Forget court filings. Ditch the appeals. All team Trump needs is a sexy new drop-dead headline to dominate the news cycle. Just get someone to whisper ‘Murder at Mar-a-Lago’ in Trump’s ear and this could be “unpresidented” tabloid gold. The J6 insurrection was just a warm up, the docs probe just dull potatoes. Be honest, did you ever actually read the affidavit? Even the redacted version seemed kind of longish. “Murder at Mar-a-Lago” would become the national obsession. No other story could hold interest. One whiff of homicide at Trump’s door and Jack Smith is so yesterday.

With the FBI squeezing team Trump by the nuts, it’s never been if but when somebody in Trump’s orb went off kilter. Who in Trump’s inner circle hasn’t been tempted? Honestly, we all expect nothing less from Trump — who always manages to give us a bigger scandal than the last. In due course, he has always been bound to go apeshit sooner than later — as if Trump’s inner orangutan wouldn’t outgrow its host’s thin skin at some point.

Picture it — 5 a.m. Police responded to reports of shouting and a shooting. Trump answers the door dapper as a mafia don, his finely feathered locks permed and mussed — but a trail of blood follows the soles of his shoes as he opens the door. On that probable cause, police enter. A body appears to have been dragged across the tiled floor and removed from the scene. Of course, Trump will deny it — he’ll totally deny it.

For anyone thinking this could only be one of Roger Stone’s dirty tricks, they couldn’t be more right — and wrong. Trump himself might have mentioned staging a murder to distract the DOJ months ago but forgot — er, until Stone planted a post-it note on a classified doc squirreled away in Ivana’s coffin. Put wise, Trump could only grin his most foolish grin ever and reiterate what a genius he is — and set the whole charade in motion. After all, stage it and fake it is the essence of the Trump brand.

The facts would be totally irrelevant. Speculation and amateur sleuthing could well overtake facts on the ground faster than Josh Hawley can dodge an insurrection that he helped provoke. And the beauty of it is, it doesn’t matter who got murdered, if anyone, or why.

Like Trump’s always said, he could murder someone on 5th Avenue and nobody would care. So true — it just sounds like an average day in NYC. But murder at Mar-a-Lago? Baby, this gives Trump street creds as one kingpin who’s not afraid to get his hands dirty. And no worries about the bloody mess — he’s about as likely to lose voters as he is to lose weight.

But frankly, police might never find a smoking gun. Not in this setup. In fact, there doesn’t even have to be a gun — a shove down the stairs, strangulation, a blunt object — it’s all good when the murder is at Mar-a-Lago. The fact that police don’t have a body or weapon just adds ten fold to the mystery and intrigue. Indictment should prove as elusive as truth off Trump’s lips.

But this case would never go cold: amateur sleuths can carry on solving the case time and time again, book after book, once and for all. And readers giddy for new angles will continue getting duped.

Best of all, Murder at Mar-a-Lago is a sure fire money maker for Trump. He could finally be able to afford his lifestyle with his own money — not sensationalizing that laundry list of political witch hunts to grift off his base. If business ventures have never been Trump’s strong suit anyway, politics certainly turned into a losing proposition for Trump.

Imagine the production companies suddenly clamoring for access to the property to film documentaries, interviews, movies. Murder at Mar-a-Lago would be the outsized production worthy of the Trump brand. Given this level of tragedy there would surely be an opera — with the Donald signing bass and Jared singing higher than a canary. This just has the Trump brand all over it. Suddenly Mar-a-Lago is like the biggest Trump Tower ever and Mar-a-Lago resale value would soar so high even a Russian oligarch couldn’t afford it.

That said, the only danger here is that anytime Trump stands to profit he goes large with theatrics. If everyone else on team Trump was thinking small, Trump would be convinced his approach is the true stroke of genius. Heads up, someone may need to run interference before he reassembles some Rude Boys and incites a melee shooting spree, ever after known as Shoot out at Mar-a-Lago.

No worries. No one need get hurt — but that fact absolutely won’t matter once the photo of bullet holes in the Mar-a-Lago facade round the internet — with a few well-placed and suggestive bloodred paintball splatters. That would absolutely be the headline of the century — even transform the American political landscape. Trump need only smile into the all the adoring news cameras that descend and introduce his new campaign slogan, Make American Westerns Great Again (MAWGA). (Yeah, yeah, we all know that Mar-a-Lago is totally east coast, but hey, Donald can whip out a Sharpie and your head will spin worlds as he redraws the map to rebrand his property as the West Indies.)

§ § §

Copyright John Haymaker and Hadji Doria All Rights Reserved

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Mr. Guo, a young poet of unique poetic form and clever syntax riddled with meaning and rich in contemporary consciousness, was illustrious. Every time he published a poem, the poetry world had to comment, and whether lauded to the heavens or given snorts of contempt, Mr. Guo would be joyous and enter into a gratified state into which the critics' words couldn't trespass. After graduating from the university with a major in Chinese literature, he especially desired to hold a post with the editorial department of a literary magazine and thereby spread the wings of his lofty ambitions, making a free and unfettered flight. But when notice was handed down, Mr. Guo had been assigned to a city paper arts department. This paper had a supplement, "Springtime Flowers," which often published poetry and articles and was quite influential. Mr. Guo always made innumerable submissions, but repeatedly the submissions were rejected, and he would fall to brooding. Recently, he had wanted with impudence to go to the editor of this paper's supplement, intending to mock him. But since romanticizing often leads to compromise, Mr. Guo was forced to go against his will and fulfill the duties of his new post.

Assigned to the director's office, Mr. Guo had a view from a bird cage: this arts department was ostentatious. Its three-room office was furnished with desks, filing cabinets, even desk lamps and electric fans — everything needed and more; but then, he mustn't be encumbered. The office personnel included the Director, Jin Mou, and in charge of short stories, Mr. Wang.

Mr. Wang had a small frame and a follower's face, one might say mediocre and homely. But as to his novelistic talents, although his works were not many, each certainly received good criticism. He was youthful and already happily married. His relationship with Mr. Guo was well established; even at their first meeting it had been like old friends getting together.

Jin Mou, in his fifties, also had a poet's reputation. His poetry, volumes of folk verse, read light on the lips: a concurrence of song lyrics broadening to traditional chants expressing contentment with one's lot. This man managed the submission s to his own liking, clinging obstinately to his own course, already dubbed "Mou's style" and not easily changed. Mr. Guo's own ideas would suffer suppression, though his stubborn pride was ready at all times for confrontation. Jin Mou, however, had a pacific temperament and didn't raise his voice whatever might happen — causing one to be unable to fathom that the atmosphere was charged or that Guo was willing to fight.

Reading manuscripts one day, Mr. Guo came across a collection of poems, "The Barbarian's Rhapsody," and he was so taken by them that his heart quavered. This collection had come from the hand of a youth, yet combined the ancient and modern in one volume, richly profound and powerfully beautiful without losing sincerity. In fact, it compared with the magnificence of the pre-eminent Taiwanese poet, Yu Guang-zhong. To push the new poet's work, Mr. Guo suddenly picked up his pen and wrote an enthusiastic recommendation. He repeatedly talked of this matter with Mr. Wang, who — reserved and not really listening — looked askance at the all-serious Jin Mou and laughed indifferently. This laugh was pregnant with meaning. Mr. Guo harbored considerable anger.

Some days later, Mr. Guo got a letter. Upon opening it, he was greatly surprised. The letter had been written by Jin Mou and ran to a thousand words, a tactful and roundabout rejection of the recommended collection, covering some of the must-notes of modern poetry's arrogance and the danger China's poetics was in, advising caution and thought. Moreover, Jin Mou had drawn up a list of a large number of book titles for Mr. Guo to consult to re-evaluate his thinking. The letter's language was to the utmost placid and genial, just like a close relative's kindness.

Mr. Guo had a youth's irascibility, and as before, jumped ten feet in the air, daring flames. He longed to seek out an argument, but didn't see a trace of Jin Mou. Actually, that man had already retired to the chief editor's office for refuge.

Seeing this furious disposition, Mr. Wang laughed out, "A letter has come from a distant place?"

Mr. Guo stared and said, "Together in the same room, is it worth the trouble to write a letter? Mr. Say A Letter Has Come From A Distant Place has also received this kind of honor?"

Mr. Wang opened a drawer and got out a stack of letters and piled them on top of a table. Without exception, each was equally thick and all were in Jin Mou's handwriting. Noticeably apprehensive, Mr. Wang explained solemnly, "Using a letter to instruct a man is Jin Mou's favorite hobby. If there's a confrontation, he's bound to say, 'At the root of our beliefs lie opinions diametrically opposed. But you may write me a letter.' All of which forces you to be conciliatory and make allowances. This letter, moreover, isn't passed on personally, but one must go to the post office and mail it, causing colleagues to joke, 'A letter has come from a distant place.' Mr. Guo, this is only the beginning. They'll come in the daily mail frequently, in excess of what time allows for."

Mr. Guo noticed the stamp, which had indeed been postmarked in Baimajun, a suburb of the city about ten kilometers from the newspaper office. Each mailing of a letter involved considerable expense and backtracking, but Jin Mou was pleased to take this route, leaving others perplexed despite a hundred reflections.

Incensed by this enlightening initiation, Mr. Guo raised his pen and hastily addressed an envelope, then boarded a bus to Baimajun — and though his entire body became saturated with perspiration, by the time he had mailed the letter his pores were unobstructed and he felt refreshed and comfortable.

The next day, Jin Mou arrived for work and first read the incoming mail and manuscripts. Messrs. Guo and Wang kept close watch from the sidelines. When he opened Mr. Guo's letter, there was only the envelope; he could find no letter -- which was not owing to either tiredness or having been at it too long. The two laughed secretly, not daring to make a sound.

But to see Jin Mou carefully regard the handwriting on the envelope, reflect a moment, get out pen and paper and bend over the desk intent and serious, was truly affecting. Mr. Guo's smile suddenly froze-he couldn't help the melancholy that came over him. As the ancients had said: It's easy to move mountains and rivers, but it's hard to change a person's nature. Such as it is, 'A letter has come from a distant place' will endure over the years. What can be done about it? This poetry is unlike a poem.

Mr. Wang laughed. A story and a poem, in the end, are not the same.

§ § §

Original Chinese text appeared in Chang’an 2 (1987). Reprinted in Xiaoshuo Xuankan 5 (1987).

Chinese to English translation originally appeared in: Pig Iron: Third World No. 15 (1988), ISBN 0-917530-23-3

Translated by John Haymaker

CLOSE

Lewis “Luke” Cook,a motherless young mechanic who rarely considers consequences, loses his job while on parole. At a local diner, he meets up with Jordan Kytte, a twenty-something woman who rarely tells the truth. He’s itching to leave town, and she has a vintage car and could use a mechanic - they click instantly. Inside of two hundred miles their road trip hits a speed bump when a mix-up at a liquor store turns deadly. The rest is beautiful, ornery and dangerous.

Kip has everything going his way — a steady job in construction and he's married to the boss's daughter. He’s actually never been happier — until things fall apart. When he returns home to find his wife has taken his son across state lines, he suspects his jealous father-in-law has lured her away to his new corporate headquarters; Kip enlists his brother’s help in driving cross country to win her back, willing to hurt anyone who gets in his way.