The tight-lipped Tyrumposaurus sized up the opponent before him. Here he was at Singapore-Sling, staring across a flat rock table at the short, squat dinosaur, a dino he’d referred to just six months before as the Little Rocket Dino. How times had changed. His lips curled into a sneer as he reminded himself the Obamarus had never done this.
The Kimjongadon, supreme leader of Ping Pong Valley, carefully studied the T-Rump. He was indeed a dotard. But an unpredictable dotard. This was their first meeting. After three generations of being a nobody, the Kimjongadon was now a somebody. A somebody with a stock of Nuclearballisticus, hence this hurried meeting at Singapore-Sling.
The two dinos’ gazes wandered, their tails thumping haphazardly on the ground. The atmosphere crackled with anticipation of the first words ever spoken between leaders of the Milkanhoney Preservation and Ping Pong Valley.
“So …” said the T-Rump. “What do you want to talk about?”
“I don’t know. What do you want to talk about?”
The two dinos sighed, easing back on their haunches. Introductions and opening witty repartee accomplished.
“They make a great lunch here,” said the T-Rump. “Absolutely fantastic. The best.”
The Kimjongadon paused. The T-Rump wasn’t crazy like a Foxasaurus. He was just plain crazy. Time to negotiate, er … swindle.
“I’m prepared to offer you the same thing I’ve offered every leader of the Milkanhoney Preservation for the past 25 years.”
“That’s great,” gushed the T-Rump. “Just great. I knew you’d give me something.”
For a moment, the Kimjongadon considered stopping right there, but he was after all, offering nothing.
“I will consider reducing my amount of Nuclearballisticus. In exchange …”
“Yes, yes,” said the T-Rump, bouncing on his haunches.
“You will need to stop playing your war games with the Seoulkoreasaurus.”
“Is that all? Done.” The T-Rump looked up at the sun. “My, look at the time.”
“Uh, T-Rump.”
“Yes?”
“Your Mediacircustops are going to inquire about Ping Pong Valley and the, um … un-dino-like conditions I’ve imposed.”
“Refresh my memory.”
“You know. The horrific conditions I’ve inflicted upon over 100,000 dinos. They’re good dinos at heart. They just need some containment. And then there’s my executing my brother and uncle.”
“Look, you really don’t need to go into family …”
“Here’s what you can tell your Mediacircustops.”
“Woah. You mean I have to remember something?” The T-Rump groaned. “Just when I was getting good with ‘270 percent.’”
“You can tell them that I feed my dinos bullweed.”
“Bullweed?”
“Yes, strictly grass roots, low on nutrition, leaves a bad taste in your mouth. But it won’t rot your teeth. At least initially. And the tapeworms love it.”
“Loves his 270 dinos. I can remember that.”
“Loves his dinos. That’s all.”
“Right.”
“I have a question, T-Rump.”
“Damn. I mean, what is it?”
“How come you treat the bad dinos, like me and the Putinodon better than the good dinos, like your Justintrudeau next door? Could it be that you’re keeping your friends close and your enemies closer?”
“No, I just saw this as an opportunity to improve my ever-growing popularity, so I jumped at it. It’s all about me. … And you.”
The Kimjongadon smirked. Those poor Milkanhoney Preservation dinos. Their leader was certifiable.
“I want to make one thing clear,” said the Kimjongadon.
“Yes?”
“I am my Nuclearballisticus. When I no longer have my Nuclearballisticus I will no longer be. Do you understand? No longer.”
A dismissive nod from the T-Rump. He rose from his squat.
“Race you for the door!”
The two tyrannical dinos thundered towards the exit. Meeting adjourned.
The next day the T-Rump fired off a lengthy Trollertweety message. It was the same four words squawked over and over throughout the land.
“SQUAWK! … Kimjongadon no longer Nuclearballisticus! … SQUAWK! ”
David Belisle 