On 11/13/15 something terrible happened in Paris.
That day, T*ump had to find something to show how sad and supportive he was of the French men and women killed during these attacks.
“I’m rich, I’m an independent businessman and I want to make America great again!” » he thought at first.
" No. »
“People will think I talk too much about myself.”
Sitting behind his desk, on the top floor of his T*ump Tower, he took a lollipop from his pocket which he put in his mouth while turning towards the view offered by his office window: you could see almost all of Manhattan.
“Where does “Manhattan” come from? » he wondered.
He went to Google.

““Island of Hills”… are they serious?! “The island of hills”?! …it sounds like the title of an episode of Teletubbies!

If I'm president, we're going to change this name!
It’s gotta blow!
It has to sound manly! » he thought.
“Predatorian…?” "
- Come in ! he shouted after hearing someone knock.
—Ah! It's you Mickey. You have come at the right time.
You know what happened in Paris today, don't you?
- Of course.
— I need something for the press conference this afternoon. Last night I drank like a pig and I have a headache that is ruining my imagination.
—I'm sure you'll find something.
- Yes but what ?
— Something like: “I stand in solidarity with all French people on this day of mourning. There is only one step towards horror, etc. ".

- No no. It's too melodramatic. People expect swinging words from me.

They want T*ump.
They want sharpness and common sense.
— But why so much noise? This is the daily mood in most parts of the world.
— Yes yes Mickey, you are probably right. But it’s Paris! We are attacking France!
…
Okay let it go.
Why are you here anyway?
— The hair expert and his assistant are here.
—Bring them in.
A woman in a business suit holding a briefcase entered the office followed by a short, stocky and paradoxically bald man.
They greeted each other.
Donald noticed this woman.
A brown haired girl.
This pretty little black suit accompanied by a white shirt, a black suit jacket and black heels.
What he prefers. “A woman like that is an ambitious woman who wants to achieve her goals while highlighting her strengths.
Hottie! »
It's a discussion.
It's funny.
It looks at the tailor who caresses the assistant's buttocks.
Imagine what's behind that shirt.
It betrays his look.
It chuckles.
That answers the expert:
— Yes, a hair transplant. But I want this color, look: golden yellow.
A color that suits the hair I have left on the sides of my head.
— Sir, this color does not exist in the range we offer.
But there is a solution.
There is always a solution.
— That's why I called you.
Hilary praised your services to me.
— The solution is, at first glance, strange. But let me tell you that the result is optimal and I would even dare to use the expression “neither seen nor known”.

— Go ahead George, throw the sauce around: what are we talking about?

— When we are confronted with a special and unknown color in our range, we take the hairs from your hindquarters which we treat, which we clean, which we cultivate and then graft them onto your scalp.
T*ump alternated his gaze between George and his assistant, amazed by this suggestion that his wife had also made it to him, but while mocking him.
“— Grow your ass hair! It'll be a change from your pussy! » she told him.
— Are you telling me that you want to take hairs from my ass and shove them on my head?
- That's exactly it, sir.
— Don't worry, Mr. T*ump, you can't see it. And then, your charm makes us forget your scalp hair. – the assistant told him with a smile.
— That's nice. Where are you from?
You have a slight accent.
— I am of Mexican origin, Mr. T*ump.
T*ump accepted the offer and invited the aide to eat with him.
She accepted.
They ate.
They laughed.
He touches her hand.
She smiles.
He kisses her.
They are kissing.
She touches him.
Pants down.
Zizi coming out.
Premature Lewinskyization.
Doggy.

He takes out a small Mexican flag that he always carried with him.

Places it on the assistant's back.
And boom boom.
Or rather badaboum given his belly cultivated daily with beer.
— Ay! Yes papi!
— Oh yeah mami! Say my name!
—T*ump! T*ump! T*ump!
— How do you say “wall” at home?
— Muro.
—Murrow? I'm going to do a murrow!
— That’s good, papi!
Where are you going to do it el muro?
— All along our border with your country.
- My country ? But I’m American, papi!
—Whatever!
He suddenly stops.
Withdraws.

Runs naked to his office, tripping in his pants.

He falls on a glass coffee table and shatters it. He gets up as if nothing had happened and sits behind his desk.
He takes a pen and a sheet of paper and begins to write.
T*ump is an artist: he is constantly creating and nothing slows him down, not even sex.
Often misunderstood, he wants to show his genius.
And it is through this brilliance that he put on paper, that he showed the world once and for all, that he, Donald T*ump, is someone who has something in his head.
He managed to show his dismay and at the same time try to sell one of his ideas during the press conference this afternoon.
To be continued…

*2015
- T*ump - Part 1 : https://www.lafoda.fr/echauffement6en.html
- T*ump - Part 2 : https://www.lafoda.fr/echauffement8en.html