MR. PRESIDENT

SAY WHEN. SAY WHERE.

President Donald J. Trump
1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW
Washington, DC

Mr. President,

We have reached the point in the American experiment where the footnotes have unionized, the receipts have staged a coup, and the timeline has grown so sturdy it could be used as scaffolding. The dots aren’t connecting themselves anymore; they’re marching across the page holding hands and singing showtunes. Every new document, every subpoenaed email, every stray billionaire confession makes the case against you. You can call this a witch hunt if you like, but at this stage the broom is writing its own testimony.

The Epstein emails alone would keep any other president hiding under a desk, and yet here you are calling them “a hoax,” as though the man at the center of a multinational sex-trafficking ring spent his final decade sending fan fiction to Ghislaine Maxwell. The 2011 email in which he wrote that you “spent hours” with a trafficking victim at his home, that you “knew about the girls,” that you were “the dog that hasn’t barked,” sits there in the record like a lit flare.

His brother didn’t help your case, either. Mark Epstein’s 2018 message wondering aloud whether Vladimir Putin has “the photos of Trump blowing Bubba” reads like something a deranged screenwriter would pump out. Yet that line exists, preserved in the congressional archive, radiating the kind of energy that makes attorneys whisper, “Don’t ever put anything like that in writing.” You can dismiss rumors. You can deny allegations. It is much harder to explain why the people closest to a dead sex trafficker were swapping riffs about Russian kompromat starring you and Bill Clinton’s nickname.

Add Leon Black to the pile of names, and the pattern stops being a pattern and starts being a constellation with your face on it. Black paid Jeffrey Epstein up to $158 million for “tax advice” after Epstein was already a registered sex offender. He flew with him. Signed his birthday card. Sat in his inner circle like a gargoyle perched on a vault. And when asked about traveling with you to Moscow in 1996, Black claimed you two “might have been” in a strip club together. People do not generally lose track of whether they visited a Moscow strip club with a future president unless the full answer is something they’d rather set on fire. Black later joined the board of RDIF, Putin’s sovereign wealth fund, and met with the Russian leader directly. You moved through these same corridors. Epstein was a bridge between you and Black. Black was a bridge between Epstein and Putin. At a certain point the Venn diagram stops overlapping and becomes a single circle labeled “Oh no.”

Then there is Bayrock. Felix Sater. Michael Cohen. Trump Tower Moscow. The business deals funded by ex-Soviet oligarchs. The shell companies. The tax haven real estate. The laundering allegations. The months you insisted there were “no dealings with Russia,” even as the documents now show otherwise. Every time investigators dug, another pipeline appeared: financial, political, or personal. You spent decades feeding at a trough built by people who never do anything cheaply, quietly, or without strings.

And if that weren’t enough, in comes Kazakhstan’s former intelligence chief, Alnur Mussayev, a man with the résumé of someone who knows exactly what the KGB is capable of and the scars of someone who learned that the hard way. Mussayev didn’t speculate when he described your 1987 recruitment. He didn’t waffle when he said the codename was Krasnov. He didn’t exaggerate the Soviet practice of grooming Western businessmen as unwitting assets. He simply stated what he knew, and the timeline inconveniently matches your public record: the KGB-funded Moscow trip, the sudden adoption of pro-Soviet talking points in U.S. newspaper ads, the long string of relationships with former Soviet operatives, the Russian-funded real estate projects, and the decades-long pattern of leverage that shaped everything from your finances to your friendships.

Jeffrey Epstein said you knew about the girls. Mark Epstein suspected Putin held sexual kompromat. Leon Black connected the Epstein world to the Kremlin world. Bayrock gave you a pipeline of post-Soviet money. Mussayev provided the intelligence-world frame that makes every other piece snap into place. And through all of it, you continue insisting the entire Russian operation was a hoax, even as members of your own campaign were later convicted of lying about their contacts.

This isn’t a conspiracy theory. It’s not the ravings of the internet’s least employed hobbyists. These are public records, sworn testimony, financial statements, travel logs, subpoenaed emails, intelligence analyses, corporate filings, criminal pleas, and court transcripts. You can dislike the narrative these facts create. You can deny the implications. But you cannot pretend the information is imaginary. Reality doesn’t owe you loyalty.

So here is where we stand. I am coming to Washington with the simple expectation that a man who calls himself the most transparent president in history shouldn't be scared to sit down and talk about any of this.

In light of the ongoing construction at the White House, we propose meeting you at a McDonald’s. You pick the location. I’ll buy the Diet Cokes. You can bring whatever explanation you think absolves you. I’ll bring the receipts, the emails, the sworn statements, the travel records, and the unconcealed astonishment of millions of people who have finally realized that the man who always claimed to be the victim of smears is now standing knee-deep in a swamp built by men he once called friends.

If you actually want to answer for any of this instead of hiding behind Karoline Leavitt’s trembling statements, have your staff fax us at FAX-ACE-0420 with the date, time, and the exact McDonald’s you want to meet at. I’ll be in Washington from November 16th through the 23rd, fully available to sit across from you in a plastic booth while you attempt to explain thirty years of kompromat orbit over a lukewarm Quarter Pounder with fries.

I will make sure we have plenty of ketchup on hand.

Disrespectfully,
Rook T. Winchester
Closer to the Edge

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