“You can gallivant all you want with junk premises, and all of them will lead you back to the money bags in this man’s head.”
Peter Cheyney, the British maestro, the one before this other British maestro, James Hadley Chase, was in the game as Britain’s most shrewd detective novelist, the second his first, the most daring book, ‘This Man Is Dangerous; Go Get Him, Boys’ hit the shelves. If I am lying, I am dying; I read that book, all one hundred and twenty-something pages, in less than five hours. The one I borrowed the book from must leave town inside of the six hours he gave me to read through this gangster of a double-dealing gang of one, ramming, well, sledgehammering through a Government Agency with the finesse and enviable smoothness and efficacy of a John Rambo, or any other seasoned hired gun.
This is not about Peter Cheyney, nor about his leading characters, Lemmy Caution, and Windemere Nichols. This is about, you guessed it…Donald J Trump. This Man Is Dangerous. Period. And the boys, the Agency Men, the FBI, and DOJ, that is, are out and about and must have stopped for that Magalago coffee bean, growing in that expansive blueberry, and greenery patch of ground. They picked it up, alright, and then ground it in that notorious, rusted nut-crusher, to produce the most tasteless of coffee his constellation, the Mar-A-Lago, brags about. And they hit paydirt: Fifteen boxes first, six months ago, and then twelve more, just a few days ago. And just before the Agency Boys walked in, they stripped down; no guns, garbs with insignia, and that renowned belligerent attitude they usually carried with them each time they reached the door of the house they would search; the roaring excerpts of big cats were missing.
Teflon Don! Indeed! Republicans are clamoring for blood on this man’s behalf. And he was subpoenaed months ago. Homeland Security and the National Security begged him to return specified documents marked Confidential, all the way to TS/SCI he was hiding in Mar-A-Lago. He refused. I could draw a cool conjecture why he adamantly refused, beyond that one glaring fact that he wanted to monetize the US secrets that were in his possession. It is lame to assume that he would wake up every morning, amble his obese frame to the storage bin, throw it open just to stare at the boxes…just to remind himself what it used to be from 2017 till January 2020. The attitude of the once feared beast, who was once king, but had just recently had his paws chewed off by eighty-four million of his subjects. He didn’t think the Agency Boys would be foolhardy enough to figure out any other moves beyond the usual negotiation stance, where men in black and grey suits would listen to him talk endlessly from both sides of his mouth; his mind would wallow in the shallow pit of mournful excerpts, not to know that the G. Men were serious and bent on buttering him up to roast him…at least, one where they would have to break into his castle, have a Safe-cracker pry open the citadel of a Safe with a ton of indecencies stored against its fortified steel walls…of blondes in nudes lying supine, and of redheads in pronation, baring all, to the searing, naked confections of other ingenious, golden-showerings on maple-leafed, silky bedsheets. The poetry of these sexually imbued innuendos and the real carvings of the actual escapades in the world’s other hotel suites, from Los Angeles to the small one-light town where Stormy lived, had this man compromised. I’d bet, his current wife doesn’t have access to this fortification. This man trudged the lanes where vibrant, vicious naked games were plied. Wasn’t that where he met his current wife? This was the man the United States trusted with her most guarded secrets? A man who could have sold bits and swaths of the US secrets for a roll in the sac with any woman. Piteous!!!
A man who could have sold bits and swaths of the US secrets for a roll in the sac with any woman.
Here was a man who shared classified documents with the Russian Ambassadors one week into his presidency…with no one around during the meeting to record the high jinks of a compromised Commander-in-Chief. Why would he ignore the advice of Whitehouse staff and still cart away these sensitive documents? Could it be that the great United States lacked the resourcefulness…you know, the moxie to protect itself from this thief on a Whitehorse…a Russian mole? The stench from his excrement is loud, imperious, and all-encompassing, the United States could have been impaired somehow. Or maybe, you do have a rational explanation for this fulsome abuse of power? This is the most glaring example of the privilege of being a white man. Barack Hussien Obama couldn’t have gotten away with this.
In 1961, President Dwight Eisenhower was writing his memoirs and needed specific classified documents to augment the story he was telling. He didn’t have the documents stored in the basement of his house. He didn’t carry with him boxes of sensitive documents belonging to the nation to his house. Eisenhower put in a request, and the Agency Boys carried the secret documents to his house in a briefcase. They stayed with him as he gleaned through these documents. When he was done, they carried the same black briefcase back to the Government’s control storage for safe-keeping. That’s how it is freaking done! Stashing twentysomething boxes of highly classified top secrets in Mar-A-Lago is tantamount to stuffing your bank account with stolen money. Considering the heft of it, he needed to hold on to these secret, sensitive documents in the hopes of replenishing his depleting funds. There’s no other reason why this man would do this. So, my cool conjecture didn’t pan out: ‘A Man Would Sell His Precious Country For The Love Of Money.’ I’ll bet you all the coal in Enugu, that that was his motivation.
America could lose the most esteemed joy at being the most democratic, exemplary nation on earth
You can gallivant all you want with junk premises, and all of them will lead you back to the money bags in this man’s head. You should ask yourselves my favorite, in-your-face American question all money-hungry dames would ask you on that first date of an expected one-night-stand: What’s in this for me? It is a pointed question, and the answer to that is equally pointed: Cash Money. Do not look beyond this fact. He is under espionage investigation. They are looking to see if he had sold off secrets in the more than two years he has been out of office. Probably, not! Possible? Yes. And if he had, the damage could be immeasurable. To undo such, a retooling of covert schemes would have to happen. Undercover agents would have to be recalled. He could have accepted down payments from Russia and Belarus, and other rogue nations just waiting to receive caches of US secrets. Why the hell would he hold on to these documents after he was asked to return them? Please, people! Is this so hard to figure out? Russia must have advised him to hold on to these secrets. Maybe, and that is if he is still trying to figure out ways to dispatch these documents, he has not been able to dispose of them. A prostitute in the game for longer than ten years is incorrigible. Donald J Trump is incurable. WAKE UP, AMERICA! You are about to lose your most esteemed joy at being the most democratic, exemplary nation on earth…even as some of you are trying your darndest to suppress certain voters. Donald J Trump did this just as all autocratic rulers would have done it. Steal it!
♦ Don Okolo, Professor and filmmaker, is on the Editorial Board of the West African Pilot News. He is the author of many books.
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