The Tyrumposaurus was on the warpath. He lashed out viciously with his long orange tail, smashing the battered stone wall of the Oval Dwelling, leaving yet another mark. Archaeologists years later would assess the marks as evidence of nervosa breakdownus for the T-Rump. The Michaelcohen, his own tail squarely between his legs, recoiled from the spraying debris of the loose cannon leader.
“It’s a disgrace!” roared the T-Rump. “It’s ridiculous! It’s an attack on the Milkanhoney Preservation! It’s an attack on everything we stand for!”
“Well, I don’t know about that,” said a humble Michaelcohen. “No dino died. Or was attacked. Or verbally threatened for that matter.”
They were referring to the dozen Langleytips who’d conducted an early morning raid on the three main haunts of the Michaelcohen.
“I feel threatened,” said the T-Rump. “And that’s enough. Because it’s all about me. All other dinosaurs be damned! Disgraced! Damned! Disgraced!” The T-Rump still struggled with alliteration.
The leader of the dinosaur world leaned against a nearby wall. His fire and fury had him hyperventilating. He caught his breath, smiled and promptly spit up a gallon of green goo on the ground. And his big feet. Oops. Marking his territory, future dino diggers would incorrectly note. In fact, the T-Rump’s clean bill of health from the Ronniejackson, his personal doc-turned-veteran affairs head dino, was suddenly not so clean.
“You have to fix this, Michael. Fix it and fix it fast. … You can fix it, can’t you?”
“Oh, sure. We’ll just stick to the master plan. We threaten them. Then we sue them …”
“Then we blame the Donkeycongrus! Every middle-aged dino knows that damn Donkeycongrus is the root of all problems. Past, present and future.”
“Sure,” the Michaelcohen said, humoring his client. “But … but … they got my etchings. All of them.”
The T-Rump looked at him incredulously.
“Even the Stormy ones?”
“Especially the Stormy ones! They came to my work cave at Squirrel Petting Bogs, my place at the Regency Lowlands — I like how they always leave a mint-scented muskrat belly-up in the nest …
“They came to your home, Michael. They were in your home.”
“That’s right.” The T-Rump’s anger was contagious. “I’m a legal dino, for cryin’ out loud. You’d think they could trust me. But oh no, they had to jump through all those extra hoops because I’m a legal dino. The referral by the Muellersavus. Then the Rodrosenstein signs off on it, the Langleytips’ Christopherwray okays it and the Geoffreyberman from the Manhattinhand South Sticks, who you even interviewed for the job.”
The T-Rump shook his head miserably.
“If I had known he was going to give the go ahead on investigating my own personal legal dino, well … I never, never would’ve hired him.”
“Hard to believe, but those dinos are all Sub Family to the Grandoldparty,” said the Michaelcohen in stunned wonder.
The T-Rump lashed out again with his tail, giving the cave wall a good workout.
“Deep down they’re all Donkeycongrus. Every last one of’em. Ya think ya know a dino.” The T-Rump shook his head and green slimed another wall. “You told me, Michael, you’d pay the 130-thousand moolah-moolah to the Stormydaniels and that I should keep my mouth shut. But that Mediacircustops gal — love in the air — the rolling Farce One Plains. She was s-o-o-o-o cute. My animal instinct took over. She asked me … all I said was ‘no.’ Usually it’s the other way around.”
“Don’t I know it, said the T-Rump’s fixer. “It’s not your fault, T-Rump. It was the perfect plan. Every dino in the world was supposed to believe you didn’t know I paid all that moolah-moolah on my own to Stormy for something that never happened. … Sometimes I wonder if we’re washing too much moolah-moolah leaves.”
The T-Rump gave him that you-can-never-have-enough-moolah-moolah look.
“But, Michael. You told me we would always have attorney-client privilege.”
“Um … unfortunately they have us over a boulder with crime-fraud exemption.”
“But we have attorney-client privilege.”
It was his dino DNA, the T-Rump repeating himself, believing truth would quickly step in line if not by the second mention, then surely by the third. There was no convincing the Michaelcohen however. He looked like a beaten, down-and-out dino, looking for a hasty escape before becoming the latest slime on the wall.
“It was a pleasure serving you, T-Rump. But I now have to, you know … run and hide.” He turned to leave.
“Michael, stop. Please.”
This was a shocker. The T-Rump actually showing him sympathy. The Michaelcohen brightened. Could this be the beginning of a beautiful relationship at the end of said relationship? They did everything else ass-backwards.
Even this brief, blissful moment was all too brief, broken up by the arrival of a dinosaur outside the doorway.
“Hey, Pursepuppy!” It was the Michaelavenatti. “See you in Dino Court!”
His laughter trailed away as he departed the scene. Obviously a hit-and-run job to maximize embarrassment. The T-Rump and the Michaelcohen waited, wincing at eight more blasts of “Pursepuppy!” … each echoing … stinging … before Stormy’s legal dino was finally out of earshot.
“You were saying?” asked the Michaelcohen, looking hopefully at the T-Rump.
“I see you’ll probably be going away to The Hole for a long time. A really long time.”
“Uh … thanks. It’s nice of you, T-Rump, to take notice …”
“Yes, well … I mean, I’ve already contacted several Legalzoomarus’ … No luck. And I realized you have a lawyer you won’t be needing now that you’re guilty as sin.”
Mortal shock from the Michaelcohen.
“What?” The T-Rump failed to comprehend how the Michaelcohen could possibly have feelings. “I have a business to run here.”
“You mean the Milkanhoney Preservation.”
“Stop splitting scales. Look, before they haul you away, I just want you to put in a good word with the Stevenryan to drop you and work for me. Can you do that? You’re still loyal, right?
David Belisle 