When I Drop My Rap Album, Comey’s Photo Will Be on the Cover

 

“Lordy, I hope there are tapes,” Comey says, as he lights a cigarette in a dark room, wishin’ a muthafucka would. “‘Trump?” Haven’t heard that name in years,'” he scoffs as he puts the cigarette out on a wooden desk. He pops his collar, and flicks away a piece of lint ┬áresting on his blazer. The clock strikes seven. (The aforementioned events have not been confirmed, and were in fact completely made up by KarmaJonez. The rest is real doe.)

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