Pierre Delecto stood alone on the burning deck. Smoke rose from the boards, and the ship was sinking. He grabbed the fallen Stars and Stripes, holding it in his beautiful, shapely teeth, and began climbing the rigging. “Be prudent!” the steward yelled. “Pierre, no!” But Pierre was throwing caution to the wind. “Pierre, oui!” he shouted. His strategy was confrontation, verging on spinefulness.

“… Not so fast,” Donald Trump said.

“Hmm?” said Mitt Romney. He blinked across the white tablecloth. For a moment, he did not know where he was. Trump’s mushy, wheedling voice had startled him. Pierre’s defiant shout over the creaking of the burning ship receded and was replaced by ambient jazz and the sound of clinking cutlery.

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