Nigel Farage sat in a dark corner of his favourite pub, nursing a lukewarm pint of ale and staring into the foam with the intensity of a man who believed he was on the verge of something great.

For years, the world had underestimated him. Sure, he had led Britain out of the European Union, and yes, he had graced America’s shores as a political rockstar, but deep down, he knew his destiny was greater. He wasn’t just a politician. He was a man of action. A secret agent. A protector of Western values.

His phone buzzed. A message flashed across the screen:

“Agent 00Brexit. Urgent mission. Report to HQ immediately.”

Farage’s heart pounded. Finally, the call to duty. He drained his pint, stood up dramatically, and immediately tripped over a barstool. “Bloody hell,” he muttered, staggering to his feet.

Mission Briefing: The Peril of Mar-a-Lago

Sometime later—after an unfortunate incident at the airport involving an argument about duty-free whiskey—Nigel found himself in a dimly lit office above a Greggs in Westminster.

Sitting behind a desk was a pale, serious-looking man who bore an uncanny resemblance to Jacob Rees-Mogg.

“Nigel,” the man began.

“Call me 00Brexit,” Farage interrupted, adjusting his tie.

The man sighed. “Fine. 00Brexit, we have intelligence that Donald Trump is in grave danger. A shadowy organization is plotting against him—potentially the French, possibly the European Union. Maybe even Greta Thunberg.”

Farage slammed his fist on the desk. “Those bloody Remainers! They never give up!”

M (for who else could this be but the mysterious head of MI6?) nodded gravely. “You must go to Mar-a-Lago immediately. Protect the President at all costs.”

Farage grinned, already picturing himself in a tuxedo, martini in hand, seducing a glamorous American spy. “Consider it done.”

Arrival in America

After a long flight (during which Farage spent most of his time explaining Brexit to an American man who thought it was a new kind of sandwich), he finally arrived at Mar-a-Lago—a gold-plated fortress of excess and bad taste.

Donald Trump stood in the grand lobby, wearing an ill-fitting golf outfit and a smug grin.

“Nigel! My guy! The Brexit legend! Fantastic to see you, really incredible,” Trump bellowed, clapping Farage on the back with enough force to send him stumbling into a decorative vase.

“Mr. President, I’m here on official business,” Farage said, regaining his composure. “We’ve had intelligence that your life is in danger.”

Trump nodded solemnly. “I knew it. The radical left, the deep state, Antifa—everyone’s after me. Maybe even the King. You know, he wasn’t always nice to me.”

Farage frowned. “I’m not sure His Majesty—”

“He had a look in her eye, Nigel. A look that said, ‘I know things.’”

Farage decided not to argue. “The point is, I’m here to protect you.”

Trump beamed. “Incredible. You’re like James Bond, but British.”

“I am British.”

Trump waved his hand dismissively. “Details, details. Now listen, I need protection, but I also need you to see my new golf course. It’s tremendous. Best golf course. Maybe the best ever.”

Farage sighed. This was going to be a long mission.

An Attempt on Trump's Life (Sort Of)

That night, as Trump hosted a small dinner (which Farage quickly realized was just the two of them eating steak well-done with ketchup), disaster struck.

The doors burst open, and a masked intruder stormed into the room!

Farage leapt to his feet. “Donald, get down!”

Trump, misunderstanding the command, immediately threw himself to the floor, landing face-first in his plate of steak.

Farage, adrenaline pumping, reached for the nearest weapon—a bottle of wine—and hurled it at the intruder. It missed by a good five feet and smashed against a portrait of Trump riding an eagle.

The intruder stood there, confused. “Uh… I’m the waiter?”

Farage blinked.

“Oh,” Trump mumbled, lifting his ketchup-covered face. “I did order more Diet Coke.”

The waiter quickly placed a fresh bottle of Diet Coke on the table and hurried away, shaking his head.

Farage sat down slowly. “Well. Crisis averted.”

Trump nodded sagely. “We did it, Nigel. We saved America.”

The Real Threat Arrives

Later that evening, Farage was pacing the halls of Mar-a-Lago, feeling rather pleased with himself, when he spotted a shadowy figure sneaking through the gardens.

“A-ha! The real assassin!” he whispered, creeping toward the figure. He pulled out a golf club (the only weapon Trump had allowed him) and lunged—

—only for the figure to spin around.

It was Rudy Giuliani.

“Nigel, what the hell?!” Giuliani slurred, dodging the feeble attack. His hair dye was already running down his face, giving him the look of a melted candle.

Farage lowered the club. “What are you doing sneaking around?”

Giuliani glanced around suspiciously. “I wasn’t sneaking. I was… investigating. Definitely not looking for classified documents.”

Farage frowned. “Do you think Trump’s in danger?”

Giuliani squinted. “Trump? Oh no. The real threat is the election machines. They’re alive, Nigel. Alive!”

Farage sighed. “Right. I think I need a drink.”

Trump suddenly appeared in the doorway, still covered in ketchup. “Gentlemen! Beautiful job tonight. I think we’ve won. Probably the greatest victory in the history of national security. People are saying it. Many people.”

Farage forced a grin. “Absolutely, Donald. Another mission successfully completed.”

They all raised their glasses (Farage with whiskey, Trump with Diet Coke, Giuliani with something legally questionable).

Somewhere in the distance, a real assassin sighed, shook his head, and decided that frankly, these two idiots weren’t worth the trouble.

From a writing prompt on imagining yourself as another person.