Jeff Sessions, slipped on his polished riding boots, the one’s with the medium lifts and the magnificent spurs that were once worn by Stonewall Jackson’s young helper, adjutant and later, adopted son. Matt was his name. Jefferson Davis himself once said Matt was handsome and

going places. Col. Sessions would not wear his uniform today but he would have an early sip of sweet tea. For a second he couldn’t remember the last time yesterday that he had been overcome by the vapors and had taken to the feinting couch. He was happy. No one knew how (2)

he became a Colonel but it didn’t matter. He had dozens of sleek Grey uniforms and a cannon. This morning the Colonel was at ease. His Patron was retreating home to DC, licking his wounds like the Yankees did after first Mannassas. His crowd disappeared. His performance (3)

was low energy. Yet, the Colonel remembered the happy times. When it was just them. Not even the turncoat Steven Miller could take that away. Sessions started to choke up thinking about the courage it took to walk down that ramp at West Point and to sip the water. He loved Trump

He would reach out. Yes. He would try. He did not want the man he loved most to come to Alabama on a revenge tour. No sir. They could blossom together anew like kudzu vine growing wildly in the Alabama sun. (5)

He would call Lindsey Graham. Lindsey would know what to do for he so loved Trump that he even dyed his hair to look more like him. Sessions called for dictation. He would send his urgent correspondence by courier to South Carolina. He would await the response. Now, he would (6)

Have some pie. The Colonel thought it was delicious.

The Colonel was already ravaged by the heat and rigor of his exertions when he swooned at the passing woman. It wasn’t Ivanka but she was wearing her scent. Sessions had always loved it, he sniffed, he couldn’t put his finger on it but it reminded him of Wuhan in early spring.

Lindsey Graham received the Colonels letter in SC. Weighted down by the burden of his hypocrisies, betrayals and phoniness he drew his bath early. He was in a fit of acute distemper. He had stubbed his toe again on one of the picture frames that had been taken down to make (2)

Room for the new memories he was creating. No one would have more photos with Trump than him. He always thought McCain was pale in the old pictures. The Orange tint of his new affection brightened his chambers. He liked it. He even had one special memory in the corner with Ivanka

The Lavender had mellowed his mood. For just a second all was well. For just a second. The door burst open. It was his helper. He carried Sessions letter. Graham read it in disbelief. Sessions was a fool thought Lindsey. How could Sessions trust him? Lindsey would never let (4)

Sessions serve his Alabama sweet tea in the White House ever again. Lindsey was taking Trump to Stone Mountain. They would have a quiet moment gazing at Lee and Jefferson Davis and Stonewall. Lindsey was drawn to the fierceness of Jackson’s steely blue eyes. Trump told him he

Liked Lindsey’s eyes once. He said he liked the way they twinkled when he was pretending to have conviction about anything. They were bound together in a special way. Their self regard and self absorption was total and complete. Lindsey snarled at nothing in particular in the

Mirror and softly said to no one, “I’m the little buddy. I’m the side kick. Sessions ain’t taking my spot!” He yelled for his helper, a legal immigrant of course, to start the car. He would waste no time. He would head to Alabama straight away. His jaw clenched and his lips

Pursed. “Gorka, Gorka, Gorka” he whispered to himself. Yes, Gorka. He would call him soon. Very soon.