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Christopher Steele was a glorified ghostwriter for the Clinton machine.

Out of spying for six years, he sat in his London flat, languidly paging through his Rolodex in search of shadowy Russian associates he only vaguely remembered. But Steele had a winning hand to deal. Once he identified an easy mark, the ex-spook would get on the phone with an offer the mark couldn’t refuse: gobs and gobs of untraceable money for whomever could cook up the raciest rumor about an oafish New York billionaire who was fool enough to fancy himself a legitimate candidate for President of the United States.

With a dependable slosh of cash, Steele knew that picking a sucker wouldn’t be difficult. Probably multiple suckers, in fact.

“Give me anything you’ve ever heard about this guy. Doesn’t matter if it’s true - it just has to sound semi-plausible. The doofuses in America will swallow it whole. Especially the media, leaked to by Democrats in Congress.. I know - I just talked with one horsey-grinned senator from Northern Virginia.”

Steele made calls day after day, week after week. Pretty soon, the slop started rolling in, and Steele had trouble keeping up. Steele wondered if every scandal in the history of the world had swirled around Donald J. Trump, like eddying water in a dam, and someone had just opened up the sluice gates.

Steele couldn’t wait to tell his copy editor, a ham-radio operator named Nellie Ohr. She had a face like a mousetrap, but Nellie was crucial: she gussied up his titillating tripe to make it appear ... genuine. Each night, sitting around their Georgetown dinner table, Nellie opened her mousetrap and excitedly spilled out each piece of cheese to her husband, bureau-sniffing sycophant, Bruce Ohr.

Bruce Ohr cold hardly keep up wth his dutiful wife/amanuensis. After dinner, Bruce would condense Steele’s gossipy plasma and get it ready for a direct injection into The Firm’s intelligence bloodstream.

Steele wrote fantasy. The DOJ/FBI converted it into fact, ipso facto.
The foreign operative looked out his London flat to gaze at a young innocent couple sauntering arm in arm in the rain across Green Park.

The Firm would turn his fantasies into fiction. He would be remembered hero, the disaffected mole who sacrificed to save Western Civilization.

Finally, Christopher Steele’s life would gain some worth.