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 thesatellite 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.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Twelve Angry Men
A s the meeting slowly dispersed, Jimmie picked up the Washington Post off the pile of newspapers on the meeting-room table. The front-page stories were all about Vice President Tom Brady’s trip to the new American moon base. He’d been shot into space the previous week. His mission was scheduled to last through the week of the midterm elections. (The jokes about whether he could keep his space suit inflated had started months earlier and hadn’t let up.) It was almost as if somebody wanted the VP out of the country. Way out of the country.
Jimmie glanced at the Post ’s review of the all-female remake of Twelve Angry Men , which was still called Twelve Angry Men . He read the score of the Nationals game. They were on a roll. Probably headed to the World Series.
He turned to the Metro section. The top local headline read, “You’ll Never Guess Which Georgetown Rowing Star Was Killed in a Military Training Exercise Gone Wrong.”
Jimmie was about to skip to the next headline when the photo caught his eye.
Jimmie did a double take, and then a triple take. The blond hair . . . the high cheekbones . . . the Millennial smirk . . . There was no mistaking it: The photo of the Georgetown studentidentified as David Connor Brent was the
“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 thesatellite 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.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Twelve Angry Men
A s the meeting slowly dispersed, Jimmie picked up the Washington Post off the pile of newspapers on the meeting-room table. The front-page stories were all about Vice President Tom Brady’s trip to the new American moon base. He’d been shot into space the previous week. His mission was scheduled to last through the week of the midterm elections. (The jokes about whether he could keep his space suit inflated had started months earlier and hadn’t let up.) It was almost as if somebody wanted the VP out of the country. Way out of the country.
Jimmie glanced at the Post ’s review of the all-female remake of Twelve Angry Men , which was still called Twelve Angry Men . He read the score of the Nationals game. They were on a roll. Probably headed to the World Series.
He turned to the Metro section. The top local headline read, “You’ll Never Guess Which Georgetown Rowing Star Was Killed in a Military Training Exercise Gone Wrong.”
Jimmie was about to skip to the next headline when the photo caught his eye.
Jimmie did a double take, and then a triple take. The blond hair . . . the high cheekbones . . . the Millennial smirk . . . There was no mistaking it: The photo of the Georgetown studentidentified as David Connor Brent was the
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