Roger Stone ain’t no stinkin’ rat!

The recently arrested political consultant and Trump whisperer called The Lint Screen offices to give the 4-1-1.

“Listen up, see?” Stone began the conversation, “I didn’t do nothin’ wrong, okay? Everything I did was all on the up and up, twenty-three skidoo and kosher. And the flatfoot gumshoes know it. The feds nabbed me, gave me the bum’s rush to put some heat on the big boss. But I ain’t dropping no dime on the Don. No way, no how. This galoot don’t spill no beans. My lips are Elmered shut. I’m no stoolie, see? This bird don’t sing like some dame at the opera–– and he won’t ever warble–– right up to when I get fitted for a Chicago overcoat!”

Stone excused himself to get a cigar to chomp on and he continued.

“Only rats turn and squawk, see, and I ain’t no rat like Cohen. Wait’ll he gets inside the big house–– he may have a little accident, see? Like maybe he’s introduced to mister shiv, or he meets the business end of a pillowcase stuffed with oranges, or he accidentally slips on a bar of soap in the showers and falls on a line of men. Things happen, see, that’s all I’m sayin’.”

Stone paused and puffed his cigar. “Look, I’ve got my gat and guts galore. I’m lousy with the jack and hootch. Got my Jane and her gams go into infinity. I can hit the mattresses like Sleeping Beauty for a long, long stretch. Trust me, palsy, there are no Heebie-Jeebies, here. I’m cool as a cucumber with Foster Grants.”

The tough mook took a long guzzle of something from a bottle. ‘Lemme tell ya somethin’ else, newshawk. I played ball with Tricky Dick Nixon. I admired the hell out of that guy, so much so I got a tattoo of his puss on my back. Well, guess what? I’m getting a tat of big boss daddy Donald J’s mug on my chest. That’ll show my loyalty to my two guys. Now take a powder and scram, I’m taking the fifth and I don’t need no buttinskis!”

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