Trump Story #8.

President-Elect Donald Trump nods his head, dour and only sort-of absorbing the briefing.

"Ronald Reagan was the Antichrist," explains the mustachio'd gentleman from the unnamed agency, projecting proof from his leadlined laptop. "We, that is, us and the Russkies, first made contact with Hell in 1952. The Gipper was part of the deal. They couldn't get enough of 'Bedtime for Bonzo' down there, for whatever reason, and elected him Antichrist. He was honored as a bug in a rug to get the honor, Mr. President-Elect."

"Are you, serio-" attempts the President-Elect, but the mustachio'd gentleman cuts him off, quietly rage-exploding a microscopic vein below Trump's left eye.

"There is a rare opportunity here," drawls the mustachio'd gentleman. "But I can tell you're not interested." And then, subtly, a tantō slides from a recess in his wrist, so subtly the President-Elect may not have noticed, had his attention had not been drawn to a cheese directly behind the gentleman's forearm by chance, and by instinctual scent.

"Fuck my exotic wife," mutters President-Elect Trump, drawing a loaned and impeccably-folded Wakizashi from his assistant's Jack Georges bag.