Yessir! Trump's Putting People Back to Work

Marco stepped out of the humid Florida air and ducked into a pastel stucco building one March evening. Brushing down his jacket, he entered a large room with glistening portraits, corinthian pillars, and gilded walls. A stacked bar stood at the far corner and from above an ornate fireplace, a ruddy thirty-year-old Donald Trump scowled down at him—as if to enquire: "What the heck are you doing in here, PUNK?"

Senator Marco Rubio was at the Mar-a-Lago. 

Meanwhile, the real Mr Trump had been expecting him. He breezed in from the side door, his face composing itself into that scowling smile:

"Welcome to MAR-a-Lago!" he thundered expansively. "What'dya think, Lil Marco?" he said, waving his arm in a wide arc as he vainly surveyed the room. "That stuff's all gold... real gold, Marco!—24 carats."

Rubio nodded abstractly, looking down with new fangled interest at that old stain blemishing his shiny left shoe.

"Glad you could make it, Marco!" Trump continued. "I have some positions in mind for you. We need to talk. It's gonna be great! But first, let's get you a drink."

"Bartender!" he snapped, as he turned around. "Bring this man a big one, okay... get him that vodka Ambassador Kisylak brought over yesterday... 
Marco! You listen ta-me... I'll be at the restaurant. Come find me when you're finished... you gonna have meatloaf for dinner."

Trump clatters out. Seconds later, a glass smacks the counter with a dull plonk!... followed by the crisp sound of a drink, rapidly filling up. The bartender comes around briskly, places a shimmering vodka-tonic demurely on the table and steps back into the shadows.

"JEB? Jeb Ellis Bush! Son of a... What are YOU doing here?" Marco managed to stutter.

"Good to see ya Marco. It's been a while. A crazy, crazy year. Things haven't gone too good for the family. Pops is in a wheelchair. Most days he sits out, catches some rays... sleeps... asks if we got Saddam yet...

George? He's a recluse now. Guess he never got over the war. Locks himself up in his studio... paints all day... he's done Arafat, Putin, Tony Blair. Dudes, not nudes, hehehe..." he tittered.

"Whoa Jeb!" muttered Rubio, pressing his temple between his thumb and forefinger. "Hold on a minute. I'm still getting my head around all of this. YOU were MY mentor. Too bad we had to run against each other, Gov... but I would have at least made you Secretary of State, had I won... you're now pouring drinks?"

"Marco, Marco, slow down... take a swig... that whole campaign thing was the biggest goddamn sham. And we both knew it. That race was all over the day the Don got into it. I'd been out of work for over a decade, as you know... trying to reel something back in. And then I go.. for President... no less! Who was I shittin''? And you Marco?... you played that hustlin' sorryass Cuban bootstrap refugee card... all over again. Hell! Even your ol' man called shit on that one, Marco. He voted Trump...

Look, Marco! I'm thankful now that the Don took me in and set me up over here. The family's taken care of and I'm in the same room now with the Japanese Prime Minister and the Russians... just not maybe the way I'd imagined," he added wistfully.

"The Don's even agreed to be godfather to my youngest grandson."

"Jeb," Rubio exhaled. "I'm happy for you. But I got to go see Donald now. He's had a rocky start and we're talking about my coming in to straighten out this listing boat." 

Rubio retreated towards the door, moving like he was putting distance from a crime scene.

"Good luck... with that one!" Jeb shouted after him, his teeth breaking into a smile. "And by the way... say hi to Rudy Giuliani on your way out."

"Rudy?" blurted Rubio, turning back. "Is the President talking jobs with him too? Rudy's visiting today?"

"Let's just say he visits everyday," smirked Bush, and went on. 

"Rudy... he always thought the hell of himself. He came in here couple months ago puffin' like a freight train, demanding he gets Attorney General.
The Don however had different ideas for him. He set him up good... right here.

Rudy runs the security detail at Mar-a-Lago now. You'll see him on your way out. When he's not working the booth with the CCTV cameras, he's tossin' raw meat at the German shepherds. 

...luck with your interview, Marco! Figure I'll be seein' you in here... SOON."