All the dinosaurs were picnicking on a fresh kill of Obamacaris. The Kushneratops and Tyvankanatrix had finished their meal and were off by themselves, tails dipped together in the Puhl-DePlugg Reservoir. The Kushneratops skimmed the surface for guccinectar, a dinosaur aphrodisiac. He knew the Tyvankanatrix loved to nibble on it during these quiet times following the afternoon Attack Hour.

“Thank you, Kushy,” she said. “Here, have a gobble. It will help take your mind off that nasty Bannonesia.”

The Kushneratops grumbled an aside. The Bannonesia had been a pain in the tail ever since his dismissal 3 months earlier from the lookout’s graveyard shift. The Bannonesia had even called him a Cuckservatitan. What kind of dinosaur was that? He’d have to ask the Tyrumposaurus. The T-Rump knew everything.

Taking the guccinectar in his claws like some prehistoric raccoon, the Kushneratops daintily ate the sweet, mud-soaked weed. It had the effect of popeye spinach, except he already was a dinosaur.

Meanwhile, the Bannonesia pushed himself away from the nearby Obamacaris carcass. Too much Obamacaris gave him gas. He remembered a group of Altrightraptors he needed to go and work into a frenzy. His path would take him past those idiots Kushneratops and Tyvankanatrix, a choice that would change his life in the Trumpassic Period.

“Well, well,” said the Kushneratops. “If it isn’t the big, bad Bannonesia.”

The Bannonesia, a smaller, bird-like theropod, was unaware the Kushneratops was high on guccinectar but did notice a change in his behaviour. It almost looked like confidence.

“What do you want?” asked the Bannonesia.

“You’re fired.”

“I love a good fight. Wait a minute. Fired? You can’t fire me.”

“Ahem. You’re forgetting something,” said the Kushneratops, casting a smug nod at the Tyvankanatrix that made the Bannonesia want to peck his horned face to death. “The T-Rump keeps his friends close …”

“But his family closer,” finished the Bannonesia. “Yeah, yeah.” He looked at the Tyvankanatrix and wished he were 30 years younger. He’d make her bedrock.

“The security issue, okay. But it was natural evolution that led me to advising the T-Rump.

“Natural evolution?!” shouted the Tyvankanatrix. “Is that some coded message about my age? I’m sick of these coded messages! Sick! It brings out the bitch in me. Doesn’t anybody speak dinosaur anymore? Kushy?”

“Tell her you’re sorry,” said the Kushneratops. Only he sounded whiney. The effects of the guccinectar were already wearing off. The little bird before him seemed to grow in size. “Okay. Just go. Please?”

The Bannonesia didn’t budge. He was the puppet master. The Kushneratops was trembling.

“I’ll – I’ll release the Pterodactyls.”

The Bannonesia knew it was a bluff. The Kushneratops didn’t like having to clean up the mess the Pterodactyls left after sitting on his horned face.

“With me gone,” said the Bannonesia, “the T-Rump’s reign in these lands will be over. He’ll have to be something else.”

“But I like being a Tyvankanatrix.” Dinosaur tears loomed.

The Kushneratops snatched up more guccinectar, wolfing it down. It was like dinosaur crack. He burped, ready to take on all dinos.

“You can save your silly slogans for when you need to scratch something in the mud over there with Bright Bart.”

Bright Bart was a bowl-legged, loud-mouthed Brontosaurus who the Bannonesia had shared war stories with for years.

“Thanks for reminding me,” said the Bannonesia, admiring his claws. “I have my weapons back.”

“Wait,” said the Kushneratops. “You’re not going to tell Bright Bart about me, I mean, us. Are you?”

The smiling Bannonesia turned and trudged away. The Kushneratops called after him.

“So help me, I will. … I’m telling on you!”