“Mr. President, you’ve got to help me. I have nothing left,” pled the desperate man.

“Rudy, I am sorry, but you did this to yourself.” The orange-faced man shakes his head in disgust.

“How many times have I told you to stop with the hair dye? You’re ridiculous. Dripping down your face like that. I can’t watch a man with shoe polish dripping down his face. Pathetic!” Disgusted, Trump pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket and hands it to the groveling man.

Guliani accepts the handkerchief and wipes the sweat from his brow. The darkened cloth is, in fact, covered with dripping dye and mutters to himself. Dammit, should have listened.                  

“Donald, I have supported you through everything. The election, the loss, the misconduct, the insurgency. How can you leave me high and dry now?”

“I didn’t lose—it was stolen.” Puckering his lips he repeats, “STOLEN and I can because, unlike you, a good businessman knows when to cut his losses.”

“I am begging you. I am pleading. I am on my knees.”

Guliani crumples in a heap onto the golden carpeted floor.

“Get the hell up! Do you know how much that rug costs? It’s threaded with real gold, you nincompoop!”

Guliani arises with much effort; the sounds of cracking joints serenade his movement along with a finale of an accidental fart. He begins to weep onto his chest.

“Oh, come on. Don’t do that. No crying! My father smacked me across the face every time I cried in front of him and that fixed me right up.”

“I’m sorry. I am so sorry.”

The once semi-respected but now apology of a man tries to wipe his nose with the gifted handkerchief still in his hands. Unfortunately, the black hair dye that he had wiped off his brow now marks his face under his nose, leaving an effect of a tiny mustache.

“Ok. I stopped.” Guliani lifts his face, unaware of his incriminating new feature.

Trump starts to laugh and continues laughing. His orange face turns purple and distorted into a creature-like being filled with canola oil, carcinogen, and cancer.

“What? What’s so funny? I’m a joke. I know!”

“No,” Trump doubled over in almost pain holding his stomach. “Wait.”

“Gerry, come in here will you.”

Trump’s brawny and stoic security guard from the other side of the door enters. “Yes Mr. President.”

“Gerry, will you look at this guy?”

Gerry looks at Guiliani who now resembles a disgraced Hitler and says, “Yes, Mr. President. I see.”

Giggling, Trump asks, “who does he look like to you?”

“Hitler, Mr. President.”

Trump’s guffaws. 

Gerry giggles cautiously at first but then uproariously.

Puzzled, Guliani goes over to his reflection in the golden frame mirror on the wall to see what all this fuss is about. His mucus covered black smudged face indeed resembles the Nazi dictator. Stunned, he also started laughing. The three men laugh maniacally, without pause for a full seven minutes.

They compose themselves and begin to remember the business at hand.

“Ok, Rudy, you know I love you; I’ll pardon you if any more verdicts go against you.” Trump sits behind his desk and starts writing a check. “Here. It’s fifty thousand made out to cash. Take it, and then declare bankruptcy. It’s worked for me many many many times. Just do me a favor and never show your pathetic face around my office again. Ok?”

Guliani takes the check; he looks at it and then pockets it. 

“Yes, Mr. President.”