Make Use Of The Time Now To Investigate
Part I. Runway Reveries
I left Idaho this morning the way a spy departs a compromised safe-house—coat collar turned up, notebook bulging with names and times.
In the transit lounge, the loudspeakers rasped like old teletype; rollerboards clattered along the concourses, and behind the plastic benches harder than diamond, I heard America’s bustle and bump of Monday morning beginning at 3 AM.
Yet my mind was elsewhere: on Donald John Trump, pacing an inner tarmac of his own, knowing he has but three circuits of the sun—three short, perilous years—to crack the steel riddle of Trump-Russia and the DNC. Time, that sly baggage handler, has already tossed into his hold the Mueller witch-hunt, two sham-peachments, and the ragged flag of January 6.
In the distance, the clock tower of justice looms, its hands stuck at 11:59, and the flight board flickers FINAL CALL. If Trump doesn’t move for justice now against the DNC, it is only a matter of time before the DNC resumes its all-out attack.
Part II. The Man with the Keys
In any heist worth its nitrate celluloid, one looks not at the vault but at the man with the combination. In cyber-movie, this figure is Dmitri Alperovitch—keeper of encryption keys, courier of Soviet-seasoned LAN-Crypto tools bought in 1999 by Network Associates while I watched from the fourth floor.
Trump’s first term lacked the scouts to collar Alperovitch: Gina “Trump-Russia” Haspel sat astride the CIA, Christopher Wray did the same at the FBI, and Hillary’s sins were granted papal indulgence by the candidate who promised to lock her up.
Now, today the cast is altered. John Ratcliffe looms at Langley’s gate at CIA; Tulsi Gabbard surveys ODNI; Kash Patel circles the battlefield like the ghost of McDuff at FBI, and every citizen sleuth becomes an unpaid Pinkerton. The combination slips closer with each lattice of metadata—tick, tick, tick.
Part III. Seven Stations of Harassment
Count them aloud, like Shakespeare’s seven ages of man:
Trump-Russia—the Steele-soaked prologue, where Russian arms brokers dining on NATO encryption masqueraded as MAGA courtiers.
Mueller’s Inquisition—an iron-shod pilgrimage that found no grail yet emptied the royal treasury.
Sham-peachment I—Ukraine’s phantom quid pro quo, a dagger conjured by the Atlantic Council’s wizards.
Sham-peachment II—an article as thin as onion skin, accusing Caesar of inciting a riot he urged to be peaceful.
January 6th Show Trial—a passion play in which half the cast whispered “live exercise” before rolling cameras.
Hush-Money Aria—Stormy’s single payment dissected into thirty-six papier-mâché felonies, the better to festoon Manhattan’s courtroom like gaudy Mardi Gras beads.
Georgia Racketeer Pantomime & Mar-a-Lago Raid—twin jaws meant to resemble justice, yet operated by the same political ventriloquists.
Together they devour seasons, lawyers, treasure—yet not the man’s resolve.
Part IV. The Hourglass of Three Years
Picture an hourglass carved from Florida coral. Its upper bulb holds thirty-six moon phases, its lower bulb an abyss of indictments. Sand falls ruthless and indifferent, each grain a court motion, a CNN chyron, a leak from some stainless-steel psy-op.
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