There can be only one!

Donald Trump walked out into the bright Florida Sunshine burning down on the golf course at Mar de Largo. It was sunrise. His favorite time of the day. He was always up early. His mother had taught him that. A Scot born and bred she abhorred waste and she would tumble him out of bed at the crack of dawn. He could her voice now even fifty years later. “Up and at them laddie…times a wasting…don’t be a slugabed….it is time to seize the day!”

He strode out onto the grounds behind the eighteen tee. He had managed to give his security detail the slip. His Secret Service agents were good men but they were too controlling. You can’t go here….you can’t go there. Wear the vest. Don’t shake hands. Be ready to duck and run at the first sign of trouble. They thought that since he was a candidate that his life was in danger and that evil lurked behind every bush. Little did they know about danger?

His own security detail was state of the art. They had Mar de Largo sewn up tighter than Melania’s snatch.  A sparrow couldn't get on the grounds without them tracking and questioning it. He walked along the foot path beside the green. He needed to think. The latest controversy had been troubling him and he needed to make some decisions.

You see he had made the mistake of telling the truth. The racist Mexican judge that had put Bill Clinton’s favorite Law firm on his case had unsealed court records. Now the sleaze ball press could search out every plaintiff in the class action suit. It would be a steady drumbeat every day without ever showing the other side of the coin. Of course the corrupt judge resealed the records. After the damage was done. He was pissed and spoke out about it. That gave the quislings and the weaklings like Paul Ryan the chance to attack him and to try to drive him out.  It seems that in this politically correct world you can’t call a spade a spade. Or a Mexican a Mexican. That judge could be waving a Mexican flag and throwing eggs at a white girl and Megyn Kelly would still say it was racism to question it.

Speaking of Mexicans there was one raking out the sand trap on the back end of the eighteenth hole. He looked old and frail and was dressed in worn and tattered grey khaki’s. That was strange. He knew every worker on the course by name. He didn’t know this fellow. Perhaps he was hired while he was on the campaign trail.

“Hey there hello? I don’t you. My name is Donald and I own this place. What’s you name amigo?”

The figure turned and straightened up. He was actually quite a bit younger than he appeared from afar. He looked at Trump and smiled. He tossed aside the rake he had be holding and dug his foot around in the sand. He kicked swiftly with his left foot and a katana flipped out of the sand into his out stretched palm.

“You know who I am MacLeod. My name is Jorge Sanchez Villa-Lobos Ramirez. Your kinsman was responsible for the death of my father. Prepare to die.” He raised the katana over his head and ran towards the billionaire.

Trump reached behind his back to the specially modified Claymore he had fitted to his suit. The secret service never saw it as he only carried it when he was alone. Otherwise Corey held it for him. He slid the specially modified blade out from behind his back and took a defensive position. Ramirez sprung out of the sand trap and swung his sword. The two blades met and flashed in the morning sun. The sound was one he heard many times before. Ever since his kinsman Duncan had told him of his heritage as a scion of the Clan MacLeod. It was on. It was a fight to the death.

There can be only one.