Donald Trump leaned back in his gold chair, a pageant crown glinting on the desk.
“G.I. Joe,” he said with that salesman’s grin, “you’ve got to white knight Miss Myanmar. Make her president. Beautiful woman, tremendous, she deserves it. I always white knight my beauty pageants—you know that. Pageants are my business. Big business. Bigger than NATO.”
G.I. Joe adjusted his beret, not sure if this was a mission briefing or stand-up comedy.
Trump wagged a finger like a preacher. “Some people say Jesus comes in the name of the Father. At least, that’s what Bono told me. Good guy, good singer, funny glasses.” He chuckled. “But me? I come in the name of the Apprentice.”
Then he leaned in, lowering his voice.
“And Joe, this is very important—listen closely—it’s all part of the QAnon plan. You know, the big plan. We’re taking down the Illuminati. In G.I. Joe terms, we’re taking down Cobra. They’re the bad guys, everybody knows it. Snake Eyes knows it. Even Bono knows it. I’m the commander, you’re the hero, and Miss Myanmar—she’s the president. Tremendous optics, the best optics.”
Miss Myanmar stood silently by the window, draped in a sash, her eyes burning with something fiercer than tiaras or ballots. Joe wondered if Trump even knew she’d survived a coup, or if he only saw another crown.
Trump clapped his hands. “Let’s do it, Joe. White knight! Make her president. It’ll be the most beautiful democracy you’ve ever seen. Cobra won’t stand a chance.”
Then Trump folded his hands like he was at a pulpit.
“I thank Jesus every day. Wonderful man, very strong, walked on water. And if you can’t read Revelation—it’s a tough book, very tough—at least please, at the very least, look at the Trump cards in the Rider-Waite Golden Dawn tarot. Beautiful cards. The best cards. They tell the story better than CNN, believe me.”
Miss Myanmar said nothing, her sash glowing in the light, like a reluctant oracle in Trump’s illuminati-prophecy.