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#Post#: 20759--------------------------------------------------
Incident At Mar a Lago
By: HOLLAND Date: December 2, 2018, 5:25 pm
---------------------------------------------------------
TOP SECRET
CONTROLLED PROGRAM INFORMATION --ACCESS LIST D
ENCODED GLYPHSCRIPT ONLY
THIS REPORT CANNOT BE PUT INTO ANY OTHER MEDIA FORM WITHOUT
CENTRAL ACCESS PERMISSION.
SCI/SCIF-POTOMAC
SCI/SCIF-PARKHAM
SCI/SCIF-CHEYENNE
SUMMARY REPORT 20180618
ARCHON DIRECTORATE
20180618-0255 0900GMT—BUNKER JOINT BASE ANDREWS
[1]GENERAL PROGRAM SECURITY STATUS IS UNCHANGED. PROGRAM
SECURITY HAS BEEN DETERMINED BY INTERNAL AFFAIRS TO BE SOUND.
EXTERNAL AFFAIRS REPORTS CONGRESSIONAL SECURITY AT CONDITION
YELLOW AND THAT WHITE HOUSE AND JUDICIARY SECURITY ARE AT
CONDITION GREEN (SEE ATTACHMENT FILE ONE).
[2-1]GROUP MIND POTOMAC CONFIRMS THAT THE MIND LOCK EMPLACED ON
PRESIDENT DONALD TRUMP BY PSION ADRIAN STEMPLE REMAINS SOUND.
GROUP MIND POTOMAC CONFIRMS THAT ITS SEALS ARE INTACT AND THAT
ITS FUNCTIONING DIAGNOSTICS ARE WITHIN PARAMETERS. THEY CONFIRM
THAT THE MIND LOCK IS NOT LEADING TO ANY FURTHER MENTAL
DETERIORATION OF THE PRESIDENT BUT IS, WITH SOME INTERRUPTION,
ALLOWING THE PRESIDENT’S EXISTENT DETERIORATION TO NATURALLY
PROCEED AT ITS NORMAL PACE.
[2-2]EVALUATION-TEAM EAST’S MAIN EVALUATION OF THE PRESIDENT’S
MENTAL STATE IS UNCHANGED. EVAL-TE HAS DETERMINED THAT THE
PRESIDENT IS SUFFERING MENTAL DETERIORATION IN THE FORM OF
EPISODIC AND PROGRESSIVE MILD DEMENTIA. THE DEMENTIA, IS
INTERFERING WITH HIS PRESIDENTIAL DUTIES AND HAS NOT REACHED A
POINT WHERE HE HAS REACHED A STATE WHERE HE MUST BE REMOVED FROM
OFFICE. CONFIRMED SIGNIFICANT BEHAVIORAL CHARACTERISTICS OF THE
PRESIDENT INCLUDE IMPRESSIONISTIC THINKING, PROBLEMS IN
CONCENTRATION AND FOCUSED ATTENTION, A DECLINE IN DISCURSIVE
THINKING, AN AVOIDANCE OF READING, WHICH INCLUDES IMPORTANT
PRESIDENTIAL BRIEFS AND PAPERS, AN INABILITY TO MAKE IMPORTANT
DECISIONS CONCERNING COMPLEX MATTERS, AVOIDANCE OF THE
RESPONSIBILITIES OF HIS OFFICE, AND SECRETIVE BEHAVIOR IN
PERSONAL MATTERS REGARDING INDISCRETIONS IN BOTH PERSONAL AND
PROFESSIONAL RELATIONSHIPS AND IN MATTERS OF FINANCE. REFERENCE
FOR THIS ARE FOUND IN THE LAST GIVEN REPORTS SUPPLIED BY LIASONS
FBI/CSS AND JCS/CSSE (SEE ATTACHMENT FILE TWO).
[3-1]THE ARCHON DIRECTORATE HAS DETERMINED THAT PSION ADRIAN
STEMPLE BE PERMITTED TO ENTER INTO HIS MEETING WITH THE
PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES. MR. STEMPLE DID NOT SOLICIT
THIS MEETING BUT IT HAS BEEN CONFIRMED THAT IT WAS CONTRIVED BY
THE PRESIDENT’S BODYGUARD, MILO DOUBEK WHO HAS UTTERED
STATEMENTS OF SIGNIFICANT HOSTILITY TOWARDS MR. STEMPLE.
EVAL-TE HAS DETERMINED MR. DOUBEK AS HAVING AN INCREASING
DETRIMENTAL INFLUENCE OVER THE PRESIDENT ENCOURAGING THE
PRESIDENT TOWARDS UNLAWFUL ACTIONS, ESPECIALLY THOSE ACTIONS
WHICH MAY INCLUDE VIOLENCE.
[3-2]THE DIRECTORATE HAS DETERMINED THAT PSION ADRIAN STEMPLE,
BECAUSE OF THE PERSONAL DANGER HE MAY EXPERIENCE, BE PERMITTED
TO CARRY WITHIN HIS PSIONIC TEMPLATE PARA-DIMENSIONAL KARG A
PREFECT ANALOG THAT CAN SUPPRESS THE ANTI-PSIONIC FIELD AROUND
THE PRESIDENT. THE DIRECTORATE HAS ALSO DETERMINED THAT MR.
STEMPLE MAY ONLY USE THE ANALOG FOR HIS OWN PERSONAL PROTECTION
BUT THAT HE IS NOT PERMITTED UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, USING THE
ANALOG, TO CAVITATE THE PROTECTIVE ANTI-PSIONIC FIELD WITHIN THE
IMMEDIATE PROXIMITY OF THE PRESIDENT (SEE ATTACHMENT FILE
THREE).
[3-3]THE ARCHON DIRCTORATE HAS DETERMINED THAT PSION ADRIAN
STEMPLE BE PERMITTED TO PROFESSIONALLY AND SOCIALLY SEPARATE
MILO DOUBEK FROM THE PRESIDENT BY ANY LAWFUL MEANS NECESSARY.
THE DIRECTORATE HAS DETERMINED THAT THE INFLUENCE MILO DOUBEK
HAS OVER THE PRESIDENT IS DESTRUCTIVE BOTH TO THE PRESIDENT AND
TO AMERICAN NATIONAL SECURITY. THE DIRECTORATE HAS DETERMINED
THAT A THIRD PARTY MUST UNDERTAKE THIS PROFESSIONAL AND SOCIAL
SEPARATION BECAUSE OF ITS SENSITIVE NATURE AND THAT THE USUAL
GOVERNMENT SECURITY PROCESSES HAVE BEEN DISABLED BY THIS
PRESIDENT (SEE ATTACHMENT FILE FOUR).
[3-4]IKORCENI PREFECTURE CENSOR ALLEN GREYBULL CONFIRMS REPORT
THAT WHEN PSION ADRIAN STEMPLE IS WITHIN PROXIMITY OF THE
PRESIDENT, THE MIND LOCK MENTALLY ENABLES THE PRESIDENT TO BE
MORE LUCID FOR PURPOSES OF CONTROL ENABLEMENT AND PRAXIS.
CENSOR GREYBULL ALSO REPORTS THAT THE PRESIDENT’S MIND IS MUCH
LIKE IT WAS IN THE 1980S BUT WITH THE USUAL AGE DIMINISHMENT IN
MEMORY AND DISCURSIVE THINKING. THIS CONDITION OF HEIGHTENED
LUCIDITY ON THE PART OF POTUS IS REPORTED AS TRANSITORY AND WILL
LAST AS LONG AS THIS PROXIMITY OCCURS. CENSOR GREYBULL HAS ALSO
ADVISED THAT IF THE MEETING LASTS LONGER THAN TWENTY MINUTES,
THE LUCIDITY WILL BEGIN TO FALL AWAY OF ITSELF AND THE MENTAL
DETERIORATION OF THE PRESIDENT WILL RESUME ITS USUAL COURSE.
CENSOR GREYBULL AND EVAL-TE BOTH STRESS THAT THE PRESIDENT’S
MENTAL DETERIORATION IS INEVITABLE AND WILL RESUME AFTER MR.
STEMPLE’S DEPARTURE. EVALUATION-TEAM EAST CONFIRMS THESE
ADVISEMENTS AND REPORTS THAT THIS HEIGHTENED LUCIDITY ON THE
PART OF THE PRESIDENT COULD BE A SECURITY DANGER GIVEN THE
PRESIDENT WILL BE MORE CAPABLE OF EXECUTIVE ACTION THAT COULD BE
DETRIMENTAL TO THE COUNTRY. EVAL-TE ADVISES THAT PSION ADRIAN
STEMPLE STRIVE TO LIMIT HIS TIME WITH THE PRESIDENT TO DECREASE
THIS POTENTIAL DANGER (SEE ATTACHMENT FILES TWO AND THREE).
[4]FBI/CSS AND JCS/CSSE REPORT NO INFORMATION SUPPLIED REGARDING
JUDICIAL INVESTIGATIONS CONCERNING THE PRESIDENT. DESPITE THIS,
AT THIS TIME, THE DIRECTORATE HAS DIRECTED OPERATIONAL PLAN
ANVIL TO BE ACTIVATED. DEPARTMENTAL ORDERS HAVE BEEN ISSUED AND
THE SECURITY LEVEL IS ENCODED RED. GIVEN THE POSSIBLITY THAT
THE PRESIDENT HAS BEEN COMPROMISED BY CRIMINAL ENTITIES AND/OR
FOREIGN GOVERNMENTS AND MAY NOT BE HIS OWN MASTER, THE EMPLACED
PROCEDURAL ACTIONS FOR SECURITY IN THE EVENT OF A MAJOR HOSTILE
PENETRATION OF GOVERNMENT ARE NOW CONSIDERED ACTIVE (SEE
ATTACHMENT FILE FIVE).
ATTACHMENTS:
FILE ONE:
FILE TWO:
POTUS
FILE THREE:
STEMPLE
FILE FOUR:
FILE FIVE:
INVESTIGATIONS/SECURITY REQUIREMENTS
GYPHSIGNATURES DIRECTORATE RECORDED BELOW
SECRETARY, FIRST ARCHON 19660318-SN227
DIRECTORATE CONFIRMS FINAL SUMMARY REPORT W/ATTACHMENTS
20180618-0255 10450GMT—BUNKER JOINT BASE ANDREWS
CONTROLLED PROGRAM INFORMATION - - ACCESS LIST D
TOP SECRET
#Post#: 20760--------------------------------------------------
Re: Incident At Mar a Lago
By: HOLLAND Date: December 2, 2018, 5:32 pm
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Lake Worth & Mar a Lago, Florida
July 2018
It was a beautiful summer morning in Lake Worth, Florida when
Mack sat down in his booth in the Willow Beach Restaurant to
have his morning breakfast which was a favorite of his: Eggs
Benedict with hollandaise sauce on top of a toasted and buttered
English muffin with a fatty, smoky, thinly sliced prosciutto,
garnished with slices of avocado. Mack had never eaten before
at Willow Beach. He had heard about it from some of the locals.
They had said that the food was good and Mack was not
disappointed. When he had taken his first bite he was satisfied
that he had found a premier delicatessen. The dish was delicate
and had a medley of delightful flavors.
Looking outside the windows in front of his booth, he was struck
by how very quiet the downtown of Lake Worth was this morning.
Few people were walking down the sidewalks that were visible
from the restaurant. Automobile traffic was light.
Psionically, all was quiet as well. Mentally, Mack had scanned
out to 1.5 meters, approximately a mile, and sensed little
mental activity of interest to him. He could hear the brain
pulsation of every mind within that area. When he would focus
on someone whose mind was open to hear, he could listen into
that person’s thinking. This morning, Mack had little cause to
do so. For many of the minds everything was well. There was
cheerfulness about the start of a new summer day. Businesses
were opening up and people were going about their usual morning
activities. He sensed that the police and emergency bands were
relatively quiet with most activity occurring further away in
the suburbs of Lake Worth.
Mack felt physically refreshed. Earlier, he had awakened after
a satisfying sleep, and had showered and dressed in his room at
the Diamond Palace Hotel on Marlborough Street, listening to the
morning piano music playing down in the lobby. He had requested
no maid service in the morning and was still listed as a guest
for the following night at the hotel though he had no intention
of returning. As far as the hotel would know, his room would
still be occupied which was part of his plan. He was not going
to return.
Mack reflected upon his plan’s clandestine preparation. After
his meeting with the President, he was going to lure the
President’s bodyguard Milo Doubek into Lake Worth and deal with
him there. It had been decided by the Archon Directorate that
it was important for Milo Doubek to be separated from his
employment with the President and had authorized Mack to do it.
The Prefect of the Star People had agreed to this determination.
Both the Archons and the Prefect believed that Milo Doubek was
too violent to remain in the presence of the President. Even
more, if he remained employed by the President, he would be a
source of temptation to draw the President into ordered acts of
violence.
Mack smiled at this. Though the President was drawn to
violence, he was more timid in respect to it. Bullies were that
way and Donald Trump was a bully. Both Donald Trump and Milo
Doubek were short-tempered and easily vented their anger. This
made them vulnerable. Important to the plan that Mack had in
his mind, Mack felt that Doubek could be easily led around by
his anger. There was some danger, though. Milo Doubek’s sense
of grievance, his vendetta against Mack was drawing the
President mentally into the buffered reaches of his mind lock.
There was some danger there. The Archons had expressed the fear
that the President could break the mind lock if his thoughts,
because of the vendetta, remained fixated upon Mack Stemple, the
actuary of the mind lock.
Mack had to be careful about this. He would be as clandestine
as possible in his dealings with Doubek and he would go to
ground after his visit with with the President at Mar a Lago.
He made the usual preparations earlier in his hotel room. After
refolding his clothes and closing up his luggage, he vectored
them into several of his personal para-dimensional kargs. He,
also, put into his psionic personal storage his Marley 9mm COP
four-barreled derringer. He, also, unlocked and cancelled the
pre-set hand position that he had to allow him to vector the
weapon into his hand at the at-ready status. He did not want to
risk a telementric pre-set being discovered by the Secret
Service. Mack wanted to present himself as much as possible as
being biologically normal just as he was entering the anti-psi
security area that surrounded Mar a Lago. He wanted no
questions asked about what may not seem psionically benign. The
Secret Service was granting him extraordinary permission to have
in his possession an active Prefect Analog within one of his
para-dimensional kargs, something that could nullify virtually
any anti-psionic defense around the President, should he decide
to flex its power outward at a given moment. That he was given
permission to carry the analog was revealing. It indicated how
much the American government trusted him and was determined to
protect the secrecy of the anti-psi program.
He ate his breakfast, enjoying the taste, texture and the color
of the hollandaise sauce and the egg yolk and white as it
spilled onto the brown of his English wheat muffin. As he was
finishing his meal, and after he received another cup of coffee
from the waitress, he mulled over his plan and decided that he
would go through with it as he originally planned. The street
cameras on Marlborough Street were known to him. They would
tell the story that he wanted and would provide the cover he
needed to end the security crisis both affecting American
security and the hidden existence of the Star People.
It was clear from all the American government security sources
that Milo Doubek was angry and was waiting for him. If Mack
wasn’t physically attacked at Mar a Lago, he would be in danger
of it shortly after. Milo Doubek’s anger was such that he would
follow Mack after Mack’s departure from Mar a Lago which was
something Mack had planned for.
If Milo Doubek was traveling to Lake Worth by himself, all would
be well. If he had a backup team, an apprehension team, that
would be different. Mack would have to deal with it. Their
presence could produce many variables about what would occur on
the street and affect the story Mack would be seeking to tell
through the street cameras. That means that Doubek’s backup
team had to be prevented from arriving to Marlborough Street.
He would have to disable them or the vehicles they were
traveling in. But this would be outside the usual range of
conventional psionic attacks even with the added abilities
derived through the Prefect Analog. That means he would have to
psionically picket the routes to Lake Worth.
How many cars and men would Milo Doubek have? Probably it would
be limited to the men he could trust. Most likely, he would
have three cars, with five or six men trusted to keep the needed
operational secrecy. It could be entirely possible that the men
would have connections to the Russian mafia. If he has the
President’s sympathy in an assault or apprehension operation, he
would have the needed access to any cash needed for the
operation. If not, Doubek would have to cut corners but would
still be able to do it with the associates he probably had.
Given that Mack had a hand in ruining Milo Doubek’s prior
wealthy employers and would be arguably a major cause for their
deaths, Doubek would likely be contemplating Mack’s murder. If
this is the case, Doubek would want to keep the number of his
operatives down. If Doubek should have other motives and is not
thinking about murder, he would use them for clandestine
observation or for an apprehension, if he was thinking of
turning Mack over to the Russian mafia. They would be there to
form a box around Mack whenever and where ever Mack is traveling
either on foot or by car. The size of the box would have to be
minimal, involving two cars. On whatever street Mack would be
traveling on, the two cars would remain unseen on different
streets, on either side of him, following his movements, with
the main car, most likely Doubek’s, behind him. If Mack was a
conventional human, they could apprehend him if they wanted to,
or enable Doubek to kill him at the opportune moment.
Mack quietly drank his coffee and looked out onto the street.
He watched as the morning breeze from the ocean caused the palm
branches and the flowers planted in some of the windows gently
sway.
It was just too many variables, Mack decided. Doubek’s backup
team would, undoubtedly, be ruthless and people in Lake Worth
would be in danger if it ever came to gunfire. He would have to
prevent Doubek’s possible backup team from arriving to
Marlborough Street, to the operational area. They and their
cars would have to be prevented from arriving. He would have to
use his psionics and set up mobile Picket AIs.
Mack mentally focused on his passive psionic scan of his
surroundings. It went out to 1.5 meters and Mack could conclude
that downtown Lake Worth remained quiet. He had vectored into
the downtown yesterday and was pleased that, after his
teleportation into Lake Worth, he discovered that there was
little street crime. Lake Worth was upper middle class and its
populace was not on the margin. Mack found that he didn’t need
to use his psionic abilities to their full capacity. He had 36
AIs, autonomous intellections, which allowed his mind to perform
multiple thoughts and actions at the same time. Some he used
for the continuous physical scan of the area around him. Others
were used for monitoring emergency and telephone communications
in his area. Not all of these AIs were in use. Some were
quiescent. Three would be needed for the psionic Picket
constructs.
Mack closed his eyes briefly and psionically creating the three
constructs, locking one of his AIs into each of them and
projecting them as independent existences to float and gently
revolve above the surface of his breakfast table. He opened his
eyes and observed that the Picket AIs were beautiful to behold,
each little more than the size of an American silver dollar.
Each visually appeared to Mack as small stellated dodecahedrons,
Kepler-Poinsot polyhedrons, which were non-convex regular
polyhedrons composed of 12 five-sided hedron faces with five
five-sided hedron faces meeting at each vertex, giving an
appearance suggestive of a star. They were light blue in color
in the visualization. This was the default form for their
construct.
These Picket AIs were single-use in their attack mode. They
were not stand-off, or stand-alone, attack platforms that
retained their existence while functioning a telepathic or
telekinetic attack. Stand-alone AIs were spherical in form.
These constructs expended their existence when used in an
attack. When they went into an attack, their star-like form
changed. In the attack form their stellations changed, where
all the stellations folded back into a form suggestive of a
spear or arrow point which, to Mack, was rather unnerving to
see.
There was no danger of others seeing what he had just done.
Normal humans could not see psionic constructs. How can a
normal human see another’s mental image apart from their own
minds? They can see only what they themselves may image in
their own minds. Since he had an active Prefect Analog, Mack
had restricted the visualization even further. No mentalist,
that is to say a telepath who lacked full psionic ability, and
would likely be a governmental agent, be able to see it or even
detect it at a certain distance. And there weren’t any
mentalists around to detect the pickets. After being eighteen
hours in downtown Lake Worth, Mack was confident that none were
present. Mack closed his eyes again and vectored the Picket AIs
to their assigned picket locations one meter apart and two
meters above the Interstate between Lake Worth and West Palm
Beach. They could redeploy if Mack wanted them to, and they
could attack in whatever manner Mack wished them to.
Mack finished his coffee and when the waitress came up, he paid
his bill and went outside. While he was creating and deploying
the Picket AIs, he heard another sound, a different brain
pulsation coming from within his scan area. It was coming from
an anti-psi mind, an aprator-like mind. The pulsation was
distinctive, a higher warbling pitch, which indicated that this
mind had a great potential to mental power. Mack went walking
up the street and down an avenue until he came to the source of
the sound. It was a young girl with her mother waiting on the
side of a street.
She was small, probably around twelve years old. She had dark
luminous hair and when she turned and looked briefly at Mack,
Mack could see that she had dark luminous intelligent eyes. She
looked at Mack with brief curiosity and then looked away. Her
mother, much taller, stood next to her, and seemed very
agitated. Every now and then, the mother looked at her watch
and down the street looking away from Mack. Mack smiled
inwardly. They were waiting for a ride.
The girl’s brain pulse indicated that she had the potential of
eventually become a very powerful “hearing” aprator for the
government, able to detect through a kind of hearing the brain
pulses of psionics such as himself within a distance of hearing
that could even reach to a distance of over a meter. The young
girl didn’t know it but she had a gift deeply coveted by the
governments of the world and it would make her wealthy and
eventual enable her to advance high within the government. She
didn’t realize it but she was being hunted by the government,
and when found, would soon be drafted into government service.
She might not like being a draftee, but they would make it
financially rewarding for her. Low-level mentalists in the
American government would be looking for people like her. They
would find her eventually in the sound of that brain pulse would
eventually become so loud that it could be heard miles away.
She looked at him again and their eyes met. She turned her head
quickly away and Mack could tell that the young girl was pleased
that he was looking at her. Mack knew that it was a young
girl’s pleasure that she was recognized as beautiful. She
reminded Mack of his first love, a girl named Kaitlyn, whom he
had met in Yakima, Washington, at Franklin Junior High School
nearly sixty years ago. At the time, both Kathleen and Mack
were twelve years old and were awkwardly trying to explore the
meaning of their feelings in respect to the opposite sex and to
each other.
The girl looked at him again and then quickly turned her head
away. Mack smiled again, outwardly. As with Kaitlyn, this
young Florida girl didn’t like the novelty of boys and men
looking at her. Most likely, she lacked confidence in her
looks. Mack marveled at how so many beautiful girls were
insecure about their looks, how they appeared to their
classmates. He mother turned to her and said something. Mack
could have listened in but didn’t. Soon a car came down the
street driven by a man, obviously the young girl’s father. Mack
watched as the mother and daughter got into the car and was
pleased to see that she kept her head averted from him as the
car went past him.
Kaitlyn was like that. She kept her head averted towards Mack
and eventually made known her rejection of Mack. It was a pity
that Mack was not able to get to know Kaitlyn. At the time a
psychiatrist, unknown to Mack, was seeking to put him under his
therapeutic control, and had warned Kaitlyn’s parents, and,
doubtlessly, Kaitlyn herself, that Mack, the strange new boy in
her life, was considered anti-social and that she shouldn’t have
anything to do with him. It had broken Mack’s heart. For many
years he was bewildered why she kept him at a distance. This
was before he had awakened to his psionic powers and before he
had met his preceptor, Allen Greybull. At that time, he began
to learn about his powers and prepared himself for the changes
that his powers would bring. It would be after many years that
the misery brought about by the psychiatrist would end.
Mack smiled. Kaitlyn was a gift from God, though, even though
she rejected him and he miserably lost her. She had brought him
such joy that she helped to make him live again in the darkest
of his days. Mack had learned under Greybull’s careful tutelage
that everything in life is a gift, even its misery if it’s
properly received. It was a hard lesson, but Kaitlyn,
unknowingly, helped him in all this. One cannot give up on
love. Love remains love even if, for some reason, it cannot be
reciprocated.
#Post#: 20761--------------------------------------------------
Re: Incident At Mar a Lago
By: HOLLAND Date: December 2, 2018, 5:34 pm
---------------------------------------------------------
As Mack walked back to Marlborough Street and to the Diamond
Palace Hotel, he had to wonder if President Trump ever fell in
love as a young twelve year old boy while he was in Junior High.
Probably not, as with so many of the young boys of the wealthy
who soon discovered sex apart from love during their early
premature sexual encounters with the hired help. It was common
for the young boys of the wealthy back in the 1960s to learn
about sex from a pretty maid. Back then, at the start of the
so-called Sexual Revolution, maids having sex with a ten to
twelve year old boy could and did occur more than people think.
It was likely that it happened to Trump. Certainly when Trump
was twelve, it was known that he was not looking for love from a
young girl. Even then he was known for looking for sex and
twelve year old girls couldn’t give it to him. Trump went for
the older girls and women. His mind was always on sex and it
would dominate him for most of his life. Did he find love back
then? Mack doubted it. From what he could learn from Trump’s
biography, love didn’t enter his life except in those few
instances where a sexual affair finally blossomed into a more
permanent relationship. Mack believed that Trump didn’t allow
himself to feel love. The disappointments of love went back to
the nightmares of his upbringing.
As Mack turned onto Marlborough Street he saw something that he
hadn’t seen for a while. It was a Rolls Royce stretch
limousine, a Silver Spur model. It was black in its color,
which struck Mack as strange. Most cars in Florida were silver
or white because of the prevalent heat. The chauffeur stood at
attention by the door. It was in front of the doors of a
tavern.
Mack sensed the movement of the tavern doors behind him and
sensed the brain pulses and the electromagnetic fields behind
him that indicated the forms of three persons. Two of the forms
were male, one was female. As Mack was turning he saw that it
was a middle aged man with a very young girl in a miniskirt. A
hulking bodyguard followed behind them.
“Get out of my way!” The rich man snapped.
Mack stepped aside and watched as the chauffeur opened the door
revealing two rows of plush tan leather seats one facing
forward, the other facing backward. There was a television set,
a liquor cabinet, and a refrigerator as far as Mack could see.
A middle-aged pot-bellied man brushed past him with a young
mini-skirted blonde girl. As he was helping her into the car,
it was easy to see that the man was old enough to be the girl’s
father.
“Stand back, sir.” The bodyguard’s face and bulk loomed in
front of him. The bodyguard was a tall man, tanned and bald,
over six feet three.
Mack stepped back as the wealthy man entered his Rolls. The
chauffeur closed the door and went around the vehicle to his
door. Then the chauffeur and the bodyguard got into the
vehicle. It backed up slightly and drove away as Mack marveled
the finery of a well-made hand-tooled luxury vehicle. The
vehicle had Palm Beach license plates.
Mack continued to his walk to the hotel. At the hotel he was
greeted by a desk clerk going off duty who told him that his
taxi company had called and said that that his ride would arrive
shortly. Mack thanked him and sat at the bench in front of the
hotel enjoying the sunlight and taking in the warm ocean breeze
until the black, Greenmall Taxi had arrived and Mack got in.
Mack had arranged the prior evening for a private hire fare
which allowed him to be taken directly to Mar a Lago at Palm
Beach. He had also carefully arranged with that company to have
a West Palm Beach Greenmall taxi provide him with another
private hire fare for his return trip to Lake Worth. That
particular arrangement would be critical to the operation that
he had planned regarding Milo Doubek.
As he got into the taxi, and sat down in the back seat, he
greeted his young, blonde driver, a strikingly beautiful woman
dressed as a chauffeur, and settled back to enjoy the ride. He
had a lot to think about.
As the taxi went up the Interstate towards Palm Beach, Mack
recalled out of his eidetic memory his memories of the place
and, in particular, the story that his friend Preston told him
about Trump and Mar a Lago.
From what Preston had said, when Trump became interested in the
property, it was controlled by the Post Foundation, who
administered it after the death of its original owner, Marjorie
Merriweather Post, who brilliantly developed her 128-room
property into a national landmark. When she died, she had left
the property to the government hoping that it would be used for
diplomatic purposes, but that dream wasn’t fulfilled. The
property, though magnificent, was expensive to operate and the
government wasn’t interested in buying it. Preston said that it
took a minimum of $3 million a year for operational expenses
back in the 1990s. Trump bought the property for $5 million and
put in another $3 million for the furnishings. Trump wanted it
for a winter home but he had to deal with that property’s steep
operational expenses.
Trump’s solution to this financial problem was creative. It was
to turn his newly purchased private home into a private club.
As a landmark and, arguably the finest Palm Beach property, it
had great potential for club use. Calling his members, ‘his
guests’, Trump decided that his club ‘guests’ would recoup the
operating expenses of Mar a Lago. When Preston heard of this,
he thought the plan was brilliant. Trump proceeded to do a
careful redesign of Mar a Lago to make it a club, restricting
access to those areas reserved only for his family. When the
Palm Beach town council heard about it, they didn’t like it.
They frowned upon the added people and traffic that it would
bring to Palm Beach on South Ocean Boulevard and set
restrictions on Trump’s new club after grudgingly approved of it
in 1995.
The town council imposed restrictions on membership, parking and
traffic. Only 500 people could join, and only 313 car trips
were allowed each day to the mansion. This forced Trump to
restrict the membership to 350 members. This angered Trump and
eventually entered a lawsuit concerning it claiming that the
town council had imposed the restrictions because Trump would
not discriminate against blacks and Jews as other exclusive Palm
Beach clubs. Trump won his lawsuit by the end of the 1990s.
Though he was stuck with the 500 person membership restriction,
he overcame the traffic and parking restrictions.
The Palm Beach elite didn’t like Trump. They found Trump’s
flashy public display of wealth and his flamboyance got on their
nerves. Though he bought, arguably, the finest property in Palm
Beach, he was still not welcome into their society. Trump never
gained membership into the Everglades and Beach and Tennis
Clubs. He was not A-list on the social register and was
excluded from the most exclusive balls and social functions of
‘the Season’, Palm Beach’s great circle of social activities
during the winter. He was not granted membership into the most
exclusive golf courses. Mack remembered his friend, Preston,
saying, rather dryly, the fact that ‘they resented Trump driving
a Lamborghini instead of the usual Rolls Royce, Bentley or
Jaguar’. This denial of entry continued even after Trump’s
accession to the Presidency. Over the years, Trump responded by
having his own charity events and balls at Mar a Lago in which
he invited the rich and famous. Trump also built his own
exclusive golf courses.
Mack continued in his thoughts until his young blonde driver,
dressed in her crisp chauffer’s suit, asked him if he was going
to see the President. He replied to her that he thought it
wouldn’t happen. He told Mack told her that Trump preferred
playing golf to the tedium of talking to ‘old men from Montana’
and so it was possible it could be cancelled. She smiled at
that.
Mar a Lago is truly iconic, Mack thought. Large sumptuous rooms
filled with exquisite furniture, costly chandeliers, expensive
marble and other stones, great windows with magnificent views of
the ocean and of the grounds, Mack considered that the pictures
in travel books and on the internet do little justice to the
beauty of the place. The way that Trump had arranged it, most
of the property was open to the members of his club. It was an
area larger than what most visitors would think would be open to
the public and club members. The restricted areas were
supposedly quite small. Only certain areas were exclusively
restricted to the Trump family. During Presidential visits,
club activities would, most likely, be severekt restricted, Mack
suspected. Given the rising security concerns, it was possible
that the entire property would be closed off when Trump was in
town.
Mack had been there before with Preston and Mrs. Callendar as
Preston’s special guest back in autumn 1998. Though as a guest,
he was not permitted to sit at the First Table where Trump and
his girlfriend at the time, Melania Knauss, who later became
Trump’s third wife, ate with Preston and his wife, and two other
couples. Mack sat at another dinner table a short distance
away, among those not considered the rich and famous. He had
dined very well and had an enjoyable time with a banker, and his
wife, from Boston, a rap star and his live-in girlfriend from
Hollywood, and two other couples.
They had dined on a nine-course meal which Trump had taken
especial care to please his guests. They first began with
lobster timbale accompanied by a 1994 Chateau Margaux Pavillon
Blanc, a white Bourdeaux. Mack considered the wine to be
intrusive to the taste of the lobster. Then came an
Armagnac-marinated foie gras layered between brioche slices,
then sautéed in butter and baked, topped with pan-seared foie
gras. This course was served with a Chardonnay, Courton
Charlemagne Diamond Jubilee, Remoissent, 1996. The third,
fourth and fifth courses were interesting and enjoyable: herb
crusted halibut, followed by oven-roasted loin of rabbit with
truffle flavored grits cake, followed by rack of lamb
Dijonnaise. These courses were accompanied by Eschezeaux Louis
Latour, 1993, a Pinot Noir. Mack considered the wine as
excellent and in keeping with the palate needed to enjoy the
courses. Next came crumbled Roquefort folded into a mousse of
whipped cream and whipped egg white, placed on top of a walnut
pastry crisp served with a port wine-poached fig and dried pear
chips. Mack stayed with the Pinot Noir. Finally the dessert
came, chocolate sponge cake with hazelnut cream, covered with
chocolate. Laurent-Perrier rose grand champagne from Gran Crus
vineyards followed. He later told Trump when he was brought
before him for a brief meeting and conversation that he had
dined very well saying that ‘Papa Stemple would have called it
all ‘mighty fine fixin’s’ and the cooks knew how to ‘put down a
good feed’’. Trump and the other guests within earshot laughed
at that.
That was twenty years ago and now it was shaping up, if the
recent news stories were confirmed to be correct, that Trump had
been spending ‘dark’ money to pay for it all. Mack had heard it
from some investigators that he knew in New York. It hadn’t
come out yet, but back then, Trump was rarely being lent money
for his financial ventures in the United States. Trump had
stiffed too many people, including banks by that time. It had
become well-known that he just was not a person keen on paying
his bills. His Atlantic City casinos were in a bad financial
state in 1998 and Trump was not getting any financial return
from them.
It was a good question where and how he was getting his money
apart from real estate. Mack wondered about this back in 1998
when he was sitting at that dinner table. Trump’s real estate
money flow doubtlessly didn’t pay for it all. It was well-known
that Trump made money from selling his name as a brand name.
That was one of the benefits of celebrity. That would have
added to his income, but could that plus the real estate be
enough? Mack didn’t think so at the time. The years have
passed and time went on, and the news in 2016 and 2017 of
financial ventures and schemes such as Trump University, that
had failed also, didn’t seem to change the nature of Trump’s
income stream. It could only be the alleged ‘dark money’ coming
from money laundering for organized crime and the likely common
practice of the wealthy to tax fraud that enabled Trump to get
the money he needed to live his lifestyle.
Curiously, you could call it, despite all the wealth, a form of
living on ‘the margin’. Many wealthy people did it. It
reminded Mack of his father, who called his living in a similar
manner a ‘hand to mouth existence’. Mack had heard over the
years from various people that Trump, in rare moments of truth,
referred to himself as ‘white trash’, the only difference was in
the amount of money he had. It, of course, could be observed
that the Trumps were trashy in their conduct.
There were other interesting things that happened back then.
After the dinner gathering with Trump at Mar a Lago, Mack
remembered Eric Trump passing by their table going to the Lake
Worth lagoon at the western edge of the property carrying a
fishing pole. It was after 10 pm in that autumn of 1999 and it
was beginning to turn dark. Trump called his son ‘honey’ and
kissed him on the cheek which Preston later told him that it
struck him and his wife as strange. They watched as Eric walked
off into the darkness to fish.
Mack understood Eric’s desire to fish. It was the desire to
connect with nature, to escape the artificiality of the life
with its many walls that confined him, hemming him in from what
life was really like and how it should be experienced. Mack
suspected that Eric Trump liked the idea of having a fish he had
caught, fileted and fried with his morning breakfast. Mack
liked the idea as well. The freshness of the fish did add to
its flavor. Eric had a variety of fish he could potentially
catch. The Lake Worth lagoon, from what Mack knew, had
Bluefish, Spanish mackerel and pompano. There was, also, the
likelihood of sea trout, snapper, snook, and baby tarpon. He
watched with complete sympathy the young man trudge away into
the darkness. As his taxi passed the palm trees and flowers on
the side of the road, it brought his mind back to the present.
That was long ago, thought Mack.
Trump had called himself and his family ‘white trash’. Moments
of truth like that from Trump were rare. Generally, he hid
himself behind the many lies he told. This was the great truth
about the Trumps given how tawdry they were. They didn’t have
class and they knew it very well, despite their wealth. They
displayed in a manner written large, the invariable truth that
morality, in the final sense, matters.
If you have no morals, in the final sense no actions that you
do, have any value even though you may seemingly gain in it
somehow. You may earn money and power but you don’t gain
critically in something else, you don’t gain in self-respect or
in the abiding respect from others. In the end where morality
is lacking true goodwill and affection are lacking as well.
Whatever respect you may have obtained is not based upon genuine
regard based on love. It would rather be based upon hatred,
upon fear, upon power only, and Trump and his family have a
great respect for power over goodwill. Since this respect is
based upon the veneer of power, it doesn’t last. When the power
is gone the respect behind it is gone as well. Also behind it,
Mack thought, is something else yet again. Behind it all is an
unacknowledged self-loathing.
For the Trumps, their existence is consumed in all this. It is
all hatred and self-hatred. Why tell the truth to people who do
not respect you? Of course, there is the prior question, if you
don’t tell the truth to people, isn’t it a fact that you don’t
respect the people that you are lying to? That is the way it is
with most people. Why should the Trumps be exempted from this
human characteristic in the matter of the truth? What it means
is something simple, because Trump lies to the American people
on such a vast scale, he really doesn’t respect them. In a
certain sense, he despises them.
Mack watched the palms swaying in the breeze that he could see
from the Interstate. He had heard that Trump still has the
respect of multitudes of people. Perhaps he does, but these
people are people who are fellow travelers in his lies, ‘white
trash’ who have a vested interest in furthering them. These are
the people who are filled with hatred towards those that they
perceive as their enemies. They were the ones that had
supported the Obama birther lie, that Obama not born in Hawaii
but rather in Kenya, and wasn’t rightfully President of the
United States. In fairness to Trump, Trump did not create these
liars but uses them politically. Mack reflected that little
does the ‘white trash’ realize that their hatred will get them
nowhere, that their supposed morality is only a pretence, and
that pretences destroy any basis for a dying way of life.
Hatred only begets further hatred in those that nurture it; and,
in the end morality, and, eventually, all religion is left
behind.
As the Greenmall Taxi driver steered the cab off the Interstate
ramp and went onto Southern Boulevard, Mack began to sense, in
the distance on the coast, the great anti-psi field, a dome of
power that would, ordinarily, suppress his psionic powers. As
they got closer, Mack could sense the form of a dome that was
positioned over Mar a Lago. Mack was thankful that he would not
be entirely vulnerable meeting with Trump this time. Mack
turned from his thoughts and looked into the rear-view mirror of
the taxi driver and observed that his attractive blonde driver
was scrutinizing him closely.
“Are you going to play golf with the President?” she asked.
“No,” Mack replied. “It’s not my kind of game.” He had to
smile at the thought of him striking a golf ball with a golf
club. Despite all his superiority in physical coordination over
a normal human, Mack figured that he would look ridiculous.
Mack’s blonde taxi drive smiled at that and turned her eyes back
to the road. Mack was quite confident that she didn’t have very
many fares to Mar a Lago. Most of the out-of-town traffic into
Palm Beach by habitual visitors would be by rented vehicles.
#Post#: 20762--------------------------------------------------
Re: Incident At Mar a Lago
By: HOLLAND Date: December 2, 2018, 5:38 pm
---------------------------------------------------------
Soon they arrived at the intersection of Southern Boulevard and
South Flagler Avenue where they both could see policemen and a
group of men in business suits, undoubtedly Secret Service
agents, behind a cement traffic block on the other side of the
intersection. The cement traffic block was meant to channel
traffic either to the immediate right or to the left of it and
to control traffic into Palm Beach and Mar a Lago. Mack watched
as his taxi driver skillfully wheeled her taxi to the right of
the block and went into a painted pavement lane behind it. The
men approached. The taxi driver unrolled her window and said
that she had a fare going to Mar a Lago. They asked to see her
ID. Then they asked Mack for his ID.
One of the Secret Service men asked him, “Do you have an
appointment with the President?”
“I do,” Mack replied. He took out of his inner windbreaker
pocket a White House letter and handed it to the Secret Service
agent.
The agent frowned while reading the letter and said, “We’re not
aware of this. Our instructions for this morning were that the
President was not going to have any visitors and would be
playing golf.”
Mack listened as the Secret Service agent directed the taxi
driver to proceed to the next checkpoint, the first parking lot
on Bingham Island. She was instructed to remain in the cab
until receiving instructions otherwise. She was advised that if
the appointment was confirmed she would leave her fare there and
depart by the same road she came in. If the appointment was not
confirmed, she was instructed to take him to another desired
location outside of Palm Beach.
When they arrived at Bingham Island, Mack was now under the
anti-psionic suppression field that was meant to protect the
President. Mack was now experiencing life as a norm without any
psionic abilities except for one critical exception. He could
sense the analog remaining active in one of his paradimensional
kargs that he could activate it as needed if he needed to make
active his psionic powers in case of an emergency. This, of
course, would cavitate the anti-psi field around him, freeing
him from it, and it would alert the Secret Service, who
maintained the suppression field. Mack hoped that it would be
completely unnecessary to activate the analog.
As they came up to Bingham Island’s first parking lot, which was
on the left of the highway, they could see that the Secret
Service had a number of parked cars and several tents set up for
their own men and for processing visitors for security. When
the taxi parked at their directions, only Mack was instructed to
get out of the car, hand over again his identification and the
White House letter. He was then instructed to follow the agents
into one of tents where he was asked to remove his shoes, his
belt, and empty his pockets.
Two agents, using hand-held metal detectors, slowly went over
his body until they were satisfied he wasn’t carrying anything
metallic. Others looked at his pocket contents. They noted the
small card wallet and the money clip with bills attached. They
seemed disturbed that he wasn’t carrying anything more, such as
a cell phone and asked him about it. ‘I left mine in my hotel
room,’ Mack replied to them. Other agents looked intently at
his shoes. For a moment, Mack wondered if they were going to
pry off the heels of the shoes. That they didn’t pleased Mack,
but their intensity surprised him.
As Mack was given back his possessions, he could hear one of the
agents talking crisply over his cell phone. ‘Adrian Stemple has
a letter but no appointment?’. After a short conversation, he
told Mack that ‘they will see you at the appointment time listed
in the letter.’ Mack nodded at that.
After his taxi was dismissed and a short wait in the tent by an
air conditioner, Mack heard the dull motor sound of several golf
carts arriving outside the tent. When Mack went outside with
the agents delegated to accompany him, he observed that they
were not golf carts but were several white Polaris Gem LSVs, low
speed vehicles that were commonly seen in Florida. Following
instructions from the agents, he got into the lead vehicle in
the front. Several agents got in behind him. Other agents
climbed into the LSV behind them.
Soon they were motoring up Southern Boulevard, crossing the
remaining bridge into Palm Beach. Soon they came to the main
entrance, the Mar a Lago southern club entrance on Southern
Boulevard. This was also the direct route to Trump’s domicile
on the property. It was also the main entrance for many of the
members of Trump's club. They had designated parking here along
with the Secret Service. The agents quickly parked and Mack
and the agents got out of the cart. Mack quickly surveyed the
pastel colored building in front of him. He enjoyed the smell
of Mar a Lago’s freshly cut lawn at the distant palms trees,
flower beds and ornate buildings. It was plain to see the
magnificence of the property and the exquisite sense of taste
and proportion that Marjorie Merriweather Post had put into the
buildings. They were little changed when he had last seen them
in 1999. Descriptions about them would do little justice
regarding them.
Passing through the Mar a Lago complex on the outside of the
buildings, walking a circuitous route of sidewalks, surrounded
by Secret Service agents, Mack finally stepped onto another
sidewalk and began to walk towards the private Trump family
entrance. The Trump family complex was a large white and tan
colored building with dark red ceramic roof tiling, that was set
apart from the main Mar a Lago complex. As they came up the
sidewalk alongside the building’s large tinted windows, next to
a garden with flowers and fountains, the men observed another
man stepping out of the shadows of a tree and some shrubs, a
hulking brute of a man with a Slavic face. It was Milo Doubek,
Trump’s bodyguard.
Doubek, undoubtedly violating security procedure, stepped into
the screen of Secret Service men and stood in front of Mack. He
said, “You’ve finally arrived and I can see now that you’re the
same **** **** loser that you’ve always been. You don’t look
tough. You may think that you’re something with all your fancy
martial arts, Stemple, but you’re nothing to fear. You’re
nothing without your weapons, your guns, your balisongs, your
spike-like shuriken, and your fancy kusari chains.”
“A kusari chain is actually called a manrikigusari, Mr. Doubek.”
Doubek shook his head in disgust. “You just talk too much,
Stemple. One of the days we’re going to have it out.” Then
Doubek grinned. “Maybe we should have it out right now,” he
said.
“Stop it, Milo,” the Secret Service agent said sharply. “This
man is here to see the President.”
“Don’t mess in my affairs, Jenkins,” snapped Doubek to the
Secret Service agent. “If you do, you’re sailing into waters
too deep for you. You don’t know what’s going on here.” To
Mack he said, “Now get your **** **** off the sidewalk so that a
man can walk by.”
Mack smiled faintly at that and stepped off the sidewalk.
Doubek took one step closer to Mack, with Jenkins, the senior
Secret Service agent, right behind him. “Just as I thought,”
said Doubek. “Without any weapons, there’s no manhood there.”
Grinning, he raised his fists into a fighting stance.
“Stop it, Milo! Don’t attack him!” bellowed Jenkins who quickly
stepped forward and behind the bodyguard and reached out his arm
to grab him.
Doubek grinned and, looking back over his shoulder, snapped his
right elbow back into Jenkins’ face. The man staggered back,
his face bloodied. As the other Secret Service agents stood
shocked, Mack observed that Doubek didn’t hit directly with the
elbow but several inches behind it. The man knew something
about fighting. As Jenkins fell, Doubek jerked his head back at
Mack, and, smiling triumphantly, swung at Mack with a right
punch.
Mack quickly stepped back and watched Doubek’s fist arc past
him. He’s too slow, thought Mack as he went into his own
fighting stance. Oddly, the man had struck at him from directly
in front and not from an oblique angle like he’s supposed to.
Doubek punched again, quicker with his left and Mack stepped
back. Doubek scowled and punched again with his right. Mack
then went onto the offense. He quickly turned his body and
stepped inside Doubek’s reach. Given that the man was so slow,
it was easy to do. Having stepped inside Doubek’s left side,
inside the bodyguard’s punch, Mack reached and grabbed Doubek’s
right wrist with his left hand, quickly pulling it to his left
hip. Then Mack placed his right foot inside Doubek’s right foot
and slammed an underhook under Doubek’s right arm, and pivoting,
placed Doubek behind him. Before Doubek could react
effectively, Mack, having locked Doubek’s arm, swiveled,
straightened and threw the struggling, hapless bodyguard over
his shoulder. The man crashed on the grass with a heavy thud.
Ordinarily, if this was meant to be lethal combat, Mack would
have finished him, killing him then and there, but he didn’t
need to. The once-shocked Secret Service agents swarmed over
the man, first immobilizing him, and then handcuffing him.
As he was hauled to his feet, Doubek roared, “This isn't ****
over yet, Stemple.”
Mack stepped over where the injured Secret Service agent lay on
the ground. His nose looked crushed and was bleeding badly.
One of the agents was on his cell phone calling for an
ambulance. Mack could see that the nose blow was potentially
very dangerous. If the nasal cartilage had been slammed up too
far into the skull, it could be a death wound.
More Secret Service agents arrived, including a senior agent
that Mack knew slightly, a man named Collins. The two men
nodded. Collins was quickly briefed about the situation and
became very angry. Despite Doubek protests, Collins placed the
bodyguard under arrest for felony assault upon a Federal
officer, and advised him of his Miranda rights.
As Doubek was led away, Collins said, “You’ll need to wait here
with these men while I report this to the President.”
As Collins hurried inside the building, Mack observed the
arrival of the ambulance. Having been advised of the situation,
the EMTs quickly got out a gurney and wheeled it up the sidewalk
to the fallen man. They rolled the man onto his side and
struggled to stop the man’s bleeding with gauze, bandages and a
cold pack. As far as Mack could tell, they worked brilliantly
in controlling the nosebleed that came out of his body. But
what of any internal bleeding? That is going to decide the
issue, ultimately.
Collins didn’t immediately return and Mack had to wonder about
that. Did the President know, or more importantly, acknowledge
Doubek’s hostility toward’s Mack? He looked beyond the fallen
man and the EMTs on the lawn towards the flowers and shrubs on
the edge of the lawn. The flowers were beautiful as they swayed
in the gentle ocean breese. He continued to watch the EMTs
struggling to control the bleeding of their patient, the hapless
Jenkins. After they seemed to have dealt with the bleeding,
they checked the fallen man’s vital signs and at a certain point
determined that he could be safely moved. They quickly loaded
him onto the gurney and then wheeled him out to the ambulance.
As the ambulance left, Mack heard a voice behind him. It was
Collins.
“The President will see you now.” Collins looked grim.
With the other Secret Service agents, Mack followed the senior
agent into the building, through an ornate foyer and then into a
large office with plush carpeting where the foot sank
noiselessly. The walls and carpeting in the room were various
shades of a light pastel green. In front of him was President
Trump, ringed by Secret Service agents, sitting at his large
mahogany desk. Behind him was a large Presidential portrait of
himself.
Mack paused and observed that to his left were overstuffed
chairs in front of an ornate gas fireplace. Mack had to wonder
who would use a fireplace in Florida. Further away to his left,
there was an open doorway to a hallway, and Mack noted more
Secret Service agents were standing there. There were other
costly paintings and tapestries on each of the walls. To the
President’s right and behind him, and to Mack’s left was another
doorway that led to the Presidential restroom. To the
President’s left and Mack’s right was the remaining wall to the
room, composed of large windows, from floor to ceiling.
#Post#: 20763--------------------------------------------------
Re: Incident At Mar a Lago
By: HOLLAND Date: December 2, 2018, 5:39 pm
---------------------------------------------------------
President Trump, sitting silently, was frowning at him. As Mack
could clearly see, from the large picture window directly to the
left of the President’s desk, President Trump had apparently
watched the whole incident as it occurred right outside his
window. Mack wondered, given Trump’s history of bullying, did
the President contrive this incident? Standing next to his
desk, another man, a balding, burly man, was holding a black
leather portfolio. Obviously, the man was a Presidential aide.
Mack smiled faintly.
Collins, with several of his Secret Service men, went up and
behind the Presidential desk. The burly man, holding the
portfolio, stepped forward and offered his hand. “I’m Gregory
Pond, the President’s aide, for this meeting.”
Mack shook his hand and mumbled the usual words of courtesy.
When the two men approached the President’s desk, Trump arose
from his chair and the two men shook hands. Trump motioned Mack
to be seated in the lone, bright yellow leather chair in front
of the desk. The remaining Secret Service men remained standing
silently behind him.
“That was impressive, Mr. Stemple on how you dealt with Mr.
Doubek,” said the Presidential aide. “I was in the Marines and
I’ve seen shoulder throws before. You could have killed him
quite easily when you had him down.”
Mack nodded.
Charles Pond smiled. “You took a chance with him. You didn’t
soften him up with a number of blows before throwing him. He
could’ve overpowered you after you grappled him.”
Mack shook his head, “No chance of that,” he said. “Back in the
Eighties and Nineties, when he was in his twenties and thirties,
he would have been faster, and more formidable. He is a
conventional street fighter, but he’s never acquired more
formal, systematic training in fighting. He’s now in his
fifties and is clearly ill-prepared and unconditioned. He’s way
too slow to be an effective bodyguard and is clearly untrained
on how to deal with an opponent grappling him. He only tried to
grapple back ineffectively when it was far too late to protect
him.”
Pond continued to smile. “It’s too bad that this has happened.
On behalf of the White House, Mr. Stemple, we offer you our full
apologies.”
Mack nodded. “It will be good to see the man tried for
assault,” he said. “The Secret Service has lost the services of
a fine man. Agent Jenkins of the Secret Service will need to
take time off to recover from his wounds.”
Trump interrupted, “Jenkin’s injury is a simple nose bleed.
There won’t be any criminal charges entered because of this
incident. I’ve ordered the Secret Service not to press
charges.”
The President and Mack Stemple stared at each other.
Mack continued, “That was a felony assault, Mr. President. It’s
not simply a matter of a nosebleed. Mr. Jenkins was given a
nearly fatal blow in the face. This is because a serious part
of his nose cartilage was rammed into his skull. In certain
circumstances that can be a fatal wound. Now if that man
dies--“
“He’s not going to die, Mr. Stemple.”
Mack stared at Trump; and, wondered again, did he really
understand what happened in this incident? Did he contrive this
incident? What was clear was that the President didn’t
understand the enormity of what had just happened.
Trump stared at Mack sternly, “This is not going to court and
you’re not going to tell anyone about this.” He said.
Mack shook his head. “That’s not possible, Mr. President. What
I’ve witnessed was a felony assault and if I receive a subpoena
concerning it, I can’t conceal the facts involving the matter.”
“We’re going to have you sign a non-disclosure agreement before
you leave,” snapped Gregory Pond. “And you will keep what has
happened here secret.” The Presidential aide was beginning to
look exasperated.
“No can do, Mr. Pond,” said Mack. “A non-disclosure agreement
is not legally binding in the face of a criminal matter.”
The President interrupted. “I DON’T CARE WHAT THE LAW SAYS,”
shouted Donald Trump. “I’M THE **** PRESIDENT AND I’M GIVING
YOU A PRESIDENTIAL ORDER. YOU’LL DO WHAT I SAY!”
“It’s not what you think, Mr. President.”
“SHUT UP!”
“It’s a matter of law, Mr. President.”
“DIDN’T YOU HEAR ME, LITTLE MAN? I’M GIVING THE **** ****
ORDERS AROUND HERE!”
The two men stared at each other until Trump finally looked
away. He was not used to people meeting his glare.
Speaking more quietly, Trump said, “You shouldn’t blame Milo
Doubek for hating you. He’s told me that you’ve destroyed two
of his prior employers.”
“Who are they, Mr. President?”
“They were Leonard Malcolm and Parker Simonsen. They were also
friends of mine.”
“I had fairly little to do with the death of those two men.
When I was hired by a lawyer, Arthur Bascom, in New York City in
October of 1998, to investigate a file that came into his
possession, he was murdered by a team of men employed by Leonard
Malcolm. It is true that Malcolm had hundreds of men chasing me
to obtain the file, but I didn’t kill any of them or him. He
was, in turn, hunted by the FBI who determined that there was
probable cause that he ordered the murder of Arthur Bascom.
Malcolm, it could be said, destroyed himself because of his many
murders. He tried to go to ground because he had a number of
safe houses. He was eventually found to have died of exposure
in a ditch outside of Ft. McLeod, Canada.
“Concerning Parker Simonsen, I did investigate crimes involving
him in Latin America during the 1990s. My work was not
considered definitive and did not replace the later FBI
investigations. As you probably know, he was brought down by
FBI investigations into his money laundering and gun running in
Latin America in the 1980s and 1990s. I did not have very much
to do with those investigations that were completed in 2014 and
2015. When the police came to his home to arrest him, he put a
gun to his mouth and pulled the trigger.”
“These men were friends of mine,” said the President. “Then
there was Howard Braddock. You came into his life, as well, and
now he’s dead too. He was a good friend of mine as well.”
Mack smiled again, faintly. “My brief moment with Braddock goes
back to November 1985. He tried to sexually assault a young
girl in Miami after drugging her. He had a reputation for
date-raping young girls.”
President Trump frowned. “I’ve heard about that. A lot of
talk, I think. To me, it’s little more than fake news. That’s
something, Mr. Stemple, that’s never been proven. What’s your
story about this?”
“The young girl’s brother was looking for her sister and I heard
about it. He was alarmed about her safety and I offered to help
him. We tracked Braddock and the girl to a hotel room. After
we entered the room, I surprised and knocked down his bodyguard
down and locked him in a closet at the same time the girl’s
brother confronted a highly chastened Mr. Braddock. It was this
girl’s brother who knocked him to the floor and bloodied his
nose. While the young girl’s brother carried his unconscious,
drugged sister out to his car, I watched Braddock to prevent him
from interfering with the young girl’s escape.
“Braddock was, of course, angry. He was angry that he’d been
knocked to the floor and his nose was bloodied. He was further
angry that I wouldn’t allow him to get up. He didn’t know the
girl’s name and was angry that anyone was making a fuss over a
girl who ‘didn’t count for anything’.
“What he didn’t know was that the girl’s brother was going to
drive her back home in North Carolina and would, from that
point, be out of his reach. He didn’t know that the brother
would take his sister across the Georgia line by morning. After
about five minutes, and some words, I left him and that motel
room and walked to a nearby bar.”
“What happened then?”
“Braddock followed me minus his bodyguard.”
“That sounds stupid,” interjected Gregory Pond.
“It was.” Mack smiled broadly. “Braddock, yelling profanity at
me, pulled a gun on me. To his surprise he was immediately
countered by seven off-duty police officers drawing their
weapons. Braddock, unwisely, had chosen to make his play within
a well-known Miami bar frequented by off-duty cops. This, of
course landed him in trouble. As he dropped his gun, he
couldn’t very well tell the police the reason why he was angry
and waving a gun around. He then told them that he had made a
mistake in the identity of the person that he was looking for,
and that he had pulled his gun on the wrong person. After some
further questioning, in his awkward flustering, he resumed his
profanity and turned his anger and foul language onto the cops.
He even tried to assault a few of them before they hauled him
away. ”
“That was very stupid,” admitted the President.
“He faced multiple charges because of the incident. I
understand that he was involved in litigation about the incident
for several years. He escaped punishment because of his sizable
investment in good lawyers.” Mack stopped smiling. “He was
later killed when his new bodyguard found him in bed with the
bodyguard’s even newer wife. He punished Braddock with a blow
to the back of the head with the butt-end of his over-sized
revolver. I understand, later on, that the bodyguard had gotten
off quite lightly.”
Trump seemed mollified but skeptical. “I knew all three of
those men,” said President Trump. “I’ve always thought of them
as good men.” Trump frowned. “I really don’t like the idea
that you became involved with them shortly before their deaths.”
“I’m not some kind of angel of death, Mr. President. You could
say that death followed those men until their time ran out. I
just happened to be around at the time of their demise.”
“I don’t like it that wealthy persons such as those men and me
are confronted by men of lesser quality. Milo Doubek was right,
I think, in raising the question of how and why you entered
their lives. True, he hated you, but there has to be some
reason for that hatred.”
“I tend to draw the hatred of evil men.”
Gregory Pond interrupted, “You have an interesting file, Mr.
Stemple. There’s not much to it. It’s lacking a lot of
information that one would ordinarily find in a government file.
What is interesting is what it doesn’t contain.”
“I can’t be expected to be held accountable for that.”
“Are you going to sign a non-disclosure agreement?” Trump
demanded.
“No.”
Pond frowned. “Perhaps after we’ve looked at your file, you
will,” he said.
Mack smiled. “I’d be happy to see what’s in that file. And I
would be happy to answer any questions you may have as long as
it doesn’t touch upon current classified matters.”
“AS PRESIDENT, I HAVE THE RIGHT TO SEE ANY CLASSIFIED MATERIAL
REGARDING ANYONE OR ANYTHING!” Trump bellowed, “WHO DO YOU ****
THINK I AM?”
Mack continued to smile. “You’re a man with secrets who has
much to fear and you know the players I’m talking about. I
know about your association with criminal organizations and we
both know what they’re capable of. Secrecy is meant to protect
you and your family.”
“You think that criminals would dare meddle in my affairs. That
sounds far-fetched, Mr. Stemple. Nobody is going to bother the
President of the United States.”
Mack smiled. “You can only hope for that,” he said.
#Post#: 20764--------------------------------------------------
Re: Incident At Mar a Lago
By: HOLLAND Date: December 2, 2018, 5:41 pm
---------------------------------------------------------
The men stared at each other uncomfortably and a silence
descended upon the Presidential office.
The President’s aide, Gregory Pond, broke the silence. “We
understand from your file, Mr. Stemple, that you’ve had a lot to
do with criminal cases involving the most lethal criminal
organizations. We can understand why they’re out for your
blood.”
Mack looked at the aide. He could see that that Pond was
temporizing, probably wanting to make sure that their meeting
would be productive. Mack suspected that Pond, likely, thought
that the meeting was pointless. He had to know that Mack could
have been interviewed by the FBI back in Montana for whatever
questions they had about his file. It was evident that the
meeting was pre-textual.
Trump scowled. “I’ve had no trouble with connected guys,
Stemple,” he said. “They don’t bother me when you get to know
them.”
Mack cut him off. “This isn’t Atlantic City, Mr. President.
Back then, you and the mob were in a series of joint ventures at
those casinos of yours. You and they had shared interests which
involved a lot of money. Back then, you could say you were
‘mobbed up’ as the expression goes. You had their protection.
“That’s not the way it is with the Latin American gangs and the
Russian mafia that I’ve been in contact with and you know it.
These mobs, as you know, are quite different and far more
ruthless. They have no abiding connection with you and they’d
as soon as kill you, and members of your family, if they thought
you had betrayed them for some reason, or if they could get back
at me for revenge.
“As you’ve probably read from my file, I’ve created an, as yet
undisclosed, secret interlocking matrix of circumstances which
has led to the shredding of much of their finances on a global
scale over the years. They would like to stop their recurring
financial losses. Since this involves a multiple of global
criminal organizations, there is a lot of pain going around and
a lot of anger. Just because you’re the President of the United
States, that’s not going to stop them from eventually coming
after you and your family. We’re talking about billions of
dollars here.”
“Those brief, enigmatic, incomplete reports do indicate that
you’ve done something big and that you’re potentially in a dire
situation,” Pond agreed.
Trump wasn’t buying it. “That sounds far-fetched, Stemple. I
really doubt that any mob or any group of connected guys would
want the heat that would come from attacking a prominent
American politician or his family.”
“This is not the same circumstances you remember, Mr. President.
I’ve cost them a lot of money and critical personnel and so
they’d like to get back at me, and all the other agents who’ve
helped make their lives short and miserable, in their many
factional disputes. They can clearly see your connection to
criminal organizations and will recognize that you are a part of
their world and not of the world of law. They will treat you
and your family accordingly.”
“You think that I’m a part of their world?” Trump smirked, his
eyes mocking as he leaned back in his chair.
Mack smiled faintly. “Are you a law-abiding citizen? Have you
done any money laundering or tax fraud recently? If you’ve
entered their world, and have been granted access to the
benefits they can offer you, you play by their rules. Their
world has its own laws and its own expectations of conduct and
secrecy. They can and do punish their own.”
Trump snapped forward in his chair, his face red with rage.
“WHO DO YOU **** THINK THAT I AM, DARING TO ACCUSE ME IN FRONT
OF WITNESSES OF TAX FRAUD AND MONEY LAUNDERING!”
“I’m just a plain man, Mr. President. I call it as I see it.”
“YOU DON’T HAVE ANY PROOF OF THIS!” shouted the President.
“For me it’s not a matter of proof at all. Certainly it’s that
way with the mob. They’re not concerned about proof. They
value silence, omerta as the American mafia called it. If they
think that you’ve betrayed them and are misusing the information
you have on them, you’ll pay for it. Don’t think it’s simple
vindictiveness. They have to set an example for all the others.
They need to have their law prevail so that they can conduct
business and make money in the manner that they’re accustomed.
They take a dim view of those that affect their ability to make
money. And, certainly, if they learn that you know about those
persons that have been making their lives miserable for the last
thirty years, and if they don’t have their way with you, they’ll
go out of their way to make sure you pay for it. Their tempers
are still boiling about the American agents who’ve made their
lives miserable.”
“That still sounds far-fetched.”
“You’re not a citizen of the outward world of law Mr. President,
a world of national and international law that has its rules and
its sense of honor. On that, on a certain level, they respect
it and will keep some hands off of it, but you’re a citizen of
their world. And that world of the lawless has its own laws.”
Mack paused. “You’re in their world of evil.”
Trump slouched back in his chair. “There you go again,” the
President muttered. “Coughing out that cheap moralizing like
life is some sort of Sunday School. You’ve done it for years,
you and your friend Preston Callendar. Only choke artists are
goody-goodies.”
“I’m just a plain man, Mr. President. I like using old
fashioned words like good and evil and that a man’s word is his
bond.”
The President’s aide, Gregory Pond, then spoke. “You’re not
just a plain man, Mr. Stemple. You’re here because we have
questions about your personnel file.” Pond opened his portfolio
and looked down at the pages attached in it. He said, “You’ve
worked some 46 years, in some capacity for the government.
Though Milo Doubek hates you, it seems that your file
information about it that would cause any investigator to ask
questions.”
“I don’t see why.”
“In 46 years you’ve never rose beyond the GSA ranking of GSA-9.
And you were never paid the equivalent salary for that rank.”
“Call it lack of ambition.”
Gregory Pond smiled at that. Mack smiled inwardly as well.
Both men had met highly ambitious people in their line of work
in DC and both knew perfectly well that this lack of ambition
was atypical.
Pond continued, “You were born in Yakima, in the State of
Washington on April 4, 1947. Your father was an electrician and
your mother was a homemaker. You attended Dwight Eisenhower
High School and graduated on June 3, 1965.
“Your grandparents lived in Lewistown, Montana and you spent
many happy summers there. You hiked and fished extensively.
From what your file says you got to know the Big Snowy Mountains
quite well. You were adventurous. Even when you were very
young, when you were nine years old, you walked the miles of
steep trails to Knife Blade Ridge and Greathouse Peak above the
clouds, and you did it alone. When the time came for Selective
Service, the file has a big surprise. You weren’t immediately
drafted into military service and shipped off to Vietnam like so
many young men. It was different for you.”
“So how it goes.”
“So it does, Mr. Stemple.” Gregory Pond paused. “That’s when
your personnel file starts to become odd, very odd indeed. You
received a special military assignment. With your voluntary
enrollment letters to Selective Service and your congressional
representatives, asking for special assignment, it was
immediately granted to you, despite the lack of any training on
your part.”
“Perhaps they thought I’d be a quick study.”
Pond looked at Mack in disbelief and continued, “In November
1965, and your initial orders, you were enrolled into a secret
program of the Defense Intelligence Agency called Project
BROADSHIELD as a GSA-8. This was a secret program of utilizing
some draft-eligible men as military policemen. There is no
record of your testing for the General Services Administration.
There is no record of your DOD training. You weren’t going to
serve as any other citizen who was to serve their military
service at the time. You simply had it written in your record
that such training was waived. Your file indicates that not
everyone in DOD thought this was okay. General Carpenter of the
USMC had it recorded in a letter that he didn’t like it,
initially, but that you passed the Marine Corps training
standards in the ten days that you were assigned to Camp
Pendleton.”
“He just wanted to make it sure that I was up to the marching
and saluting and the cleaning of latrines.”
Pond chuckled at that but Trump scowled, “Grown men playing
soldier . . .” Trump said.
Pond, frowning briefly at that, returned to his file. He
continued, “Through the DIA, you were assigned initially to the
U.S. Air Force as a Second Lieutenant, a rank equivalent to your
GSA ranking. Your orders were cut for you to report to Offutt
AFB and to report to Colonel Vossler. You worked in the Air
Force’s Office of Special Investigations, working some nine drug
investigations and two murders for that service working on a
variety of different Air Force bases and locations. You served
with them from December 1965 until March 1967.
“You then received new orders informing you to report to General
Nielson at Fort Bragg. At that point, you took off your Air
Force uniform and donned U.S. Army olive green and reported to
Fort Bragg as a Warrant Officer, the equivalent of your GSA
ranking. You worked in the Army’s Criminal Investigations
Division under Colonel Kirkham for two years, from March 1967 to
March 1969. You worked seven drug investigations and four
murders for that service. Your investigations went over the
entire country, and you did much that impressed the FBI when
they were brought into those investigations.”
Trump shook his head. “Another **** law and order creep . . .”
he muttered.
Gregory Pond, annoyed, looked briefly back at the President.
Mack looked at the impassive faces of the Secret Service men
guarding the President. Despite that impassivity, Mack
suspected that they were annoyed as well.
Mack turned his head back to the Presidential aide and said,
“They had it all wrong. Being I’m too independent, I wasn’t
Bureau material. I doubt that I could’ve passed the FBI
entrance examination.”
“Perhaps that’s so, Mr. Stemple. You would’ve needed a
university degree to get into the Bureau and you don’t have
one,” responded the aide.
“It’s just that I’m a plain man, Mr. Pond, just plain folks at
bottom.”
“Get on with this, Gregory,” the President grumbled. “And
continue giving us only the high points.”
“Yes, Mr. President.” Gregory looked back at Mack and said,
“You went to Vietnam from late December 1967 to March 1968
during the TET Offensive, and participated in Operation KRAKEN.
In the non-classified report in your file, it indicates that
you and your Army squad killed a Russian national in the jungle
outside of Saigon who was codenamed KRAKEN in the operation.
You were involved in four fire-fights during the investigation.”
“Much to my regret.”
“Indeed. Your file doesn’t have much to say about this
incident, but there were more letters of commendation entered
into your file after you’d returned State-side. In July 1968
you were increased in rank to GSA-9. In that rank you were
still classed as a Warrant Officer. In March 1969, orders were
cut again and you were assigned to the U.S. Navy, with the Naval
Investigative Service, under Commander Britton; your duty
station being U.S. Naval Station San Diego. At that time you
now had a Navy Warrant Officer rating. You worked another seven
drug investigations and two murders. That was your last
assigned duty station until you left Project BROADSHIELD in
December 1971. Unlike a conventional draftee, you served six
years. You didn’t win any medals for valor. You did not
advance in GSA grade beyond GSA-9.”
“Such was my lackluster career.”
“Don’t offend my intelligence, Mr. Stemple. You are much more
efficient than your file seems to imply. Your pay records
indicate that you were never paid in any manner corresponding to
your GSA rating. You were only paid annually $3,000 a year as a
GSA-8 and $3,500 a year as a GSA-9.”
“Such is my woe, to be taken advantage of.”
“You left military service under Project BROADSHIELD but your
personnel file continues nevertheless. Several security
investigations reported that you met a young woman, Calanthe
Poulain, when you were in Seattle, in May 1971. You were
married in Gig Harbor, in August 1973. You were married for ten
years. You lived in Port Townsend, and later, Everett,
Washington, working as an officer on a small commercial fishing
boat. She worked as an elementary school teacher. She was
known for her kindness and religious devotion. One of those
reports indicated that she died in a traffic accident in August
1983. You never remarried.”
“Callie was a remarkable woman.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Get on with it,” muttered Trump.
#Post#: 20765--------------------------------------------------
Re: Incident At Mar a Lago
By: HOLLAND Date: December 2, 2018, 5:42 pm
---------------------------------------------------------
“In June 1985, Mr. Stemple, you began your work as a contract
agent for the FBI in conjunction with the US Marshal Service as
a contract agent with no GSA rating, serving as an advisor to
them concerning investigative issues. You did this until your
final separation of service from them in June, 2015. You worked
two or three investigations a year, completing a total
participation in 77 investigations during your employment
period. According to these reports, though the credit was
largely given to FBI agents, much of your work was critical.
Your file is filled with significant letters of commendation.
Your personnel file reports that you are now fully retired but
not likely to draw Social Security. I am struck by the
emotional intensity of many of those letters of commendations
and reports concerning your part involving the various criminal
investigations that you were a part of.”
“So you see, Mr. Pond, my file’s nothing to worry about. But if
you look at those letters, other people had completed more
critical accomplishments needed to bring those investigations to
a successful conclusion. My work was not that important.
Actually it’s more lackluster. It’s just another lackluster
file about a lackluster contract agent.”
“NO IT ISN’T!” Trump bellowed. “WHO THE HELL DO THINK YOU ARE!
WHO, IN THE DEVIL, WORKS FOR WAGES AT THE POVERTY LEVEL?”
Mack smiled at the President, “I guess I did,” Mack confessed
sheepishly. “I guess I was taken advantage of.”
“No, Mr. Stemple.” Pond interrupted. “Don’t offend our
intelligence. The record is very clear about your great
competence, and that, despite your completing a series of very
high risk investigations against highly placed criminals and
organized crime families you’ve received very little in
recognition or remuneration for it. This lack of proper
remuneration leads us to think that there is either something
wrong with your income or that there is a problem with your file
as well.”
Mack smiled. “I’m sure you can see that, in the file, as a
low-level contract agent I was paid routinely out of the
operational funds of the department itself and that these funds
were tax exempt. I’ve filed taxes every year despite that and
not having a legal requirement to do so.”
“You have been careful to file taxes, Mr. Stemple, but your
remuneration is still very odd. Given that you were paid out of
operational funds only, in a sense, you lacked, because of the
payment status, the more formal status that is typical of a
contract agent. You were listed and described as a contract
agent, but your payments that you received seem to deny it. You
were paid as if you were some small-time informer of the Bureau,
one who is to be paid or discarded very casually. All this is
very odd and it doesn’t explain the small amounts that you were
paid. We know, Mr. Stemple, but we cannot see how one can live
for decades on the small pittances of money that you’ve
received. Also, we don’t know where you live. From what we can
tell, you’ve possibly been living out of safe-houses
operationally maintained by the U.S. Marshal Service for its
witness protection program.”
“Now there’s your answer about my many residences; and I’ve also
scrounged for money in various ways.”
“You found that money in the black economy, Mr. Stemple?”
“Yes.”
Pond frowned at Mack. “In your file, your connection with the
black economy was raised, because there was a reported rumor
that you liked to knock over drug houses, stealing drug gang
money and guns. It was reported that you liked to call these
drug houses ‘your banks’, where you could get some ‘folding
money’ when you occasionally needed it.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Pond, but I’m not responsible for any rumors
coming out of the FBI.”
“You’ve lived your life very dangerously, Mr. Stemple. It takes
a brave man to go into a hostile neighborhood and knock off a
drug house for their money and guns. The reports offers no
particulars but lists about fourteen different drug houses where
the money and guns were pilfered by unknown persons, causing
some nine major gang wars. The information available indicates
that these seizures of drug money were huge. What makes the
report intriguing is that there are no reported deaths or
criminal incidents involving these burglaries. The burglar or
burglars came and went from the houses like ghosts.”
“That’s all just rumor, Mr. Pond; and, besides, I’m afraid of
ghosts.”
Pond looked unconvinced. “You seem to be quietly living off of
tax-free income for a long time, Mr. Stemple. We have to ask
questions. We have to ask how you’ve supplemented you income
over the years.”
“It’s with plain living and high thinking, Mr. Pond.”
“You’ve allegedly lived off the government expense, using a
number of WITSEC’s safe houses as your listed places of
residence; or, as it seems, by the address that you put in as a
physical address for the post office boxes that you’ve had.
There are, also, a number of reports that some of these safe
houses are not real but merely notional residences. If you are
using these safe houses, another question comes up. Aren’t the
use of these safe houses some sort of off the books payment in
kind to you?”
“No.”
“Are you living in the Fort Benton, Montana safe house?”
“No. Actually the address is notional. The apartment exists
but I don’t live there. It only exits as a legal address for
government purposes for me. The address is meant to serve as
misdirection for the people who may be hunting me.”
“You’re acting like a nebbish, muttered Trump.
“That’s Yiddish,” said Mack.
“It is,” said the President. “As you probably know, I salt my
speech at times with Yiddish. It’s like I said: I know words.
I have the best words.”
“Nit alts vos men veyst meg menzogn.”
The President frowned. “What does that mean, Stemple?”
“It means ‘not everything one knows must be told’.”
The President nodded approvingly, “I agree with that,” he said.
“I can agree that there is the need for people to keep secrets.
No one questions that.” Mack frowned. “So you believe that you
know words?”
“I do, certainly far better than you, Stemple. I got an
education remember? You failed to get a degree.”
Mack ignored the insult. “So you say that you have a developed
vocabulary, then.”
“I do.”
“Then you shouldn’t oppilate, anymore, regarding the Russian
investigations.”
“I suppose you mean obstruct.”
“I do. You seem to lack the ability to accept the inevitable
objurgation in respect to it.”
“What in hell does that mean, Stemple?”
“It’s the ability to accept any rebukes for your obstructive
misbehavior.”
“That’s just simply a cheap moralism, Stemple, an insignificant
loser’s religiosity.”
Mack shook his head. “It’s a matter of law, Mr. President, this
matter of obstruction. All you’re doing is offering
tergiversation.”
“Stop that!”
“Don’t you know that word?”
“Why the hell should I?”
“Now you’re offering more evagation, Mr. President. It seems
that you can’t take the increpation you like to dish out.”
“Shut up!”
Mack heard a faint cell phone buzzing and watched as the Senior
Secret Service agent, Collins, take out his cell phone and look
at a text message. As he was standing behind Trump, he leaned
forward and whispered something into his ear.
Trump announced to the assembled Secret Service agents, “Todd
Jenkins, the Secret Service agent, has been admitted to hospital
for observation.” The President had the anger come back into
his eyes and he looked defiantly at Mack.
Mack returned his angry look with a sharpness of his own. “Then
my observation is correct, Mr. President. The man was severely
injured.”
Trump scowled, “This isn’t a big deal, this man’s injuries.
It’s only a simple nose bleed. And before this meeting is
through, you’re going to be signing that nondisclosure
agreement.”
Mack shook his head. “No can do, Mr. President. Not at this
point. Not by a long shot. I’ve seen Milo Doubek being cuffed.
Now he needs to be arrested and charged for felony assault.
Nothing less will do.”
“No, Stemple. I won’t have a good man charged for causing a
simple nosebleed.”
“He assaulted a Federal officer.”
Trump leaned forward in his chair and bellowed, “YOU ****
ASSAULTED MY BODYGUARD, MR. STEMPLE! I SHOULD HAVE HAD YOU
ARRESTED FOR THAT, DAMN YOU!”
Mack shook his head, his eyes still sharply on the President.
“No sir. I didn’t assault your bodyguard. As the security
cameras will disclose, and as these Secret Service agents will
testify, I never punched back at Milo Doubek. I simply grappled
him and threw him to the ground after evading his punches to
enable an easy arrest by the Secret Service.
“Milo Doubek continued his felony assault resisting arrest. He
did try to strike at the Secret Service agents trying to subdue
him on the ground. The security cameras will clearly show that
he was resisting arrest.”
“That is why you never punched him before grappling him,” said
Gregory Pond softly. “You didn’t want to leave yourself open to
the charge of assault, of being either the aggressor or of
someone involved in a fight.”
“Precisely,” said Mack.
Trump exploded and his eyes had a look that Mack had never seen
before. “DAMMIT! DAMN IT ALL!” the President leaped up out of
his chair, his eyes ablaze, and slammed a gray leather
portfolio, that was on his desk in front of him, onto the floor
in front of Mack. The assembled Secret Service agents and the
Presidential aide, Gregory Pond, looked shocked and said
nothing.
Mack said quietly, “Calm down, Mr. President.” He said. “We
can talk this out but you have little to negotiate. I could
report Milo Doubek’s assault against me to the Justice
Department or, if need be, to the local police. I’m not going
to let this pass by. You’d better arrest him soon.”
Trump didn’t reply. His face was flushed, showing a bright red,
his body was trembling slightly, his smoldering eyes remained
fixed on Mack.
If looks could kill, thought Mack. It was now time to start
pressing him. “You will not escape the scandal and the
political consequences that will result from it so you’d better
get used to the idea of getting ahead of this scandal instead of
trying to hide and later be found failing miserably about trying
to hide it.”
THAT’S NOT **** POSSIBLE!” bellowed President Trump. “IT’S NOT
GOING TO HAPPEN AND I’M NOT GOING TO HAVE HIM ARRESTED!”
Mack continued calmly. “There are too many witnesses to this,
Mr. President. You can’t possibly keep this hidden. And you
don’t have any options. If you don’t have that man arrested, I
will make sure that he is arrested. I’ll report the incident
and he will be arrested for probable cause for felony assault.
I’m really firm upon this and this is not negotiable.”
As the President glared at him, Mack turned his eyes to the
Presidential aide. Now it was time to set the knives deep.
“There is probably more to this incident than what meets the
eye. Did Milo Doubek do this on his own volition? Or did he
have it suggested to him by someone else? Was the attack on
Agent Todd Perkins deliberate or did he do it out of passion?
And the biggest question of all: what will Milo Doubek say to
the authorities after he’s been arrested or questioned
concerning this issue?”
Pond didn’t answer that and Mack had nothing further to say. As
he looked back at the President, he could see that Donald Trump
looked aghast, very much surprised by the question. There was
fear in them.
Then the President’s eyes quickly became ablaze in anger again,
his reddish face became even more crimson. He started shaking
where he stood. Forming fists, he slammed his fists onto the
desk and shouted, “I WILL NOT STAND FOR THIS!”
#Post#: 20766--------------------------------------------------
Re: Incident At Mar a Lago
By: HOLLAND Date: December 2, 2018, 5:44 pm
---------------------------------------------------------
The room remained quiet, as the men watched the struggle in the
President’s face, where the President strove to gain
self-control. They watched as his body ceased to tremble and
the anger gradually fade from his eyes, and the redness fade
from his face. They were relieved when the President, his face
flushed red, sighed and finally sat down.
He can’t win some battles, thought Mack. And he can’t win this
one. If only he could stop his continual nonsense.
At that moment, a Secret Service agent came forward and picked
up the portfolio that was on the floor and put it on the
President’s desk.
The sharpness went out of the President’s eyes. He looked at
Mack and then muttered, “How long have we been acquaintances,
Stemple?”
“It’s been some 38 years.”
“Our mutual friend, Preston Callender, swears by you. He
declares that you are one of his most loyal friends.”
“I suppose I am.”
“I’m having trouble remembering. When was the time that we had
our first, direct meeting.”
“That was in September of 1981. Preston asked me to meet with
you at Restaurante Courbet to talk about Atlantic City and the
mob.”
“I remember it. I remember you telling me that Preston didn’t
want me to be either building or investing in those casinos in
Atlantic City.” Trump frowned and shook his head in disgust.
“That was naïve of him, Stemple.”
“He only wanted to prevent you, Mr. President, from any further
unnecessary contact with the mob. He was afraid that if you
bring them on as financial partners, you’d be entering into
their world and they will from that point on expect your
compliance to their rules and their world of fear.”
“That’s still naïve of him, Stemple. How can you do any kind of
real estate in New York without some connections with the mob?
His advice was idiotic.”
“As your friend, he was trying to protect you, Mr. President.
As I said at the time, over that dinner, over Courbet’s famous
pork cutlets, I advised you to preserve your independence, to
keep your contacts with the mob to a minimum.”
Trump contemplated Mack. His anger faded. “You’ve known
Preston for a long time.” He said finally.
“That’s correct, since the late 1970s.”
“And our meeting at Rusterman’s or, rather, Restaurante Courbet
was in September 1981?”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“That was at the time you were supposedly in Everett,
Washington, working on a fishing boat.”
“I would, occasionally, visit Preston and Mrs. Callendar during
that time. And as my file shows I did some work for the
government during the off-season and during those days when our
ship was laid up in harbor.”
“Your file indicates that,” said Gregory Pond. “Curiously, the
Information regarding governmental work at that time is missing
in your file.”
“It was pro bono and of brief assistance, merely, so it was
completely off the books.”
Trump smiled faintly, “You’re mighty generous in your poverty by
providing free labor to the government.”
“Though the world is a cold place to the very poor, my love of
country keeps me warm.”
Trump snapped, “Don’t you get smart with me, Stemple.”
“I’m not being smart. You’ve went to Fordham and later to
Wharton. I went to the University of Montana and didn’t obtain
a degree.” Mack paused. “Let’s be frank about why I’m here.
I’m here not because of questions about my file. I’m here
because of Milo Doubek’s vendetta against me because of my
supposed destruction of his prior employers and your friends,
the very wealthy Leonard Malcom and the lesser wealthy Parker
Simonsen. I suppose I’m facing here the sorry fact that he’s
caught you up into his vendetta and that he’s been playing you,
leading you around by the nose to get what he wants.”
Gregory Pond snapped, “We have legitimate questions regarding
your file, Mr. Stemple!”
“It is quite evident that at this point that you don’t have
anything. If you do, then turn it over to the Inspector General
of the Justice Department,” answered Mack. “There’s no harm in
following DOJ guidelines regarding questions regarding possible
security violations and malfeasance discovered in current or
non-active government personnel records. They’re quite
competent and thorough in their investigations.”
“I don’t trust them,” said Trump. “And neither should you.”
“I’ve worked, Mr. President, as a contract agent. By necessity,
I’ve worked in the shadow of things on the border of the law.
I’ve always understood the necessity of never crossing that
border and becoming lawless. I cannot, because of who I was
back then do anything that could taint evidence. I do admit
that I’m a person that other people have to wonder about. But
I’m a man who’s faced serious dangers and so you can’t expect my
record to be complete in all respects, and the IG of the DOJ is
going to understand that.”
“You know you’re going to have to sign that non-disclosure
agreement, Stemple.” Trump was not going to let it go.
“It won’t work, Mr. President. Your bodyguard, Milo Doubek,
assaulted a Secret Service agent, a felony attack upon a Federal
officer, and he assaulted me. This attack was witnessed by over
a dozen Secret Service personnel who were behind me and possibly
by more in your camera monitored security rooms here at Mar a
Lago. Furthermore, it’s been recorded on your security cameras
outside. Those recordings are now evidence necessary for a
court of law and must be preserved.
“You don’t seem to understand the significance of what happened.
Your man, Todd Jenkins, is now in hospital supposedly under
medical observation. I think that you should be more worried.
His situation is more serious than you think. If the cartilage
in his nose has been slammed into his skull deep enough, he will
die because emergency surgery may not be able to entirely stop
the bleeding into his skull.” Mack paused. “If Mr. Jenkins
should die because of this assault, you’ll have to face the
music, especially if you and Milo Doubek had contrived this
incident.”
Trump glared at him. “I DIDN’T HAVE ANYTHING TO DO ABOUT THIS
INCIDENT!” he bellowed.
Mack returned his look with calmness. Mack could sense his
growing control of the situation.
Trump glared at Mack and then began to calm down. He gazed
around at the assembled Secret Service agents. “I expect
secrecy in this matter to be upheld,” the President said firmly.
“I punish disloyalty wherever I find it.”
“You can’t hide a felony assault upon a Federal officer,” Mack
said quietly, “especially if the assault leads to grave injury
or death of the officer involved.”
Trump glared at Mack and snapped, “I’m the boss here.”
“No, Mr. President. That’s not correct. The law’s the boss.”
Trump glared at Mack and Mack serenely returned his look.
Eventually the President’s face relented in its anger. Trump
sensed his own loss of control of the situation. His expression
softened and he said, “To return to our former conversation, you
know, that in order to be in real estate in New York City, you
have to have contacts with the mob. You have to know this. I
know that you know this.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
Trump looked apologetic. “Like you, I’ve lived on the edge of
things, the edge of the law. I can understand your need for
secrecy. I have my own reasons for my own secrecy. I can
understand that what may be important for you is something that
needs to remain hidden. I have the same problem. Everyone
knows that politicians and businessmen can find themselves of
the edge of things and have the need to skirt the law.”
“I can understand that, Mr. President.”
“I think that we have a share interest, the need to keep our
secrets kept. I know that you can make it hot for me. You
certainly know that I can make it hot for you. I can understand
your grievance with Milo Doubek, about his striking Agent
Jenkins. I think that you’re misunderstanding me. I want the
best for Agent Jenkins and I want the best for both of us.”
“I’m all for having the best, Mr. President.”
“I figured that you would.” At that moment a white-gloved,
white-coated Marine, carrying a covered silver tray, appeared at
the door to Mack’s left. Trump nodded and the soldier entered
and put the tray on the President’s desk. The President told
the Marine, “Set a table and another hors d’oeuvre tray for Mr.
Stemple.” To Mack he said, “I’m having as hors d’oeuvres caviar
on toast and smoked salmon sandwiches. Do you have any wine
preference?”
Avoiding the ever-present Palm Beach champagnes, Mack said, “A
white zinfandel would be fine.”
Mack watched as the Marine quietly exited the room much as a
well-trained butler would do in the presence of a wealthy
employer. As he watched the man’s receding back, Mack wondered
what the Marine thought about his current duty assignment. Most
likely, he hadn’t dreamed of performing butler duties. He, most
likely, volunteered with the expectation of dirt and blood in a
far off land.
Soon the same Marine returned carrying another covered silver
tray of hors d’oeuvres and crystal glasses for the two men. He
was accompanied by two other white-coated Marines: one was
carrying a small end table for him; the other was carrying two
silver ice buckets with opened bottles. One which would be the
wine for Mack and the other would be, probably, a seltzer for
the President.
The men watched silently as the Marines set up the table next to
Mack’s chair and placed the covered silver tray and ice bucket
with the wine bottle upon it. The Marine who has carrying the
glasses set a glass on the President’s desk and using a
corkscrew opened the bottle of seltzer for him and poured it for
him into his glass. He then came to Mack’s small table and
uncorked the wine bottle. He presented the wine cork to Mack
who sniffed it and smiled, indicating that it was okay. The
Marine then poured the initial glass of wine into Mack’s glass.
As the Marines left, the two men took off the lids covers of
their serving trays and noted with approval the small
sandwiches, the buttered toasted bread and the caviar in its
central basin on the tray. The two men raised their glasses in
unison to each other and then drank.
“We’ve known each other for years,” said the President, as they
lowered their glasses. “I know that our relationship is that of
acquaintance rather than that as a friend. I think that our
mutual friendship with Preston Callender is very important for
the both of us.”
“I agree, Mr. President.”
“We’ve been jointly at a number of receptions held by Preston
over the years. We really hadn’t talked to each other much
during those receptions. You’ve seemed to have held back.”
“I didn’t want to obtrude in any way into Preston’s society, Mr.
President, because of my friendship with him. I tend to view
myself as one of the sometime-hired help though he doesn’t think
of me as such. I am, despite my withdrawal, well-known and
liked by a number of his friends.”
“With Preston, it’s all different. He makes friends of the
hired help and I can understand that. Because you’re wealthy,
you get to know the people around you.” Trump said quietly.
“He appreciates character, Mr. Trump.”
The two men started eating the hors d’oeuvres. Mack ate one of
the smoked salmon fingerling sandwiches. It was a small
delicious, crust-less white bread sandwich, that had excellent
smoked salmon, cream cheese and watercress. Mack paused for a
moment thinking that it would be a form of impoliteness to be
eating when all the Secret Service men were standing around
without being able to eat or drink as well; but then he resumed
eating. He remembered that they could only eat or drink off
duty. He observed that, also on the tray, were green olives
and stuffed mushrooms filled with cream cheese, garlic, parmesan
cheese and several seasonings. There were also miniature
eclairs. The President didn’t mention these latter hors
d’oeuvres. Perhaps they were ones that he always had and so he
never thought to mention it.
“What do you think of the caviar?” asked Trump.
Mack looked up at him. The President’s eyes had a sense of
amusement and something else yet again. Mack wondered, was
there a sense of pleading in the President’s eyes? To Trump he
said, “I haven’t tried them, yet, Mr. President. “They’re
rather large, black caviar than what I’m most familiar with. Is
it Caspian Beluga caviar?”
Trump smiled broadly, “No, Mr. Stemple. It’s a fine, Volga
Beluga caviar. I’ve obtained it through the offices of Russian
President, Vladimir Putin.”
Mack smiled inwardly at that. He hadn’t tasted Beluga caviar
since the 1990s when it was prevalent among the wealthy. It was
now under an import ban and Trump may have violated US import
restriction laws and had also confessed to it in front of his
security staff. Beluga caviar from the Volga was actually
Caspian Beluga caviar that was harvested on the Volga River.
The harvesting of both forms of the same caviar, and smoked
sturgeon, had been outlawed by Russia and other international
bodies because of over harvesting and UN trade restrictions.
For years the product, though a common Palm Beach staple, was
strictly forbidden for importation into the United States. But,
nevertheless, Trump had the caviar and so that meant that it was
probably smuggled in via Russian diplomatic pouch. Mack had to
wonder how many other things that Trump may have received
covertly by people and countries since his inauguration.
He turned his gaze from Trump back to his hors d’oeuvres tray.
He picked up the small, ivory spoon in front of the small dish
of caviar that rested in the small basin that was in the center
of the serving dish. He dipped his spoon into the caviar and
tasted it. The fishy, salty pickling hit his taste buds in a
pleasing manner and he enjoyed the rare treat. He had both seen
and eaten this kind of caviar years before, in the 1980s and
1990s when it was more common. Mack then picked up a buttered
toast square and put another spoonful of caviar on it and popped
it in his mouth. He immediately experienced again the
distinctive salty brine of classic Beluga mixed in with the
texture of the buttered toast square. The combination of the
toast and the caviar was unexpectedly good. Mack had never
eaten caviar on toast before. He had usually eaten it with
blinis.
The President brought him out of his thoughts. “Every spoonful
of that, Mr. Stemple, is worth roughly four hundred dollars,”
said Trump. “It won’t take you very long to have eaten what
you’ve made in a single year for the last forty years.”
Mack looked up at Trump and saw that the President was broadly
smiling again. “I suspect you’re right, Mr. President.”
Mack ate more caviar, the small salmon sandwiches, the green
olives and the stuffed mushrooms. Both men ate quietly and Mack
reflected upon what he had heard from one of his friends that
food was a way of bringing people together.
“I want you to understand, Mr. Stemple, that I mean no harm to
anybody. I’m like you. I’m at the edge of things and I have to
have my secrets and sometimes skirt the laws.”
“I can understand, Mr. President, the need to step around the
skirts of Lady Justice, but we dare not try to pull the skirts
off of her. Your attacks upon law enforcement and criminal
investigations are uncalled for, especially for someone who
claims that he is innocent.”
Trump shook his head. “But what am I to do, Mr. Stemple? Like
you, I’ve skirted the law in matters. Sometimes the laws are
unjust. Sometimes laws are things that sometimes get in the way
of things that you have to do. Sometimes laws become simply
obstacles that need to be removed. Sometimes, if I have to put
it more crudely, the law is like a woman, something to be taken
advantage of.”
“A woman doesn’t like to be taken advantage of; and, Lady
Justice will certainly see that her laws shall be enforced. In
the end, justice prevails, one way or another.”
Trump chuckled at that. “The naïve moralism that you have is
amazing.”
“You don’t seem to like the challenge I pose to you, calling you
and your actions evil.”
“I’ve heard that before from you and Preston. That’s Sunday
School nonsense, Mr. Stemple.”
Mack smiled at that. He continued, “It makes me wonder why I am
here. The issues regarding my personnel file, though of some
question, are largely bogus or could be handled by the IG of the
DOJ. Are you trying to battle me because of something we’ve
shared in our past? Or is it that I remind you of other old
battles you’ve waged in your childhood?”
“We’re doomed to have our battles, Mr. Stemple.”
Mack nodded. “I suppose so, Mr. President. I suppose that
we’re going to have it out even though it’s completely
unnecessary.”
Trump did not immediately respond.
#Post#: 20767--------------------------------------------------
Re: Incident At Mar a Lago
By: HOLLAND Date: December 2, 2018, 5:46 pm
---------------------------------------------------------
Mack leaned back in his chair and continued, “If you had
questions regarding my services in connection to the FBI and the
U.S. Marshal Service, Mr. President, you really didn’t need to
summon me here. You could have gone this morning to your golf
game and had some FBI agents either here or out of Butte
interview me.”
“Butte?” asked the President.
“Butte, Montana.”
“Oh,” said Trump. “I’ve never heard of that place.”
“This just makes me ask why I’m here. I’m keeping you from your
golf game.”
Trump didn’t respond.
Mack smiled. “Then this has to be about something else yet
again.”
“I admit that I wanted to talk to you, Mr. Stemple.”
“Was it about our last conversation at the White House back in
May of last year?”
Trump did not respond.
Mack smiled faintly. That had to be it.
“I don’t remember it,” Trump said.
Mack continued. “In our last conversation back in May 2017, I
said, ‘The ability to apologize is the ability to express love
and the capacity for giving and receiving love. It is, also, a
measure of whether or not one can take personal responsibility
for something and to escape the agony and trap of human
vindictiveness.’
“To which you replied, ‘It just sounds like the tripe of
moralizing weakness to me, Stemple.’
“I replied to that saying, ‘You strike me as unhappy, Mr.
President. You’ve not been happy in the matters of love and
human relationships.’
“To which you responded saying, ‘And you should keep your nose
out of my life, little man. I can’t see it, for the life of me,
why the truth or lies are important. They aren’t. It’s only
wealth and power. I suppose I might be confused about the truth
at times, but everybody does. And I don’t apologize for
anything.’”
Trump smiled at that. He was recognizing his own words.
Mack continued, “To that statement, I replied, ‘That’s not the
way to happiness.’
“To which you replied, ‘We have different ideas about happiness,
little man. I’m a billionaire and the President of the United
States. You’re just another nobody at the poverty level.’
“I then responded, ‘I’m just echoing a conversation you and
Preston had some thirty years ago.’
“You then said, ‘I don’t remember it.’
“It was at this point that I said the following, ‘Mr. Wiseman,
Mr. Isaac Holt, a particular friend of mine, and I witnessed it.
It was in May of 1987. At the time, Preston said that he felt
sorry for you, that he mourned for you. Preston said that he
remembered the years back in time when you were struggling to be
your own man, the person you, yourself, wanted to be. He
further stated that you had a rough childhood, an unloving
father and distant mother and that you were in rebellion.’
“You did not respond to this so I continued saying that ‘Finally
you were forced into that military school to learn discipline
and self-control. Preston told you that he suspected that it
was either that or that you would be forced into psychiatric
treatment. In short, Preston said you were beaten down and
forced into the mold of what your father wanted you to be.
Preston stated that that he thought you had inwardly died
inside.’”
“That’s what I said, Stemple. How you can remember like that is
effing amazing.”
“I try to be accurate, Mr. President. At the next point of the
conversation I said, ‘Preston said he mourned that you never
became the man that you wanted to be. Furthermore, he stated
that you never found your life-long love and that you are
inwardly a hollow man, a charnel house of burnt out emotions.
Remembering this conversation from long ago, he now warns you
that, because you’ve become the man you are, that this is no
excuse for treason or financial malfeasance. You are
responsible for all of your actions.’
“You didn’t respond immediately to this but you were annoyed.
Finally you said, ‘I don’t remember this conversation, Stemple.
I find it difficult to believe that Preston authorized you to
say all these things.’
“ I replied saying. ‘Preston did not make any authorizations for
my meeting here. My representation is in respect to the
Association.’
“You then told me, ‘Well, I want you to know, little man, that I
am my own man. Who I was when I was young was a failure.
Becoming the man my father wanted me to be was what I was
supposed to be. I’ve become that and even more. I’m the
President of the United States and I know that, given the great
responsibility of my office that the buck always stops here at
my desk. One can’t blame my father for what I’ve become. Tell
Preston that I don’t need his sympathy.’
“I then replied, ‘I will. And I will iterate again that he will
view dimly any attempts on your part to evade any personal
responsibility for your actions.’
“You then replied, ‘Very well, little man, or should I say, poor
little man, get out of here, Stemple. Tell Preston that I’m
very disappointed that he and his Association could not be more
loyal to me. This is just plain disgusting.’ At that moment,
you got up from your desk and went over to the window that looks
out over the Rose Garden.”
Trump nodded. “That’s what it was. I remember the conversation
now.”
The two men sat in Trump’s office and quietly ate their hors
d’oeuvres and looked out the large windows at the palm trees
whose large leaves were gently swaying in the breeze and the
birds flitting through the shrubs and flowers that were beneath
them. As Trump drank his seltzer, Mack sipped his wine. It was
a plain zinfandel, but of good quality, thought Mack.
Trump smiled. “Your talents are amazing, Mr. Stemple,” he said.
Mack smiled. “Thank you, Mr. President.”
“I wish I could hire you.”
“I’m retired, Mr. President.” Mack could see the disappointment
in Trumps eyes. For a moment, Mack could see that the
President’s was inwardly worn with the wrinkles seemingly more
pronounced on his face. His odd yellow-dyed hair was now
showing a hint of gray, matching the gray appearing in his bushy
eyebrows.
“According to what my aide says, you are one of the best field
operatives that the FBI knows of.”
“I try, Mr. President.”
“And you succeed.” Trump paused looking at Mack thoughtfully.
“You seem to have had, in the past, good colleagues to work
with.”
“I have.”
Trump looked sharply at his Secret Service agents and his aide,
Mr. Pond. “Unlike you, I’ve had problems with my staff being
disloyal,” he said. “The lack of loyalty among my staff, my
colleagues and my friends has made life hell for me.”
“Each President has had his challenges over the years.”
“Nothing like what I’ve experienced, Stemple. I’ve experienced
a real witch hunt, a vendetta by many people including that
Special Counsel, Robert Mueller.”
“If you’re innocent, give him whatever he asks for, and do it
quickly. The longer you hold off, the more people are going to
think that you are guilty of something and are hiding it. At
least, release your tax returns for the last 20 years.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“If you’re innocent, it’s not that difficult. Whatever business
information becomes public and serves as an advantage to your
competitors will be more than offset by the discovery of your
innocence. The resulting popularity will increase the value of
your name brand.”
“What do you think of Special Counsel Mueller, Mr. Stemple?”
“He’s very professional. From what I’ve heard from people
who’ve worked for him, he’s very good at his job.”
“Have you ever met him?”
“I have several times. Once, I met him at the White House when
he was the FBI Director. Another time it was at a dinner
reception in Washington DC, which was also attended by Preston
and Mrs. Callender. Mack sighed and looked sharply at the
President. “I would be careful, Mr. President, in dealing with
Special Counsel Mueller. I would advise you to always tell the
truth around him. He is very formidable intellectually and
morally. He’s a decorated Marine Corps veteran. In Vietnam, he
won the Bronze Star with Combat ‘V’ for valor under fire. He
merited that honor by rescuing a wounded comrade while in a
firefight that killed over half the men in his platoon. He was
later further wounded in another firefight and received the
Purple Heart.”
“I’ve heard about that.”
“Then you know that he’s a hero and that it would be politically
dangerous to fire him.”
“I don’t think that he’s out of my political reach to fire him.”
Trump shook his head. “Nobody’s out of my reach. You seem to
have a sharp look into the minds of other people, Mr. Stemple.
Do you have any idea of what Special Counsel Mueller may be
thinking of me?”
“I suspect Special Counsel Mueller has a deep understanding of
criminal psychology. I’m sure he’s aware of your rough
childhood and the strengths and weaknesses of your personality.”
Trump looked at Mack and frowned. “And what would those be?” he
asked.
“You might not want to hear it,” Mack said. “It touches upon
the evil that other people see in you.”
“And what is that?”
“It goes back to our last conversation about you not becoming
the man you wanted to be. You are alien both to yourself and
others. You only became the man that others wanted you to be,
particularly your father.”
“I’m who I am, Stemple. Let’s not blame it upon my father.”
“I agree. That was then and this is now. You are who you are
now, Mr. President, and your actions now cannot be blamed upon
your father. That past is dead. You’ve made your pact with
the devil and you’re going to have to live with it.
“I think that Mueller will perceive that you’re now this hollow
man, this alien version of yourself, this face, this appearance
of someone, who acts out publically and privately what others
wanted you to be. This is all you want to be. Think of it!
You’ve only performed like an actor on a stage. You’ve done
this in the past; you’ve done it all of your life. You’re doing
it even now in my presence. You’re doing a performance like
you’ve performed on reality television, except for that problem
that the small screen reality isn’t the true reality.
“Mueller, I think, is not making any judgement of contempt about
you. I think that he has sought to learn all he can about you.
I believe he understands the grief that you experienced when you
were young. I doubt that he will think that you can be excused
for the many lies that you’ve told and the lawless things that
you’ve done. It’s now become a question of character and
whether or not you have broken any laws. Have you broken any
laws that are grounds for impeachment or imprisonment? That’s
the answer he’s seeking. These investigations are going to
proceed despite what he’s learned about you, about your inner
hollowness and self-loathing.”
“So you think that Special Counsel Mueller believes this.”
“I believe so, Mr. President.” Mack paused. “It’s in that
hatred of your own self and others is where the criminality
begins.”
“What else does Special Counsel Mueller thinks about me?”
“You’re not going to like what I’m going to say.”
“I’m a big boy, Stemple. Go ahead and say it.”
Mack smiled faintly. “Though I’ve spoken with him only
briefly, I’m well aware that he’s much like me. He seeks to
figure out the minds of all his adversaries that he’s come in
contact over the years. It aids him in his prosecutions and
that’s part of his job.”
Trump nodded.
Mack continued, “Don’t you realize how easily a lie passes
through your lips? Since you are hollow, not a real person, you
are a concoction of your ideas of yourself at the moment. Who
you are and what you are is ever changing. You continually
re-invent yourself as you need to do at a particular moment.
And these changes confuse your friends and causes contempt in
your enemies.
“You delight in your lies because it is a kind of creation, or
rather, re-creation of yourself. Since you are not inwardly
your own person or man, you are this figment that you create and
act out each day. In creating these figments, you become your
own god and you worship that god. That god, which is yourself,
delights you and makes you identify with this god in pride.
This god makes you happy. The figments of your mind are where
you exist. Your life is in these lies, these figments.
“Since you are your own god, your god is your only law. To all
others you are lawless because you do not and cannot recognize
the laws of others. No god can be lorded over by others. You
are at war with all other gods, other laws, and other
moralities.
“Since your life has been lie, everything around you is or
becomes a lie as well. And because lies are so easy, to have
faith in others and in oneself becomes hard. It becomes hard to
believe that others may be faithful to you. So it has been easy
for you to be unfaithful to each of your wives. It has been
easy to use them and to discard them after they have served the
purposes of your pleasure.
“Since you are faithless to many, you expect others to be
faithless to you. You demand personal loyalty, even though you
know that you will never extend the same personal loyalty to
others.
“What does this all mean in the end? It is what Robert Mueller
and any other law enforcement professional confronts: a
corrupted tissue of lies, faithlessness and disloyalty. And
that is what the criminal mind is, at bottom. It is a heart
given over to evil.”
The two men looked sharply at each other.
Trump shook his head. “You’re just being overly righteous,
Stemple,” he said. “What you’re saying is a lot of damned
tripe,” he said. “That’s a lot to pile on and you really piled
it on. Perhaps Mueller thinks this and perhaps not. You must
have waited a long time to have had the opportunity to say it.
“You’re refusing to look at how the world works. You have to
realize, Stemple, you can’t make any money and attain to any
power if you’re someone who’s moral. Sanctimonious posturing is
only for contemptible hypocrites. It’s like I say,
goody-goodies just don’t see it. You’re refusing to see how the
world works. And I can explain myself.”
“Then please do so.”
#Post#: 20768--------------------------------------------------
Re: Incident At Mar a Lago
By: HOLLAND Date: December 2, 2018, 5:48 pm
---------------------------------------------------------
“That’s all moralizing on your part, Stemple. That’s what
you’re known for, among people in Preston’s circle of friends.
Our friend, Preston heard all of this Sunday school chatter.
They are words that don’t mean anything anymore.” Trump glared
at his Presidential aide, Gregory Pond. “Sit down, Gregory,” he
said testily.
Mack watched as the Presidential aide and former Marine went and
sat at in a straight-backed chair next to the President’s desk.
He watched as the President took up a salmon sandwich and
quickly ate it, wiped his lips with a paper towel and then drank
a gulp of his seltzer.
Trump looked up at Mack and said, “I’m going to explain myself
one more time, and I’m going to make myself clear.”
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
“This Sunday school chatter from Preston and you is tripe, pure
tripe. It doesn’t mean anything. When I was a boy, I remember
going to a Presbyterian Sunday school when I was young and the
teachers taught us kids a whole pack of nonsense. I really mean
it! It’s the plain and simple nonsense about some kind of
‘father in the sky’ who looks over mankind and rewards something
he calls the good and punishes something he calls evil. All
this talk about God is a pack of lies, simply a pack of lies.”
“It is, Mr. President?”
“Don’t interrupt me, Stemple. I remember quite well being a
small boy. I remember how I cried myself to sleep at nights
because of my father was cruel and this ‘father in the sky’ was
silent to my prayers and pain. If my earthly father was such a
terrible disaster of a person, the one who caused my mother, my
brothers and sisters, and myself, so much pain in our lives, who
is this ‘father in the sky’, this god, who simply looked upon
our pain and heard our prayers and did nothing? Nothing at all!
He did absolutely nothing! It was at that time that I learned
was that God didn’t exist and that religion, plain and simple,
is a superstition that is taught to help weak people who find
themselves in pain and can’t do anything about it.
“As I was growing up, I wised-up about this. I realized that
religion was a sham. I, also, realized that I had to be angry
and tough to get along in the world, and not be ashamed of
having become who I am. I’m proud to say what I’ve become.
“You’ve heard the talk that I was a bully in my youth. I was
that bully and was damned proud of it. I remember beating up
the younger boys in primary school and enjoying it. It was the
time that I had my first taste of raw power, a chance to
overcome the fear and pain that haunted me when I was young. I
reveled in my anger and my toughness as I beat up the younger
boys. I loved to watch them crapping their pants in fear and
pain as I beat them, as they were calling for their mamas. I
was amused that all these crying Sunday school boys, these
goody-goodies, could be beaten and their God didn’t help them or
stop me. Their God couldn’t stop me, because I knew better.
How can an illusion, a superstition called God, stop anyone?
“It was about this time that I learned all about the impotence
of the big lies and illusions that you find in this world. This
‘father in the sky’, this god of the Sunday schoolboys and their
parents, is only just an illusion, and, this Sunday school
chatter is only tripe, offal food that’s in bad taste and
nutrition. You can eat tripe if you want to, but I don’t. I
prefer the real meat and drink of true power, what we really
learn by experience.”
“But what about the truth, Mr. President?”
“Given that religion and other lies run through society, I’ve
learned that what is truth is. It is what you make of it in
this world. What it is, finally, is something what you can
impose upon others. That’s the truth though people don’t want
to hear.
“When I was beating up the kids, especially the little Sunday
school twerps, all they had were their God and their pain, and
their illusions to comfort them. My experience was different
and much truer to life. I stood on my own two feet. I met pain
head on and by inflicting pain in return. When I was angry with
what I was suffering at home, I gave out even more pain on the
playgrounds in school to show I wasn’t going to be taken
advantage of. At that time I learned about power and the truth
that’s found in life. My experience showed me what the truth
was. The truth was that it was to be the big man in life and to
hell with the little wimps who end up crapping their pants with
fear.
“I was thrilled with all the power that I had. When I was
collared by the teachers and taken to the principal because of a
particular beating, my father, angry and frustrated that he was
not controlling me, unable to bend me to his will on the school
playgrounds, came and got me out of trouble, very much like any
servant will seek to please his master out of a difficulty. I
discovered that, in my thrashing of those kids, I found that I
was dominating my father, showing that I could be just as brutal
as he was. And he helped me in this in that he was seeking to
prevent me from suffering the consequences of my actions. He
was my accomplice and I was daily laughing how I pulled this
over him. He didn’t want me to be expelled from school. He had
to help me, despite that he hated to do it. I finally got back
at him. I had the power.
”Moreover, I reveled in the great truth. I had seen how power
imposes its truth upon all. And power makes any other truth a
lie, because power imposes what the truth shall be and how it
shall be recognized. Many times the teachers and principal was
intimidated by my social and family prominence and turned and
looked the other way as I beat up the younger kids. In time I
learned that truth was not important. Truth was something based
on power and self-assertion. It’s a place where a strong man
steps forward and asserts himself. He pushes aside the weaker
and says what and how things are going to be. A strong man
finds out that truth is something that doesn’t mean anything of
itself. It’s something that is imposed upon other people.
Truth is what you make of it in the world.”
Mack smiled. “So this is the reason you have made so many
allusions to the schoolyards of your youth. Those times were
very important for you.”
“That’s right, Stemple. Those schoolyards were the places that
form identity and where I had formed my own identity.”
Mack continued to smile. “I suppose you could call it a tenuous
sort of identity. And so back in March, when former
Vice-President Biden said, in speaking about your comments about
grabbing a woman by her crotch, that if you both were in high
school, he would have taken you behind the gymnasium, and beat
you up.”
“Yeah, Stemple, that’s what Biden said, that loser. I said,
publically, that he’d go down fast and hard if we fought. He’s
just another typical blowhard and a weakling. I’ve seen a lot
of weak men in my time, all talk and no action. A lot of my
political opponents in the Republican Party are a bunch of
weaklings, Sunday school simpering wimps.
“Look at Jeb Bush. He was supposedly solid, but he could never
be the manager of a going business concern, certainly not a
business that I would own. He’s not a stand-up guy. He quit
the Republican Party earlier this year. He didn’t have the
stuff within himself to fight me for the power.
“Then there’s little Marco. Marco Rubio looked much like the
Sunday school boys I used to beat up.” Trump laughed. “What I
can say about the man?” he said. “One thing for sure is that
he’s all boy and no man, not red-blooded, not stand-up strong by
a long shot. He’s just another Sunday school wimp.” Trump
laughed again and said, “He’s got little hands and little feet
and shiny black shoes that go squeak, squeak, squeak.”
Mack frowned. “He’s just trying to get along with you, Mr.
President.”
“No Stemple. You’ve got it all wrong. He’s just caved in and
surrendered to me much like the other wimps, especially that
sniveling coward, lying Ted Cruz. He was the first guy, not me,
to make the Obama birther issue a big issue. Then he started
squawking when he became the target of another big issue. Can
you imagine it? Cruz couldn’t take what he was prepared to dish
out!
“He’s married to that Heidi Cruz, an ugly woman with an ugly
past, and he calls himself a Christian. He probably shouldn’t
be in the Senate since he was born in Canada. And it’s possible
that his father, Rafael Cruz, is involved in the Kennedy
assassination. What an ugly blight that he and his family has
been on the Republican Party.”
Mack shook his head. “Those are all lies like the Obama birther
issue,” he said.
“So you say, as if your or if anyone else’s words mean anything,
Stemple. They don’t mean anything at all. You talk as if talk
means anything. It doesn’t. Words spoken today are gone
tomorrow. It’s just chatter like the tripe we received at
Sunday school, the hollow tasteless guts of something, not the
real meat and drink of the reality that we need. You need to
realize that you and the other Sunday school wimps that don’t
know what the score is. The scores being made are made by the
angry and the tough. We can only say that the score for Sunday
school wimps is zero, a flat zero.
“Then there is George Will, the talking head. He quit the Party
like Jeb Bush and the Party’s better off without him. He was
part of that same bunch of intellectual eggheads who condemned
me in their rag called the National Review back in January of
2016. They talked as if Republicans are conservatives,
forgetting that the Party has wised-up to them and are no longer
listening to them. They don’t realize that Republicans finally
woke up to the fact that these talking heads have been part of
the Party’s calculated destruction of the middle class and have
no idea what pain they’ve caused.
“Imagine the stupidity of those guys. Their stupidity is a lack
of vision, of being cut off from life by living in their
intellectual ivory towers. They didn’t realize that all their
ideas have hurt people. All those Conservative thinkers can say
that they believe in their principles, disregarding the fact
that those same principles don’t mean squat when they’re ruining
the middle class. They’re just a bunch of scabs trying to cover
the wounds they’ve inflicted on common people and onto the
Republican Party.
“It’s the same with that Joe Scarborough, Steve Schmidt, and all
those others of the same ilk who’ve complained that they didn’t
leave the Republican Party but that it left them. Well, I’d
like to tell them that I’m the culmination of what Ronald Reagan
meant back in 1980. Conservativism meant the rule of the
wealthy in the end and now they’re objecting to what’s the
original basis of what they’ve been doing. If they’ve
gerrymandered congressional districts big time, and lied big
time to the public, they’d have to eventually make it known what
they’ve really thought about democracy all along. Why don’t
they accept who I am, and that I’m what they wanted in the end?
They wanted a strong man to rule, a strong man to cut the
corners around the law, a man who lives on the edge of things.
They’ve always glorified the angry and the tough. But I bet
that they wouldn’t know what I mean by that. They’re just all
Sunday school wimps who need a good pounding.”
Mack smiled, “Don’t you think that what you’re saying might be a
simplification of a more complex reality?”
Trump didn’t immediately respond.
Both men ate their sandwiches and spooned the caviar onto their
toast squares. When Mack lifted the wine bottle out of the ice
bucket, pulled the cork, and poured himself another glass of
wine, he heard Trump sigh.
“I didn’t create the evil in life that we see,” Trump continued.
“Look at what we’re eating here, the hors d’oeuvres, the caviar
and smoked salmon sandwiches, the mushrooms and green olives.”
“And what is your point, Mr. President?”
“Did the sturgeon offer its caviar, its young eggs to us,
because it wanted to? Did the sturgeon, after it had lost its
life and caviar, offer itself to be smoked and eaten in Russia?
Did the salmon that we have eaten, in turn, offer up itself to
be smoked and eaten? I think not.
“We live in a world where creatures eat and are eaten. We find
ourselves as being born and thrown into the world where this is
facing us. There is, for us, no choice in this matter. Either
we eat or are eaten, consume or be consumed. This is something
that the ‘father in the sky’ has created for us and the Sunday
school boys whimper about and refuse to acknowledge. There are
predators and there are prey.”
“And you call yourself a predator.”
“I do, Mr. Stemple. I’m an apex predator, a predator supreme.
I’m a man who’s at the top of the food chain. I’m the angry
one, the tough one. I’m the person who says what the law is and
what the truth shall be, and everyone else has to toe the line.”
“So the truth is based on force.”
“Yes, Stemple. Why don’t you admit it?”
“Facinus quos inquinat aequat.”
“What the hell does that mean, Stemple?”
“It’s a quote from Lucan. He said ‘Crime equalizes those whom
it contaminates’.”
Trump frowned. “I don’t follow you.”
“One can start by being angry and tough, and strive and become
an alpha predator, even an apex predator. But when you start
saying what the law and the truth is, as the predator you enter
into crime and war against the whole of society. And you are
soon equalized with the other criminals in a desperate battle
for survival.”
“But that is what life is, Mr. Stemple. It’s a battle for
survival.”
“Yes, it is to a certain extent, Mr. President. But life is,
also, a sharing of that same battle for survival, where a loving
community allows for better chances for all its members. But if
you wage war against society, you’ll simply become a criminal
and war against society. Like your fellow criminals, you lessen
your chances for survival.”
“That’s Sunday school tripe, Stemple. You’re talking about the
public good as if there is such a thing. There isn’t. Those of
us that are the producers of this world, those of us who make
the things of this world, who make the profits, have to have a
free hand to do what we want. If we need to pollute, we do it.
If we need to skirt past banking laws, we do it. We need to do
all these things so that those who don’t produce, the rest of
human can survive, that’s to say the ‘takers’, the supposed
consumers. It’s the wealthy who are the producers. The rest
are parasites.
“Haven’t we Republicans always said that there isn’t really a
public good and that there is only private profit? The primary
motivation about things isn’t about the good, such things as
love for others. You are either predator or prey. What are
you? If you are angry and tough, you are a predator. You will
go on to riches and power and glory. You will eat and drink in
high fashion. If you are prey, you are a failure, or are soon
to be regarded as such. You’ll only eat Sunday school tripe in
your youth, with pointless talk about love and goodness, and you
will choke on whatever food you’ll eventually be eating in
poverty.”
“No public good? For you, is it only private profit? Where
does sharing enter into all this? How does love, a form of
sharing, come into this?”
The two men stared at each other.
Mack continued, “If there’s no public good but only private
profit, how can there be shared goods in society, shared social
and family values? When a couple falls in love, if their love
is true, they eventually marry, they share their love and their
goods, and their marriage is a public good since it brings
social stability and, many times, children into the world.
These children replenish the numbers of the nation, or the rest
of society has an interest in the nurturing of those young. I
would suggest that love is not private profit, Mr. President.
It’s not a calculated selfishness. It’s a public good, a sharing
of love that first starts between two people and ends up
embracing a community.”
“That’s Sunday school tripe, Stemple. The existence of the sex
drive in people shows that this supposed love is all a matter of
selfish calculation. You have your sexual desires and, as a man,
you want to plant your seeds in a fertile woman. But the sex
drive is what those words mean: it’s a driving force. It
consumes men and women. It’s hard-wired into our nature. This
force doesn’t recognize monogamy and the illusion of this thing
called love. It only recognizes the fulfillment of its purpose.
Men and women who have large, healthy sex drives need to
satisfy it. There is no need to moralize about this. Having
sex is like blowing your nose with tissue paper. You do it and
the matter is done. Sunday school wimps fail to realize that.”
“I was talking about love, Mr. President. I wasn’t talking
about the sexual drives inherent in men and women. Those are
two different things.”
“Stemple, you’re just ridiculous. The main thing about love is
the sex. Children are incidental to the men and women out to
satisfy their desires. Everything about love and marriage is a
matter of calculation, indeed everything is a matter of
calculation.”
Mack picked up his glass of wine and raised it towards the
President. “And, in saying that, that is why you never found
the love of your life.”
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