Last July, President Trump and his advisers [wrote] a news release about a mysterious meeting at Trump Tower… Rather than acknowledge the meeting’s intended purpose — to obtain political dirt about Hillary Clinton from the Russian government — the statement instead described the meeting as being about an obscure Russian adoption policy… a focus of the inquiry by Robert S. Mueller III. — New York Times, 1/31/18

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Detective Robert Mueller heard a soft knock on his office door and he looked up from his cool glass of rye.

Staring out through the cracked windows of his dingy, one-man detective agency, Robert Mueller frowned.

It was dark outside. Dark dark. Dark like a bar of Ghirardelli in an unlit garage. Too dark for clients.

Clearly, this was going to be a long night.

“Well, come on in already,” growled Detective Mueller, draining the rest of his rye in one smooth motion.

The door creaked open and Mueller felt his jaw drop as a long pair of legs walked brusquely into the room. And what legs they were.

Trim. Shapely. Slender like a swan’s neck.

Legs that went all the way down.

“Oh, it’s you… What do you want, Junior?” asked Detective Mueller in a gravelly undertone, his voice bouncing angrily off the dingy office walls like a horse on a hot tin roof.

The long, shapely legs of Donald Trump Jr. sat down and were soon hidden from view. Gone, but not forgotten… The man was clearly distraught — a Lucky Strike danced frantically on his lips like a paper towel in a wind tunnel.

And Detective Mueller grimaced.

Clearly, this was going to be a long night.

“Detective, I’ve got a problem. And you’re the man for the job,” murmured the former ski-resort-bartender-turned-real-estate-executive.

Rather than waste his energy on responding, Detective Mueller kept his mouth shut and let his eyes do the talking.

He blinked once. Furiously.

Taken aback, Junior continued: “Well, it all started a while back… I was just a young, spry 38-year-old man and I suddenly found myself very interested in an obscure and now-defunct Russian adoption law. So, I set up a meeting with just a few eensy-teensy Russian officials at the same exact time that Russia was hacking the US election. Crazy coincidence. And now, well, people think I’m guilty of…”

Donald Trump Jr. broke off, clearly overwhelmed by emotion. And Mueller interjected:



There was a pause and Detective Mueller blinked again.


Either Mueller had had just a bit too much rye. Or Trump Jr.’s story had more holes in it than a plywood board at a woodpecker convention… There was just no way that this was Trump’s real story. Seriously. There was no way that this was the actual story the Trump administration expected people to believe.

Regaining his composure, Mueller quickly dove into his cross-examination.

“Adoption, huh?” he began, calmly.

“That’s right.”

“So, you’re interested in adopting kids, are you?”


“You know, a little birdie told me that this meeting was actually to ‘incriminate Hillary’ — he confessed to it in a… tweet.

“Is that so? And also, that was a pretty good pun, detective.”

“It is. And thank you.”

“So, tell me detective… does this little birdie have a name?”

“It does.”

“And what was that birdie’s name? If I may be so bold.”

“Its name was Donald Trump Jr.”

“Is that so?”

It is.”

Donald Trump Jr. shifted awkwardly in his seat, and a bead of sweat slipped down his face like a mountain goat in a mudslide. The man was shaken. Startled. Worried. This interview was clearly not going as he had planned.

And that’s when Detective Mueller went in for the kill.

“I’ll tell you what, Junior. I’ll take your case… If you can name three kids.”


“Name. Three. Kids.”

“Detective, I don’t understand—”

“I think you understand all too well. You’re looking into adoption, right? Well, I think I’m entitled to a LITTLE DAMN PROOF!” yelled Mueller at the former-bartender sitting in front of him. “Now name three kids and I’ll take your case. Here. I’ll even give you a name for free. Finn Wolfhard. You know. The kid from Stranger Things. Come on, Junior. I just need two more names—”

“I… I don’t know any kids!” wept Junior, his clearly fake story falling apart like a beignet in a rainstorm.

“Just as I thought,” muttered Detective Mueller. “Now get the hell out of my office.”

Donald Trump Jr. (and those damned beautiful legs) stalked back out of the room and Mueller was alone again.

Staring warily at the faded desk in front of him, Mueller took out his trusty bottle of rye and began pounding into it like a horse pounding onto the surface of a hot tin roof.

Then, Mueller sighed.

Clearly, this was going to be a long night.