Trump 2 days after being relieved from office.

 I asked the Google search bar:

Write a story about Donald Trump two days after being relieved of Office and lambasted on CNN. He is meeting the Devil disguised as Tucker Carlson.

Here's the response:

The red studio lights of CNN had barely cooled from the previous night’s roasting when Donald Trump sat down in his private Mar-a-Lago dining room, staring down the man he thought was his greatest ally.

"Tucker, you look different," Trump said, squinting across the pristine white tablecloth. "Your laugh. It’s usually high, very beautiful, very high-pitched. Today it sounds like a broken lawnmower. And you’re sweating. A lot of sweat. More than usual."

The man sitting across from him—sporting the familiar khaki trousers, blue blazer, and furrowed, perpetually confused brow of Tucker Carlson—grinned. The grin was just slightly too wide, revealing teeth that looked a fraction too sharp. In reality, it was Lucifer himself, seizing the moment of Trump's lowest political point, just forty-eight hours after his exit from Washington and subsequent public execution by the CNN punditry.

"Donald," the Devil said, mimicking Tucker’s signature breathless cadence. "It’s the state of the country. It’s what they did to you on that fake-news network last night. It makes me sweat. It makes me angry. Don't you want to punish them? Don't you want to destroy them all?"

"They treated me very poorly, Tucker. Total hatred," Trump agreed, aggressively slathering ketchup onto a well-done ribeye. "The anchor last night? A total stiff. Very low ratings. But you—your face looks a little red. Did you get a sunburn? You look like you’ve been standing too close to a very hot grill."

"It's the fire of indignation, Donald!" the Devil-as-Tucker barked, leaning in. He pulled a heavy, charcoal-black scroll from his leather briefcase. It smelled faintly of sulfur and expensive cologne. "I have a proposal. A new network. Bigger than Fox, bigger than X, completely un-censorable. Total, absolute dominance over the human mind. Every television in the world will loop your rallies eternally. I just need a tiny signature. Right here."

Trump picked up the black scroll, feeling its unnaturally warm texture. He looked at the signature line, then looked back up at Tucker’s face.

"You know, Tucker, I’m the best at deals. Nobody does deals like me," Trump said, tossing the scroll carelessly onto the table where it singed the linen. "But this contract is a total disaster. The fonts are terrible. Very low-class. And you're not Tucker."

The Devil stiffened, his confused-brow expression faltering. "What do you mean? I am Tucker. Look at the hair. Look at the total lack of a necktie."

"No, no," Trump chuckled, shaking his head and taking a sip of Diet Coke. "Tucker would never offer me a contract where I don't get 100% of the licensing fees. You’re asking for 'soul rights.' What even is that? Sounds like a very bad tax loop-hole. You’re the Devil. I know it, you know it, everyone knows it."

The illusion shattered. The Carlson face melted away for a brief second, revealing a flash of crimson skin and burning yellow eyes before snapping back into the cable-news host's visage. "Fine! Yes! I am the Prince of Darkness. But the deal is real, Trump! CNN humiliated you yesterday. The whole world thinks you're finished. Sign the paper, and I will give you vengeance!"

Trump cut another piece of steak, completely unfazed. "Listen, Lucy—can I call you Lucy? Lou? Lou is a great name. Let me tell you something about vengeance. I don’t need your little scroll. CNN’s ratings are already down fifty percent since I left. They need me. They’re begging for me to come back. Without me, they’re just talking to an empty room."

The Devil stared at him, genuinely bewildered. "You... you're turning down absolute power? Because of ratings?"

"Your underworld is a poorly managed operation, Lou," Trump said, leaning forward. "Very crowded. Terrible ventilation. I’ve seen the numbers. If I sign this, I become a employee. I don't work for anyone. Tell you what—I’ll buy Hell from you. We’ll rebrand it. Trump International Underworld. We'll put a beautiful golf course right over the lake of fire. The greens will be spectacular. The hottest ticket in town."

The Devil sat in silence, completely out-negotiated by sheer, impenetrable ego. He slowly rolled up his scroll, adjusted his Tucker Carlson blazer, and sighed. "You're a monster."

"Thank you, darling," Trump smiled, waving him off. "Tell Tucker he owes me a phone call. And fix your AC down there. It's hurting your brand."

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