Donald Trump’s week from hell

| 9:00 pm EST January 22, 2022
Dear Palmer Report readers, we all understand the difficult era we're heading into. Major media outlets are caving to Trump already. Even the internet itself and publishing platforms may be at risk. But Palmer Report is nonetheless going to lead the fight. We're funding our 2025 operating expenses now, so we can keep publishing no matter what happens. I'm asking you to contribute if you can, because the stakes are just so high. You can donate here.

Have you perhaps read the short story “The Tell-Tale Heart” by Edgar Allan Poe? In it, an unnamed narrator huddles on the brink as he attempts to convince the reader that he not losing his sanity after committing a heinous murder. I always liked that story.

But what of the sanity of our human terror — the lord of the lies? The orange insurrectionist? How he must be trembling. Of course, he would not show it. Narcissists cannot show fear. But they can feel it. Their whole lives are about fear. Fear of being losers, fear of Justice, fear of — themselves.

And there is no greater narcissist than Donald Trump. What is he doing? What can he possibly be thinking? Is he even as I write this huddled behind the walls of his luxury prison, waiting for the next bombshell to drop? Does he even have a faint awareness of the trouble he is in?

I think he does — not that he would ever admit it publicly, of course. Has he become engulfed in even deeper madness as story after story breaks, taking his dirty deeds and contemptuously throwing them back in his face? Scheme after scheme is revealing him — and this is but the tip of the iceberg. Is the madness fully blossoming in the recesses of his corrupt psyche?

In “The tell-tale heart,” our narrator heard the quiet thumping of a human heart. What does Donald Trump hear? Could it be the sound of prison doors slamming? He is engulfed in his own misery. The walls that he wakes up to daily are whispering to him.

They are relentless in their whispers. And as a scorned traitor sits in quiet solitude, some part of him must indeed grasp that the whispering walls are closing in, and he has run out of places to run to.