“Thank you for meeting me, Ms. Phillips.”

“Well, I am quite nervous, Ms. McCrummen. Judge Moore is such a powerful man, and this is such a powerful story. It would probably bring him down, don’t you think?”

“Ms. Phillips, I’d just like to ask you a few questions about your previous statements to me. I’m going to record our conversation, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh, I am so very nervous.”

“Mm. Are you recording this conversation, as well?”

“Me? No. Of course not. I am a simple rape victim. Man, ‘rape.’ Once that word gets in there, it stirs the whole pot up, huh? Probably end his career right there, right?”

“You’re not recording?”

“No.”

“And the reason you’re holding your purse on your shoulder and aiming it towards me is?”

“War injury.”

“War injury? You hadn’t mentioned you were in the service.”

“I don’t like to talk about it.”

“Which branch?”

“I was a Navy SEAL.”

“Mm. Ms. Phillips, can we get back to it? You stated in your e-mails that you met Roy Moore, who was a judge at the time, when you were 15. This was during the one summer you lived in Alabama.”

“Yes. It was like the opposite of that song fromĀ Grease. Summer Raping, my song was called. And then, of course, the abortion he forced he to have when I became pregnant with his child.”

“You’ve mentioned. You were just in Alabama for that one summer as a 15-year old?”

“Yes.”

“But your current phone number has an Alabama area code.”

“Does it?”

“It does.”

“Oh, I never notice those sorts of things. Must be some sort of mix-up at the phone company.”

“Okay. And you said you work at Second National Bank in Rochester, New York.”

“We’re like a family over there.”

“Is that so? There is no Second National Bank in Rochester.”

SecondĀ National Bank? No, the First National Bank. You must be confused.”

“You might be right. Could you give me the name of your supervisor over there?”

“Marvoo Babababa.”

“Marvoo Babababa?”

“Yes. Him.”

“It sounded a little like you were making it up as you went.”

“No. He’s my supervisor. He’s very tall. You’d like him.”

“What was his name?”

“What I said. Ms. McCrummen, you are being very hostile to me, a rape victim who must be believed, and not concentrating on the problem here: hitting Roy Moore. When do you think it have the maximum impact on the race to release?”

“Ms. Phillips, do you run any websites?”

“Oh, no. I stay off the internet as much as I can. Nothing but that horrible Trump all over it. I hate him so much. Did you hear he endorsed Roy Moore? What a monster. Don’t you think Trump’s a monster and hate him?

“No websites at all?”

“No.”

“Not www.helpmeprankthewashingtonpost.com?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Whose homepage is a video of you explaining your plan to get us to believe your lies in order to discredit us?”

“That is a false flag operation. Those images are manipulated. Like how they made Princess Leia in that last Star Wars movie.”

“And the Patreon account asking people for money for–and I quote–Making false rape accusations against Roy Moore in order to fuck the Washington Post?”

“Why are you stalking me?”

“It was under five minutes of light googling, Ms, Phillips. You’re terrible at this.”

“Terrible at what? My God, to be treating a rape victim like this!”

“Ms. Phillips.”

“Yes?”

“You’re wearing a Project Veritas tee-shirt.”

“I won’t be talked to this way! I’m leaving.”

“But our gyros haven’t come yet.”

GRIFTER STORMING OUT IN A FLOP-SWEATY HUFF NOISE

“Eh. More for momma.”