Steve SchmidtVerified account

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)