The Orb of Covfefe, part II: The Pick-Up



That night Barron slept restless. His dreams were filled with images of fire, of his mother screaming and of men hijacking the Golden Flying Palace and crashing it into the One World Trade Center. He woke up in the middle of the night and, unable to fall asleep again, double- and triple-checked his luggage. Time crept by like a snail and Barron felt he had been looking at the clock for an eternity when, at 4:55, the doorbell rang. Barron rushed to open the door. To his great surprise a beautiful blond girl greeted him. Barron felt his cheeks turn red. ‘Ehhh… Hi?’ he said.
– ‘Hii!’ the girl said. ‘Soo nice to meet you! You’re taller than I expected!’

Barron looked at her sheepishly. ‘Are you my driver?’ The girl giggled. ‘No silly, I’m just here to ring the doorbell! Perv will be your driver.’
– ‘Perv?’
She pointed to a red convertible parked in front of the house. In the driver seat sat a muscled man with gelled blond hair, sunglasses and a colorful sleeveless shirt. Next to him sat another girl, a brunette. ‘Perv’ held up his hand and made a peace sign. Barron awkwardly waved back and turned to the girl in front of him. ‘Ok, I’ll grab my bags and we can go.’ The girl smiled the kind of smile you see on the covers of magazines. ‘Great!’

Five minutes later Barron shook hands with Perv, who up close was even more chiseled and broad-jawed than he looked from afar, and the brunette, who might as well have been a Victoria’s Secret Angel. Barron wondered where the hell Bannon found these people.

‘Good to meet you!’ Perv bellowed. ‘I presume Jenny has already told you who I am. Call me Perv.’ He turned to brunette next to him. ‘Time to say goodbye love.’ She pouted her lips but kissed him on the cheek and got out of the car, keeping the door open for Barron, who took her place on the warm leather chair. Perv stepped on the gas and off they were. In the car mirror Barron could see Jenny and the brunette waving them off. He looked at Perv. ‘Isn’t it rude to leave the women behind like that?’ Perv laughed. ‘Don’t fret young Barron. Their submission is as solid as your dad’s wall. They will be OK.’
– ‘Where are we going?’
‘To an undisclosed location where a billionaire who’d rather not be named has a private jet waiting for us.’
– ‘Us?’ Barron raised an eyebrow.
‘Yes. I’ll be travelling with you, as your personal bodyguard so to speak. I hope that’s not a problem.’
– ‘Not at all.’

As the car turned on the highway and the first rays of morning sun warmed his face, Barron started to relax. He wondered what other strange things would be ahead.

Somewhere in Italy a black limousine drove over a countryside road. In the back of the limousine sat an old man in a dark-blue custom made suit. The man had just secured an EU-funded bail-out of a bank he owned (although no one would find his name in any of the official documents), so he was feeling festive, insofar men his age still felt festive. He lit a cigar. As he inhaled, a metallic voice cracked through a speaker. ‘Sir, you have an incoming call from central. Highest clearancy.’ The old man exhaled a puff of smoke. ‘Put it on screen’.
A LCD screen switched on which projected the grey silhouette of a man. ‘Good day George. Congratulations on your success with Banco Di Diversità. Quite the multi-billion-dollar deal.’ The old man nodded. ‘Thank you, although I am sure that is not the reason you are calling.’
– ‘Indeed. I am calling because a situation has come up. A possible kink in our American plans.’
‘I thought we finally had a breakthrough?’
– ‘Yes, we did. And we still do. But it seems our success is not guaranteed after all. They are sending Trump’s son, Barron, to retrieve the Orb of Covfefe.’
– ‘Barron? He’s just a kid! Besides, the Saudi’s would never lend out the Orb to an outsider.’
‘Are you willing to bet all our plans upon the Saudi’s not lending out the Orb?’
The old man thought before answering. ‘No.’
– ‘Neither do we. The boy must be stopped. Either way. Take care of it.’
George nodded. ‘I understand.’
– ‘Good.’
The monitor flickered and turned off. The old man was alone again. He took a long puff of his cigar and stared through the window, admiring the luscious green vineyards they were passing. So, he thought to himself, the last stand of the Trumpists is the young Trump kid. How appropriate. Yet, how silly. Compared to the deal he had worked out today, stopping the boy would be like taking candy from a baby. He smiled. It was time to make some phone calls.



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