THE church billboards in the mountains of middle Tennessee give a fair sense of the region’s politics. Lately they have expressed support for the police, enlisting Jesus as an authority for the view that “all lives matter”—meaning, implicitly or explicitly, that there is nothing particularly meritorious about the black kind. Those mottos go along with injunctions to piety (“You think this is hot? Try hell”), sometimes with an up-to-the-minute flavour (“Jesus Christ is better than Pokemon”). This is deep Trump territory, as the yard signs that dot the winding mountain roads proclaim. Those signs are far more numerous in this beautiful part of the country than Muslims or immigrants, let alone terrorists. Given Appalachia’s poverty and social problems, life may not quite be “as peaceful as a baby’s sigh”, as the old Dolly Parton song has it. (Locals still subsidise their incomes by gathering wild ginseng, as Tennesseans have for generations.) But, as in many other places, it is not obvious how Donald Trump’s policies, such as they are, will help.

The Economist stopped at a remote country store, nestled beside a creek in Fentress County, not far from the border with Kentucky. Home-made fudge and Confederate memorabilia were on sale inside; a group of elderly men played cards at tables at the back. Two more sat on the porch, one of them whittling wood in denim dungarees. After a brief discussion of fuel efficiency, and a mutual and sincere paean to the loveliness of the state, the talk turned to politics. They were for the Donald, for instructive reasons.

They didn’t like Barack Obama and thought the country needed a change. But their main concern was corruption. They talked about Hillary Clinton’s speaking fees and the foreign donations to her foundation; they made allegations about dodgy loans. They believed Mrs Clinton was a crook—yet they didn’t seem to suffer many illusions regarding Mr Trump’s own business practices. For them, there seemed to be an important difference: Mr Trump was what he was, and made no bones about it, whereas she pretended to be a noble public servant. She was a hypocrite; he was a crook, too, but an honest crook.

For this correspondent, this distinction was eerily reminiscent of political talk in Russia, from which he reported for a few years in the mid-noughties. There, beneath the veneer of adoration for Vladimir Putin, cynicism reigned. There was no point installing a new cadre of leaders, many people confided, since they would simply start the process of stealing from the state all over again. Many Russians reserved especial scorn for supposedly westernising politicians, who banged on about corruption but were as much on the take, their compatriots thought, as the Rolex-sporting denizens of the Kremlin. The westernisers were crooks too, but dishonest crooks, and thus even more contemptible than the straightforward sort.

Perhaps Mr Trump’s campaign is on the verge of implosion, as some optimistic commentators and Democrats predict; perhaps another gaffe or two, about veterans or babies—or, indeed, about Mr Putin—will tip him over the edge. On the other hand, that may be wishful thinking; it is equally likely that many of these perceived missteps are not gaffes at all, but conscious moves to reinforce Mr Trump’s image as champion of the people against a rigged, suffocating system. The evidence of the Tennessee general store is that further revelations about his business shenanigans, at least, are unlikely to have much impact. Apparently his fatalistic supporters know what he is, and, if they don’t exactly love him for it, in a face-off with his opponent, they prefer their charlatanry straight.