Sentence The Sixhundredandtwentysixth

President-Elect Donald 'Duck' Trumpet-Trousers scrolled down the list of Executive Orders prepared with his camorra, they embodied the tenets which united them, and he would take pride in asseverating them in his Inaugural Address; he turned to his principal speech writer, Hyman Z Kaplan, life-long friend and trusted aide who had introduced Duck to the power of the capitalized Tweet: "ya think they'll go through okay?" he asked, needlessly, for none in that circle would dream of challenging him): "I don't know, Duck," replied his friend, thoughtfully, and Duck bristled: "you used the 'no' word, Hymie, I thought I could rely on you, but it's the same old story, I can trust no-one but myself," jerking his thumb towards his chest, then pointing and jabbing at Kaplan's face: "go back

to the measly aul your Yiddisher folks came from, you're fired," then turned on his heel, tapped send and sent the Tweet round the world, faster than any truth, and stepped out into the lights, ready to take ownership of this city, this country, this whole mother-fuckin' world, and next stop – Trump Universe! he paused, hearing the twittering of a thousand phones and saw that all eyes were directed, not at him, but the CAPITALS which flashed onto their screens and, mingled with the beeps and buzzes were gasps, cheers and the gnashing of teeth; he grinned broadly, "now I got their balls in my hand, their hearts and minds will follow!"