IF DAMON RUNYON* WERE WRITING A STORY ABOUT TRUMP HE WOULD POSSIBLY WRITE..........."THE BIG DEAL"

Damon Runyon was a American Writer in the depressing who wrote about local fraudsters who hung around braodway. Best remembered for the basis of the movie Guys and Dolls starring Frank Sinatra and Marlyn Munroe        

.... "IT WAS WORTH TRILLIONS BUT COST TOO MANY LIVES AND AMERICA'S REPUTATION FOREVER"

THE STORY

It happens that on this particular afternoon I am strolling through the marketplace, which is a spot where many citizens of this fair city come to peddle their various merchandise under the blue canopy that nature provides free of charge. Among these hardworking merchants is a character by the name of Ukraine, who operates a modest establishment specializing in rare earth minerals, which are items much in demand by certain parties who know the value of such goods.

Now, Ukraine is a peaceable sort who wishes only to conduct his business without complications, but it comes to my attention that he is frequently bothered by a most disagreeable neighbor called Russia, who is a square-shouldered, heavy-handed type with a penchant for muscling in where he is not invited or welcomed.

Into this situation strolls none other than Don T., who is a personage well known to me and to many others in this vicinity. Don T. is draped in threads that speak of large bankrolls, though there are whispers that these bankrolls may be more conversational than actual. His hair is of an orange hue that does not occur in nature and is slicked back in a manner suggesting that petroleum products are involved. Don T. is a guy who maintains associations with other characters of questionable repute, such as China and Korea, and it is common knowledge along Broadway that his promise on a deal is about as reliable as a three-legged horse at Belmont.

"A very good day to you, Ukraine," says Don T., flashing a smile that is as genuine as a lead nickel. "It reaches my ears that you are experiencing difficulties with Russia. It is most fortunate that I happen along at this juncture to propose a certain protective arrangement."

Ukraine, who is not unschooled in the ways of the world but is nonetheless in a tight spot, responds with noticeable caution. "Mr. Don T., your proposition is appreciated, but I am already in receipt of assistance from Europe. I believe my situation is adequately addressed."

At this, Don T. emits a laugh that contains no mirth whatsoever, and throws a wink to the collection of yes-men who follow him about. "My dear Ukraine," he says, "I am personally acquainted with this Europe crowd. France and England? These are parties whose word is not to be banked upon. I myself once travel in their circles, but they prove too small-time for a guy of my caliber. I prefer to associate with the big operators, such as China."

Here Don T. leans in close and takes hold of Ukraine's collar in a manner that is far from gentle. "You understand," he continues, "many unfortunate occurrences may befall a businessman. And Russia, as you know, is not a character noted for his gentle disposition."

Ukraine's complexion takes on the shade of fresh milk, and he stammers, "W-what is the tariff for your services, Don? This stall is the breadbasket for my family unit."

Don T. releases his grip on Ukraine's garment and adjusts his own raiment with the air of a guy who considers the matter already settled. "I observe that you grasp the essentials of our discussion. My fee is substantial but fair, considering the nature of the service. I am thinking that fifty percent of your rare earth enterprise should suffice. You permit me to manage the Russia situation, and I guarantee that your commercial activities proceed with the smoothness of the finest silk."

Ukraine's peepers grow to the size of silver dollars. "Half of my livelihood? This is excessive! Is there not some more reasonable arrangement we might negotiate?"

Don T. reduces the distance between them further, and his voice drops to a level that is not intended for the ears of casual passersby. "Heed my words, Ukraine. I am a square dealer. But should you decline my offer, you may find yourself in possession of nothing at all. And when I say 'nothing,' I refer not only to your business interests but potentially to matters of a more personal nature."

Perceiving that his options are about as numerous as honest men in politics, Ukraine indicates his acceptance with a reluctant nod. "Very well, Don T. We have an agreement. I merely hope that your protection proves equal to your promise."

With the satisfaction of a cat who has just dined on a plump canary, Don T. seals the bargain with a handshake. "You will have no occasion for regret. Should any other parties cause you grief, you come directly to me."

As Don T. and his entourage make their departure with the swagger of guys who believe themselves to be of great consequence, Don T. turns back to Ukraine with an expression that puts me in mind of a fox eyeing a henhouse. "Until our next meeting, partner," he says, pronouncing this final word in a manner that suggests it may be interpreted as a synonym for "victim."

Ukraine observes their departure with an expression that mingles relief and foreboding in equal measure. The deal is now inscribed in the book, and only the passage of time will reveal whether the protection acquired is worth the price demanded.

As the dust settles in the wake of Don T.'s departure, Ukraine hangs his head lower than a busted flush in a high-stakes poker game. It is at this precise moment that Ukraine's offspring, who is no more than a little shaver of perhaps six or seven summers, comes racing up to the stall with the boundless energy that is the exclusive property of the very young.

"What gives, Dad?" pipes the kid, his innocent peepers full of concern that no child should be required to harbor. "Your map looks like you just bet heavy on a nag that pulled up lame."

Ukraine gazes down at his boy, and for a moment it seems to me that his eyes contain all the sorrows that have ever been known to mankind. He stoops to embrace the little fellow with the tenderness that only a father can muster. "We are finished, my son," he says in tones so soft they barely reach my ears. "We find ourselves caught up in the reality of what some guys are calling the new world order, which is nothing but a fancy handle for being squeezed by the mob – only in this case, the mob consists of such international characters as Russia, China, and the U.S. of A."

And it strikes me as I witness this tableau that in the grand casino of global affairs, it is always the small, honest guys who wind up paying the vigorish, while the house – represented by these bigger operators – continues to rake in the chips with nary a nod to the pain their game inflicts on those who have no choice but to play.

As Ukraine embraces his boy with the tenderness that only a father can muster, I notice a dame of considerable class approaching the scene. This is a character known as Europe, who is dressed in fancy threads that speak of old money, though whispers along the boulevard suggest her bankroll ain't what it used to be. She walks with the careful steps of a person who is trying to maintain dignity while wearing shoes that pinch.

Europe pauses at the edge of Ukraine's stall, her face showing the expression of a poker player who has just realized her full house is about to be trumped by four of a kind. She opens her beaded purse and extracts a handkerchief of the finest linen, which she offers to Ukraine with a gesture that contains both sympathy and embarrassment.

"I could not help but overhear your conversation with Don T.," she says, her accent as fancy as a five-dollar cigar. "I wish to express my most profound regrets that I am not in a position to offer more substantial assistance. You understand that my resources are somewhat... constrained at present."

Ukraine accepts the handkerchief but does not use it, merely folding it between fingers that tremble slightly. "Your regrets butter no parsnips, Europe," he says, and there is a bitterness in his tone that would curdle fresh milk. "While you debate and deliberate in your grand committees, Don T. and Russia carve up my future like it is a Thanksgiving turkey."

It is at this juncture that the little shaver pipes up, his innocent voice cutting through the marketplace hubbub like a police whistle at a gambling den. "When I grow up," he announces with the conviction that only the very young can muster, "I am going to change all this. I will create a world where guys like Don T. and Russia cannot push around the smaller operators."

The look that passes between Ukraine and Europe at this declaration is one that contains more meaning than a racing form on Derby day. It is a look that acknowledges the eternal hope of youth while recognizing the harsh realities that await discovery.

And as I take my leave of this tableau, it occurs to me that in this great game of life, the dice may be loaded and the cards marked, but there always remains the slim chance that someday, somehow, a new dealer might shuffle the deck in a manner that gives the honest citizen a fighting chance at a square deal.

*Damon Runyon, born Alfred Damon Runyan on October 4, 1880, was an American journalist and short-story writer renowned for his vivid depictions of Broadway's colorful characters during the Prohibition era. His stories, often set in the world of gamblers, hustlers, and gangsters, are characterized by their unique vernacular style known as "Runyonese," which blends formal speech with colorful slang1. Runyon's work has left a lasting legacy, with his stories inspiring the famous musical "Guys and Dolls". He passed away on December 10, 1946, but his influence on American literature and popular culture endure

Damon Runyon, born Alfred Damon Runyan on October 4, 1880, was an American journalist and short-story writer renowned for his vivid depictions of Broadway's colorful characters during the Prohibition era. His stories, often set in the world of gamblers, hustlers, and gangsters, are characterized by their unique vernacular style known as "Runyonese," which blends formal speech with colorful slang1. Runyon's work has left a lasting legacy, with his stories inspiring the famous musical "Guys and Dolls". He passed away on December 10, 1946, but his influence on American literature and popular culture endure