Editor's note: A full transcript of The Dallas Morning News' interviews with Rep. Jonathan Stickland, R-Bedford, follows this story.

AUSTIN — On a recent stormy night, inside the Capitol where he’d massacred countless ideas, some for good reason and others just to watch them die, the self-styled “bill killer” was finally hoping to pass one.

“I’ve been waiting a long time for this moment,” the man from Bedford said, pumping a single fist into the air. A whoop rang up from the back of the House as thunder rattled the chamber’s windows. “Seven years.”

“But the people of Texas have been waiting a longer time than I have.”

On the opposing dais gathered the other lawmakers, both Republicans and Democrats, united by a common trauma: Having seen the legislation they studied, drafted and nurtured for months stalled or scuttled by the bearded man across the floor.

So they did their best to torture Jonathan Stickland, the tea party bombast from North Texas, who was explaining his ban on red-light cameras. They wanted him to know why, in nearly four terms, Stickland had been unable to even present one of his own bills on the House floor.

One colleague grabbed the mic, wrestling it away for a moment. A Republican pestered him about the bill’s cost, another, the color of his tie. Democrats rolled their eyes, lit into him for being divisive and dishonest. In the back of the chamber, a top GOP lawmaker was confiscating a larger-than-life Stickland cutout brought in to mock the man at the mic.

In the end, Stickland's bill passed 109-34. It will probably become law, Stickland's first.

But it might also be the not-so-momentous climax in a political career defined by contradiction, obstruction and a whole lot of losing — including a major defeat late Tuesday night. The chamber's resident contrarian has become isolated and predictable, and his opponents hope, finally beatable.

‘A greater plan’

A stack of documents and a Sig Sauer P238 — the Texas edition with a Lone star on the grip, painted camouflage — sit atop Stickland's desk, tucked deep in a small office in the Capitol basement.

The stack includes a list of the bills up for debate later in the day. Each has been researched, annotated and assigned a different “liberty principle,” a term perhaps only Stickland and his staff understand. One bill has been designated “crony capitalism.” Another, “trash freedom."

"I always start at a 'no,'" Stickland, 35, says in an interview with The Dallas Morning News. "And I always say you have to earn my 'yes.'"

Stickland has been on the losing side of a vote more often than almost any other legislator, a remarkable feat for a member of the majority party. This year, he voted "no" on two of the biggest public education bills of the session. Both passed with him as the lone dissenter.

He knew it was a pointless gesture that would enshrine him on the losing side of history. But for all his notoriety, Stickland has produced almost no documentable successes as a legislator. No matter, he says. With a little mental legwork, Stickland sees these losses as wins.

“I know I’m going to lose,” says Stickland, who represents a small swath of North Texas sandwiched between Dallas and Fort Worth. “So almost everything I do is calculated. ... That may not pay dividends in this building. But it’s part of a greater plan.”

"I'm trying to change the culture in Texas."

1 / 5Rep. Jonathan Stickland, R-Bedford, listens to Rep. Celia Israel, D-Austin, speak about her diesel emissions bill during the 86th Legislative Session in Austin Wednesday. Stickland's red-light camera ban won House approval and will probably become law. (Tom Fox / Staff Photographer) 2 / 5Rep. Jonathan Stickland, R-Bedford, (left) listens to Rep. Briscoe Cain, R-Deer Park, during the 86th Legislative Session at the Texas Capitol in Austin, Texas, Wednesday, May 22, 2019. (Tom Fox / Staff Photographer) 3 / 5Rep. Jonathan Stickland, R-Bedford, speaks at an Open Carry Texas rally at the Capitol on Friday, Jan. 13, 2017.(File 2017 / Austin-American Statesman) 4 / 5Rep. Jonathan Stickland, R-Bedford, argues for his amendment to change House rules at the Capitol on Wednesday, January 11, 2017. (File 2017 / Austin-American Statesman) 5 / 5State Rep. Jonathan Stickland, R-Bedford, arrives at a Homeland Security & Public Safety Committee at the Capitol on Tuesday, March 28, 2017.(File 2017 / Austin American-Statesman)

Those who know him, who work alongside him, talk about the representative from House District 92 like he’s two different men. A tale of two Sticklands.

They describe a man who lives a sometimes pitiable, perhaps self-defeating, duality. Likable, whose warm demeanor and big smile belie the anger he foments on social media, who loves to kill bills but is not really involved in the big-boy legislating on school finance and property taxes, who thinks he’s his own man when he’s really a tool of conservative groups with deep pockets.

They say it’s usually not his politics, but his persona, that keeps him from being a productive lawmaker.

"I personally like him very much," said Dan Huberty, who authored the school funding bill Stickland voted against. "He's like my little brother that doesn't listen. He gets so dug into an issue ... It's just kind of like, 'what are you doing dude? I mean seriously, what are you doing?'"

“Candidly?” Huberty, a Houston Republican, added. “I think he’s misunderstood.”

More ink has been spilled chronicling Stickland's antics than most top statesmen. He repeatedly grabs state and national headlines, been called bigoted, misogynistic and, most recently a science denier. Texas Monthly has named him the worst legislator twice for his "bullying and ineffectiveness."

One article even described him as “the id of the Texas GOP.”

But Stickland says that’s all wrong, the product of “lazy reporters” and the “fake news” media.

He says he's no anti-vaxxer — "I've been vaccinated" — he's not Islamophobic — "[Tarrant County Republican Shahid Shafi] is one of my closest friends" — and he's already apologized for saying men can't rape their wives — "I was an idiot."

Stickland thinks of himself as one of the only independent thinkers in the Texas Capitol, one of the building’s “smartest people,” because he’s here for “an ideology, a way of life.” He wants to be the “tip of the spear” for the conservative movement, “the fence post that’s not supposed to move.”

"If I wasn't fighting for anything, no one would care," he said after passing his red-light camera bill in the House. "There's a lot of people who believe what I believe and no one's mad at them, and that's because no one's acting on it. They're not doing anything about it."

Even Stickland admits the duality.

“Either I am the most sincere, honest, selfless person — or I’m some kind of crazy narcissist with evil intentions,” he says. “Everything else in me wants to be a selfless, help people, not hurt anyone, gentle kind teddy bear. But in this process, people respect strength.”

“The Bible tells me if you speak the truth, the world is going to hate you, just like they did Christ. ... I have to judge myself by the people who hate me.”

‘Who the hell are you?’

Stickland remembers what would become his first official act of politicking. It was 2012, after volunteering on two Ron Paul campaigns, that he showed up at a meeting of the Northeast Tarrant Tea Party to rail at a Republican congressman about the debt ceiling.

“I was wearing a button-up flannel shirt, cargo shorts and flip flops. Big old beard,” Stickland said. “I just started questioning him and, frankly, I just pinned him to the wall and he was just like, ‘duhhh.’ Everyone was, like, clapping."

After the meeting, the group’s president sought him out.

“Who the hell are you?” Julie McCarty asked. Weeks later, she said he should run for office. After seven years, he remains the tea party’s favorite son, just as the faction and its benefactors struggle to keep a foothold in the Texas House.

“The tea party and Jonathan grew up together," McCarty said. "I don't know where we'd be without him."

"If everyone was like Jonathan, I wouldn't need to lead the tea party."

Stickland describes himself as a “libertarian Republican.”

He wants to legalize drugs, "as long as you don't harm anyone else's liberty or freedom." He's pushed for checks on police power, a record that's aligned him more with Black Lives Matter than the thin blue line. He thinks it's a sin to be gay, even for members of his own family, but says government shouldn't be involved in marriage.

In fact, Stickland says he wants the government out of the bedroom, the boardroom and the operating room — unless we're talking about abortion, of course, which the self-described "former fetus" said should be illegal.

His views on guns have lost him friends in both parties, after his supporters have personally pressured a number of lawmakers who opposed his bills. This year, Stickland rejected the bad acts of some of them. But he still says he's ultimately not responsible.

“I get support from white supremacists, I’m sure, and I can’t stand them,” he said. “I can’t right the wrongs of all the people that support me. That would consume more time than I have to give.”

‘Closet nice guy?’

In an unscientific poll of Stickland’s House colleagues, some were quick to say he’s “exasperating,” “infuriating” and “a professional pain in the ass.” But when asked what one word best describes Stickland, others also said “caring” and “joyful,” a real “teddy bear.”

And that’s just the Democrats.

“Nice guy,” said Celia Israel of Austin. Brownsville’s Alex Dominguez then interjected — make that “closet nice guy.”

Stickland tends toward self-deprecating humor, doling out fat jokes with the air of someone who’s heard them all. He sings in the choir at church and teaches Sunday school, collects Texas Ranger paraphernalia and hand scores every game with his wife and two daughters.

“He’s actually a lot shyer than he comes off,” said Briscoe Cain, R-Deer Park. “Believe it or not he actually avoids confrontation.”

Few colleagues would speak ill of Stickland — on the record — citing unwritten rules of decorum. But when they did complain, it was seldom about his comments on abortion or rape or vaccines. No, they derided his disregard for the process, the order that ushers legislation and the mores that constrain the humans behind it.

“Despite all the stupid stuff that he can do, he’s a very difficult person to dislike,” Senfronia Thompson, a Houston Democrat who has served in the House for nearly half a century, said. “You either hate him or love him, and I’ve always loved him.”

"I see the guy as this misfit sometimes, and I feel for him," said Rep. Poncho Nevárez, an Eagle Pass Democrat who was threatened by Stickland's supporters in 2015. "But at some point you have to ask yourself how much help can you give him when he doesn't want it? And I'm not saying I'm some great [expletive] statesman because I'm not, but I think I've learned how to navigate this place a little better than he has."

“There but for the grace of God go you, I and Stickland.”

A few described him as a kid throwing a tantrum, not a bad child, just one who can’t — won’t — play nicely. And several complained he gets attention for all the wrong reasons while others do the big lifting quietly and without a fuss.

“He’s always in the paper because y’all don’t have anything else to write about,” said Republican Rep. Charlie Geren, who’s represented Fort Worth for 18 years. “There’s a lot of things going on but for some reason he gets y’all’s attention when nobody else does.”

“Who?” Travis Clardy, a Nacogdoches Republican joked, when asked to describe Stickland in one word. He added, “No one has talked more and done less.”

‘An Achilles heel’

Stickland is now a caucus of one.

House Speaker Joe Straus, long his biggest bugbear, has retired. Democrats have ousted some of his closest compatriots. And a few weeks ago, he walked out on the Texas Freedom Caucus, the far-right group of Ted Cruz-esque disruptors he helped found.

That political divorce was “freeing,” he said. Now he can reconnect with the “grassroots,” the tea party voters who put him in office. But his self-imposed, self-righteous isolation from his own party is beginning to resemble estrangement.

On Tuesday night, just before midnight, Stickland railed against House GOP lawmakers for reviving a bill he'd killed earlier in the day. He was speaking to members of his own party, but you wouldn't have known it if you were there.

“One day there’s going to be something that you care about where you might be in the minority,” he said. “And you’re going to hope that these rules and our traditions and the way this House operates protect you and your ability to stand up for your constituents and do what you think is right.”

The dead bill was resurrected and passed 130-11. No rules had been broken, House Speaker Dennis Bonnen made clear, except perhaps the one where Stickland didn't get his way.

Last year, Stickland almost lost his seat and, therefore, his relevancy.

He was the only incumbent House Republican to win re-election without 50 percent of the vote. In response, he promised to be “more honey than vinegar.” This year, he’ll probably pass his first law.

But his Democratic opponent, who plans to run against him again, said his schtick is out and the jig is up.

“He doesn’t question things very much. He always goes with the standard ideological view,” said Steve Riddell, who lost to Stickland in November by fewer than 1,500 votes. “He’s nothing if not predictable.

“But that predictability can be somewhat of an Achilles heel.”

Hearing this, Stickland issued Riddell a warning.

“If Steve continues along this path,” he said, “he’ll be met with fury.”