Mother Nature was dealing the Trumpassic Period a nuclear blow. The Tyrumposaurus and most of his clan, T-Melania, T-Rump Jr. and T-Vankanatrix were gathered in their off-season den at Mar-a-Guano. The T-Rump turned to his cantankerous right-hand dino, the Marinegunkelly.
“What’s the latest on the funny stuff happening with the clouds?” The T-Rump refused to look up at the skies since the unfortunate solar eclipse incident.
“Well,” said Marinegunkelly, “we were in the direct path of the hurricane.”
“The greatest hurricane,” corrected the T-Rump. “Ever.”
“Excuse me, T-Rump, I said were. The pterodactyl’s are all in a snit, so it appears the storm is now headed toward the Conch Republic.”
The T-Rump started off in that direction.
“Where are you going?” the Marinegunkelly yelled above the storm.
“The Conch Republic.”
“Why on earth? You’ll be killed!”
“I have to be there. That’s where the hurricane is. Who wants to be on the outside looking in?”
“Mother? Aren’t you going to say something?” cried the T-Vankanatrix.
But the T-Melania was busy looking at the scales on her back legs. She arched her heel, admiring her instep.
“Mother!”
The T-Melania turned her dark, foreboding lashes upon the T-Vankanatrix. Mixed dinosaur marriages were such a bore.
“Father’s going to be in the path of the storm. Say something!”
The T-Melania dropped her eyes. The T-Rump and her no longer held hands … or went out for a late night Brachiosaurus snack any more.
“When will you be home?” she asked, hoping he’d be washed away.
“I’ll return when the Trollertweety is tweeting the loudest. Triumphant. Winning.”
“Dad!” shouted the T-Rump Jr., rushing over to him. “What am I going to do without you?”
“You have my name, son. That’s all you’ll need. Don’t wear it out.”
The T-Rump turned to leave once more. He was about to plunge into the howling wind and rain when another dinosaur staggered in. It was the Schillersaurus, an Uberguardian dinosaur from the T-Rump’s days of yore.
“Schillersaurus,” said the T-Rump. “You’re too late. I’ve made up my mind.”
“No, I’ve come to collect for previous work.”
“Oh. Well, help yourself to some Caviaraptor legs.”
The Schillersaurus scurried over to the dinosaur delicacy. The T-Rump stood there, looking back.
“It’s not too late to protect me.”
“I’m good,” said the Schillersaurus, waving him off between nibbles.
The T-Rump set his jaw and traipsed off in the tail-deep flood waters.
In the few hours that followed, his would be a carefree journey, for the hurricane changed its path. It made a catastrophic direct hit upon Mar-a-Guano. The T-Rump arrived home the following day after the flood waters had receded.
“Dad!” screamed the T-Vankanatrix, “You left us for the — the … Conch Republic! How could you? You were drinking from the dirty end of the swamp, weren’t you?”
“I — I …”
“Look at me!” shrieked the normally placid T-Melania. “Just look at my scales! They’re ruined!”
She bounded off, sobbing uncontrollably, to hide behind what was left of a bush. The T-Rump turned to the T-Rump Jr.
“Son?”
“You … weren’t here. I didn’t know what to do.”
“Come here, son.” He put his arm around the T-Rump Jr. “Now, before you run and get Sukelowphus and Futerfasphus, we need to let them know … one … that this was the biggest hurricane and …”
“You were here, dad.”
“That’s my boy.”
David Belisle 