Trump's 300

If Trump was leading the famous Spartan 300...

"It's a trap, my king, you'll all die!" I say.

"Trap or die? Well, that's an easy choice for me Arcade demon!" he replies, mocking my love of video games.

"You rather die?" I ask.

"I rather live free than fall victim to the notion that my only options here and now are to trap or die," he answers.
"At least if you're trapped today, you'll live to fight another day," I plead.

"Another day isn't today. Today I am free, and who's to say if I'm trapped, I won't be killed anyway," he replies, "trapped and imprisoned is no way for a man to live."

"I couldn't agree more," I answer.

"Thank you," the king responds.

"So then you'll die?" I ask.

"Then I live forever," he proclaims, referring to the glory of dying in battle.

"Forever? What about your wife? Your son?" I ask, questioning his logic.

"I won't actually die," he yields, as if somehow a valid response to an audience older than his sunglasses.

"What?" I ask; you can imagine my surprise is not because I believe him.

"I won't. This isnt the first time I've lost a battle," he confides in me with a sincere tone, defying the nonsense his lips keep dribbling.

"Really?" I ask in as believable an expression as possible, despite my unshakable disbelief.

"Losing men hurts, but surviving death hurts even more," he continues.

"I can imagine. So let me get this straight, so I don't confuse what you're saying, because I don't think I follow? You're saying you've already died before?" I ask, reserving my sarcastic undertones, reminding myself that I was addressing the great king.

"Many times," he states as if easily believable.

"Are you being serious?" I ask, finally releasing my urge to mock him for a quick reality check to confirm my king is in fact crazy.

"Serious enough," he answers confusingly.

"My king, you have to be reasonable," I implore, "if you run back now, you'll be safe behind the walls of your kingdom; the only other options are to trap or die," I reply.

"So then its trap, die, or retreat?" he questions.

"Well, yes, my lord," I answer, unclear as to the direction that argument could possibly take.

"Whatever happened to fight?" he asks.

"What do you mean?" I ask as naively as possible.

"This is a war isn't it?" he argues.

"Yes."

"Then why isn't fighting an option?" he questions.


"I suppose anything's possible, but..."

"Bunothin! We can use the element of surprise," he plans, "and a couple of hundred of us can take on a million of them in the gates of seaside cliffs," he concludes, referring to the rocky beach nearby.

"They can easily just storm another beach," I argue.

"But we'll wait for them at the gates," he fires back.

"Sire, I'm not sure you're doing the math right?" I question, "A million's a lot. Like a lot a lot. Even now in the ancient times of great Greece..."

"Ancient? It's now?" he misunderstands.

"Let's not digress, even now in the times of Greece..." I recap.

"That's better," he agrees.

"Thanks..." I continue, "of Greece when the global population was barely half a million, a million is still even more than a lot than it will be in a few thousand years from now."

"What do you mean?" he asks.

"Well, we reproduce like jack rabbits," I explain.

"Right?" he indicates he's following so far.

"So in the future a million man army will still be a lot," I summarize.

"But back in 'our time,' that would be like a billion man army, which just sounds ridiculous hearing a man say wearing an open toga and a thong," I conclude.

"I meant like close to a million," he fumbles with his words.

"No," I reject, "and what's with the get up?"

"This is our battle armor!" he proudly proclaims.

"A gold plated jock strap?" I question.

"Yeah, it really doesnt protect all that much does it?" he agrees.

"It's not just that," I inform.

"What then?" he asks.

"Well, I would think such self-proclaimed masters of the art of war would at least have something protecting their xiphoid process, which essentially exposes the heart to instant death from only a few pounds of pressure," I sarcastically criticize.

"Yeah, well, we knew that..." he answers, attempting to conceal his ignorance.

"Really?" I continue, "If you're so concerned about being able to move quickly and freely, then why attach a long cape that reaches below your feet hanging off your neck, the second most exposed part of the human body, and risk tripping yourself or your comrades, as well as risk an enemy grabbing you from behind and pulling you around like a little girl by that cape?" I inquire, but then add, "How did you become king?"

Um, well, I'm old and partly senile," he answers, ignoring my preceding notes, "so I convinced people I was going to do a bunch of stuff I've already completely forgotten about."

"But you just became king?" I argue, "You've won battles! You're immortal for God's sake!!"

"Well, about that..." he begins before I interrupt.

"What?" I ask, preparing myself for another let down, "Oh no... what is it now?"

"I've made a deal with the devil but it kind of backfired..." he confesses.

"What a surprise," I interrupt again, tossing away any hopes of a peaceful reign to his monarchy.

"He still owes me five bucks though," the king comforts me with his words of wisdom.

"That would be the last of my concerns," I answer, hoping to introduce some perspective.

"It's the first of mine," he affirms.

"How's that?" my curiosity lets slips off my tongue before I have a chance to defend my image.

"You dont think i'll get it back?" he asks, showing signs of intelligent life.

"You and your men are about to commit suicide against a massive army with nothing more than a handful of foot soldiers, spears and swords, towels wrapped around your necks, some ocean gate imaginary defensive advantage everyone else fails to visually identify though it's the premise of your whole strategy, as if walls and waves of water ever prevented waves of soldiers from storming a beach before, brilliant plan by the way, and finally, a prayer about keeping some hidden goat path a secret, like anybody even understands what that means? But that aside, you rather pray it stays secret than incorporate that weakness into a more comprehensive strategy that doesn't leave your whole platoon completely vulnerable? Even people living a few miles away from these goat paths have no idea what they are. And if it's narrower than these gates, why not apply the same strategy you obviously already forgot about since the battle grounds we see before us could fit a thousand men and still have room to square dance without you ever knowing," I finally release my critique as if rehearsed.

"They're the paths that the goats take?" he argues unconvincingly.

"Mountain goats?" I ask, still fueled from my verbal assault on the king's tactics thus far.

"Yeah?" he unwittingly takes the bait.

"Yeah, listen," I advise, squinting from the agony of the oncoming headache, "mountain goats jump over huge distances and rocks. They stay alive by outmaneuvering faster predators because they're so nimble on mountains and cliffs, where allegedly you've seen them."

"Not me personally, but..."

"Bunothin king," I interrupt, clearly annoyed, "listen, goats don't leave paths, because they don't run straight, they hop."

"Oh, so what kind of path is it?" he asks me, as if we're inventing his story together.

"It's probably a new type of fiction you've invented..." I openly mock him before being interrupted.

"Me? Invent?," he laughs, "That's outrageous! I'm the king!"

"And how long has that title sat with you?" I ask.

"Well i made the deal about a month ago," he answers, thinking out loud as his fingers do the math.

"So you got to be king for a month and now its trap or die, huh?" I ask, comforting the king on his poorly negotiated deal.

"Never thought it would come to this!" he confides.

"How do you mean?" I ask honestly.

"I didn't think the devil would lie or deceive me..." he complains.

"Wait, what?" I step back and analyze his response. "The devil? How could you possibly trust someone who lies to or deceives someone else and is famous for it?"

"He sounded honest at the time?" the king argues.

"Liars always sound honest," I instruct, "otherwise, what would be the point of lying in the first place?"

"I don't follow," he admits.

"If you knew it was a lie, then why would the person bother lying? The whole point of a lie is to sound like the truth!" I teach.

"But..." he hesitates with a pause, practically begging for more wisdom.

"He's the devil!" I finally interrupt, after allowing the pause to stretch to a painfully awkward moment. "You think he's going to drop you hints of his lies so you can catch on to his routine before he gets that soul of yours into his shredder?"

"I guess not," he responds.

"Guess? What's the other option? He's telling the truth?" I argue.

"I guess I really didn't think about it," he admits.

"It never crossed your mind that a professional liar might be lying even when all evidence supports that he was telling the truth?" I ask.

"But that doesn't make sense!" he defends himself.

"What does make sense?" I reply, "that the devil honestly wanted to give you a fair value for your dollar on a trade to take your soul and destroy it in a vengeful act defying God?"

"But he promised he wouldn't!" the king argues.

"We just went over the whole lying thing, you want to do it again?"

"I think we have to," he admits.

"We might as well while we wait for the Persian army to come slaughter us," I concur, "so the devil is a well-known liar, right?"