Chapter Twenty-Eight

Boomtown

Trump swaggered into the Tyson Room and headed straight to his seat. Jimmie headed for the corner, where he tried to look invisible by sucking his gut in.

“All right, guys, what is it?” Trump said. “This better be important. I was midbronzing all the way down in the subbasement.”

The cabinet members looked around anxiously. Finally, it was Secretary of State Omarosa who spoke.

“The United Kingdom seems to be preparing for an escalation.”

Trump snorted. “What are we talking about? Another insult? These guys are terrible at insults.”

“No—this time they’ve taken actual action.”

“What, like recalling their ambassador or something?”

Omarosa shook her head. “They’ve recalled Patrick Stewart. Also Emily Blunt and Andrew Lincoln.”

“Aw, crap,” interjected the secretary of transportation, Clint Eastwood. “That means no more Walking Dead. I gotta find out what happens to Daryl!”

“Just read the comic books,” grumbled Corey Lewandowski.

“Why don’t you read the comic books?” snarled Eastwood with such a menacing tone that Lewandowski paled and became very interested in his glass of water. Jimmie made a mental note to bring that moment up the next time Lewandowski got in his face (not that Jimmie would do any better if he got a full blast of Eastwood).

“So what?” Trump shrugged. “Let the Brits go crawling back to their fog and their bars that close at eleven.”

“Bringing their citizens home means they expect things to turn violent,” said Omarosa.

“They’re damn right it’s about to get violent!” said Secretary of Defense Nugent. “Just give the word, boss, and it’s boomtown at Buckingham Place.”

“This is not an emergency, folks,” said Trump. “What have any of those people actually done lately? Nada, except for that Walking Dead guy, and nobody knows he’s British. I didn’t find out until my first security briefing. These guys think this gives them leverage on us? They got nothing. They’re running scared.”

Now Chris Christie piped in. “You let me know what airports these guys are flying out of. I can make sure it’s a looong time before they actually make it across the pond.”

“LAX, most likely. Hartsfield for Andrew Lincoln,” said Eastwood.

Christie was already speed-dialing a number on his cell. “LAX and ATL. The full Fort Lee,” he said, then hung up. He looked at Trump. “It’s done.”

For no reason that Jimmie could figure, Christie then stared right at him with a look that said, You’re next.

“Let’s get the word out that these guys think they’re too good for us,” Trump said to Lewandowski. “Get into the next news cycle before the queen gets a chance to give her own reason. Let me know if it looks like they’re actually getting their message out, and I’ll call Michelle Obama an ugg-o or something, drown them out.”

“Done,” said Lewandowski.

“Hey, can we do something really nice for the French?” asked Trump. “That’ll really get under their pale English skin.”

“I’ll get my staff on it,” said Omarosa.

“All right, enough of those guys. Is that it?”

“The governor of Kansas has finally called, looking for disaster funding to clean up after last week’s tornados,” Emma said.

“Does he want the standard relief package or the Trump Premium Plan?” asked Trump.

“What’s the premium plan?” Jimmie whispered to the assistant next to him.

“Standard, we help them rebuild. Premium, they get a Trump office complex on the demolished site of their choice,” she whispered back.

Emma checked her iPad and replied, “He’s leaning Premium. But I think we can talk him up to the Trump Executive Level.”

“Let’s do it,” said Trump. “Remind him if they license a second casino, we throw in a free school. Other business, or are we done?”

“Iran has turned away the UN’s nuclear inspectors again,” said Omarosa.

“Iran’s a nobody,” said Trump. “Do they honestly think they can get a nuke? They can’t have a nuke. Nuge, where are we at over there?”

“I got seventy-five drones within two hundred miles of Tehran,” said the secretary of defense. “We got guys in the satellite room sitting there, waiting, watching. Tracking their habits. We know where they hide their glow sticks, all right. Just say the word, and that place will be glowing so bright, Egypt won’t be able to sleep.”

Note to self, Jimmie thought. Stay on Ted Nugent’s good side.

“All right, let’s do that thing where we talk to the guy who talks to the guy who talks to the guy who tells Ayatollah what’s-his-name that he lets the inspectors back in or we’re gonna light up the sky like the Fourth of July. No—wait. Like Christmas. That’ll piss those Kardashians off even more,” Trump said, rubbing his hands together eagerly. “Oh, that is beautiful. I love that plan. You know what else? I love having drones. I see why Obama used them so much now.”

“Death from above,” intoned Ted Nugent.

“And I want to keep on top of the England thing,” Trump said. “Let’s find one British guy who’s an American citizen—maybe that Craig Ferguson guy—and get him to stay here. He says he picks us over them, I give him an exclusive interview or something.”

“I think he’s Scottish,” said Emma.

“Same difference, right? Or do they have more problems than we thought? Hang on a second.” Trump pulled out his phone and typed a tweet as he spoke it aloud: “If England’s so great, why is Scotland trying to break up with them all the time? England has nothing to offer! Hashtag LOSERS!”

“Good one, boss,” said Chris Christie.

“All right, good meeting. Let’s get somebody on some T-shirt designs for the party when the British surrender,” Trump said. What followed next was an unholy, jarring noise like a macaw choking—a noise that, Jimmie realized, was Trump laughing.