The three dinos nibbled and gnawed on the meaty bones from the Tofuburgur carcass before them. There was the Kirstjennielsen, licking clean the juicy rack of ribs, the Huckabeecyclops chewing through the thick breast and the Stephenmillerus pausing to mull over breaking the wishbone. He snapped it himself, smiling smugly at his latest false success.
“I used to like Tofuburgur,” said the Kirstjennielsen. “Now it’s all I can eat in peace. I was dining on Mexicodino just the other day and — and … all hell broke loose. You’d think I was eating some poor dino’s child. Every dinosaur there was shouting at me. Shame! Shame! Shame! … Why? I had no idea. I had to finally leave.“
“You too?” asked the Huckabeecyclops. “What a coincidence. Only they asked me and my family to leave. Because I worked for the T-Rump they said. What does the T-Rump have to do with my damn dinner? My survival?”
“We all have to eat,” said the Kirstjennielsen. “Right, Stephen?”
“Quiet, you two. I’m putting together my next Trollertweety message for the T-Rump.”
The architect of the T-Rump’s migration policy barring the Refugeeraptors from entering the Milkanhoney Preservation was in a particularly foul mood. This was standard operating procedure for him. He would channel his aggression into the T-Rump’s merciless directives for the masses. The Stephenmillerus’ eyes narrowed, the germ of a thought materialized and a fresh sneer appeared on his face. He turned to the others.
“The Donkeykongrus are to blame for this bland Tofuburgur menu! A pox on the Mexicodino menu! We need to separate the meat from the bone!”
The two female dinos shared a female dino look that said the Stephenmillerus had once again entered the Dino Dimwit Zone.
“I don’t know if I can spin that,” said the Huckabeecyclops. “Mexicodino meat from bone? I just know I’m going to start salivating.”
“You need to focus,” said the Stephenmillerus. “I never did like Mexicodino, I only ate it to stir up the other dinos.”
“That’s it,” said the Huckabeecyclops, spitting out a mouthful of Tofuburgur blood and gristle. “I’m sorry. I can’t do this anymore. For once, I’m going to be 100% completely honest about this whole thing.”
The other two dinos stopped chewing. The Huckabeecyclops looked like she meant it.
“No. More. Tofuburgur,” she said. “That’s right. I’m going on a diet!”
She caught the Stephenmillerus smirking at her.
“What? You don’t believe me?”
“No, I was just going to say … you’re lucky. You can go on a diet. Look at me.” He pointed to his protruding rib cage. The Stephenmillerus weighed all of 145 pounds. “If I went on a diet, I’d die.”
The Kirstjennielsen chuckled.
“No, you would-”
“Silence!” he shouted. His eyes fairly bounced with a sudden charge of hatred. “Yes, that’s what they’re trying to do. They’re trying to kill me!”
The Huckabeecyclop’s lone working eye froze in confusion.
“Who’s trying to kill you?”
“The Refugeeraptors,” he hissed, a diabolical gleam in his eye. “Oh, the T-Rump is going to love this. He may even promote me to senior senior advisor.”
“I’m sorry,” said the Kirstjennielsen, “did you say senor?”
“Don’t you ever say that word around me,” he growled.
He tried rekindling the rare joy he’d felt mere seconds before. But the fleeting happiness was gone. He lowered his gaze, retreating back into his dark, demented mind.
The Kirstjennielsen surveyed the scene. The Huckabeecyclops had sworn off Tofuburgurs, the Stephenmillerus was on a death march to Dodoville and she’d recently received a dressing down, then a thumbs-up from the T-Rump. Obviously the kiss of death, her nights had since been sleepless.
Homegrown Security for her had been reduced to a Tofuburgur, cousin to the Nothingburgur. Tasteless. Digusting. She wracked her walnut once more. Why were all the dinos mad at her?
She couldn’t put two and two together.
David Belisle 