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From the Personal Diary of Donald J. Trump: “My 10-step plan”

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Okay, Diary, I gotta get real with this liberal takeover of the House. The way I see it is, I have to solve this problem before Jan. 3, 2019, when the new Congress convenes. If I wait too long, they’ll be subpoenaing the shit out of me, my family and my associates—and I won’t allow that to happen!

So here’s the plan. It’s bold, audacious—but then, I’ve been bold all my life, rolling the dice, taking risks, and it’s always worked out.

Step 1, I just took: firing that lawn jockey, Sessions. Mister Magoo can go back to fucking Mayberry.

Step 2, Replacing him with my boy, Whittaker. Dear Diary, Whit told me that he’ll stop the Mueller investigation in its tracks. He promised to shrink its budget by 75%, which means Mueller’s going to have to cease and desist. He’ll be lucky if he can still buy donuts. I don’t have to fire him,  just starve him to death.

Step 3, Whittaker also promised that when Mueller issues his report—to him, Whittaker—it will not be released to the media or the public, except for parts that are favorable to me, which we’ll leak through the usual suspects. But the full thing will never see the light of day. I can say it totally exonerates me, and nobody can contradict me. Hannity, Rush and the rest of the boys will confirm that there was no collusion, no obstruction, nothing wrong at all.

Step 4, Launch a counter-investigation of Democrats. Nunes promised me he’s already working on this: Hillary’e emails, of course, but also Maxine Waters’ ties with known black radicals, Schiff’s sexual practices, Pelosi’s husband’s links to the Mafia, Obama’s secret deals with the Chinese, Nadler’s real estate scandals, that gay blogger Heimoff’s shady past–the whole nine yards. My F.B.I. is providing me with plenty of ammunition to silence these elite liberal thugs, and my I.R.S. is all over this like white on rice.

Step 5, Create a huge diversion that will terrify the American people. This should be done by mid-December, just as we’re going into the holidays. The death toll, unfortunately, will have to be high, but that’s war for you; it always involves collateral damage. The only thing that matters is winning—and I’m a winner. The plotters will have to be found to be Muslim terrorists, but that will be easy for Homeland Security to arrange. Right now I’m thinking a dirty bomb in midtown Manhattan. Then I tell the American people they’re under imminent attack from terrorists, that only I can protect them. They’ll welcome it when I put the country under martial law and suspend civil liberties.

That’s risk-taking! But I’ll get away with it. Oh, the liberals will scream and howl and call for my scalp, but they’re already doing that. Besides, it will thrill my supporters when I shut down CNN and MSNBC and the failing New York Times. Not to mention Vanity Fair, The Atlantic, the Washington Post, Heimoff’s blog (which we’ve already tried to kill) and all the other liberal snowflake media outlets. What the hell are they going to do about it? Nothing. Let them cry all they want.

Step 6, Place the National Guard under my direct control. Then I get the Secretary of Defense, my man Mattis, to appoint me a General of the Army, outranking all other officers, which effectively puts the Armed Services of the United States under my personal control. And then direct my Army to crush my opposition using whatever means are necessary. I’ve had it up to here with these anarchists and Antifa thugs.

Step 7, Order the Secretary of the Interior, my man Zinke, to identify Federal lands where we can build mass detention centers to jail my political enemies. The government owns vast tracts of land out West; we’ve already started looking into this in Idaho, and I figure I can detain up to a million people in these camps. Again, the Democrats will howl, but there’s not a thing they can do about it.

Step 8, right before swearing-in day, maybe on Jan. 2, announce that the new Congress cannot be seated until their personal loyalty to me has been proven. From what I can tell, many if not most of these new Democrats are not loyal to me. They may not even be citizens. They may have contributed money to ISIS or the Taliban. Who knows? But we have to find out. They may have been involved in voter fraud and other crimes, even pedophilia. We have to know everything about them before I will permit them to take office.

Step 9, Arrest everybody in those caravans. Whittaker tells me the first batch of them should be arriving at the Texas border by Thanksgiving, although the date isn’t exact. When they do, my Army will physically prevent them from approaching the crossing. I’m told it’s likely that criminals and rapists in the caravan will throw rocks or Molotov cocktails or burn tires or commit other acts of civil violence. I will instruct my soldiers to have zero tolerance for criminal acts. They are free to shoot on sight. That’s something Bibi taught me: how to be tough with demonstrators!

Step 10, Cancel the 2020 elections, as long as the national emergency lasts—and believe me, it will last! Continuing acts of terror. Continuing threats from overseas. Explosions, mass shootings, violence, arson, civil unrest, sabotage, assassinations, synagogue attacks, Internet shutdowns–even if I have to order my security forces to do a lot of it themselves. There is no Constitutional reason I can’t declare myself President-for-Life. The American people will be begging me for help. I’ll have the Senate and the Supreme Court on my side. Screw the House. Let Pelosi whine her ass off, there’s nothing she can do to stop me. I’ll just shut the damn House down. Maybe I’ll send Pelosi to one of the camps. She can bunk with Hillary, that dyke.

I guess you could say there’s an 11th Step: having Fox News, Rush Limbaugh and other media commentators on my side influence their simple-minded followers through lies and appeals to hatred. But that’s not really a “step” for me to take. It’s been going on for a long time, it will continue, and they’re one of the reasons I’m here. So while I welcome it, I can’t take pride of ownership. Mr. Limbaugh: Mr. Murdoch: I salute you! Heil!

I’m on a roll, Dear Diary. Rested, tanned and ready to rock. And after I’m gone, which I hope won’t be for many years, there’s Don, Jr., Jared and Ivanka to take over. Welcome to Trump World, you liberal losers. Bwahaha!


Leaked! A transcript of that notorious phone call between Trump and MBS

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[Trump called Saudi Crown Prince Mohammed bin Salman (MBS) on Tuesday to inquire about the disappearance of Jamal Kashoggi, the journalist who was videotaped entering the Saudi consulate in Istanbul, and never seen again.]

Trump: How ya doing, Prince?

MBS: Doing well, Donald. We’re going to have to talk again about that Trump Tower in Riyadh as soon as I get my fighter jets, tanks, ships and anti-missile defenses from you.

Trump: We’re working on it, Prince. A fantastic deal for you. You know, if we sold those things to Russia it would be more like $200 billion, not the $110 we’re charging you.

MBS: And for that the entire Kingdom is grateful to you personally, Donald. In return, we will endeavor to keep the price of oil below $60 a barrel. Now, what is the purpose of this call?

Trump: Well, Prince, to be perfectly frank, I’m under a lot of pressure here to get tough with you on this Kashoggi thing.

MBS: We know how to deal with pressure in the Kingdom, Donald. Off with their heads! [giggles]

Trump: [laughs] Yeah, I know, Prince, but unfortunately, I can’t do that here—yet. Give me a year or two!

MBS: I trust you, Mister President.

Trump: It’s not just the flakey Democrats who are on my ass, it’s some Republicans too. There’s a lot of anger here over your killing Kashoggi.

MBS: I beg your pardon, Donald! Are you saying I personally killed that dung beetle?

Trump: No, no, no, Prince. But you ordered it.

MBS: I strongly deny that, Donald. Strongly!

Trump: Well, okay, you didn’t do it. But can I ask a favor? Can I borrow your men who did kill him? I have a little problem over here with certain journalists of my own. That Rachel Maddow, for instance. I wouldn’t mind her disappearing.

MBS: Don’t you have such men of your own?

Trump: Well, the CIA and all that, but they’re so damned squeamish. I told them to make Mueller disappear and they refused to do it!

MBS: All right, Donald, we’ll see what we can do.

Trump: Thank you, Prince. This will be my story: “He strongly denies it.” You know, that worked with Putin. He strongly denied to me Russia meddled in our election and that’s what I told the American people and everybody believed it except those damned Democrats.

MBS: Vladimir told me how much he appreciated your parroting his line.

Trump: He’s a great guy, Prince. A strong man, like you. Well, that’s all I got. So long, Prince. Don’t let the sand bugs bite!

MBS: Before you go, Donald, there is one more thing I want to ask. When you talk about this incident, please state that “rogue elements,” quote unquote, were behind it.

Trump: “Rogue elements”…?

MBS: Yes. In our embassy in Istanbul. Whoever killed Mr. Kashoggi was not an official of the Saudi government. Please repeat that.

Trump: “The Crown Prince strongly told me that whoever killed Mr. Kashoggi was not an official of the Saudi government.”

MBS: It could have been Al Qaeda; could have been the Israelis; could have been the Turks. Could have been aliens, or even Kashoggi’s wife: I understand things were not good between them. Who knows?

Trump: The more I think about it, Prince, the more I like it. It’s such a plausible lie, like my “400 pound guy in his bedroom” thing. But I gotta tell you, Prince, I’ll take some heat over this. Even Fox News is going to be all over me. Sometimes, I swear that Shepard Smith is a liberal.

MBS: Well, you’ll handle it. You always do. The point is, “rogue elements” casts just enough confusion to muddy the situation and buy us time until this blows over.

Trump: Sounds like you’ve been talking with Bannon again.

MBS: Our mutual friend is very wise in the ways of the world, Donald. He has been useful to us here in the Kingdom.

Trump: I love it! Okay, so when those snowflake reporters ask me, I’ll mention “rogue elements.”

MBS: Perfect. You can add that we, in the Kingdom, are determined to get to the bottom of this and discover the true killer or killers and bring him, her or them to justice!

Trump: Haha, Prince. That reminds me of my promise to hire the best investigators to prove that Obama wasn’t a U.S. citizen.

MBS: How did that turn out for you, Donald?

Trump: Who cares? All in the past.

MBS: By the way, Donald, I’m thinking of having a little féte here for the world’s dictators. Putin, President Xi, Kim Jong-un, Maduro, Assad, President Kagame, Duterte, Erdogan, and—even though he’s no longer a sitting president–Mugabe.

Trump: My kind of people, Prince!

MBS: Maybe sometime after the New Year, when the weather in Riyadh is delightful. We’ll do it the old-fashioned way: slave girl dancers, beheadings, a banquet—

Trump: Did you say “slave girl dancers,” Prince?

MBS: I did indeed, Donald. Just your type! You can grab them wherever you want.

Trump: No wives, right?

MBS: Of course not, Donald. There are still some values we respect here in the Kingdom, despite the incursions of modernization.

Trump: Count me in, Prince! Can I bring Jared?

MBS: We would be dishonored were you not to do so, Donald. And your boys, Donald Jr. and Eric. Such fine, upstanding young men.

Trump: Thank you, Prince. Are there any endangered species in Arabia they can shoot?

MBS: A few Jews, perhaps. [Both laugh]

 


A strategy meeting in the Oval Office

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Cast

Donald J. Trump (DJT)

Donald Trump Jr. (DTJr)

Ivanka Trump (IT)

Kellyanne Conway (KC)

Sarah Huckabee Sanders (SHS)

Melania Trump (MT)

KC: Mr. President, we can use this Kavanaugh crisis to rile up our base.

DJT: Sounds good. But how do we do it?

SHS: We organize pro-Kavanaugh rallies across the country.

KC: He asked me, Sarah, not you.

SHS: He asked a generalized question of the group, Kellyanne.

KC: Whatever, bitch.

IT: I still have 10,000 pairs of Ivanka-brand shoes sitting in a Chinese warehouse.

DTJr: Did you pay for them?

DJT: China? Did someone say China? I hate them.

IT: They sent me an invoice for $15 million but I don’t see why I should pay for something I’d never wear.

DJT: See? The Chinese are ripping us off every chance they get.

DTJr: But they have good food. General Tso’s chicken…

KC: Have you eaten at that new place in Lafayette Square?

SHS: People, we’re here to talk about strategy, not Chinese food!

DJT: I’d rather have a Big Mac or the Colonel’s chicken nuggets. Mmm.

IT: Maybe I’ll open a chain of restaurants. Ivanka-burgers, that sort of thing. I’m an entrepreneur.

DTJr: [checking his iPhone] Hey, I got a text from Mueller’s office. They want me to meet with them.

DJT: I didn’t hear that. [puts fingers in ears] La la la la la la la.

KC: I was there once. Such a dreary office! Those drapes…

IT: I know what you mean, Kellyanne. Drapes are everything!

SHS: On the Kavanaugh thing, I—

DJT: Kavanaugh! Kavanaugh! I’m sick of that guy. He’s more famous than me!

KC: That’s not good.

DJT: Fuck him. He’s got bad skin, too. Kellyanne, who else we got on the short list?

KC: Well, there’s Paul Ryan. The Court could use another Catholic.

SHS: People, people! We’re going to ram Kavanaugh through! Let’s not have any talk of someone else.

IT: It’s just chit-chat, Sarah. You don’t have to be so defensive.

SHS: I’m not defensive, Ivanka, I’m just trying to get him on the Court so he can ban abortion.

DTJr: I had a girlfriend once who had an abortion.

DJT: Which one? That skanky Westchester Jew you were dating?

IT: I, personally, love children, as long as they have nannies.

KC: I was molested once.

DTJr: Kimberley wants to go to Maui for Christmas but I told her it wouldn’t look good.

DJT: Where’s Mowee?

IT: Hawaii, Dad.

DJT: America owns that, don’t we? [all silent]

SHS: Anyway, there’s burgeoning pro-Kavanaugh sentiment in red districts. We can—

DJT: What if we use the new Presidential Alert to tell everyone to support Kavanaugh?

KC: We promised we wouldn’t use it for political purposes, Mr. President.

DJT: That wouldn’t be political, it would be [thinks] a public service announcement. [all silent]

IT: Could we use it to sell my Ivanka shoes? Like, 50% off if you call in the next 30 minutes?

KC: Do you have anything in a 5-1/2, Ivanka? Dressy-professional?

SHS: I was talking to Mrs. Kavanaugh and she said Brett’s been drinking more than usual from the stress.

DJT: I never had a drink in my life. A little coke, sure, but I stayed off the booze!

IT: Was that back in your Studio 54 days, Dad?

DJT: You know who was hot? Bianca Jagger. I tried to fuck her once.

SHS: Mr. President, please watch your language. Remember, we’re Christians.

DJT: But she passed out from Champagne, coke and Quaaludes. What was I supposed to do, perform a Kavanaugh? [all silent]

DTJr: Those must have been swell times, Dad.

DJT: You could do anything and get away with it. Not like today, with the failing New York Times.

SHS: People, we have a Supreme Court nomination to get through! Can we please stop talking about irrelevant things?

IT: Dad, could you help me get a million pounds of ground beef? I mean, like, tell your Farming Department to do it?

KC: America doesn’t have a Farming Department, Ivanka. Meat would be under the Justice Department.

SHS: No it wouldn’t, Kellyanne, it would be under the Agricultural Department.

KC: Justice.

SHS: Agricultural.

DTJr: Ladies, please!

IT: Whatever. But Dad, can you do it?

DJT: I’m President. I can do anything.

DTJr. Sis, why does it have to be hamburgers? Can’t you do something healthy?

IT: OMG Don Junior, you and your health obsession!

DTJr. Well, I have to watch my cholesterol.

KC: My husband does, too. You should see him trimming the fat off his steak. I tell him, “George, you—”

DJT: I can probably get you couple boxcars of chickens, sweetie. I’m tight with the Perdues.

KC: What would I do with boxcars of chickens?

IT: He’s talking to me, Kellyanne.

KC: Oh.

SHS: People, we have one day—one day!—to get Kavanaugh through. If we don’t, there’s likely to be more women.

DJT: I love women. Nobody loves women more than me.

IT: That’s my Dad!

DTJr. He’s my Dad too, Ivanka.

IT: Obviously. You have his receding chin.

DJT: I’m America’s Dad!

KC: So was Bill Cosby.

DJT: With all this talk about food, I’m getting hungry. Kellyanne, have the Secret Service get me four buckets of nuggets.

[suddenly, a knock on the door]

DJT: Come in.

[Enter Melania]

MT: Did I hear something about nuggets?

 


From the Personal Diary of Donald J. Trump

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They say I wander the halls of the White House at night, like Nixon’s ghost, muttering at paintings and shaking my fist.

Well, so what? A guy’s gotta let off a little steam every once in while. It used to be that I could have Cohen or Weisselberg or some other flunky round up a call girl for me so I could relax. Those were the good old days, Diary! That’s how I got together with that Stormy Daniels. She’s a POS now, but whew, when I was bedding her, she was hot! A real slut—my favorite kind. There was nothing she wouldn’t do for me—nothing. And that includes golden showers.

When I was first elected I didn’t know if the Secret Service would help me get girls, or not. I mean, I had to be careful, you know? You can’t just say to them, “Get me a prostitute.” So one day, a few weeks before my inauguration (the biggest ever, by the way!), I said to the head of my detail (I’ll call him “Bob”), “Bob, uh, does the president ever get any privacy?”

“What do you mean, Mr. President-elect?”

“You know, time alone—out of the spotlight—where not even my family or my aides know where I am or what I’m doing.”

“Well, Mr. President-elect, we can make that happen. We can make anything happen.”

“What if, uh—now, Bob, give me an honest answer—let’s say I wanted something that was, uh, out of the ordinary, and required a little discretion.”

“Do you mean, like, marijuana, Mr. President-elect? I’m sure we can arrange that. We did for President Clinton. Or cocaine? We occasionally helped President Bush out with that.”

“No, no, Paul, I don’t do drugs. I mean—”

“President Obama liked to slip out of the Residence at night and go to We the Pizza with his daughters, sir. He’d just walk in unannounced and they’d order a pepperoni pie and—”

“No, no, Paul, it has nothing to do with food. It’s—it’s, well, more personal than that.”

“I don’t understand, Sir.”

Well, Diary, “Bob” was too stupid to figure it out, so I had him replaced. And the next guy, “Al,” was a lot smarter. Every once in a while, he would get me a girl. See, Cohen would find them for me, and let “Al” know, and “Al” and his men could get them in to me, in Mar-a-Lago, or Bedminster, or the White House, wherever—even in Helsinki, believe it or not. But now that Cohen’s gone and Weisselberg’s AWOL, I have no one I can trust to get me girls. That’s why I’m frustrated.

Look, what’s wrong with a POTUS talking to paintings of presidents anyway? Those are my peers up there on the walls, for chrissake: Jackson, Washington, Lincoln, McKinley, Reagan—good Republicans. (I had the White House ushers take down Clinton’s and Obama’s pictures—didn’t want to see those losers’ faces every damn day.) I can imagine the fuss the fake news would make if they knew that. But they don’t, and they won’t, because my White House doesn’t leak.

I’m gonna get that failing New York Times, I guarantee it! Just you wait and see. Traitors. They committed treason by running that op-ed lie. And that “anonymous”—why, he’s declared war against the United States. Firing squad offense, and we’ll do it right in the Rose Garden, where I can watch from the Truman balcony, hopefully with some KFC and a hot babe. That will be a good day. As for that Jew, Woodward, it’s too bad Nixon didn’t take care of him, back in the day. Maybe, someday, I will.

Rudy just called. He’s worried about Don, Jr. All I can say is, if that sunovabitch Mueller tries to lay a glove on my namesake and oldest kid, I’ll…well, I’ll cross that bridge when it comes. Sometimes, Dear Diary, I get so pissed at all this fake news. These Demon-crats, led by the Clintons, they’re trying to get me any way they can: lies, smears, innuendoes. And that Obama. Man, why can’t these ex-presidents just shut up and play golf? I’ll tell you, Obama’s the worst president we ever had. He really messed up the Bush economy, which had been doing so well, and it’s only because of me that this amazing Recovery has been so successful. So, yeah, I know I’m venting, but like I said, sometimes a guy has to let off a little steam. If only I could get a girl up here, a nice porn star. Dammit.

 


Trump’s war on The Resistance is imperiling even bloggers like me

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Aug. 5, 2019 – As I write this, I am in fear for my freedom, even my life. I am in a hidden location; Trump’s gestapo–an army of Homeland Security and Breitbart thugs–could come for me any time, and haul me away, with no charges and no lawyer, to “rendition” me in a black site, as they already have hauled away so many other “Deep State enemies.” However, I will blog as long as I have to capacity to do so.

It is now eleven months since the New York Times “Anonymous” op-ed piece appeared, eleven months since Trump demanded that “his” Justice Department and “his” Attorney General, Sessions, identify and arrest the “traitor” who wrote the editorial. And ten months since the widespread arrests and disappearances began. Democrats and civil libertarians at first screamed bloody murder. Then they, too, began to vanish: a Senator on her way home from the gym, a Congresswoman who told her husband she’d be right back from a quick trip to the market and never returned, a Federal judge who went solo on a fishing trip and whose campsite was discovered, a week later, undisturbed, except for the fact that he was never found, a Washington Post reporter whose bicycle was found in Rock Creek Park, with his shattered glasses on the ground beside it.

Soon the press stropped writing about the disappearances, even the New York Times. Journalists were terrified of reprisals; publishers understood how difficult a vengeful, all-powerful regime could make their businesses, and their lives. And Mueller? There never was a report. It is amazing, in retrospect, how quickly, how thoroughly he faded from the news. Nobody knows where he is, or what happened to him. For that matter, nobody knows if Hillary Clinton or Obama still live, and are free: we have heard from neither in months. Well, certainly, somebody knows these things–the people behind the purge. But they aren’t saying. The important fact is that the Mueller investigation simply ended, not with a bang, or even a whimper, but with an eerie silence.

And the American people? As I say, those who cared were cowed into muteness. Those who didn’t care, still don’t. As long as they have their creature comforts, they’re content.

The Internet went dead for nearly four months. No Google, no social media, not even email. The government took care of that—how it was possible for them to anesthetize the entire World Wide Web, I have no idea. Overnight—this was in the winter of 2018, Dec. 28th, to be precise—we were plunged back into a pre-computer world. Oh, we still had computers: word processing, databases and all that. But that was it, until the government announced the “new Internet” in March. All domains had to be registered with the Justice Department. They were assigned a new “.fox” tag. The “news” could be found at news.fox. A reinvented twitter was at twitter.fox. It is surprising how easily people adapted to the new restrictions. Millennials, especially, seemed not to care.

There did remain television. The regime even allowed MSNBC to stay on the air, although, of course, some familiar faces disappeared. Did Rachel Maddow go back to Western Massachusetts, under house arrest? Was Chris Matthews free? Who knew? They let Brian Williams continue, but he became essentially the administration’s biggest fan. (I’ll never forget his broadside against Hillary Clinton, in which his guests were Alex Jones, Steve Bannon and Rush Limbaugh.) CNN too remained (or was allowed to remain), and even Wolf Blitzer. At the height of the crackdown, he’d disappeared for three weeks—the network said he was “on vacation.” When he reappeared, on a Monday night, he looked older, thinner, gaunt, his cheekbones sunken, his eyes puffy and watery, his shirt collar too big. But it was him, good old Wolf! And he reported the news in the same old matter-of-fact way: Trump spoke to a rapturous crowd in Terre Haute, Trump celebrated his anniversary with Melania, Trump this, Trump that, all the reportage favorable to the president. Congress continued to convene, absent, of course, the faces who were no longer there. One wondered if Pelosi were alive or dead. Adam Schiff was gone, Cory Booker was gone, Eric Swalwell was gone, ditto Durbin, Feinstein, Maxine Waters, Elizabeth Warren, and on and on. The administration found replacements for them, nominally Democrats, but all voted all the time for every Republican bill.

Had The Resistance been a dream?

Perhaps. I remember, or think I remember, joining it, proudly, in September, 2016, even before the election.  I remember fighting the regime with every ounce of strength I had, knowing that Trump would do exactly what he has done, the minute he had the power to do it. I suppose it was the confirmation of Kavanaugh that finally convinced him to make his move. He knew, and knows, that there is nothing anyone can do to stop him, now, because that was the deal he made with Kavanaugh: I will appoint you to your dream job, if you promise me you will not let me be indicted, or subpoenaed, or charged with any crime, or be impeached, and guarantee that I can pardon myself. And, Brett, just in case you’re thinking of making that promise, and then breaking it when you’re on the Court, consider this: I remain Commander-in-Chief of the Armed Forces and head of all the intelligence agencies of the United States, and you have two lovely daughters, Liza and Margaret, and your wonderful wife, Ashley.

It would not have been hard for Judge Kavanaugh to read between the lines.

And so I write, from this secret location. I have no idea if anyone will ever read these words. But still! A record must be kept, of truth, of fact, of accuracy and freedom. Someday, History—

Wait! There’s someone outside, banging on my door. I get up to answer. Gus looks up, startled. I–

 


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