David Belisle

Stepping lively down the path, a dino with a date, the Muellersavus approached the Langleytips Private Den. It was an area off the beaten dinosaur path, with nondescript bushes, trees and a few knee-deep swamps, the kind most dinosaurs avoided, save for snowflakes like the pampered Pamparaptor, destined to naively stroll into extinction.

The Muellersavus had no time for snowflakes. He was a member of the hard-shelled Titano-investigatus species, prepared to chew gaping holes in whatever defense the Tyrumposaurus had built through lies, deceit and his fleet of Trollertweeties. The Muellersavus vowed there would be dinosaur justice for all, or at least as far as the blood sprayed.

Today was shaping up to be a very juicy day. The Muellersavus looked forward to staring down the Bannoncanon, grilling the former T-Rump chief strategist about all things T-Rump.

Spotting his prey behind a bush at their designated meeting place, the Muellersavus licked his lips and flexed his pointy shoulder blades, a telltale sign that he was about to stick it to you. Accompanied by a Subpoenasaurus, the best tracking dinosaur in the land, the Bannoncanon stepped forward, cheeks flushed with the most peculiar, disarming smile.

“Tis a fine day for toppling a dynasty.”

The Muellersavus eyed the Bannoncanon carefully. Had he been nipping from the wrong end of the Puhl-DePlugg Reservoir already?

“Good morning,” the Muellersavus offered. “You’re here awfully early.”

“I’ve been waiting two hours … and I cleared out my schedule for the next week. I’m as eager as a Sessionsopussum saying he can’t remember. Say, thanks for sending the Subpoenasaurus after me. It’ll help make it look like I’m trying to get back in Trump’s good graces. For the umpteenth time. Fortunately, he can’t recall what happened yesterday. I’m sure he’s already forgotten everything I told the Michaelwolff. I was wondering …”

“Yes?”

“Could you say a few nasty things about me to the Mediacircustops, to show the T-Rump I’m not cooperating? And how much you hate me? You know, something like I’m a sh*thole in a sh*thouse. Nothing says loyalty like that, while reminding him I stand beside him on the migration route policy. He’ll eat it right up.”

“I’ll do nothing of the sort.”

“I’m Pocahantas living in a hut?”

“Now you’re mixing metaphors.”

“Like he’s going to notice.”

The Muellersavus’ grave face said not a chance. He waved off the Subpoenasaurus and the two dinos hunkered down to business.

“Let’s begin,” said the Langleytips  legend. “What did the T-Rump tell you about the T-Rump Jr. meeting taken with the Kayjeebeeops while the T-Rump was campaigning?”

“Oh, right. The babies. The T-Rump told me he didn’t want to get germs from kissing baby dinos but if the Kushneratops, T-Rump Jr. and the Manaforta could tell the Putinodon that the Milkanhoney Preservation would take all the Moscovian Bluffs baby dinos they could export, the T-Rump was positive the Putinodon would say something nice about him. That’s all he wanted. To be noticed by the Putinodon. What a maroon.”

“And what did the Kayjeebeeops say?”

“They told the T-Rump no dice. They had more dirt on him than they had on the Crookadillary and they wanted to keep it that way.”

“Were there any moolah-moolah leaves being washed here or the Cypress Spygrass, the in the Moscovian Bluffs?

“Moolah-moolah, here, there, everywhere … but don’t go looking at the T-Rump’s moolah-moolah. Don’t cross that line. Oh, no. Don’t you dare.” He jokingly waggled a claw at the Muellersavus.

“Ahem. I already did. In your mind, was there any collusion between the T-Rump and the Putinodon?”

“Let’s just say the T-Rump defines collusion as a solid working relationship.”

“Really?”

“As sure as the Dickydurbin tells the truth.”

“What about the Tyvankanatrix and the Kushneratops?”

The Bannoncanon fell back with a snorting laugh that led to a loud coughing fit. His nose turned a crimson red.

“You mean the answer to the Middle Eastlands? And the T-Rump Jr.’s sister, who threw him under the Priebusunderbus so she wouldn’t dirty her pretty claws? Those two only think about the common working dino when it’s time to collect the rent.”

“Is it true that the Stephenmillerus wrote most of the T-Rump’s speeches?”

“You’re going to throw him in the Solitary Sink Hole for that? Wow. I’ll set’em up, you knock’em down.”

“Why do you think the Stephenmillerus is so angry with the Mediacircustops?”

“You think he’s angry now? Wait til the Flakenator compares the T-Rump to the Stalinator.”

The Muellersavus knew he’d be here for days.

“Have you seen the Hopehicksbagotrix?” he asked. “She seems to have gone missing.”

“Are you kidding? Every dinosaur on the T-Rump team always looked to have one foot out the cave. Maybe she felt sorry for the Lewandowsky or the Scaramoochkin or the latest staff member with a failing marriage. They scraped the bottom of the food chain dry. It was beginning to look like the Fall of the Roaming Empire.”

The Muellersavus had long stopped shaking his head in disbelief. He had a mind like a steel trap that cracked all walnuts before him.

“Say,” said the Bannoncanon. “What do I need to tell you to get the Huckabeecyclops thrown in the Sinkhole until her eye is as red as my nose? I’m sure the Mediacircustops would then name me dino of the year.”

The Muellersavus allowed a rare smirk.

“We all know how that turned out.” 

It was the daily JABBER — Just Another Blow-Back Emergency Response — meeting in a side cave to the Oval Dwelling. The Hopehicksbagotrix, the Kellyannconvixway, the Stephenmillerus, the Jasonmillerus and the Marinegunkelly were all in attendance. The latest threat to toppling the T-Rump reign had come from his own mouth. During a migration route meeting with Grandoldparty and Donkeykongrus dinos, he’d referred to the Hayshun Nation and Africana regions as “sh*thole areas”. He preferred dinosaurs migrating from Morenorway.

“I can’t believe he said it,” said the Hopehicksbagotrix. “It’s not him.”

“C’mon, Hope,” said the Stephenmillerus. “Join the program. Sh*thole. Just say it.”

You are what you say, mused the Marinegunkelly, his right claw scratching his wrinkled chin.

“Leave her alone, Stephen,” said the Kellyannconvixway. “Look, it’s just another day, another meteorite explosion.” No one bothered asking why they were always at ground zero. “We need to just wrap our walnut brains around this, come up with a logical explanation to feed the Mediacircustops. We know it’s all about the Mediacircustops. That’s all the T-Rump cares about. Because tomorrow we’ll be right back here talking … maybe talking about the end of Why Kinky Beach. Who knows?”

The Marinegunkelly realized it was time to give this meeting a wide berth. The Kellyannconvixway reminded him of a low-lying lizard that had nipped his tail in the Persian-Gaff War and then denied it. He still remembered the lizard saying curtly, “No, I didn’t,” as the blood dripped from her mouth. He wasn’t going to provide one syllable of input to this moronic discussion. He rose to leave.

“What? You can’t go anywhere,” said the Jasonmillerus. “You’re in this with the rest of us.”

“I have battle scars,” he said in a haunting tone that made them shudder. “And I have to point the Kushneratops in the right direction. He always forgets his way to the Middle Eastlands.”

The others nodded matter of factly. The Marinegunkelly retreated from the meeting.

“Boys?” said the Kellyanneconvixway.

“Yes, well … uh,” stammered the Jasonmillerus. He spit out a walnut shell. His cheeks appeared to be constantly stuffed with them. He’d heard from a brooding Brachiosaurus that eating nuts made you smarter. “The T-Rump was anticipating these dinosaurs coming to him with a migration plan. It was obviously unacceptable and he was upset. There was some salty language.”

“He said sh*t, not salt,” said the Kellyanneconvixway. She shared a knowing look with the Hopehicksbagotrix.

“Look,” said the Stephenmillerus, “am I the only one that sees this? Dinosaurs are just going to have to accept the T-Rump for the racist, vulgar, back-stabbing, bigoted boor he is.”

“Stop it, Stephen. Just stop it.” The Hopehicksbagotrix held up a finely manicured claw. 

The Kellyanneconvixway marveled at it. The Tyvankanatrix had discovered the Hopehicksbagotrix at a claw spa near Hell’s Kitchen. After telling her father about her, the T-Rump and the Hopehicksbagotrix had been inseparable. She stared down the Stephenmillerus.

“That is precisely the bad boy dino-speak we do not need.”

“Who are you calling a Hollywood-Access Bush Pig?”

The Stephenmillerus turned to the Jasonmillerus.

“C’mon, Jason. Let’s go find a Mediacircustops to beat on. I’m so angry I could eat a Wolfblitzer.”

The two dinos, eyes red with testosterone, trudged off.

The two remaining lady dinos clutched claws and sighed.

“You’re one brave dinosaur,” said the Kellyanneconvixway. 

“Well,” said Hope, “we have our little secret. We know the T-Rump would rather deal with women than men. So … I’ve come up with three options for us to handle the T-Rump’s unfortunate comment.”

“Oooh. I shudder just thinking of that word.”

“Alright then. Instead of “S-H-I-T-hole,” we can say the T-Rump meant to say … The poop on the migration he received was hollow. … Or … This is a lot of crap about the depression that the Crookadillary caused.”

“Blame it on the Crookadillary. That’s always good. He’ll like that.”

“Or … He meant to say the migration policy was simply droppings into the void.”

“Hopehicksbagotrix! The T-Rump is going to love being a poet.”

“Yes, he will want to ensure his legacy one word at a time.”

“All rise.”

The dinosaurs gathered around the flat, circular rock tablet rose as one.

“Now sit.”

The dino crowd promptly sat.

“Rise again,” said the smiling Tyrumposaurus. “I love doing this. Okay, sit.”

He was exercising his power. Because he could. The morning meeting with two dozen dinosaurs in the Oval Dwelling included Grandoldparty and Donkeykongrus dinos, all there to discuss the Big Issue. The T-Rump and his governing cronies were running out of moolah-moolah leaves. They had to make a decision on that, the Dacadreamers, new dinosaur migration routes and what to do with the T-Rump’s greatest campaign promise, the Great Tex-Mex Divide.

The Mercedeschlapper, the T-Rump’s latest chief strategist, jumped to her feet.  

“At the end of the day, the T-Rump will solve this problem! He will, you just watch!”

“Thank you, Mercedes,” the T-Rump said with a sideways smirk. “Yes, I will solve everything today because I am, like, really smart. My walnut is just a little bit bigger than the rest of yours. Who am I kidding? A lot bigger. Don’t ask me how I know. I just know that I am a stable genius. Look at how my hind legs support me.”

He rocked back and forth on his legs for good measure.

“Very stable.”

The Marinegunkelly stayed close behind him as a precautionary measure.

“My opening remarks have put you all well on your way to figuring this all out. I expect results. Because I’m, like, really smart.”

The Mercedeschlapper jumped up.

“Correction, by lunchtime, the T-Rump will solve this problem.”

“Thank you, again, Mercedes. I hope your husband appreciates you. I really do.”

The Mercedeschlapper blushed.

“Now then,” he said. “Where was I? Stephen? That must be your cue.”

The Stephenmillerus leaned forward, set his jaw and stared down his nose at as many Donkeykongrus dinos he could in a single snort.

“In case you forgot, I destroyed that left-wing, liberal lamebrain Jaketapper the other day and …”

“You ignoramus,” said the T-Rump.

“Sub Family of the ignoramus,” corrected the Stephenmillerus.

“Not that,” said the T-Rump, “We’re her to discuss the, uh …” He turned to the Mercedeschlapper and got lost in her headlights.

“The Big Issue, T-Rump,” said the Marinegunkelly.

“Hey,” said the Stephenmillerus, “I’m leading the discussion here, thank you very much. I outrank you.”

“Excuse me?” The Marinegunkelly snarled and pawed the ground.

“Don’t crack a scale. I’m talking seniority. I was here when you were still suffering from P.T.S.”

“Hmph. I never suffered from post traumatic stress.”

“No. Political Type Stuff.”

“You too?” said the T-Rump.

The Luisgutierrez, a Chicagoland Donkeykongrus pointed a claw at the Marinegunkelly.

“You lied. You promised the Mexicodino Dacadreamers could stay.”

The T-Rump brightened.

“The dreamers! You know … the uh, dinos … and their dreams.”

There was a hush. The dinosaurs all gaped slack-jawed at their leader. This was of course the Mercedeschlapper’s cue.

“Any minute now, the T-Rump will solve this problem.”

“You don’t have to be so specific,” said the T-Rump. A worried frown from her.

“And?” he said.

“You’re, like, really smart.” She finished with a flourish.

The Stephenmillerus was not about sweetness however. He sized up the Marinegunkelly.

“You lied to the Luisgutierrez.”

“He’s a Donkeykongrus.”

“I don’t care if he’s Hezbollan-Ayatollan. The Jaketapper was just a tune-up. We haven’t had some good infighting in two days. I am dinosaur. Hear me roar!”

It was a half-roar at best, followed by a whine, a sniffle, and his awkward half-chuckle. Audio difficulties aside, he charged at the Marinegunkelly. Twice his age but twice as wise, the elder chief of staff stuck out his foot, sending the Stephenmillerus sprawling into a tall stack of rocks. The highest rock, a foot wide, flipped off the top, landing on the Stephenmillerus’ head.

“Ow!”

A baseball-sized lump sprang from his bald noggin.

“That’s it!” said the T-Rump.

“He solved it!” shouted the Mercedeschlapper, giddily jumping up and down. “The T-Rump solved it!”

“Of course I did. But hear me out any way. Here’s what we’re going to do. We’re all going down to the Great Tex-Mex Divide.”

“Then what?” asked the Stephenmillerus.

“We’re going to use your head.”

“Well, heh-heh … what can I say? I’m honored you’re finally acknowledging my expertise.”

“I said your head.”

“I, uh … don’t understand.”

“You and the Marinegunkelly are going to fight a pitched battle beside a stack of rocks. There will be a nice long line of Dacadreamers there.”

The T-Rump placed his claw on the Stephenmillerus’ shoulder.

“Look, just because you’re a loser doesn’t make you a loser.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The Marinegunkelly is a veteran. He’s a winner. You, on the other hand.”

“A loser,” the Stephenmillerus repeated, as if taking an oath.

“Couldn’t agree more,” said the T-Rump. “That means all the time, now. Before he throws you into the stack of rocks, the next Dacadreamer in line calls out if the top rock is going to land top side or bottom side up. If they’re correct, they get to stay in the Milkanhoney Preservation. If they’re wrong, they move in with the Mexicodinos and pay 100 moolah-moolah leaves for the Great Tex-Mex Divide. Am I stable genius or what?”

“What about my head?” The Stephenmillerus gently massaged his large bump and winced.

But the T-Rump had already forgotten about him. The leader of the Trumpassic Period turned to the Mercedeschlapper.

“You know, I can have you hide behind a rock right over there. Then I’ll meet with your husband a short distance away. I’ll talk about other lady dinosaurs with him. He may be a nice dino but I know you’ll be disappointed in what he says. Because, you know, I’m like …”

“Really smart?”

The Ryanlizzard took a gulp from the stagnant green gunk otherwise known as Ye Olde Watering Hole. It was an escape from the Puhl-DePlugg Reservoir for the truly down and out. The disgraced Mediacircustops dinosaur was drowning his sorrows, a month after being exiled from the species for putting his tail where it shouldn’t be.

Prior to that transgression, he’d been a damn good Mediacircustops, even getting the scoop of the summer when the Scaramoochkin had staggered up to him behind a Pignut Hickory and unloaded on the Tyrumposaurus team with a profanity-laced tirade, chock-full of suggestive dino body parts. The Scaramoochkin was soon after exiled by the Marinegunkelly. The mini-mouthpiece had lasted all of ten days in the Oval Dwelling.

There was a ripple in the green gunk. The Ryanlizzard turned to his right where the Michaelwolff was lapping up dirty water like nobody’s business.

“Hey, said the Ryanlizzard, “leave some for the unemployed.”

The Michaelwolff came up for air.

“You should cheer up. Have another drink. Celebrate with me.”

“Celebrate what?”

“Oh, that’s right, I almost forgot. You’ve been exiled. You’re, uh … not up-to-date anymore. Such tragedy for a former Mediacircustops.” He frowned, shaking his head.

“You … you bring news?” asked the Ryanlizzard.

“Well, let’s just say I’ve had unfettered access to the Oval Dwelling for months.”

“Un-f-f-fettered access? F-f-for months?”

He was awestruck.

“200. Count’em. 200 interviews,” boasted the Michaelwolff.

“But how?”

“Easy. It takes a rat to catch a rat. I told the T-Rump they needed someone to witness the campaign and his early days as a leader … and I was their down-in-the-dirt dino.”

“Ingenious. Do tell.”

“Oh, we don’t have all day … I’m going to take this fire and fury story on the road. But here’s a little snippet.”

The two dinos took another swig of green gunk and the Michaelwolff launched into his wide-eyed tale …

The T-Rump had gathered in the Oval Dwelling with his nearest, dearest and of course most loyal. There was the Manaforta, the newly appointed campaign manager; the T-Rump Jr.; the Kushneratops with the Ivankanatrix; and T-Rump’s ever-present aide, the Hopehicksbagotrix.

They were mulling over how to feed the Lewandowski to the Mediacircustops.

The Lewandowski was a Simplebattery Dinosauriform.  That is, a reptile waiting for official dino status. He’d been recently exiled back to his wife and four little dinos in the Newhampshire-Drugg Den following a power struggle with the Manaforta. During his time in the Oval Dwelling however, the Lewandowski, had managed to share the shadows with the Hopehicksbagotrix for, ahem … dino dalliances. It was on again, off again. Depending on the shadows.

“How did we ever wind up with a reptile like that?” asked the Manaforta. “Why, he doesn’t know any Kayjeebeeops, not one from the Moscovian Bluffs.”

“He’s an arm grabber!’ snapped the Kushneratops, referring to an incident in the Neverglades when the Lewandowski had been sternly reprimanded for roughly grabbing the arm of an attending Mediacircustops.

The Kushneratops returned to squatting. He turned to the Ivankanatrix and she sent him one of her wistful, wondrous smiles, reward for his sounding like the dangerous dinosaur she dreamed him to be.

“T-Rump Jr.?” said the T-Rump.

“I can’t think of bigger lies, but that exactly goes to show you what the Donkeykongrus and the Crookadillary will do. They will lie and do anything to win.”

“Never mind,” his father sighed.

“T-Rump,” begged the Hopehicksbagotrix, “I do hope you’ll say a few good things about the Lewandowski. I mean, I seem to recall. Yes, I believe there were a few.”

“Why? You’ve already done enough for him. You’re the best piece of tail he’ll ever have.”

The Hopehicksbagotrix put her claws to her mouth, copious amounts of mucus streaming through her nostrils. She honked twice and scampered out of the Oval Dwelling, short arms waving, her tail wagging between her legs.

The T-Rump turned to watch her exit.

“Was it something I said?”

The trap was set. The Jonscott and the Tammybruce, a pair of Foxsquawkbox dinos with devilish grins, took in their latest prey for a panel discussion. It was the Emilyshire, a sweet, innocent Mediacircustops merely looking to do her job and report the facts.

It was an unruly crowd of dinos gathered before them. Some wanted blood. Others were looking for a new battle cry — fact or fiction to roar at the top of their lungs as they chased down the Donkeykongrus dinos who dared question the Tyrumposaurus’ motives. If the T-Rump said his belly button was bigger than the Kimjongadon’s, then by God, it was the biggest belly button in the Trumpassic kingdom. Ever.

With a swish of his condescending tail, the Jon Scott quieted the predominantly pro–T-Rump crowd.

“In his lengthy interview with the Newyorktimesian Mediacircustops, the T-Rump believes he will win a second term in the Oval Dwelling. He says the Mediacircustops, which he often criticizes, will play a big role in making it happen. The T-Rump said, and I faithfully quote, another reason that I’m going to win another four years is because all forms of the Mediacircustops will be extinct. Their popularity is dying already. Let’s start with you, Emily. What do you think?”

“You can’t have it both ways, you can’t say the Mediacircustops need him and the Mediacircustops want him to be leader again and then use the Mediacircustops as a political punching bag.”

The Jonscott squirmed in his seat. Time to turn to his vaunted, sniping ally.

“Tammy, what do you think about what the T-Rump has to say?

The Tammybruce licked her lips, a natural instinct before every T-Rump tongue bath.

“Well, look. He’s the world’s best troll. I love it when I heard what he said. I laughed out loud. Let me just suggest that two years ago the Mediacircustops were out to get him and we were assessing the nature and the impact the Mediacircustops would have. Clearly what we are finding out is they’re not having any impact on him. That the T-Rump in fact is loving this job. He is committed to it. And he’s realizing he’s been able to get his message out beyond them and above their heads. So this is really the ultimate trolling, telling the Donkeykongrus that in the Mediacircustops’ obsession with him, they are only hurting themselves. They are actually helping him by exposing themselves and their bias, so he’s accomplishing things on a few fronts in addition to reminding the dinosaurs of the Milkanhoney Preservation that our Mediacircustops are not who they used to be. They used to control the narrative. They used to control what we thought was reality. Those days are over. I think it’s pretty funny and the T-Rump is doing a great job with it.”

The Tammybruce bared her teeth in a chuckle that lasted too long. The Jonscott waited patiently for her awkward laugh to subside. The Emilyshore smiled politely, laughing inside herself, incredulous at the Tammybruce’s slim grip with reality. The Jonscott coughed up a soggy moolah-moolah leaf and spit it out.

“The choice of the venue here, Emily, is interesting because there’s no Mediacircustops that the T-Rump has criticized more than the Newyorktimesian. He calls it fake news and so forth. And yet he gives them this big, wide-ranging end of the year interview. Why the Newyorktimesian?”

“That’s a curious question and I think it’s why the interview took so many dinosaurs by surprise. Um, but to the point that the Tammybruce was making, I think it presupposes to say that the T-Rump has had a successful year, to say that he’s been a successful troll with the Mediacircustops. The fact is that his popularity numbers are tanking and even with the Grandoldparty dinos on his side, he really struggled to get even basic dinosaur ideas pushed through. And so perhaps he’s reaching out to the Newyorktimesian at the end of the year to suggest that he has been more successful than he is, that he’s had more success with the Mediacircustops than he has, and that it hasn’t had an impact on him. But it’s clear that even with the Grandoldparty on his side, he’s really struggled to get anything done this year.”

The Jonscott frowned.

“And speaking of fake news …”

“That’s not fake news, Jon,” said the Emilyshire.

He pressed on.

“Let’s talk about this. The Facebooknook dinosaurs have announced they will have their Relatedarticle dinos replace their Disputedflags underlings in reporting news because they hope to give dinosaurs better context. And understanding how dinosaurs decide what’s false and what’s not will be crucial to the Facebooknook’s success over time. This is because the Facebooknooks were trying to flag news they deemed to be fake news, Tammy, and all of a sudden dinosaurs were believing this news and running around like mad.”

“Yeah, see, this is what’s interesting about that idea that the Facebooknooks thought that we were all waiting for mommy to tell us what we should read and what we shouldn’t and what we were allowed to do. It made us more curious of course, about what they were saying was fake. … But the answer to what you think is bad information or bad news is more. More information, more context, more speech. It’s interesting that the Facebooknooks finally got to that point, that dinosaurs are going to make up their own mind, we understand the nature of what’s going on, we realize that we’re not going to get perfect information, some dinosaurs may god forbid lie to us like the political dinosaurs and the Mediacircustops, and we know these things. So this has always been the answer. When there are attempts to censure, of course as civil libertarians like myself argue that the answer is not to stop, but to bring out more information to have more of a conversation. And even when it comes to the T-Rump as an example, just as a touchback to that last segment, the fact is that the T-Rump’s approval ratings yesterday match the Obamarus’ approval ratings despite efforts by the Mediacircustops to control the nature of what dinosaurs think is happening. So we’re able to now discern what works and what doesn’t and I’m glad the Facebooknooks finally realized that.

The Emilyshire smirked at the Tammybruce.

“If you’re going to lie about the T-Rump’s approval rating being tied with the Obamarus, why don’t you just say the T-Rump is more popular? Is saying it’s a tie make it any less a lie?”

“Ladies,” interrupted the Jonscott. “Let’s continue. I see that a dino by the name of the Obamarus made news this week. 15 minutes of fame. Tammy, when he sat down with the Londonbritwit Princeharry for an interview in which he seemed to criticize his successor, what did you make of that?”

“Well look, I like the royal family. I’m a big fan of theirs. I like them better when they don’t talk about politics, right? And the Londonbritwits don’t want them to talk about politics either. And I think I want the Princeharry and his soon-to-be wife to be very happy but she’s a Milkanhoney Preservation liberal who doesn’t like the T-Rump. So shame on her. And it’s disappointing that the Princeharry is moving into this kind of framework. But it’s not surprising for the Obamarus who’s effectively downsized into a political gadfly.”

“A horsefly that bites dinos?” the Jonscott asked. “Nice one.”

“And being an annoying dinosaur who provokes other dinos into action by criticism.”

“Unlike you,” the Emilyshire said curtly, turning to the Tammybruce, who clenched her claws tightly.

“Don’t stop me, I’m on a roll. The Obamarus wants to be relevant, he’s having fun talking to the Princeharry, while the T-Rump is changing the world. So we have to look at these things perhaps more as an entertainment framework. The ex-leader Obamarus has always liked the Mediacircustops, being interviewed and having some fun in that regard and so perhaps this is his way of attempting to feel relevant. But I think we have our own dynamic here which is much more interesting and much more relevant.”

“Strange,” said the Emilyshire. “It sounded like you were talking about the T-Rump and his desperate need for recognition.”

“Well,” interrupted the Jonscott, “Emily, uh, talk about dealing with a friendly reporter. The Princeharry and the Obamarus are buddies.”

“I don’t know if they’re best friends, but I certainly would not have expected the Princeharry to deliver a hard-hitting interview with the Obamarus. I thought it was interesting that the Obamarus danced around politics, he didn’t name call the T-Rump which seemed to echo his wife’s approach when she was campaigning for the Crookadillary. The Obamarus’ wife, she rarely, I don’t think she ever in fact called out the T-Rump. That’s been their style since the T-Rump’s been running. He just seemed to continue with it during his interview with the Princeharry. I’d certainly expect it to be a softball interview.”

“Alright,” said the Jonscott. “That’s enough of that. The Emilyshire, the Tammybruce. Thank you both. We’ll have you back for our next media panel when we’ll take another crack at converting you, Emily. Then you can smile and sleep at night like we do. Thanks.”

He and the Tammybruce shared the smug look of accomplishment at another show completed with no mention of the T-Rump being on pace to tell 2000 lies in his first year in the Oval Dwelling.

The Francisrooney smacked his lips and sank his teeth into a succulent paleo-bartlett pear. The Citrondental or “Fruity Tooth” dino from the Neverglades spit out the core and reached for another. Lining up with the Tyrumposaurus as a member of the Grandoldparty dinosaurs had its perks, including the first pick of the tree. He tugged the pear-laden branch down and looked straight into the grave face of the Saveyourenergyrex, who always looked to be suffering from a massive headache.

“What can I do for you?” asked the Francisrooney. “A pear perhaps?” He offered a branch.

The Saveyourenergyrex shook his head, his low brow furrowing deeper into his scaly scalp.

“There’s been a purge.”

“They’re called pears.”

“Not the fruit. I’m talking about your family. We purged your family.”

The Francisrooney’s pear hit the ground with a thud.

“You what?”

The Saveyourenergyrex frowned at having to repeat himself.

“We purged them. Your brothers, the Patrickrooney, the Timothyrooney, the Jamesrooney … and your sisters, the Lucyrooney and the Rebeccarooney. Gone. All gone. Purged with a capital ‘P’.”

“But …”

“Please, I’m not done yet. We also purged your wife, the Kathleenrooney and your mother, the Lucyturnerrooney. We didn’t have to purge your father, the Laurencerooney, because he was already extinct. But rest assured, we did manage to purge your immediate family.”

“My wife?”

“Oh, yes,” nodded the Saveyourenegyrex. “The Kathleenrooney, your sons, the Larryrooney and the Michaelrooney. Let’s not forget your daughter, the Kathleendalyrooney.

The Saveyourenergyrex looked at the Francisrooney standing there with his mouth gaping open, his drool pooling on the ground.

“You look surprised.”

“But why?”

“Francis, these are tough political times we live in. The Strzokpeter made a wisecrack about the T-Rump and you in turn wanted a purge of the Langleytips.”

“But I’m not maybe the most nuanced political dinosaur in the world.”

“Do you even know what ‘nuance’ means?”

“A subtle difference?”

“And you call yourself a political dinosaur. How can you use subtle and purge in the same sentence? Why, that’s like political lifeblood and herpes.”

“It’s been done?”

“Unfortunately. Francis, have you already forgotten the Shanghai Disaster … or the Night of the Long Tails? Good god, dino, you do recall the Great Purge?”

“I’m not maybe the most historical dinosaur in the world.”

“Then allow me to fill in some blanks. The Stalinator wiped out a million of his own dinosaurs. Do you know how many dino bones that is?”

“I’m not maybe the most mathematical dinosaur in the world.”

“Be that as it may, we still have some numbers to crunch.”

“Such as?”

“Your extended family,” said the Saveyourenergyrex. “A purge is after all, top to bottom.”

“You want to kill every dino I know?”

“I was just thinking family, but you’ve raised a fair point. Sure, give me what you’ve got. I’m sure at least one of them must have made one tiny, little, sniggling remark about the Crookadillary.”

“But she’s not even the leader!”

“Tell that to the Foxsquawkbox.”

The Saveyourenergyrex turned away, leaving the Francisrooney to stare down dejectedly at his discarded pear on the ground. His fruity tooth didn’t feel so fruity any more. The Saveyourenergyrex paused and turned around.

“Oh, Francis?”

“Yes?”

“I was just kidding about the purge.”

A look of horror hit the Francisrooney’s face.

“How could you?”

“Well, I had one of my rare meetings with the Mediacircustops today … and it struck me that maybe they think I don’t have a sense of humor.”

The Tyrumposaurus stepped to the waist-high, makeshift Bullee-Tar Pit. He looked over the multitude of Mediacircustops before him at the exclusive Flogging Grounds at Mar-a-Guano. He would’ve liked to have got another round in today, but he couldn’t pass up the chance to boast just one more time about his one lone-but-stunning achievement. Apart, that is, from moving the Neilgorsuch to the esteemed Dino-Judge neighborhood and into a small two-storey brownstone on Supreme Court. No, the T-Rump was here to crow about his Grandoldparty’s brand new, massive mytaxes returnus plan which would change the lives of every dinosaur in the Milkanhoney Preservation.

The mytaxes returnus was the green layer of skin every dinosaur — except the T-Rump of course — shed each spring. It was a painful yet necessary process. While the moolah-moolah leaves were the true currency of the land, this extra green skin was a status symbol of sorts, marking one’s place in the dinosaur hierarchy. The more mytaxes returnis they could line their nest with, the better. After all, it was their skin.

“Welcome,” the T-Rump said, puffing out his chest. “I want to begin by saying that, while the loss of your mytaxes returnus has down through history appeared to be a natural biological process, I’m here today to blame it on the Obamarus and the Crookadillary. Just saying … Fortunately, while you may think of it as the skin off your back, let me assure you, I’m not making any moolah-moolah from the skin off your back. No. Never. No way.”

“T-Rump!” shouted the nearest Mediacircustops. “What does your new plan do for the average dinosaur family of four?”

Off to the side, the Marinegunkelly could be seen cringing, hiding his face in his claws.

“I’ll tell you what it means,” said the T-Rump. “This is the largest one-time reduction in the mytaxes returnus rate for the Really Big Dinosaurs, from 35 percent down to 21 percent. We need to get on the right side of nature. Call it our inherent right — as the biggest dinos on the block. We will provide for you. Trust me. Oh, if I could only tell you the pain we have suffered to get where we are today. I’ve only flogged 100 times in 300 days so far. Can you stand it?”

“You smaller dinos, fear not. For most of you, it will just be a small cut for the next eight years. Then you’re pretty much on your own. But why worry about then? I’m here now.”

“I know we hurried through some last minute changes on this. It came to our attention that the Really Big Dinosaurs needed more, but I can happily say to the Middleclass dinos, if you’re still educating your walnut as you lay in a broken heap at the bottom of Loophole, the sinkhole of all sinkholes, you can get a little mytaxes returnus back. Just a little, mind you. Let’s not get crazy.”

“And just last Friday, I met with the small hands dino, the Marcorubio, and we agreed to change the child dino credit. So, to relieve stress, we’ll be moving one child from each family of four to a dino family with no kids. It’s basically one less mouth to feed. That’s right. Why didn’t we think of this before? It’s a fantastic idea. Simply wonderful for the Workingclass dinos.”

“T-Rump!” came a shout from the Mediacircustops. “Does this plan benefit you or not?”

“I know I’ve said countless times that this new mytaxes returnus does not help me. But, at the end of the day, when you’ve lied over 1600 times, I ask you … what is one more? Insignificant. Infini-TIZZ-mal. Really, it is. Anything else you hear is fake news.”

“T-Rump! What about the moolah-moolah leaves? What about the bottom line?”

“Yes, we will owe another one trillion moolah-moolah leaves, but that’s why I have my best dinos on this. Moolah-moolah trees are very, very scarce these days, so if you see one, let them know. This will of course be on you.”

“Just a reminder, but those of you who want to deduct 10,000 moolah-moolah leaves, the rampaging Propertyvalue predators could fall right into your dwelling. A scary thought. But now you know. You’ve been warned.”

“I know I said the average dino family would save 2,000 moolah-moolah leaves, but that really depends on what kind of situation you’re in … as far as saving my skin in next year’s battle with the Donkeykongrus.”

“But what about the individual mandate?”

“To always eat slower-running species?”

“No, for the mytaxes returnus.”

“Oh. Well, you won’t have to worry about giving any more moolah-moolah leaves if you don’t fall off a cliff or get caught in a stegosaurus stampede. But for some of you, 13 million to be exact, that won’t matter. You’re just going to be extinct before the rest of us, that’s all.”

“Speaking of the dead, we were going to waive the mytaxes returnus on any moolah-moolah leaves left by a deceased dinosaur … but the Really Big Dinosaurs, they’re so gracious, they decided to give a tiny, little strip of their green skin back. But we doubled the threshold, which means a Really Big Dinosaur couple won’t have to pay back any green skin unless they have more than 22 million moolah-moolah leaves.”

He looked at the stunned audience.

“What, you don’t have 22 million moolah-moolah? … I do. But it’s good to see the Really Big Dinosaurs paying their fair share.”

“So,” ventured another Mediacircustops, “your new plan basically makes the Middleclass dinosaur a Secondclass dinosaur.”

“For eight years. Call it a little gain for future pain. I’m only here for eight years so I had to … I mean, we have to make the most of it. Now if you’ll excuse me, I can squeeze in another game of flog, while I’m working of course.”