“Why are you always picking on me?”
Beside the T-Rump Jr. and the Huckabeecyclops, the Kushneratops squatted, his bottom lip tucked over his top lip. It was his extra-pouty look he saved for times like this.
“I run a tight ship here, you greenfoot gremlin,” growled the Marinegunkelly. “After the Robporter fiasco — damn, there went a fine reptile — I’m afraid I have to amend your interim security clearance. Now drop and give me twenty.”
“Excuse me?”
“Sorry, force of habit.” Of course the Marinegunkelly secretly wished he could mold the puny dino before him — hang nail by dreaded hang nail — into a fighting machine.
“But, but,” stammered the Kushneratops, “I’ll still be able to read the T-Rump’s daily briefs, right?”
“Over my dead body.”
“But I need the daily brief. It makes me look … important.”
“Frankly, greenhorn, I don’t give a damn. Consider yourself lucky your new clearance allows you to see the breakfast menu.”
Mock horror from the Kushneratops.
“What about me?” asked the T-Rump Jr. “Do I carry as much of your so-called ‘significant derogatory’ information?”
“Well, it’s close, but …”
“Yes!” The T-Rump Jr. did a silly twirl and stuck his tongue out at his brother-in-law. “Winning!”
“But,” the Marinegunkelly cut in, “I’m not happy with your trip to New Delly-Dally to sell T-Rump Bombasement Suites.”
“You want one? For 38,000 moolah-moolah leaves you get a meeting and dinner with me.”
“I’m meeting with you right now.”
“Dinner?”
The Marinegunkelly turned to the mildly amused Huckabeecyclops.
“Do you believe this?”
“Well, I can make the average dino believe anything.”
An eye roll from the chief of staff. He turned back to the T-Rump Jr.
“No dinner. Unless it’s you.”
“O-k-a-a-a-y … So, how many Bombasement Suites can I put you down for then?”
“You can’t profit from the T-Rump name while your father leads the free-run dinosaur world.”
“That’s totally unfair!”
“Why’s that?”
“This Bombasement Suites deal began w-a-a-a-a-y in advance of pop conquering the Crookadillary. It’s a crying shame!”
The Kushneratops took this as his cue to pout and whimper anew.
“Wait, not yet.” The T-Rump Jr. turned back to the Marinegunkelly. “We get no credit. We put these huge impositions on ourselves. We’re making big sacrifices by not doing new deals.”
The chief of staff stiffened.
“It’s an opportunity for corruption. You can be compromised.”
“Oh, no. We’re getting the best deal.”
“It’s unethical!”
It was the Kushneratops’ turn to stick out his tongue at the T-Rump Jr.
“Stop that!” Spittle flew freely from the Marinegunkelly’s mouth. “Our foreign policy is NOT for sale.”
The two brothers-in-law shared a look. The T-Rump Jr. pointed to the Marinegunkelly.
“He’s gotta go.”
The Kushneratops smirked.
“Ah, he’s still new. He doesn’t realize everything’s for sale.”
“He is still here,” the Marinegunkelly shot back. “And now I’m not.”
With that, he turned smartly on his gnarly heels to leave.
“Wait a minute,” said the Kushneratops. “I have a buyer. For the Oval Dwelling.”
The chief of staff stopped dead in his tracks.
“You what?”
“Oh, don’t worry. He’s good for it. The Putinodon. You know, 200 billion?”
A stern look from the Marinegunkelly wiped the grins off the Kushneratops and the T-Rump Jr.’s faces. The two looked hopefully at the Huckabeecyclops.
“Don’t worry boys,” she said. “I’ll just say that out of the pure goodness of his Russo-heartland heart, the Putinodon is happily, truly invested in the Milkanhoney Preservation.”
David Belisle 