Chapter 6

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Looking the Donald in the eyes, Trudeau showed no signs of fear or emotion of any sort. He had completely stuck true to his father's instinct of never bowing down to anybody, no matter what their size was or how much power they had -- he had famously defied American 'cultural aggression' during the Cold War -- and despite Justin being a renounced Catholic, he knew that his father would still be watching down from the heavens, proud of his defiance to the barbaric American cultural and economic practices that had plagued the world for years on end.

With a relaxed expression, Trudeau made the first move of the occasion. "Hello, Mr. Trump," the Canadian Premier told the Cheeto, "it's a pleasure to have you here on this fine night. Please, do come in."

Knowing that something was awry, Trump stood at the threshold of the door, his eyes scanning what little of the room he could see from his viewpoint. "Why the fuck are you sending messages of a third grade reading level to my communications staff? Bitch, you don't even have good words! I made words great again!"

The American was being hesitant. Trudeau knew that despite being a former boxer and being in pristine shape, there was no way that he could physically force the Donald into the room, as he simply -- i'm about to be very non-PC here, trigger warning in advance -- was too large. Thinking quickly, Trudeau devised a brilliant way to get the Dorito into the room.

"I've got some of your Twitter followers in this room held hostage, and their mouths are taped shut. They're all American, they're all white nationalist supremacists, and they all have, on more than one occasion, assaulted a peaceful woman at one of your rallies. To free them, all you have to do is come into this room." Given Trump's intelligence -- or lack thereof -- it was obvious that he'd enter the room in a complete frenzy, and while he was running in it'd be easy for him to lose his balance.

"MOVE OUT OF THE WAY YOU CANADIAN BEAVER FUCKER, I'M SAVING MY TWITTE--."

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