Agent Mueller’s last ride

InkedFord Wenty profile image_LI

A Doom and Reprisal report from Ale 81 Inn Field Correspondent, Ford Wenty



 

The gavel bangs and the background chatter subsides. Ben Stein takes the dais and utters those iconic words: “Mueller?……..Mueller?”

Agent Mueller is home sick today. At least that’s the cover story. Agent Mueller’s day off. The befuddled man you see in the spotlight of these hearings is a chimera, a composite sock puppet with the ghost of J. Edgar reaching up it’s ass to pull the strings. The addition of the basement server defense lawyer at the 11th hour was just to provide additional cover, a helping hand should he trip over the official script. Whilst this charade proceeds the real Agent Mueller runs amok, somewhere in the Nevada desert.

The last confirmed sighting of the real Agent Mueller had him peddling psilocybin and CBD oils at Burning Man. He was in drag, a Hanoi Jane send up of sorts I am given to understand. There may be photos, but absent this I can assure that I have obtained this information from unimpeachable sources. A quarter century ago he may have stood out as an oddity, even at a freak show like Burning Man. In today’s America he blended right in with the rest of the crowd.

On 22 April 2018 I published my first report on Agent Mueller and his activities in this very journal, a piece entitled The Unvarnished Truth about the Mueller Investigation: Beware when Axolotls Frolic. At that time I shared this observation about Agent Mueller:

You know on paper when you look at Agent Mueller’s resume you might get the idea that you’re dealing with a boy scout. The kind of guy you’d want to think of as the straight arrow. Solid. But he’s a stellar example of that Annakin Skywalker to Darth Vader transformation that occurs in Washington DC. Like a black hole in space it is a death spiral, a crushing force de-atomizing even the most gargantuan blocks of matter that dare to fall within it’s orbit. It is a portal, a cosmic wormhole to an alternate reality of Orwellian proportions. All matter is transformed, reassembled into something that still resembles it’s former self, but is forever changed, corrupted. This is true for intentions as well. The best of intentions are lost within this maelstrom, replaced by a dogged determination to preserve the agency or bureau or whatever department of that alternate reality they have been absorbed into. The mission forgotten, it just becomes another job.

Today we can confidently say that these words apply not only to Agent Mueller and his protege, St. James the Pious, but to current FBI director Christopher Wray as well. It is an institutional rot; not a new phenomenon. And there is ample evidence that this has been the nature of the Bureau from it’s inception. At the conclusion of that piece I gave my assurance to our readers that I would remain on this story until it reached it’s sad and ugly end. We’re not quite all the way to the end yet, but I believe that it is time to render the final word on Agent Mueller.

I was at first incredulous at the intel which directed me back to the desert where our paths had last crossed. Once on the ground, following those threads to their end I knew when my quarry was near. I could smell the fear in the air, nearly palpable.  Mueller has taken flight in these wastes as Ahab upon the seas, not in pursuit; rather as the pursued. He is stalked by the ghost of the Great White Gangster. The specter of Whitey Bolger and darker spirits plague his every step. He could have escaped all of this, of course, but the Bureau needed that last hurrah to undo the damage committed by his successor. 

In Beware when Axolotls frolic I reported the abrupt and bloody end of St. James and it was indeed true. I have long known that the James Comey seen on book tours and on film, twitter or any other medium, is in fact a hulking Golem with James Comey skin stretched across it’s mocking imitation of life.  Whatever Mueller’s personal disappointment in his once star pupil, it was predetermined that Comey should be destined for Sainthood. Anything less would reflect ill upon that most sacred of institutions, the Bureau, and by extension all of it’s servants past, present and future. In some lab, buried deep within the rock of West Virginia, the U.S. government has gone all Frank Herbert with the remnants of the original. Like the legendary soldier, Duncan Idaho in faithful service of House Atreides, St. James the Pious has been genetically replicated in ghola form that he may too continue in faithful service of the house of Fidelity, Bravery and Integrity. Don’t be surprised if one of these abominations does not appear on CNN or MSNBC.

Months after the infamous hearings I finally caught up with Agent Mueller at a dusty diner on the outskirts of Tonopah, NV. At the southern edge of town on the Veteran’s Memorial Highway (US 95) he had taken a temporary refuge in one of the back booths of the diner. He was out of the drag get up now, though he still favored the look of the faded Army fatigue jacket. He seemed to be mumbling to himself and swatting at flies, which may have been real or imaginary. There were undoubtedly flies present in the establishment.

From a position at the register I could view the length of the diner. There appeared to be a lone grill cook in the pass through window and one disinterested waitress enjoying a cigarette. I stole a moment of eye contact with the waitress, a querying look to seek permission to seat myself. She set her cigarette aside and rasped out a “sit anywhere you like, sweetheart”, followed by “Coffee?” I told her sure, I’d take a cup. 

“Listen sweetheart,  if it’s okay by you I’ll just take that cup from ya right here. I’m gonna go back and visit Captain Flyswatter.” I wasn’t positive, but she seemed to suppress a bit of a chuckle. I seemed affirmed in this suspicion when she cast a sarcastic sneer in his direction.

“Izzat ‘is name? For real? He’s been coming in here like this, ever so many weeks for months now. You know him?”  She paused for a moment to steady a steaming cup of coffee squarely onto a saucer. She couldn’t hide the tremor as she extended it to me, recovering to steady it with her left hand. A subtle glance at the top of that hand revealed the discreet tracks embedded in the fleshy web between her fingers.

“We were casual acquaintances once. Some concerned associates asked me to check up on him.” I handed her three dollars as I took the saucer. Taking it she shrugged and returned to her cigarette. She had clearly reached her quota of fucks given for the day.

Agent Mueller showed no evident sign that he had even taken notice of my entry. He was engaged with an entirely different plane of existence. It was at this precise moment that I began to form a theory. Agent Mueller had, for lo these many months, been migrating between the signposts where his reality and our own still manage to intersect. An addendum to this theory also suggests that the number of these locations is rapidly dwindling. This would account for his frequency at this diner. Or, perhaps, he just really enjoyed the food and service the establishment has to offer. None of us may ever know for certain.

After moving the dozen or so steps required I slouched down, sideways into the booth behind him. “You’re a tough man to track down Agent Mueller.” It seemed as good an introduction as any. There was a lapse and then a sudden, single word in reply.

“Pilate.”

What I heard was the word “pilot”. Did he mean that was why he was hard to track down?

“You have a pilot or you are a pilot?”

“Pontius Pilate.”

This was from way out in left field. What did he mean?

“What about Pontius Pilate?”

“They used to call me Agent Mueller. I am Pontius Pilate now.”

Ooo-Kay! I knew this would get weird. I just didn’t know how weird, or how fast. He didn’t seem inclined to volunteer more and I wasn’t sure that I should yet pry too hard. I might learn more about this delusion if I simply played along.

“Well Pilate, have you eaten? I’ve got this coffee here and I was thinking about trying some corned beef hash. Care to join me?”

“Do I know you?”

“Of course! It’s Harris! From The Post, sir. Don’t you remember?”

“Harris, Harris……Oh, yes…of course! I remember now!”

“So, uh… how about that breakfast?”

“My hands are clean, Harris. You know that don’t you?”  For the first time he made eye contact. His eyes had a look somewhere between dread fear and a crazed fervor. He thrust his hands before my face, angrily. “Look at these hands, Harris! You see any blood on these hands?”

“Not a speck. Clean as a whistle.”

“God damn right they are. I’ll have dry toast and jelly.”

I returned to the counter where the waitress had been minutes before.  I should come up with a name for the girl, don’t you think? Referring to her as just “the waitress” is a bit dehumanizing. Maybe Julie the Junkie? Yeah, that’ll work. Or just Julie. Anyway, I placed the order with Julie and told her that I would dine at Captain Flyswatter’s booth, if she would be so kind as to deliver when ready. A surly grunt sufficed for a reply.

I rejoined Mueller/Pilate at his seat. “Pilate? Would you mind terribly if I were to join you here? The food should arrive soon.”

“Eh? Oh…Harris, it’s you. Yes, certainly. Sit down.”

Under the false appearance of representing the press one might ordinarily preface this sit down with the advisement of being strictly “off the record”. This was not necessary with Agent Mueller, for you see he is perfectly at ease in speaking with the press. I should qualify this by saying the “right” people in the press. Especially at the Post. And the Times, of course. Can’t forget that sinking ship. As long as her prow remains above the waterline everyone still salutes. I digress…

Mueller had been adamant that there was no blood on his hands. I’d had a short time to reflect on this and was able to draw the Pilate analogy clearly enough. This led to one other inevitable conclusion. If Mueller was Pilate then logically this would cast Trump as Christ? Now if I were really Harris from the Post, what would I say?

“Ahem. Uh…sir? Has anyone suggested to you that your mantle as Pilate perhaps implies that Trump is Christ? That’s a little off script, don’t you think?”

“Hah! How’s that, son? You think they’re still not going to crucify him?”

I played along, in character. “Well of course, yes. But how? You’ve washed your hands, now who carries out the sentence?”

“No longer my concern Harris.”

He was really adhering to character. Did he truly believe that he was Pontius Pilate? Perhaps he really did. Or perhaps it was just a manifestation of the true motivations of the man. It made positively zero difference whether the subject was Trump, Jesus of Nazareth or the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. You could slap a fried bologna sandwich up on that cross and Agent Mueller would do his duty. And like Pontius Pilate it was simply an administrative function, fidelity to Rome and his patron, Caesar. With Bravery and Integrity sent swirling into the sewage line years before Agent Mueller has only Fidelity to cling to: Fidelity to the Bureau and it’s mission. Despite all of the good press and dedicated image building in film and television, the true mission of the FBI has always remained that of it’s longest reigning and renowned Director, Mr. Hoover. That is to be the American NKVD, a Soviet style political police with sweeping federal powers. Mueller wielded that club better than most of J. Edgar’s successors.

Every lie, every leak, every unscrupulous act is no accident and all with malice aforethought. Saint James learned everything he knew at the knee of Agent Mueller. He carried on in his footsteps capably until he made one fatal error. Jimmy let it become all about him. He forgot the cardinal rule: if you want the Bureau to look out for you, you have to look out for the Bureau. Mueller was right to shoot him in the head. Had I been in his shoes I’d have done the same. Agent Mueller needed to tie up loose ends. He needed Comey’s silence, but could not afford for him to disappear entirely. Fronting the report that bears his name was just a further gathering of loose ends. Andy and his crew did the best they could with what they had to work with and Mueller presided over it all as a desperate rearguard action for his beloved Bureau. He bought them time, but was it enough?

In the unlikely event that any indictments are handed down the ghola Comey will be paraded before the cameras and sacrificed on that great altar of convenience. And none will be the wiser. The Deep State is real, my friends. It’s not a swamp, rather it is a barren heath, overgrown with weeds. Like one giant thistle, many agencies comprise it’s parts, but the FBI is the taproot of it all. Even if none of these bad actors see a day in prison, the American people deserve to be told the truth. Prison is too good for these people. That would be the result of the legal process, which as we all know has fuck all to do with justice. Justice would entail these people meeting an end like Mussolini.

 

Ford Wenty report end

420