“What do you mean, no?”
The Tyrumposaurus looked apoplectic.
“What I’m saying,” said the Oval Dwelling’s legal dino, the Donmcgahn, “is that if you fire the Muellersavus, every Donkeykongrus and bipedaling dino from here to the Watergate Strait will revolt. Unconditionally. It’s called obstruction of justice.”
“It’s called fighting back!”
“It’s called a death march,” said the Rodrosenstein under his breath.
“I don’t believe this,” said the T-Rump. “Are the Cottonmouth and the Purduechicken the only dinos who will defend me?”
The remaining dinosaur in the den, the Sessionsopossum, considered raising a short arm, but thought better of it. The T-Rump would only jump up and down on him repeatedly for recusing himself from the investigation.
“You’ve been telling me no for months,” said the T-Rump. “I hate that word. Has nothing changed?”
“Collusion and conspiracies don’t just, um … go away,” said the Donmcgahn.
“Hey, you’re on my team, remember? There’s no collusion. No conspiracy. Why,” the T-Rump scanned the ground for something small and insignificant. He spotted an acorn. “There’s as much chance of a conspiracy here as this acorn having a monopoly on stairlifts.”
The other dinosaurs had no idea what a stairlift was. They sighed and wrote it off as another ‘covfefe.’ The Sessionsopossum sought to end the awkward moment.
“Unfortunately, the Muellersavus lives such a squeaky clean life, we’ve been unable to add to the three bones of contention — vis a vis our entire conflict of interest case against him.”
“Refresh my memory,” said a bored T-Rump.
“Well, you said that when the Muellersavus goes flogging, he has a terrible back swing.”
“Just awful,” said the T-Rump. “The worst the world has ever seen. That’s one.”
“He was also once grazing in the same grassland as your son-in-law, the Kushneratops, though they never came within a mile of each other.”
“Close enough. That’s two.”
“And the Muellersavus was actually asked to return to the top job with the Langleytips the day before he became head honcho of the Moscovian Bluffs investigation.”
“There you have it,” said the T-Rump, staring down the Donmcgahn. “That’s three. Go ahead. Off you go. Fire him.”
“I will not. I’ll quit first.”
“Don’t stumble on your way out. Stumbling is for losers.”
The Donmcgahn picked up a couple of rocks he was partial too … and turned to exit.
“Wait,” said the T-Rump. “Okay, okay. I’m kidding.”
The Donmcgahn stopped and turned around.
“I’m kidding too. I was only going to the next den to see my legal dino.”
“Oh, well. Be sure and ask him who he voted for, okay?”
The Donmcgahn waddled out without replying. He made his way to another den a short distance away. The T-Rump’s newly opened Grand-Backwash Burrows was only steps away from the Oval Dwelling and had plenty of dens available for the politically powerful in the Puhl-DePlugg Reservoir.
The Donmcgahn entered the den and stopped in his tracks. His legal dino, the Billyburck from Quinn-Manual-Layburr was not alone. The Bannoncanon and the Priebusunderbus were also in attendance.
“I, uh … thought we’d be alone,” said the Donmcgahn.
“At the moolah-moolah rate I quoted you? Not a chance,” said the Billyburck. “I’m killing a pair o’ pterodactyls with this one. You get a discount and we all keep our stories straight. Don’t tell the T-Rump, but I’m a stable genius too.”
“But you can’t represent us at the same time,” said the Donmcgahn. “It flies in the face of attorney-client privilege. We need confidential meetings.”
“Discount. Stories straight,” said the Billyburck. “Who’s calling the shots here?”
The Donmcgahn shared a worried look with the Priebusunderbus.
“Fear not, fellow dinos,” said the Bannoncanon. “I’m only here because it will stir things up. And I will be able to leak, I mean, speak to the Mediacircustops. About our confidentiality of course.”
More worried looks between the Donmcgahn and the Priebusunderbus and their audible, hollow, swallowing gulps.
David Belisle 