“I can’t do it. I won’t do it!”
The Tyrumposaurus Junior lashed out his tail, striking the wall of the oval dwelling, narrowly missing the T-Rump, the Sukelowphus and the smaller Futerfasphus. The latter two dinosaurs were always close at hand, Sub Family to the Pantsonfire Solisitaur.
“Now, now,” said the T-Rump, patting his son on the head. “Everything’s going to be fine. It’s just the Cynette-Judy-Sherry Committee. Those three? C’mon. What could possibly happen?”
“That’s what you said the last time before you had me tell the Mediacircustops I was talking with three Kayjeebeeops about baby dinos.”
“That could play in the dirt beside the Crookadillary,” added the Futerfasphus.
The T-Rump looked from the Futerfasphus to his son.
“That’s why he’s your Solisitaur.”
“T-Rump,” said the Sukelowphus, “just so we’re straight, you’re not having this conversation with T-Rump Jr. right now.”
“Listen to you,” said the T-Rump, “Just so we’re straight. You crack me up. Listen to me, clarity is not good. Believe me, not good.”
“What about me,” said the Futerfasphus, “Am I here?”
A prehistoric cricket chirped. The Sukelowphus turned to T-Rump Junior.
“If you don’t go, they’ll send the Suppeenaraptors after you.”
“Dad, you’ve got to help me!”
“Stop that. You’re scaring him,” said the T-Rump. He tapped his chin with a gnarly claw. “Now then, what would the Putinodon want me to do? I know. What if the baby dinos were from the Crookadillary?”
“The Crookadillary is ancient history,” said the Sukelowphus.
“Okay, just a shot in the dark. How about an adjustment to the Kayjeebeeops migration pattern … because of the anticipated Biblical Flood Belt.”
“The timeline is a little sketchy but, like you said …”
“Who needs clarity?”
The T-Rump Jr. hugged his father.
“Gee, thanks, dad. You’re a lifesaver.”
David Belisle 