“BABY,” screamed Trump, strapping on his space-age leg, “give me the good news”. Dr. Henrik Plaque looked unwaveringly at the presidential candidate in silence for three full seconds before, cowed by the unremitting, childlike moon-eyes that Trump used so well against Fox News anchors and pinko jellybones anarchist hatefucks alike, he cast his eyes down to the fool’s gold carpet and spoke. “Professor Trump,” he muttered, using the honorific his employer preferred in private, “you’ve lost another finger. The lupus is aggressive, and I don’t know how much longer we can keep giving you bionic parts before someone notices you won’t go within a square mile of a school science lab magnet.”