“The Clintons hired Mueller to murder Seth Rich.”
“Robert Mueller arranged, planned, or ordered the hit on Seth Rich.”
“Mueller had access to hitmen through “mafia friends” or people who “owe him”
“Mueller was a “rabid Trump hater,” “psychopath,” “crooked,” and involved in covering up or enabling the murder.”
One email even ties it to helping “his friend Hillary” and references a Manafort lawyer.
🔻 Context:
The authors are of these emails are unknown. They appear to be internal communications or forwarded speculation within or around the Special Counsel / FBI circles at the time.
They came via Freedom of Information Act (FOIA) requests and lawsuits, primarily by attorney @Ty_Clevenger .
FBI Soruce
https://t.co/7cklr856PF
🚨Wow !!!
How did we miss this?!
THE LINK WORKS !!!!!!!!!!!!!!
See where it takes you if you don't believe it.
4, 10, 20 Anons
Who is 4, 10, 20 ?
🐸😎🐸
https://t.co/Wwv3UbIzlo
ThanQ @Jaxxrad
Fuqin WOW!!!
Now, why would they do that, huh????
Why?
This is BIG AF !!!
They did this for YOU Anons, and only for you!!!
@TONYxTWO According to GROK, this is a conspiracy theory. If he gets sued, won’t her gender have to be proven?🤷🏻I have seen the videos of BHO calling her Michael and Joan Rivers saying she is a Trny. 🤷🏻
USA. A diner. The waitress asked me how I want my eggs, and my mind went completely blank.
"How do you want your eggs, hon?"
Want. How do I WANT them. No one has ever asked me this. In my land, the egg arrives as the cook decrees, and you thank the egg, the cook, and your ancestors, in that order.
"Scrambled? Over easy? Sunny side up?" she offered, gently, the way one talks a man down from a roof.
The terms did not help. Over easy — over WHAT, easily? Easy for whom? Sunny side up — these people have named an egg after the dawn. Who does that. I needed time.
I have chosen battlefields faster than I chose those eggs.
She refilled my coffee and said she'd come back. It was the second refill. I had been deciding for nine minutes.
The man on the next stool leaned over. "Just say over easy, man. You can't go wrong."
"And if I CAN go wrong?"
"...it's eggs, buddy."
It's eggs. Eight hundred years of my family training itself to want nothing, and this man dismissed all of it with a fork in his hand. He was right. I will never tell him.
"Sunny side up," I declared, with the weight of a man choosing a path for life. "I will face the sun."
"You got it, hon."
The eggs came. Two small suns on a white plate, looking up at me. Golden. Ridiculous. Exactly what I wanted.
So THAT is what wanting feels like. I had to cross an ocean and hold up a breakfast line to learn it.
The man on the next stool got his check and left. "Good choice," he said.
I have never been more proud of anything.
A man does not ask the eggs to be simple. He only becomes a man who knows what he wants.
Tomorrow: over easy. I am almost ready.
I am William Pulte, and as of this morning the President Trump appointed me acting Director of National Intelligence of the United States.
I am thirty-eight. I have never held a security clearance, never served in uniform, never sat through a briefing that wasn't about interest rates. The President says I have deep experience in the safety and soundness of ten trillion dollars. He is right. I have spent two years deciding which Americans are sound and which are not, and now I get to do it with satellites.
You know me from Twitter. I invented Twitter philanthropy. I picked strangers at random and sent them thirty thousand dollars over Cash App, winners announced in the thread, and three and a half million people followed me to watch it happen. Is that a fanbase? It is a voluntary intelligence database, self-enrolled, fully consented, sorted by who needed the cash most. The desperate identify themselves, like fish swimming up to the boat. I only read the replies.
Before this I ran housing finance. I want to be clear about my method, because people call it political and it is not. It is real estate.
I noticed Lisa Cook had listed two homes as primary residences. Mortgage fraud. I referred her. Then I turned to Letitia James. Adam Schiff. Eric Swalwell. Fani Willis. One after another, the way you'd pull comps on a block before you buy it. I am a homebuilder. My grandfather was also named William Pulte, and he laid the foundations, the literal ones, poured concrete, raised the largest homebuilder in America. I inherited the name and the trade. I know what a house is for, and it is not for shaving a point off your rate, and it is certainly not for sitting in judgment of the President after I have your closing documents open on my desk.
The President removed Cook in August. A judge blocked it in September. The Supreme Court let her keep the seat in October. One of my deputies went on television and promised she will be charged no matter how the Court rules. I did not correct him. I never interrupt a man who is describing the future.
They have a phrase for what I do. Safety and soundness. I applied it to Jerome Powell, who refuses to cut rates and refuses to quit, which renders him, by my own definition, unsound. So I post at him. From my personal account, the same handle where I gave away the thirty thousand dollars, which has lately become the handle where I issue agency directives, because nobody instructed me to stop and I have never once stopped of my own accord.
I still run the FHFA. I chair Fannie Mae. I chair Freddie Mac. Nobody asked me to surrender any of it, so I kept all three, the way a careful man keeps the gas masks. I am the only person in this city who can pull your mortgage, your followers, and the President's Daily Brief from a single chair, and wire you a Cash App payment before I stand up.
The transition team asked for my hundred-day plan. I sent them a screenshot of my following list.
Here is how it works now. The tip line is a giveaway. Report a neighbor, get entered to win, winners announced in the thread. Americans will watch each other for far less than thirty thousand dollars, I have run the numbers, and the ones who do it for nothing are the ones I keep.
Everyone begins sound. Soundness can be lost. This is no longer a watchlist, you understand, because a watchlist names suspects and mine names all of you, which is broader, which is more fair.
I do not declassify documents. I retweet them. The President's Daily Brief drops at nine eastern, peak engagement, and the version with the names goes only to close friends.
Foreign intelligence is the identical trade on a wider street. Ask me which countries claimed two capitals as a primary residence. I have already referred three.
The GAO opened an inquiry into me. Into whether I abused my authority, as though authority came with some gentler setting. I welcomed it warmly. A federal probe is just the government admitting you matter, and I read their letter the way I read all correspondence now, as a roster of names bolted to addresses. They are still awaiting my response. It will come. The GAO leases its office, and I have studied the lease.
Tulsi stepped aside at the end of May. They wanted somebody quickly, somebody confirmed for something, anything at all, and I had been confirmed for housing back when the Senate still confirmed people. So I serve in an acting capacity. It happens to be my specialty. I have spent my whole life qualifying for posts the morning after I already occupied them, and the paperwork has always wandered around to my side eventually, the way a jury softens once it remembers where it parks.
My confirmation hearing arrives in the fall. Am I nervous? I have already read the file of every senator who will sit in that room. I have read the file of every reporter who will describe it. Two of them took my money in 2021, and neither gave it back.
The eighteen agencies no longer need to speak to one another. They need to speak to me. You can reach the entire intelligence community by tagging me, and most of you already have.
Like and retweet for national security. Winners announced in the thread.