A dozen thoughts on the Trump indictment
Somewhere right now, in a black inner city, there is a boy, about 10 years old, who has balls of steel and a mind that cuts through bullshit like a straight razor.
He’ll show up at some event laid on by the NFL for inner city youth, because he can throw a perfect spiral and he can run like a deer.
He’ll stand in front of a 300-pound NFL tackle, and the tackle will ask him what he wants to be when he grows up.
The kid will look at the tackle with the eyes of a shark who’s just paused in deep water, and say, “I’m going to be the director of the FBI.”
The tackle won’t know why—but he’s just backed up a step.
The kid snaps his fingers and as he walks by the tackle, he says, “So don’t anything stupid or I’ll nail you.”
And because this kid is relentless, 25 years later, he IS the director of the FBI.
One night, this new FBI director is sitting across from his boss, the US Attorney General, in the back room of a little restaurant.
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