Robert F. Kennedy Jr. stared at the small tray in front of him, his brow furrowed in quiet dismay. The wrapper from a half-eaten Big Mac crinkled beneath his fingers as he pushed it aside, the unmistakable scent of fried chicken lingering in the cabin. Across the aisle, Donald Trump reclined in a plush leather seat, contentedly munching on a drumstick from a KFC bucket that sat like a trophy between them.
“Bob, you gotta try this,” Trump said, gesturing with the half-eaten drumstick. “Best fried chicken in America. Maybe the world. We only get the good stuff on Trump Force One.”
Kennedy smiled thinly, tapping his fingers on the edge of the tray table. “I appreciate the hospitality, Donald, but I’m not sure this is what the body needs at 40,000 feet.”
Trump raised an eyebrow, momentarily pausing mid-bite. “You don’t like it? You’re one of those health nuts, aren’t you? Organic, kale smoothies, all that stuff?”
Kennedy leaned back in his seat, glancing out the window at the cloud-streaked horizon. “I’m not a health nut,” he replied carefully. “But as your incoming Secretary of Health and Human Services, I do have some thoughts about... dietary choices.”
Trump laughed, his voice booming in the small cabin. “Dietary choices? Come on, Bob. Look at me. I’ve been eating this for decades, and I’m in perfect health. Tremendous health, actually. Doctors can’t believe it.”
Kennedy looked over at Trump, his expression one of restrained disbelief. “I’m glad you’re feeling well, Donald, but I think it’s fair to say that moderation is key. We’re trying to set an example for the country, after all.”
Trump shrugged, reaching for a packet of dipping sauce. “The example is: enjoy life. People love this stuff. Nobody wants to be told they can’t have a Big Mac. Believe me, I’ve tried salads. They’re boring.”
