Location: A G7 summit holding room, surrounded by an international press corps pressed tightly against the velvet ropes.
Donald Trump leans over a mahogany coffee table, casually twirling a red cowboy hat on his index finger. Giorgia Meloni sits stiffly across from him, her arms crossed so tightly her knuckles are white, staring ahead like a woman calculating how many years she could get for justifiable homicide.
Trump: (Grinning broadly, gesturing with the cowboy hat) So, Giorgia, I gotta ask—everybody’s talking about it, big networks, very smart people—what was the deal with your TV guy? The fellow with the blow-dryer hair. I saw the tapes. Wild stuff. Total party animal. Into the big orgies, right? Foursomes, threesomes, the whole buffet.
(A collective audible gasp ripples through the press pen. Dozens of journalists freeze with their pens hovering over notepads, wide-eyed, while several CNN and BBC producers quietly stop breathing.)
Meloni: (Voice trembling with suppressed fury, teeth clenched) He is the ex-partner, Donald. Past tense. We are not together. Can we please discuss the Mediterranean trade tariffs?
Trump: (Ignoring her entirely, leaning in closer) But I’m asking you, level with me—were you into it? Come on, you can tell old Don. Did you dump him because it looked terrible for the optics, or because you were worried the Italian grandmothers would find out you’re not just a nice, traditional family gal, but a rapid, full-throttle orgy woman? A regular multi-person extravaganza!
(In the press gallery, a Reuters reporter drops their audio recorder on the floor with a sharp clatter.)
Meloni: (Staring daggers, face turning crimson) I am the Prime Minister of a sovereign European nation, and you are broadcasting your own brain-damage live to the wire services! I broke up with him because he behaved like an absolute buffoon on national television!
Trump: (Waving a dismissive hand, unfazed) Sure, sure, optics are tough, I get it. But let’s be honest, Giorgia, you and me? We got chemistry. We should join up sometime. I could wear the cowboy hat—really lean into the Texas look—and you could bring a little bit of that Czech bohemian energy—
Meloni: (Interrupting sharply) Czech? Czech?! I am Roman! Italian! Where on earth did you get Czech from?!
Trump: Whatever, eastern Europe, same neighborhood, lots of castles, beautiful stuff. Point is, you’ve clearly had a bit of that wild Czech bohemian style in you, otherwise you wouldn't know what hit you. Think about it. Team up, 2028. It’d be huge for the ratings.
(Meloni slowly closes her eyes, inhales deeply, and begins whispering silent prayers to every patron saint in Rome while three dozen foreign correspondents frantically type shorthand notes as if the fabric of Western civilization is actively unravelling on the rug.)