An early draft of Comey’s Valentine’s Day dinner with Trump shows the ex-top copper has true writing talent.

In a blockbuster exclusive, The Lint Screen has obtained some notes from the first draft of former FBI Director James Comey’s written testimony. It follows

“It was a dark and stormy night. Dark as ink in a windowless closet, wet as a drunk underwater. The President invited me to dinner. He said he wanted to invite my whole family, but he thought there might not be enough ice cream to go around. ‘Screw them,’ he said. ‘Come solo.’

I walked into the Green Room where a small table was set for our satiating needs. Hunger is like a hunger that eats us from within. Delicious irony, how I love thee!

At the table, there were two seats. The lights had been dimmed and four candles illuminated the room warmly. I recalled it was February 14, Valentine’s Day. The President asked me to sit. He winked and pulled my chair out for me.

I sat. He sat. Curious behavior. Obviously, he was mirroring my actions. Why?!!! Immediately, the appetizer was served. Unfortunately, it was not loaded potato skins–– Lordy, how I love me some loaded potato skins, they’re so yummy!

Alas, no skins, it was soup. Soup in a bowl, a bowl round in shape.

The President did not use his eating utensils. He shoveled soup into his mouth with his hand and asked me to pass the bread. I did. I wondered if the butter had been softened. It had not!

Hard butter, a problem.

He asked me if the FBI was investigating Michael Flynn. I said, yes, we are. He said, ‘Flynn is a good guy. Spectacular man. Tremendous talent.’ Then he cupped his soup hand to his mouth and whispered, ‘I hope you can let the investigation go. Look the other way. Take a dive. Forgettaboutit, capiche?’

I said nothing. He said nothing. It was quiet, no talking–– like a mute parrot. The silence enveloped us like a sheet of soft silk over an anvil. It was soft, yet hard.

‘You know,’ he whispered, as he touched my hand with his wet soup-eating hand, ‘I admire you, Jim. I crave your loyalty and I expect it. I need your loyalty, Jimbo. I need it so bad. I’ll give you an extra scoop of ice cream for your undying loyalty.’

I said, Mr. President, I can give you honesty. He said, ‘Honesty’s nice, but loyalty’s nicer.’

I said you will always have my honesty.

‘Screw honesty,’ he bellowed, as his soup fist slammed the table. ‘I’m the boss, and I demand your loyalty!’

I was quiet–– quiet as a church mouse with laryngitis.

I stared at him. He stared at me. We locked eyes for the next 48-minutes. Neither of us blinked. Four eyeballs in a shoving match in which none would yield.

Optic nerves with nerves of steel.

Finally, Mike Pence entered the room. The Vice President was dressed in cowboy pajamas and announced that Hannity was on TV. The President rose and dismissed me. Skeedaddle, he said.

I left. Hungry.

On my ride home, I wondered if the butter had softened. Lordy, how I hate hard butter.”