A Nobel Peace Prize. It’s the only prize the Don cares about. Alliances? Who needs ’em? Why construct, if destruction’s, easier? Survival of the fittest. It’s all about me, not them.
“It ever has been and ever shall be, all about me,” Don often thinks to himself, whenever anyone tries to horn in on his mastery of the universe; eschewing all advice, whatsoever.
He’s taken Thor’s hammer to the old world. Hammering old allies in favor … of Vladimir. The weak must die to, pave a way for the strong. But the ides of September … draw near.
All, hurry. Don to deconstruct. US, and allies. Bob to report. On lies, in truth. Arthur is just a More-Mart greeter, but Don, beware the ides. Not Caesar’s March, but September’s.
The brothers are feeling hurried and harried. So Kim, Donny and Art have taken a fancy to Voltaire’s, prayer: “Lord, protect me from my friends. I can take care, of my enemies.”
A failure to plan is a plan to fail. So Kim, Don and Arthur plan, in forays to Luna, nightly, not, to fail. Hence plans, A, B, and C, as necessary. A catcher in the rye, may be, Plan ZZZ.
And Urantia’s Caesars hurry, as they hurtle, through space-time’s, matrix. Vlad … and Xi. And Kim and Don. And none of them understand but sense … a foreboding … ominously.