King Drumpf sat in his rumpled skin and garish, foreign made clothing, his pinched pig-eyes and fleshy pout portraying his standard grimace. He shook himself in a quiver of rage and cried “Off With His Head!”
“Senior, I’m only the messenger,” explained the demure fellow, dressed in a dark crisp suit and polished silver tipped cowboy boots.
The Drumpf King leaned forward and widened his eyes to show how earnest he was. “I love Mexico-ans. I do. I own four hotels, south-of-the-border, you see. But Mexico-ans WILL pay for this wall.” He finished with an index finger flourish. “And, one other thing. Now, don’t get me wrong — I love tacos, I do. But face it, all you illegals here in our country, illegally, you’re going to have to go. Grab a ladder, dig a tunnel, whatever. But you’re all officially,” he paused here, lifted his eyebrows and continued, “history.” The Drumpf sat back, his finger still gesturing to the ceiling, lowered to point at the fellow still standing there and then repeated, “And you sir. Off With Your Head!”
An adviser, standing back (to keep out of sight), a mask over her face to present to the King only the expression of agreement regardless of what the King might say, attempted to redirect The Drumpf’s anger. “Sir, your executive order allowing beheadings at your request… it’s still hung up in the Supreme Court.”
“WHAT? That group of geriatric imbeciles? Still think they can block me?” The bulbous man then tried to stand from his gilded throne, but, as the dais was of his own design and too narrow beneath his feet, he immediately stumbled down the three steps to land in a pile of indignity before the messenger from Mexico.
No one ran to his rescue.
“CONWAY! Come help me up! Gaut-dammit! Who designed that gaut-damned chair?”
Having finally learned her lesson, Adviser Conway held her tongue.
The messenger decided to use this distraction as his means of escape and sidled back to the exit.
“Where’d that sly Mexico-an fellow sneak off to? I wasn’t done with him!”
Conway feigned support as the Drumpf King used her to make his feet. She said through the air hole of her mask, “I’m afraid you’ve scared him off. Those fake tweets showing the guillotine in the Oval Office must have had their effect.”
“I’m in a foul mood now Conway. Help me back to my throne.”
Reseated and out of breath from the exertion, The King busied himself with adjusting his garments and said, now reposed, “I’m in need of some lighthearted entertainment. Send in my jester. What’s his name again?”
Conway lifted her mask to ensure that the King heard her clearly. “That would be The Fool Ryan, sir.”