I see the unwavering steel of your stern, implacable face, your every facial expression that of a man whose idea of fun extends as far as a satisfied nod at perfect hospital corners on a rock-hard mattress. You’re cold and serious, a bad ice carving of Tommy Lee Jones, a quiet and diligent man for whom the job is far more important than the raging tantrum-storm of controversy that it stokes up. They could slip you a disco biscuit with enough potency to put Bez into a coma and I bet you’d just get your tax return done early. You’ve been worked harder than a donkey in a charity appeal advert and have expected fewer thanks than a surgeon specialising in vasectomies.
It’s not just the workload, either. The hype and weight of expectation regarding the special counsel investigation builds with every passing day, the fire under your arse lit by a president panicking like he’s got his dick-tip caught in a Chinese finger trap. You’ve been labelled a fraud, a traitor, a Democrat conspirator, despite being a lifelong Republican who’s actually said very little publicly. That your investigation continues to indict and convict actual fucking criminals who fold and flip like they’re desperate to make origami sculptures out of their immunity deals barely registers with Trump’s base. The cognitive dissonance among them is now such that Trump is being truthful about at least one thing – he probably could shoot someone dead on the street, and it would still somehow be Hilary Clinton’s fault.
Every ‘beginning of the end’ of his presidency so far has been a rainbow of promises leading to a crock of shit. He’s proven himself inhumanly capable of weathering political storms that would have ended any other career, brushing off lies and scandals like they’re taco crumbs on an ill-fitting jacket. That the evangelical right are still willing to laud him as their chosen one speaks volumes to the utter hypocrisy of white exceptionalism. There is nothing dignified or Christian about the man apart from the willingness of those around him to apologise for and cover up his sexual abuses and indiscretions. He could rattle an undocumented Mexican housekeeper over the balcony of the White House whilst reciting Mein Kampf and Sarah Sanders would still stand in front of the press podium and angrily insist Obama was the real bastard.
Will it be any different this time? Here’s hoping, because it’s been quite a week. Paul Manafort, a half-melted waxwork of a Sopranos extra, has been found guilty on eight counts and Michael Cohen seems to have switched sides to the art of the squeal. It seems practically inevitable that Trump will now be implicated directly in campaign finance violations, but even that’s minor news compared to Allen Weisselberg being offered an immunity deal. The man who’s been responsible for Trump’s financial dealings for decades doesn’t get offered a free out unless there’s some pretty significant information on the table. This is the biggest “wait and see” yet, and it’s no coincidence that it’s sent Derp Frankenfuhrer into his most excoriating Twitter tailspin to date.
But this is Trump we’re talking about, and the normal rules don’t apply.
I see you, Robert Mueller, your shirt immaculately pressed, your tie as straight as Mike Pence likes to think he is. I see you take the final beige file and rubber-stamp it before lifting it and placing it on the pile, the final piece of a day’s work slotting in to place. It’s been another night burning the candle at both ends, but you’re finally done and it’s time to head home for a few hour’s sleep.
I see you step back, Robert Mueller, shaking your head at the sheer depth and height of the warehouse you stand in. The files stretch for miles, a cavern of evidence, a never-ending mountain of work that must be carefully sifted through, annotated, organised and investigated. It’s been the hardest job of your life, and that’s without having to read that prick’s Twitter feed.
I see you yawn as you turn to the enormous shutter door, Robert Mueller, your thumb flicking the switch that begins its slow and grinding roll upwards. I see the sunlight rising up your shins as the day begins to flood into the warehouse. Behind the shutter, I hear the beep of a truck reversing closer.
I see you check your watch, Robert Mueller. 8.59am, nearly the start of another day. I see you raise a hand to your forehead as the sunlight crests over your head, your eyes blinking to adjust to take in the scene beyond the door.
I see the double doors of the truck swing open, and I hear the roar of a collapsing hillside as an ocean of papers and binders flood the warehouse. I see you swept along and then buried, a tiny figure bobbing along and then buried in an avalanche that threatens to crush you.
I hear the roar subside, Robert Mueller, the last few sheets of paper fluttering to rest among the chaos. I hear the truck’s engine start, and I hear it pull away.
From deep within the mound, I hear a tut, followed by the shuffling of papers and the scribbling of a pen. Another day, another mountain of evidence. Another 24 hours of quiet, patriotic diligence, another sleepless night.
Keep at it, Robert Mueller. Try as they might, the bastards haven’t drowned you yet, and it’s become terrifyingly apparent that you’re our only hope.
I see you, Robert Mueller. I fucking see you.
