The Muellersavus was out for one of his long walks, puzzling his puzzler over his investigation into the Tyrumposaurus’ dealings with the Putinodon, sworn enemy to the Milkanhoney Preservation. Apart from eating and sleeping, this was the Muellersavus’ raison d’etre since the T-Rump had taken over the Puhl-DePlugg Reservoir. Munching on the remnants of a prehistoric mulberry bush, something caught the Muellersavus’ eye.
Fast forward an hour later. The Muellersavus tossed his discovery at the feet of the T-Rump in the oval dwelling. It was a two-foot by one-foot piece of slate with the smooth side carrying a message. The Stephenmillersaurus was also present.
“What’s that?” said the T-Rump.
“It’s a draft of an etching you were going to give to the Comeyonus before you sent him to Elba.”
Elba was short for Elba-Elbowroom, a distant desert for the exiled dinosaur.
“Never seen it.”
“Take a good look, T-Rump. You signed it with your crooked claw. That’s your trademark tremoring earthquake scrawl.”
“Okay, so that’s my signature. It’s a beautiful signature, isn’t it? But it doesn’t prove a thing.”
“Read it,” said the Muellersavus.
“Dear Comeyonus. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out. You may look like a boy scout but you couldn’t start a fire with a lake full of fossil fuel.”
“I must say, I find that very tacky for a dinosaur of your stature,” said the Muellersavus.
“I was just warming up.”
“So am I.”
The Muellersavus motioned to a long line of Langleytips, nose-to-the-ground sauropods, who came forward to lay down dozens of similar-sized slate etchings before the T-Rump, who turned angrily to the Stephenmillersaurus.
“I thought I told you to get rid of these!”
“I did! I took them all the way to the Land-Before-Time Lowlands. I almost broke my back. Oh, wow. Look at me, everyone. Now that was something to see.”
“Ahem,” said the T-Rump indignantly. “You do know the rules about oval dwelling hyperbole.”
“Sorry. Your terrain.”
“Well, well,” said the T-Rump, turning his frown to the Muellersavus. “I see a whole lot of fake news here.”
“News with your name on it.”
“I’ve got nothing to hide. I don’t know a Putinodon from a Platypus.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Here, read this one.”
“Dear Comeyonus,” said the T-Rump. “If I see your Platypus face around here again, I’m going to stuff an apple in it and serve you to the Putinodon.” The T-Rump snorted. “It’s just another coincidence inside a coincidence wrapped inside a coincidence by the lying Mediacircustops. What else you got? C’mon, I haven’t got all day.”
The Muellersavus shuffled through several slates. He paused at one etching.
“This should have you off to Elba.”
The T-Rump poured over the slate.
“Dear Comeyonus, I have asked you morning, noon and night if you’re investigating me. I lay awake every night wondering if you are. This has caused such confusion in the oval dwelling. The Huckabeecyclops is cross-eyed trying to keep our stories straight. This is all your fault. So long, loser.”
“Or this one,” said the Muellersavus.
“Dear Comeyonus, you back-stabbing, bipedal theropod. I AM obstructing justice. Because I CAN.” The T-Rump looked at the Stephenmillersaurus. “We forgot to kick him out in this one.”
“I think it was implied.”
“And finally, this one,” said the Muellersavus.
“Dear Comeyonus, I’m at the end of my claws and I’m still mad at you. My handlers tell me the Rosensteinoton is going to do the final etching with some fake story about the Crookadillary. This may be my last draft but it is my first truth. I hate you! Be gone! Elba is too good for you!”
“You kicked him out good there, boss,” said the Stephenmillersaurus.
“Why didn’t we go with that one? I’ll always wonder. Why not?”
David Belisle 