OCTOBER 22, 2022 – (Cont.) “Okay. What are your recommendations?” The mad dog Don now looked scared, if the orange sweat dripping over the edge of his collar was an accurate indicator.
“Simple,” I said. “You keep quiet until I get your neck out of the noose.”
“But my people wanted to hang Mike Pence not me!”
He really is a sick dog, I told myself.
“Yes,” I said, “but the hangmen here aren’t your buddies who stormed the Capitol. They’re the DOJ, the AsG in New York and Georgia.”
“I’m beginning to think you’re a con-artist,” he said without a hint of self-awareness.
“To the extent you think that, sir, you’re as paranoid as your enemies think you are.” He didn’t issue a response, and I saw none coming, so I waited a couple of beats before continuing. “Look. Here’s the reality behind your unreality: you’re going to go down as an all-time loser unless you take swift, convincing action.”
“What kind of action?”
“Swallow the poison pill.”
“Uh?”
“You let me reach out to DOJ and the attorneys general in the Peach state and the Empire state with an offer they can’t refuse.”
I could see the volcano explode before the sound waves struck my ears. His orange face turned lava red as black ash blasted out of his ears. F-bombs echoed off the walls and unleashed a large photo of him on the 10th Tee at Bedminster, swinging for the fences. The picture smashed onto the floor, shattering the glass, splitting the frame, and leaving a big gash across his face in the photo.
I feigned calm by inspecting the fingernails of my left hand. After he hurled a gilded bust of himself past my right ear, I lifted my sight to his bulging eyes. “You done?” I asked softly.
He gave no answer, but more beads of sweat left unsightly trails as they drifted from his hairline to his brow line.
“You see, sir,” I continued, “as you just acknowledged by your temper tantrum, you’re in one helluva jam. And it’s a loser’s racket. The only ways out of your godawful mess are . . . one—press forward on the path you’re on; two—back yourself out along the disastrous wake you’ve created; or three—allow yourself to be airlifted out. The decision is yours. Ways one and two are losing propositions. If survival is winning, then way three is bingo time.” I waited a second before going on. “So, Mr. Trump, what’ll it be—win big? . . . Or lose bad?”
“I’m a winner and my people—they love me. I’m not a loser; never have been.”
“Good. Let’s make sure your people keep lovin’ you,” I said, as I peeled off a big stretch of duct tape. “For practice, lean this way please.” My request was met with a dirty scowl, but he pushed his chin out, signaling a degree of uncharacteristic cooperation. For dramatic effect, I motioned as if I really were going to slap the tape over his mouth, but then I backed away. “On second thought,” I said, “I’m not going to humiliate you any more than you’ve done so to yourself. Instead, I’m turning this tape into a warning sign.” With that I walked over to the double doors, slapped the tape across the right one, pulled the cap off the magic marker, and wrote, ‘LOOSE LIPS SINK LOSER SHIPS’ across the wide, red ribbon of tape. (Cont.)
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© 2022 by Eric Nilsson
1 Comment
I hope this saga ends with the Don having a major stroke—you know, the Ariel Sharon solution to many problems.
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