I don’t know why but instead of getting mad at outrageous affronts and then cooling off, it’s the reverse, and a couple of hours later I start steaming, and that’s why there’s going to be trouble. Nobody gets away with disrespecting the prime minister of Montenegro. By now I’m sure most of you have seen it online. I’m waiting for a photo session with other European leaders and suddenly feel a hand on my shoulder and then a shove as a fat fellow pries past me and juts his jaw like Mussolini’s understudy.
I’d already been repulsed by Donald Trump during his European visit, listening to him lecture us about “reciprocal trade…and you treat us the way we treat you, or we’ll treat you the way you treat us.” He also spoke to his peers, whom he considers inferiors, as if he alone understands how to stop terrorism. And again he revealed he doesn’t comprehend the human component in climate change.
I resolve to punish this baboon. But what can I do as leader of a tiny nation buried in the Balkans across the Adriatic Sea from Italy?
“President Trump, may I please speak to you privately?” I ask as he passes a small room where I stand.
“Very busy now, what’s your name?”
“Prime Minister Dusko Markovic.”
“And from what country?”
“Way too busy, Dusko.”
I step into the hall, smile at his security agents, and reach for his right hand with mine, pretending to shake, but actually pull him back into the room.
“We’ll just be a moment,” I tell his agents.
They look at Trump who nods okay.
Still holding his hand I pull him a few steps along the wall, where we can’t be seen from the hall, and release his right hand and with my free right rip an uppercut into his solar plexus and a left hook to his jaw, and hop back so he doesn’t land on me as he falls.