So Trillanes says Bong Go is next.

Of course. Notice how normal Sonny says ICC now.

The grounds are unbelievable. “Your Honor, the accused was frequently observed beside Rodrigo Duterte.”

Beside him. Not above him. Not commanding troops. Beside. Constantly.

“We have photographs. Thousands of them.”

Duterte turns left, and Bong Go is there. Duterte scratches his ear, Bong Go is ready with the next ear. You know ghosts in horror movies where you don’t notice them at first? Then Sonny circles the background in red? That’s Bong Go.

You remove Bong Go from a Duterte event and suddenly the whole scene feels wrong. Like seeing Mickey Mouse without Minnie. Very upsetting psychologically.

“He is Special Assistant to the President.”

Special at what? Assisting how? Nobody knows. Medialdea feels very jealous already.

You notice that every normal government position at least sounds comprehensible. Defense Secretary. Secretary of Finance. Bato dela Rosa.

If Bong Go was truly one of the central architects, why did Duterte never politically elevate him to visible command structures in the thick of the drug war?

“Special Assistant” sounds like Duterte became President and suddenly remembered “Shit! I need to give Bong Go something.”

“What’s his position?”

“Well, he assists.”

“With what?”

“Specials.”

“Ah. Certainly, he knows things.”

Every assistant knows things. Your barber. Your driver. They know things. The Maritesses know everything. We don’t arrest Maritess.

Bong Go may be the first man in history accused primarily of excessive lingering. Very dangerous precedent for introverts. Eleven Bong Gos could jump Torre on that tarmac and he’s sure he’d be OK.

If Duterte’s inner circle automatically knew everything, then where does the circle end? The Cabinet? Police? Senators? Staff? Malacañang Press Corps? Eventually, you’re persecuting the entire atmosphere around the presidency with girlfriend law. “You were there. Probable cause.”

Had Bong Go betrayed Duterte earlier, attacked him publicly, written a memoir called “My Dark Years,” people would trust him more today. That’s how sick politics is. Bong Go became suspicious only after Duterte fell. 

Maybe the senator’s greatest crime is loyalty when loyalty became politically dangerous. Refusing to separate himself when separation became fashionable.

Now, to be fair, maybe everything was completely pure. Entirely possible. Politics has famously been a clean and holy profession.

The Vice President faces impeachment, simultaneously, the senators closest to her father are either wanted, next in line, or allegedly obstructing international justice.

We are unbelievably creative once we start hating somebody. We hate boring explanations. We need secret chambers, maleta conspiracies, Tallano gold, 18 ex-Marines.

The burden of proof exists precisely for times like this. Not when guilt feels impossible, but when guilt feels satisfying. When the public cannot psychologically handle the idea that a man stood beside history for decades and maybe really was just standing there.

That is when the law matters most.

Everybody wants Bong Go to fit some grand political archetype: mastermind, shadow operator, dark consigliere.

Until Duterte got arrested. And Bong Go arrived carrying pizza.

Pizza.

It was the most Bong Go thing ever recorded. Amazing instincts. What is this man’s role exactly?

The world expected to see an accessory toting mysterious briefcases and encrypted drives.

Instead: “Sir, Hawaiian or Pepperroni?”

At one point, you thought maybe Bong Go’s true ideology is just caregiving. “This thing may exceed the dinner hour.”

Tragic. Strange. Like Bong Go still thought the crisis was something his care and presence could solve.

When history came for Duterte, Bong Go brought food.

That tells you either everything or absolutely nothing.