Yesterday, Donald Trump’s other “rat,” the one he pays NOT to blow the whistle on him did what no one expected he could do. Rudy Guliani one-upped Michael Cohen who had previously testified his attempts on behalf of the Trump Organization to close a deal for a Trump Tower in Moscow continued through June 2016. On yesterday’s edition of ABC’s This Week with George Stephanopoulis, Guliani announced the efforts had continued right up to election day. This is a saga of which great moments in literature emerge. The muse calls.
Chapter 1. Loomings
Call me Ish-michael. Some years ago—never mind how long precisely—having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me in the pursuit of law, I thought I would stray a little and see the underside parts of the world. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the path with me.
There now is your insular city of Washington, DC, belted round by twelve-lane thoroughfares—power and fame surrounds it. Right and left, the streets take you downward. Its extreme downtown is the federal enclave and K Street, where that noble cause of public service is washed away by money, and cooled by Starbucks’ iced coffee, which a few hours previous were out of sight. Look at the crowds of power seekers there.
Thus begins the tale of Moscow Dick, the story of a young, restless and ambitious lawyer who, in pursuit of wealth and celebrity hitches his star to a captain of real estate, not knowing his benefactor was obsessed, driven by a whale of a real estate deal he would pursue for 30 years. To truly understand the tale I would need to take you through each day and every event which leads to the climax. But, I am supposed to be on holiday break. So I will skip the detail and share with you the culmination of Ish-michael and his master’s fascination of putting his name on an edifice in the shadow of the Kremlin.
Chapter 135. The Chase.–Third Decade
The morning of the third decade dawned fair and fresh, and once more I was called to Mr. Trump’s chamber. .
“D’ye ink it, Ish-michael?” cried Mr. Trump; but the deal was not yet in sight.
Suddenly a low rumbling sound was heard; a subterraneous hum; and then all held their breaths; as bedraggled with promises of lifted sanctions and a penthouse, a vast form shot lengthwise, but obliquely from the Kremlin. Shrouded in a thin drooping veil of mist, Putin hovered for a moment in the rainbowed air. Crushed thirty feet upwards, the waters flashed for an instant like heaps of fountains, leaving only the image of marble stairways, gold-fixtured rooms.
“Give way!” cried Mr. Trump to me, Ivanka and Junior, as we darted forward to the attack.
An offer was proffered; but the negotiations ran foul. Mr. Trump stooped to save it; but he could not and was eventually dragged from the ship of state, and the House and Senate knew he was gone. Next instant, the dreams of Moscow Dick and his captain disappeared into the depths.
Epilogue. “And I Only Am Escaped Alone to Tell Thee.” JOB
The drama’s done. Why then here does any one step forth?—Because one did survive the wreck. I was he whom the Fates ordained to take the place of Mr. Trump’s bowsman, Mr. Pence, when that bowsman assumed the vacant post; the same, who, when on the last day was also tossed from out of the rocking boat, was dropped astern. I floated on a soft and dirgelike main. On the second day, a sail drew near, nearer, and picked me up at last. It was the devious-cruising SS Pelosi, that in her retracing search after her missing children, only found another orphan.
For what it’s worth.
Dr. ESP