuoso—at least two, possibly three, still counting—who lectures citizens about proper conduct. A man who may have driven the mayor's car because his own had a breathalyzer bolted to the steering column. A man named in a federal antitrust lawsuit by a billion-dollar company. A man whose boss is a disbarred felon who paid a sheriff's deputy to make DUI cases disappear. A man with a conflict of interest so massive it has its own trade association. A man who tried to silence a citizen at a public meeting, got told to try it, and didn't. A man who is now a named defendant in a federal civil rights case with his name literally in the caption.

This is the next mayor of Biloxi? This guy?

To every voter in Ward 6: this is the man who represents you. A man who uses his public office to serve his private industry. A man who silences citizens who criticize city officials. A man who can't tell you what the rules are but will gladly tell you when you've broken them. A man who gets high on presiding over a Tuesday night city council meeting and genuinely believes he's somebody.

Mayor Glavan. The Burger King of Biloxi. Running for the highest office in a city that can't stop giving him material.

Kenny, you're not ready for mayor. You weren't even ready for that Tuesday.

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A Promise

Kenny, we promised in the city car article that we'd get to you. Here we are.

This investigation is not over. It hasn't even started. This is the introduction. The Airbnb antitrust lawsuit is moving forward. The Petrini & Fusco civil rights lawsuit is moving forward. Discovery is coming. Depositions are coming. Every email, every text, every vote, every backroom deal—all of it is coming.

Every council meeting where you voted on short-term rentals while running a hotel company. Every executive session where you discussed citizens you're now being sued by. Every decision that benefited your employer, your trade association, and your industry at the expense of property owners, entrepreneurs, and the taxpayers of Ward 6 who made the mistake of trusting you.

You silenced a citizen at a public meeting for calling a city official a criminal. You couldn't explain why it was improper. You ordered his removal. You backed down when he didn't flinch. You turned to a journalist and had the Police Chief drag him out for saying three words. Then you closed the doors. And you voted to give the guy a raise.

The video is on YouTube. Your own city's channel. The complaint is filed. The record is sealed. And every word you said—and every word you couldn't say when asked what "proper" means—is now a matter of federal record for the rest of your life.

You wanted to be a big man in a small town. You got your wish. Now the whole town gets to watch what happens next.

Welcome to the investigation, Kenny. Have it your way.

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