Ladies and gentlemen, it’s not every day that you find yourself with a front-row seat to the strangest conversation since Socrates asked his disciples to pass the hemlock. But here we are, gathered in the dim light of an undisclosed underground bunker—no, it’s not Mar-a-Lago’s wine cellar, but close—where Donald J. Trump sits down for a private chat with none other than Dr. Hannibal Lecter. Yes, that Hannibal Lecter. You know, the one who has dinner with you, and then has you for dinner.
The conversation starts as you’d expect, with Trump, ever the gracious host, surveying the room like he’s about to negotiate the biggest real estate deal of the century. Lecter, ever polite, sits across from him, sipping a glass of red wine that could very well be from someone rather than for someone.
Trump, flashing his signature grin that somehow blends the charm of a used car salesman with the subtlety of a neon billboard, begins with what he knows best: compliments.
“Doctor, I’ve gotta tell you, people say you’re very bad, very nasty,” Trump says, leaning in as if to share a secret. “But, I look at you, and I see a guy who’s been very unfairly treated. Tremendously unfair. The media—total fake news—they just don’t get you.”
Lecter smiles. A thin, calculated smile. The kind that makes you wonder if he’s already imagining how you’d taste with a side of fava beans.
“Well, Mr. Trump,” Lecter begins, his voice smooth as silk, “we’re both men who understand the importance of… sustenance. Though, I must admit, my tastes are rather… refined.”
Trump beams, clearly missing the subtext. “Refined, I like that! You know, I’m the most refined guy ever. People tell me all the time. Nobody knows refinement like I do. I built a lot of great buildings. Great buildings! And my steaks—oh, they’re the best. The Trump Steaks, you remember those? They were huge. Very classy.”
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Lecter nods, pretending to care about Trump’s culinary ventures. “Of course, Mr. Trump. I imagine your steaks were… unforgettable.”
Lecter’s eyes flicker momentarily. “But tell me, how do you handle those who… disagree with your tastes?”
Trump’s face lights up, as though he’s just been asked to recite his autobiography. “Disagree? No one disagrees with me. I’m a winner, Hannibal. That’s what people don’t get. Winners like us—we know how to deal with people. Take Rosie O’Donnell, terrible person, right? Just awful. I said what needed to be said. Sometimes you have to be tough, really tough. Believe me.”
Lecter arches an eyebrow. “Tough, yes. And what if someone were… obstructive? Resistant to your influence?”
Trump chuckles, waving his hand dismissively. “Resistant? They all fall in line eventually. The key is to keep talking, you just keep saying the same thing over and over, louder and louder. People love it. Repetition is the best persuasion. Just ask the people at my rallies—they chant, they love chanting. It’s like a beautiful, beautiful brainwashing. Incredible.”
Lecter sips his wine, perhaps imagining how the crowd would look with a side of sautéed mushrooms. “Ah, the power of suggestion. A fascinating tool in… control.”
Trump, completely unaware of the deeper meaning, nods enthusiastically. “Exactly! You get it. Control. That’s what I’ve always said. People don’t appreciate how much work it is to be a billionaire. I’m the most underappreciated person in the world. No one’s been more disrespected than me. Not even Lincoln.”
Lecter smiles, the kind of smile a chef gives when inspecting a prime cut of beef. “No one, Mr. Trump?”
Trump leans in, eager to share. “Nobody. I mean, come on—Lincoln? Sure, he had that whole Civil War thing, but did he have the New York Times calling him a ‘monster’ every day? I don’t think so. And they’re the real monsters, Hannibal. You know what I mean. You’ve dealt with some nasty people, haven’t you?”
Lecter’s eyes glint, a barely perceptible predatory gleam. “Indeed, Mr. Trump. There are those who refuse to… see reason.”
Trump slaps the table, pleased. “Right! And when they don’t, you know what I do? I sue them. Sue them like crazy. Or I tweet. Used to tweet. Best tweeter in history. Ask anyone. They banned me because I was too good, too powerful. They couldn’t handle it.”
Lecter tilts his head, amused. “Power, Mr. Trump, is an acquired taste. Some prefer to consume it slowly… savor it.”
Trump’s eyes widen, like he’s just been handed a golden nugget of wisdom. “Savor. I like that. You know, I’ve always said, you have to enjoy the winning. Winning is delicious. And I’ve done a lot of winning. More than anyone. Tremendous victories. So much winning, people get tired of it. They say, ‘Mr. President, please stop, we can’t handle any more winning.’”
Lecter’s smile grows, a dangerous kind of approval in his eyes. “Winning, Mr. Trump, is indeed a feast. And some of us… never tire of it.”
Trump, ever the gracious guest, finally notices the food in front of him. A plate of mystery meat, garnished with a side of greens. He looks at Lecter with suspicion. “What is this? I’m a burger guy. Love McDonald’s. Fantastic food.”
Lecter’s voice is as smooth as butter, dripping with subtle menace. “This, Mr. Trump, is a… special recipe. Family tradition, you might say.”
Trump, perhaps feeling the first inkling of doubt, pokes at the dish with his fork. “Looks… interesting. You know, I have the best taste. Everyone says so. But I’ve never seen this on a menu at Mar-a-Lago.”
Lecter leans forward, his voice a low whisper. “I’m sure you’ll find it… unforgettable.”
Trump, not one to be outdone, takes a bite. He chews thoughtfully, nodding. “Not bad. But, between you and me, Hannibal, have you tried the Big Mac? Best burger ever. So good, you won’t even miss the fava beans.”
Lecter watches with quiet amusement, the faintest smile curling at the corners of his lips. “I’ll take your word for it, Mr. Trump.”
And as the conversation winds down, one thing becomes abundantly clear: when it comes to dining with Donald and Hannibal, the real question isn’t what’s for dinner—it’s who.
TONY CASTRO, the former award-winning Los Angeles columnist and author of “Chicano Power” (E.P. Dutton, 1974), is a national political writer with LAMonthly.org. “Chicano Power” will be republished in a 50th anniversary edition in late 2024. He can be reached at tony@tonycastro.com. Website: https//tonycastro.com
