Face Down on the Potomac

A foul wind blows in the swamp this night. Pungent, fecund reminiscence of a time when this land was indeed a swamp; before it was claimed by pirates and other people with nicer manners, but who would still cut you for a shilling. Though it has been cleared away of the physical swamp, the modern day iteration contains denizens more fearsome than the serpents and gators who once tread these soggy grounds. No swarthy buccaneers are these, no. These are sharks in human skins, expensive suits and unlimited taxpayer funded expense accounts. Mindless eating machines, leaving trails of bloodied chum in their wake.

In the late summer heat, the already oppressive humidity further fueled by the remnants of Florence, the air is fouled by a rancid perfume of dead, rotting flesh and human feces. Not just in DC proper, mind you. The stench wafts heavily on the evening air from other quarters, seeping rather than blowing in from northern Virginia and from places as far off as Bethesda, MD.  They all knew it was coming, had probably already retained counsel, but within the last 24 hours there has been one mass shuddering of constricted sphincters followed by the largest single pants shitting since the Pilgrims’ Winter of Dysentery in 1612. 

In Washington, what you hear in the news is not news to them.  The grand fecal communion was bound to occur, but who knew it would strike so abruptly? The emergency response mechanism of DC was ill prepared for this flood of human waste, hangings and suspicious drownings. Even Capitol and Park Police have been brought in to assist with the Haz-Mat efforts. Distant howls, savage shrieks and the wail of sirens cry into the dense night air and there is a hint of yet another fragrance: panic. It is palpable, giving a visceral turn not unlike that experienced on a roller coaster, or 495 at rush hour.

The panic grows from a stark realization that the declassification of DOJ correspondence, FISA warrant applications and personal texts between Sztrok and Page, in their full and unredacted form, paints their most reliable accomplices into a corner. With this declassification there is no longer any ambiguity of redaction to seed that shadow of doubt. There is no valid excuse not to reveal the content in it’s entirety, yet in so doing mainstream media outlets must expose the fact that they have indeed been co-conspirators. They must present evidence in direct contradiction of a narrative they have fomented for over a year. The alternative, to suppress the information or distort it in any way provides no less of an admission, if only tacit in the latter case. For the deep state malefactors the one reliable smoke screen they had going for them, the slobbering lap dogs at the Times and the Post, the shameless apologists on the networks; they are neutralized. Any remaining shred of credibility they had vaporized with the stroke of a pen.

From this extends the further realization that this is only the first layer of the onion. From here it leads to the colossal farce that is the Special Counsel Office of one Robert Mueller. I’d wager a bottle of Jameson’s with any fool who thinks that there won’t be some further declassification before the midterms and Agent Mueller’s skin in that onion is the next one in the crosshairs. Once you peel that layer back you expose the putrid, molding core that lies at the center. Agent Mueller’s crimes long predate this saga. I have previously chronicled Mueller’s profile in an earlier report, The Unvarnished Truth about the Mueller Investigation: Beware when Axolotls Frolic .  At the conclusion of that report I had shared some reports of his whereabouts which have since been refuted. For myself, I won’t believe any of this is over until I find him floating, face down on the Potomac.

 

 

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