It's early December in Washington, DC. Lindsey Graham paces in front of a Edwardian fireplace. The circles under his eyes tell the story of man who hasn't slept in weeks.

"God damn it," he reaches for the page peeking out from his bed, frantically tossing it into the flames. /1

With bloodshot eyes, he stares intently at a picture on his hearth. Breathlessly, he begs, "Look at what you've done to me," before he hurls the frame across the room to shatters against the wall.

Alone in his townhouse, Lindsey is on the brink of mental breakdown. /2

We learn why later that evening. It's late and Graham is growing agitated. Struggling to fall asleep, he pulls a flask from the top drawer of his nightstand and brings it to his lips.

A distance clock announces midnight is upon us.

We realize Graham is not alone /3

A dim figure stands hands clasp behind his back, in military dress suit, staring out the window.

"You pour one for me, friend?"

We know the voice, but not until the shadow turns toward Graham, do we see the warm eyes of John McCain.

"No? I guess I'll just get started."/4

"INTRODUCTION TO VOLUME I. This report is submitted to the Attorney General pursuant to 28 C.F.R. § 600.8(c), which states -"

"How long, John? When will this stop?"

As if he had not even heard Graham's protests McCain continues... /5

"- that, 'at the conclusion of the Special Counsel’s work, he . . . shall provide the Attorney General a confidential report... explaining the-”

Graham slides into leather slippers waiting for him on a rug next to his bed.

"Every fucking night, John." /6

Graham had reason to be concerned. The haunting visits from his dear friend, began nearly two months ago. Each visit culminating in the midnight performance of that god foresaken -

"The Russian government interfered in the 2016 election in sweeping and systematic fashion." /7

Reaching the kitchen Graham, sets his kettle to boil. Behind him McCain enter through the wall never ceasing his oration.

"I wish you would at least spare me the pages."

Graham pours a glass of bourbon, watching as McCain tosses another completed page to the floor. /8

"My hands- Do you see my hands? - the cuts. From the paper. Every morning four hundred and forty new pages of this god foresaken report strewn across my home." The kettle howls. "I can't live like this John." /9

Thank you for attending a pre-pre-preview thread of my off-off broadway play, "The Haunting of Lindsey Graham." /10