The Trollertweety flew overhead, releasing its fury.
“Squawk! The T-Rump is mentally declining! He’s losing his step! He’s a corrosive, socially dividing cancer! Squawk!”
That damn Mooch, thought the dino, looking up from his squat at the entrance to the Oval Dwelling. He turned and rapped three times on the wall with his tail. The Mickmulvaney timidly approached the sound of the rapping to greet the visitor. The chief of dino staff relaxed, then raised a shackle or two when he saw who it was.
“You again,” he sniffed.
“I don’t care who it is,” came the Tyrumposaurus’ shout in the background. “Send them in. I need some attention.”
The tired, wretched, poor Lewandowski stepped into the cave. The Sethabramson had described the Lewandowski as a Ziplocbaggie of Gymcandy wrapped in a Cheapsuit, sent out into the world to sexually and physically assault dino women and dodge the Subpoenasaurae. The Ziplocbaggie, Gymcandy and Cheapsuit were all dinos from the wrong side of nature’s trail.
Their culmination, the Lewandowski, now stood before the T-Rump, who looked up from his third Cheezbuggabugga.
“You again.”
The Lewandowski’s presence preceded perturbance. As with all the T-Rump’s yes-dinos, He took it as a hello.
“The Subpoenasaurus came to see me today. For the third time.”
“You know the drill,” said the T-Rump. “Play dumb, don’t even agree on the colour of the sky … and we’ll claim executive privilege.”
“But I never even worked for you. Can we do that?”
“You’re forgetting we have the Williambarr and the Moscowmitch in our corner.”
“You mean the Mitchgetbacktowork.”
“No, he’s the Moscowmitch now.”
“You can change his species?”
“I can do anything. I’m simply honoring Mitch’s great work in calling the Sanctionsaurus off the Olegderipaska so the Russodinos could become major players in the northeast corner of Kentucky-Muckety-Muck thanks to 200 million moolah-moolah leaves.”
The Lewandowski cringed at the thought but was well practiced at concealing all jaw-dropping emotions in front of the T-Rump, who continued speaking to any dino who would listen.
“I may take over Greenlandia next week. What do you think?”
The Lewandowski thought the leader was bat-poop crazy but responded with the perfunctory nod, yet again enabling the dino king with no oaths.
The T-Rump scratched his sagging nether regions. An idea fell out.
“Y’know, Corey. I was thinking. This subpoena thing. We need to deflect this, I mean, turn it into a positive.”
“Of course,” said the enabler, praying silently as well that he hadn’t just precipitated the death and destruction of all dinos.
“Yes,” said the T-Rump. “I think you should run for the Sin Hut in … uh, oh … I don’t know. I don’t care. I don’t want to know. But humor me. Pick somewhere.”
“New Hampshironia?”
“Done. I’ll make a visit there and tell them you’re the best thing since … hold on. Stephen!”
“Since dino tots held captive,” came the sinister voice of the Stephenmillerus from deep within his Den of Demented Doom.
“Right,” said the T-Rump with a chuckle. “We’ll run with that.”
“But what about my baggage?” asked the Lewandowski. “I’ve got a lotta skeletons. Even a few you don’t know about.”
“Quiet. Don’t say another word. You know what the Putinodon said about keeping the crime one dino removed from me. Cooch! Get in here.”
The Kencuccinelli entered the Oval Dwelling with his trademark sneer and bowed to the T-Rump.
“Cooch, before you start, you gotta say it one more time. Okay?”
The Lewandowski looked from the T-Rump to the Cooch, who knew exactly what the T-Rump was referring to. The T-Rump’s new migration go-to-dino had revised the time-honored Emmalazarus’ footprint poem at the base of the Status-Libertarius, stripping it of all previous symbolism. The Cooch version? He coughed and began.
“Give me your be best white-striped dinos who can stand on their own two feet and find their own damn food.”
“I love it!” said the T-Rump. “Short. Sweet. White-striped supreme. Okay now, what can you do for Corey here? He’s got a lot of crap you need to make go away.”
The Lewandowski’s raging stream of controversies poured out to be de- and reconstructed by the Cooch.
Battery against a female Mediacircustops?
“He was standing on his own two feet.”
Directed by the T-Rump to deliver a message to the Sessionsopposum telling the Muellersavus to just forget about past battle campaign shenanigans and focus on future campaigns?
The Cooch smiled.
“They can stand on their own two feet. Next time.”
Other episodes of obstruction of justice?
“Obstruction?” he said. “You’re the one standing on our two feet.”
The Cooch had landed. One small step for delaying justice, one giant leap for white-striped supremacy.
David Belisle 