ws & the internet

Mueller enters the club. It appears he has time traveled to the 1920s, the roaringly sinful 1920s. Women dance in beaded dresses with bobbed haircuts, men in their baggy suits. No one seems to see Mueller who did not notice the sign outside explaining that the club is hosting a themed fundraiser for Michigan Senator Debbie Stabenow, a true party-animal.

Mueller is offered a coupe of champagne which he takes but doesn’t drink. Everyone knows that if you eat or drink anything in the past you’ll be stuck there forever. Mueller is approached by Orrin Hatch who is wearing his usual off-duty senator ensemble - a red tracksuit with Adidas sandals and black trouser stockings. Hatch hurries over to Mueller, “You party crashing too?”

“What?” Mueller asks.

“Oh, I know this is supposed to be some kind of liberal themed party, but I love the gin gimlets they serve at this place.”

None of this information has made any sense to the sleep-deprived Mueller who believes he is either time traveling or still in a coma. He stares blankly at Hatch who doesn’t seem to notice.

“And I do love jazz,” Hatch adds. He begins to move his body in a way that could be described as dancing, but to Mueller it looks like lurid writhing. He begins to feel nauseous. He turns away from Hatch and begins to make his way toward a soft reddish light he sees in the distance.

He walks toward the red light. Mueller weaves by a gaggle of raucous treasury members, led by nosy-Jack Lew. Lew snaps his fingers arrogantly as Mueller tries to avoid eye contact, but fails. Lew waves, flashing his renowned three-dollar smile. Mueller scowls, stunned by Dianne Feinstein, who, everyone agrees, can really dance.

The red light grows in intensity. All-too-suddenly Muller catches a strong whiff of asparagus and glue on a hot day. It’s like a slap in the face. He grimaces, stopping dead in his tracks, knowing full-well it’s too late. “Oh hell,” he stammers.

“BOB MUELLER. IN THE FLESH,” a deep voice with a syrupy southern-drawl announces.

“Hi Rex,” Mueller says, moving his blazer, adjusting his cuffs. “Are those pigs in a blanket?” Mueller inquires.

“There aren’t many sure things in this world, Bobby, but those are pigs in a blanket,” he declares, gesturing with his whole arm at a platter bathed in red light. “Help yourself.”

“I’d rather not,” Mueller says, remembering the slippery rules around time travel. He looks at Tillerson and his group of oil weasels, fawning over the recently-freed Tillerson. “What are you doing here, Rex? I thought you would be getting out of this dirty, old burg.”

“I’m a big fan of chaos, Bobby. I want this race to be interesting. Stabenow is scrappier than my pet goat, Ramona.” Ramona, Rex Tillerson’s pet goat is a well-known figure in DC and Texas. It is impossible to know how far beyond these spheres Ramona’s story reaches. Bob Mueller met Ramona on several occasions and finds himself nodding in agreement. “Plus, I love a good show,” Tillerson adds, running a toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other, smiling menacingly. Helping himself to a pig in a blanket, Tillerson dangles it over his maw to impress Mueller. Mueller is unmoved, even as Tillerson releases it, gnashing his jowls and craning his neck at the same time, like a bear chomping down on a river salmon. The weasels approve. Mueller feels a tap on his shoulder and swivels around.

“Well, thank god you walked in,” Dianne Feinstein says. She’s bathed in sweat, no doubt from singlehandedly setting the tone on the dancefloor. Her tone is flirtatious. “Tammy Baldwin was supposed to play piano for this gig. I guess she’s double-booked tonight. I know it’s a big ask,” she says, wiping her brow with a palm tree-patterned kerchief, “but would you mind covering for her tonight?”

Mueller feels time stand still. He had sworn off the piano years ago, or had he given it up minutes ago? The MK-timeline makes dates hazy. If only he had a paper cup right now. As a man of discipline, Bob Mueller was able to systematically swear off all distractions in his life -- except jazz. He remembers reading an article in The Hilltop, Howard University’s best newspaper, that said Jazz music was not to be trusted because of its jagged beats. In an alarming turn of events, he rebelled against this editorial, embracing the unpredictable rhythms of jazz as a guiding light - a truth that would ground him.

As he thinks more about this, Mueller looks down and realizes he is halfway through Monk’s Nutty, confidently seated at a jet-black piano. Debbie Stabenow is suspended ten feet above the piano in a sparkling hula-hoop, spinning gracefully as red and silver confetti fall around him. There’s Gillibrand on sax and he swears he can see Sherrod Brown on drums. He leans in close to the keys and his fingers dance. Is he wearing sunglasses? He hears Tillerson’s booming voice “My god Bobby, you’re gonna set the place on fire.”

His eyes scan the room. He wants to see the man in the pink umbrella, but all he sees is Orrin Hatch and Chuck Schumer dip each other awkwardly bumping into other attendees. He dives hard and fast into the middle eight and the crowd cheers approvingly. It’s a helluva fundraiser he concedes to himself, pulling back on the piano as she begins her speech.

“HEY YOU, MACHINES,” everyone knows that Stabenow loves trying out new accents and referring to people who aren’t from Michigan as machines. “Time to explode your wallets into my bank account,” she remarks grotesquely in a pitch-perfect Australian brogue. The crowd is delighted and Mueller hears audible squeals of delight. He glares at Schumer and purses his lips.

Stabenow continues about the importance of keeping Michigan out of the great lakes, how small things should be smaller, and launches into her usual stump speech, complete with talking points from the blimp lobby. Mueller chuckles to himself as the shape of blimps are very funny. He shakes his head because it’s really funny.

“BOB,” Stabenow says suddenly, forcefully, emphasizing the curves of the letter Bs, “We are running out of time.” She’s staring directly at him. The whole crowd is staring too. The spotlight is on him and him alone. The crowd encircles him. He blinks vacantly. He tries to stay present, banishing the nagging thought that he will wind up in front of another unlikely district locale with a half-eaten sandwich in hand. He is tired of the tangled timeline and John Kerry run-ins. He misses the din of his office. He yearns for the field from his dream, far away from the district. He wishes---

“Are you even listening, Bob?” Feinstein is shaking him. He smiles, nodding. “We need you more than ever.” Even the oil weasels are nodding their heads. Orrin Hatch gyrates with needless gusto and the scent of asparagus and hot glue permeates everything as Rex Tillerson claps like Duffy, the beloved seal at the national zoo.

“I...I..I’m happy to help,” Mueller muses. “I...I just need to answer some questions first.” The room grows quiet. He feels it is suddenly very late. The crowd fades into the dark corners of the club. He gazes down at the checkerboard floor. It stretches infinitely in all directions. He feels heat behind his knees. He licks his lips and tastes vinegar. He reaches down into a bowl full of nuts and takes a handful. The world spins around its axis and feels a premonition, the future coming. He opens his mouth, absent-mindedly, taking in a handful of nuts. His large jaw makes quick work of them.

In the far-reaches of his mind he starts to hear music. A piano looping. A swell of a string ensemble. He closes his eyes. A cascade of color. All colors. Beautiful hues. A palette of deep, vivid colors comes into focus. The music grows louder. He begins singing along. It’s Over the Rainbow. Warm tones and a soft crackle. An old recording. The one from the movie. A familiar warble. Is that Judy Garland? He’s tearing up, looking at himself staring into the infinite abyss of Washington, DC. He sees light blue gingham everywhere. She appears in the middle of it, wearing, ruby slippers. She hands him a lei of flowers. He accepts them and locks eyes with her. In slow motion she says “Bob, this is wrong. I am the wrong one. The other one. Find the other one. Make haste. We need you, Bob. The wizard. THE WIZARD!” She screams. He’s confused, but nods. He reaches out to her and she disintegrates into a powerful gingham wind. Rex Tillerson laughs somewhere and the world shudders while Orrin Hatch tries out his new dance moves. Ugh. The room swirls around him and all goes dark.

It’s time. But time for what?

Mueller throws the newspaper off his face and lurches upward. He’s back in the gym. Staring back at him he sees Sam Waterston from the NBC hit Law and Order. He rubs his eyes. No, just John Kerry again wearing those damn American Flag workout shorts that say ‘04 on the rear. “Say Bob, you seem stressed. Why not come to our improv show tonight? I guarantee it’s the funniest show this side of the Potomac.”

“That’s not a thing people say, John,” Mueller spits, gathering the papers he threw on the floor. He could use a good laugh he admits to himself. Kerry thrusts a neon flyer that he made in Mueller’s direction. It depicts stick figures laughing at a crudely-drawn performer on stage. “Err, thanks, John. I’ll see if I can come. It’s pretty busy on my end,” he says, squeezing out his best smile.

“Sure Bob, no problem. Maybe you can ask Tammy what she meant. She has such a foul mouth in these shows. She is very - and I mean very - funny.” Kerry checks himself out in the mirror. Mueller takes his papers and stands up. “Candied pecan?” Kerry offers, “You look famished. I love these things - never leave home without a bag or two.” Did Kerry just wink at me, Mueller thinks to himself.

“Sure, sure, thanks John,” Mueller demurs, helping himself to a few. He scans the papers, walking away quickly, hoping that he’s lost Kerry. He’s on the fence about whether he should go to the show this evening. Following up with Baldwin would be smart. And nobody enjoys a good laugh more than Bob Mueller...but John Kerry? Seven dollars at the door?

“You know Bob,” Kerry says far down the hall, “it’s always time for nuts!”

Mueller’s mind starts racing. Nuts, time, shawarma, Law and Order, the ‘04 election...what does it all mean? How does it fit together? Mueller leans against a shuttering tree outside the gym. The rain has started up again. He removes the tie from his waist and uses it to wipe rain and sweat from his forehead. A lightning bolt splits the sky. Mueller feels a primal urge to take shelter.

He enters a shop with a strange device over the door, a sort of masonic mermaid - “Starbucks,” reads the sign under the device. Mueller’s head clears as he enters, the acrid smell of coffee fills his nostrils. He closes his eyes and sighs. And then he notices something, all the people in this little shop are holding the paper coffee cups! This must be where you get one! Finally, a piece of the puzzle becomes clear.

Mueller goes up to the counter and says to the barista, “I want a cup of coffee, in one of the paper cups.” The barista sighs inwardly, she can tell this is a man who has never ordered a Starbucks coffee before.

“What size?” she asks, gesturing to a display of various sized paper cups. Mueller is struck by the variety of sizes, and by the names for the sizes which seem to correspond to nothing. This is a metaphor for his life, he realizes.

Several people order while Mueller contemplates the cups as well as the idea that words are meaningless until we add meaning to them. Finally he gestures to one of the middle cups and says, “that one.”

“Okay, great,” says the barista, “is a dark roast okay?”

Mueller rocks back and forth on his heels, feeling almost revived, “Yes, yes, anything!”

She gets the coffee and punched a few buttons on the cash register, “That will be…”

Mueller is already digging in his pocket for his wallet, “Anything, I don’t care how much it is!” He pulls out a crisp $100 bill. “Keep the change!”

The barista’s face goes from mild annoyance to happy surprise in an instant, but Mueller only has eyes for his paper cup of coffee. He cradles it as though it were a newborn Panda at the National Zoo, a symbol of international cooperation, joy, and new grant money.

“Milk and sugar are over there!” the barista calls. Robert Mueller is not a man who needs milk and sugar in his coffee. He takes a seat in a stoll looking out the window. He takes a sip of the coffee - too hot, acrid, perfect.

With a snap, he straightens like a predator who has smelt a trace of blood. He stares out the window. There, just across the street, is his Mr. Tumnus, his white whale, his...he can’t think of another literary comparison. The man with the pink umbrella turns to look across the street into the Starbucks. His eyes meet Mueller’s. In this mild-looking man’s eyes, Mueller sees reflected the void he himself has stared into for many months. For a moment, they are one.

Bob Mueller quickly sips from the white paper cup. A caustic, burning taste fills his mouth. He winces and it is the best feeling he’s felt in months. He bursts out of the doors onto the sidewalk where it is pouring. The man with the pink umbrella stays put across the street, as if beckoning. The world grows quiet as busy citizens zoom by in their automobiles. Mueller straightens his back, cups his hands over his mouth and shouts “I’ve seen you before.” The man with the pink umbrella stares, face partially obscured by his prop. “I...I think I know you,” Mueller stammers. He feels an energy seething within as if long-sought after answers stand across the street from him. Could this be when everything changes?

The man replies in a slow, calm tone, “I know you too, Bob. It’s good to see you. There’s much to discuss.” He glances up and down the street, “But this is not the place.” Sound suddenly returns to Bob Mueller’s world: trucks wheeze down the road, shoes scrape against the pavement, rain cascades down, phone conversations stick like pins into his ears. “I need to go,” the man announces.

“Wait, just wait, please,” Mueller begs, waving his arms, spilling coffee everywhere. “Are you real? Do you know what’s going on? Who...who are you.” Questions flood his brain and his shoes suddenly feel too small for his feet. Everything is wet.

The man smiles, establishing a comforting truth. “I’m flesh and blood, Bob. Just like you. I’m as real as those ties you are wearing. We share the same passions. The answers you seek are out there. We’re on the same side of this story. I know it’s not easy, but I need you to be patient.” Where Mueller would normally feel frustration, he feels a deep connection with this stranger - an understanding, a sense of justice.

“Soon, then?” Mueller squints and shouts over the din of the storm.

“Yes, soon,” the man says, nodding, as a bus suddenly appears, obscuring him. Mueller tries to track him, bolting down the street to catch another glimpse, but he is already gone. In his place is Chief Justice John Roberts holding a red umbrella and some bowling pins. Mueller instantly realizes that Roberts has just finished another one of his circus classes.

“Bob Mueller, that you? Dang! Did you know I just learned how to juggle? Well, sorta.”

“Inopportune,” Mueller swears to himself under his breath. He feels the weight of his foul mouth and quickly conjures up a way to avail himself “John, you are here! I have to go fix my sink!” Brilliant, he thinks and teeters away down the jagged, labyrinthine streets. He can hear Roberts shouting something about an improv show going on later as he speeds away.

Mueller feels overwhelmed by his interaction with the man with the pink umbrella. He seems so familiar. He must connect the dots. How can he find out who that man is? Sky plane note? No. Microfiche? Probably. Fortune-teller? Expensive. Old newspaper clippings? Likely, but which ones? Who shares the same passions that he does? How soon is too soon to obtain another paper cup? He feels a familiar feeling and looks up. Wind. Simple wind. It is the wind blowing on his face. He looks toward its source.

Mueller steps back out into the drizzling street. In the distance, a furtive figure catches his eye. A man carrying a brightly colored umbrella, its pattern indiscernible at this distance, is leaning over a garbage can. The man straightens, seeming to feel Mueller’s eyes on him. He scurries off, his gait both unusual and familiar. Mueller follows, no longer noticing the rain. As he trails the mysterious man, he is reminded of Mr. Tumnus, the faun in The Chronicles of Narnia, who helped the Pevensie children. Or did he sell them out to the White Witch? Mueller isn’t sure. He breaks his stride to consider the story, in that instant, the man with the umbrella disappears.

A few yards ahead Mueller sees former White House photographer Pete Souza coming out of a laundromat.

“Hey there!” Mueller calls. “Did you see a man with a pink umbrella go by a minute ago?”

Souza is startled and almost drops his sack of laundry. “No, I didn’t see anyone.”

Mueller continues, “it was one of those really big umbrellas.”

Souza replies, “I think I would have noticed that, Mr. Mueller, it’s not even raining.” Mueller stares at him. Souza goes on, attempting to be conversational, “It hasn’t rained here in weeks, we could really use it.”

Mueller continues to stare, he is sure it was drizzling only a few minutes ago. Then he thinks to himself, you can’t trust a photographer anyway. He is about the push past Souza to try to find the umbrella-wielding stranger when Souza pipes up again. Souza, alarmed at the lack of focus in Mueller’s eyes and the fact that he is wearing two ties, asks, “Are you okay, Mr. Mueller?”

Mueller snaps to attention and begins to correct Souza on the pronunciation of his name. “It’s Mueller, like mule. No, I mean it’s like dull, but with an ‘M,’ I mean...what were we talking about? I can’t say anything about the indictments.” Mueller presses his knuckles into his temples. Souza, meanwhile, has begun to back away.

“Can I call anyone for you, Mr. Mue…” Souza pauses, now unsure how to pronounce the name, “Can I get call an Uber for you?”

Mueller is looking frazzled now, “Who have you been talking to?! NO CALLS!” Mueller steps toward Souza and stares down at him, and the full force of the jowly features ripple over the photographer’s face. Could it be a mask? Souza is torn now, he wants to get away from Mueller, but he also feels that the man needs help.

Just then Senator Baldwin comes back around from the Chipotle across from the shawarma shop. “Just spit it out, Bob,” she yawps, smacking Mueller in the middle of his back. The force of the blow throws Mueller to his knees. She continues to march down the street without looking back.

Souza takes the moment of confusion to slip across the street.

Mueller stands up, dusting off his knees. Better get back to it; lunch is over he thinks to himself but really says out loud to a gaggle of tourists from Revere, Massachusetts. “Go get ‘em, Bowbby!” they say in response. He walks toward a federal building at a gait that anyone would label as “teetering” or “goofy,” but he thinks of as “power walking” or “a heel-forward clip.”

Teetering by several pristine government offices, Bob Mueller opens a black door, which reveals a hallway that has not been renovated in decades. It smells musty. Homey. Honest. He unlocks his office door and blurts out “what’have’we’got,gang?” It is a hive of productivity. In the back there are several cork boards with yarn radiating out from many axes, connecting disparate pieces of evidence. Trusted agents click-clack away at laptop keyboards, while others dig through crates of documents. Phones ring. An old stereo sounds a restrained jazzy beat. There are murmurs of “Hey, boss.” “Nothing yet.” “Too much to process.” “Hiya.”

Special Agent Sandra Willard slams her phone down. “Boss, it’s another flurry today.”

“Don’t I know it,” Mueller says, shaking his head, loosening one of his ties.

“Aiming for another write up in the New Yorker?” Sandra or Sandy if you prefer, asks, looking at the ties.

“Let’s just say it’s all part of the plan,” Mueller responds, winking at a blank wall as if someone were there. Two agents see this and exchange knowing looks. “Sandy, I ran into Tammy Baldwin at lunch today and she said that I shouldn’t worry about the time, but that I should keep my eye on it too. What the hell’s that mean?”

Sharpie in hand, Sandy writes this down on an index card and posts it on a cork board. “Cryptic. It’s something. We’re getting more used to this confusion every day,” she says shrugging. Index cards cover the boards with various phrases like “All is still in the moonlessness,” “It’s Mueller time,” “Four in one isn’t quite three of nine,” “Botched nose job,” etc.

“All will reveal itself,” Mueller declares, tapping his lip for ten minutes. “I also saw Souza today. He was telling me it wasn’t raining out.”

“Sure wasn’t. Wish it was. We really could use it,” Sandy adds. “But, then again, you can never trust a photographer, even when they’re right.”

“Agreed,” Mueller nods, pinning Souza’s name on the board for good measure. Unwrapping a Charleston Chew, he takes a generous bite. He gnaws, sizing up the board. He stares, shakes his head, rubs his eyes, still chewing. He unbuttons his blazer and places his hands in his pockets. “This is going nowhere,” he sputters between chews. Swallowing, he turns to everyone and says “You are all doing the work this country deserves. I can’t thank you enough and this citizenry owes you all a debt of gratitude. I’m a little stuck right now and need to work through some of this,” he explains, gesturing at a cluster of cards and strings, letting the day’s events wash over him. “I’m going to the gym.” High-fiving everyone he can on the way out, he grabs a copy of The Hilltop, Howard University’s best newspaper, by his estimation, to check for leads.

He teeters down the hallway and stumbles out into the bright sunlight. “Gosh darn it, Souza,” he mumbles, using one of his stronger oaths. He takes a hesitating step out onto the sidewalk. He can tell there is something off about how he is walking. He tries a few steps on his tip toes, then a few hops, then settles into stomping with his left foot and dragging his right foot to meet it.

Halfway to the gym is when his best frenemy and doppleganger, John Kerry, bursts out of a boarded up Border’s. “Typical,” Mueller thinks, “Just what I need.”

“Heya, Three Sticks,” Kerry calls out, “How’s the weather up there.” Kerry runs up and hip checks Mueller. “What’s with the two-step?”

Mueller doesn’t understand the reference. “John, have you spoken to Senator Baldwin lately?”

“Sure, she’s in my improv group.”

“She told me something kind of cryptic today, off the record, ya know. Something about how time was short.”

“Well, sure, Bob. Time is like a hand slowly circling a clock face. But you’d have to talk to someone on the Budget Committee to really understand it.”

Mueller finds this statement to be completely unhelpful. He tries to lose Kerry in a gaggle of 7th graders, but it doesn’t work because they’re both much taller than the kids. “Listen John, I need to get to the gym to do some reading.” He stomps off before Kerry can react.

At the gym, the twenty-something at the desk says, “Good Morning, Mr. Mueller, enjoy your workout.”

“It’s Mueller,” Mueller snaps, “Like bugler, with an ‘M,’ I mean it’s like bowler, like that hat.”

In the locker room, Mueller removes his remaining tie. It has a golf theme, with tees, and ball, and putters printed all over it. “Where the heck did I get this thing? Have I ever even played golf?” He promptly ties it around his waist.

He goes out into the gym to use his usual bench press. There is a new motivational sign on the wall next to him. “There’s only one today until tomorrow!” it reads. Mueller is struck by this sentiment. Surely it was placed here for him to see. Is it a threat or a clue? Mueller can’t tell. He leans back on the bench, places The Hilltop over his head and falls asleep.

by @sarahlml and ws

Bob Mueller has been trapped in what he believes to be an MKUltra experiment for approximately 25 months. Every morning he wakes with a jolt at the crack of 5:30 a.m and turns on CNN hoping to see that it’s still 2016. Every morning, it isn’t. He grants himself one heavy sigh and then gets to it. He brushes his teeth with salt, stares at his jowls in the mirror wondering if they always looked like this, and then glops a handful of Brylcreem on the top of his head.

He heads out into the city feeling hopeful this will be the day the break will come - he’ll put together the pieces of the absurd task set to him and the experiment will end, or maybe he’ll come out of a coma in 2004. He goes to the Mall to lurk among the cherry trees trying to spot his MKUltra handlers. He’s about to approach a man reading a newspaper - a real paper, the kind of thing you don’t see so much these days- when he sees House Majority Whip Steve Scalise. Mueller steps out in front of Scalise with a mind to try out his Harry Potter Pensieve Theory of what’s happening to him. He waves a bony hand in Scalise’s shiny face. “Hey, do you know the New Yorker did a fashion piece on me?” Scalise doesn’t respond; he’s shouting into a flip phone apparently to his service provider. “I know, but what is a data plan?” Scalice roars into the phone. He notices Mueller standing there and stalks past him with a quick, “No English!” At least Scalice seems to have seen him. Mueller shrugs to himself. “I guess that’s something.”

Mueller watches Scalise go, then strides off to get to a press conference early. As he walks across the Mall, he wonders about the people around him. Are they in on this? Are they even real? Where do they all get those paper coffee cups they seem to carry around all the time? Are they free somewhere? Did they have those before he went into what he now calls the MK-State? He can’t seem to remember another time.

At the press conference he looks for a good twenty minutes, but cannot find any paper cups for the coffee. He feels another mystery building. The questions about the updates and the updates about the questions reminds him that he is trapped in a French farce, waiting, waiting. It begins raining outside and he stares at the raindrops blurring the gray, District landscape. The recorders record and the press shifts uncomfortably in front of him, symbolic of everything. He stares unblinking at the water streaking down the windows. He wonders to himself whether anyone is even listening. “I could probably say anything I want to,” he thinks. “That’s what everyone else seems to be doing these days. I am the god of most watermelons, for example,” he ponders to himself. The idea rolls around his mind. It fades. He almost smiles.

As if on command, he suddenly feels a deep discomfort in his belly. MK-State chemicals? Has he revealed too much in the tone he said “I have no comment” with? Was it a timed self-destruction device? No, no, it isn’t any of those things, he concludes snapping out of a daze. It is hunger. It is another Tuesday. Gyros on Tuesday for Bob Mueller.

He steps out into the city which feels more and more like a MC Escher piece. Streets stretch without meaning. Corners bend and vanish only to reappear and sharpen in a geometrically impossible way. The rain sounds like a million snapping fingers which cascade into a deafening roar. It would be soothing if it’s weren’t for -- “NEXT,” Lena, the woman behind the gyro counter beckons. Mueller places his order, dries off his face with a napkin, and sits down. Sen. Tammy Baldwin sits down across from him.

“Strange days, huh, Bob?” she says, tearing into a chicken shawarma.

“Hi Tammy,” Mueller says, returning to the moment. “Yeah, I can’t talk much about that.”

“That’s okay, I understand,” Baldwin notes, finishing off the last bit of her shawarma.

“You ate that so quickly,” Mueller continues, envious of her appetite.

“Oh, I love shawarma. Did you know I’ve been to every shawarma restaurant in Wisconsin. Bet’cha didn’t know that about old Tammy. It’s more than just a passion for me,” she offers without explanation. Bob Mueller does not pry any further. All he can remember is a life consumed with prying -- crafting the perfect question, placing and timing the questions in a logical way. If only he could master a way of improving his posture or his gaze that would just get people to tell him things without having to ask. That would make these strange days go by a little easier.

“Can I give you a hot tip, Bob?” Baldwin asks as she digs into a second shawarma.

“Yeah, Tammy, anything.”

“A lot of us are pining for answers, pushing for urgency and obstruction, and collusion. The works.” Shawarma juice trickles down her chin, pooling at the base of her jaw. “Sometimes, we push a little too hard. Other times we don’t push hard enough.” She nods. The juice drips. With gritted teeth she ominously advises “Look, don’t worry about the time, but don’t stop watching it either.” Mueller’s eyes break from her shawarma encrusted teeth to see Sen. Baldwin’s arm pointing at something behind him. He swivels in place, following her gnarly finger to a clock on the wall shaped like a peanut with the phrase “IT’S ALWAYS TIME FOR NUTS,” glowing in neon.

Official: http://www.adultswim.com/videos/tim-erics-bedtime-stories/toes