After dinner, Trump invites Mitt Romney to join him in his office for a nightcap.
Mitt is stunned when they enter: Trump unbuckles his pants and drops them to the floor. His tighty-whiteys follow.
"Okay, Mitt, kneel," orders Trump. "Now."
"Don, this is completely inappropriate . . ."
Mitt does as he is told. He's face to face with a strange bulbous growth, not unlike a large wart, encircled in fake-looking gold hair.
"Okay, Willard," says Trump. "You know what to do now."
"But . . . I don't . . . Ann . . . I can't." Mitt is flummoxed.
"Do you want Secretary of State?""Don, I do, but this isn't my cup of tea. It's not like I'd know what I'm doing or anything."
"It's a sign of respect. Just give it a quick kiss. All will be forgiven.Mitt hesitates, then leans forward and takes the protuberance in his mouth. He pauses, then looks up, and mumbles, "Is this what you want?"
All of a sudden, the door opens and a parade of sycophants, henchmen, and hacks pours into the office, cackling and jeering and snapping photos with their smartphones.
"No, Mitt," says Trump. "It's not what I want. You're fired."
"But," says Romney, "I was never hired?"
Trump grimaces. His wart-like protuberance is drawn inward. The cackling abruptly stops.
Then Trump breaks the silence and vomits bisque and escargot. It cascades down his tie, his crotch, his knees, his shoes. Then he knees Romney in the face and trudges sadly away, pants still around his ankles.