<Previously on Donut Trumpet>


Donut Trumpet has only one wish—to be king.

After inheriting his father’s company, Donut runs around collecting rent as the so-called king of Queens.

But is that really the work of a king?

As doubt creeps in, Donut makes a bold decision—to become the king of Manhattan itself.

That very night, a single gunshot echoes through the city and begins to change Donut’s life.

Burgers and Time-Leaps will carry Donut up the craziest staircase of his life!


....................................

 

I moved into a Manhattan apartment almost immediately.

The place was so cramped, there was no way I could ever bring a woman back here.

But I didn’t have time to complain about the size of the room.


“Another call from that flashy old lady? Ignore her. Let her yap.”


The phone kept ringing—one call after another from apartment building managers in Queens and the Bronx.

Complaints. Leaks. Late rent.

It was nonstop.


I hung up, and a voice came from behind me.


“So the King of Queens moves to Manhattan. That’s gotta be rough.”


My older brother, Junior, who had come to help with the move, was lounging on the couch, laughing with a bottle of booze in his hand.

Lately, his drinking had only gotten worse.


“Even if you move to Manhattan, you’re still commuting to the Queens office every day, right? Total waste of time.”


“That’s why I want you to help me with the Queens side of the business.”


“I’m not cut out for real estate.”


“Flying planes won’t get you anywhere either.”


Junior had been working as a pilot for years.

People might call it an elite job, but neither my father nor I ever approved of it.


“Dad said it himself. A pilot’s no different from a bus driver. You could do more than that.”


“Well, in terms of carrying human lives, bus drivers and pilots both matter.”


“Yeah, but a pilot can’t become a king.”


Instead of answering, Bread gave a small smile and took a swig of his drink.


“So?” he asked. “How exactly are you going to become the King of Manhattan?”


“Simple. Buy good land cheap. Sell it high.”


“You really think it’s that easy? In Queens, you’ve got Dad’s name backing you up. But this is Manhattan. Donut Trumpet? You’re just some kid nobody’s heard of.”


“Doesn’t matter. I’ll do it anyway.”


“How?”


“That’s—”



$ $ $



That night, I stepped into Manhattan wearing a pure white suit.


My destination was the hottest private members-only club in New York: The King’s Club.

In front of the white colonial-style building—like Scarlett O’Hara’s mansion in Gone with the Wind—black luxury cars were lined up bumper to bumper.


Royal families. Political elites. Business tycoons. Celebrities. Athletes.

Every kind of VIP imaginable.

A club that might as well have been built for me.


I walked confidently toward the entrance—

and a doorman with a smug face stepped in front of me.


“Excuse me, sir. This is a members-only club.”


“Donut Trumpet. Soon-to-be King of Manhattan.”


“Huh?”


“Let me join, and this club’s prestige goes up.”


“My apologies. Do you have a sponsor?”


“I’ll sponsor myself.”


I laughed and clapped the doorman on the shoulder, trying to walk past him.


Piiiiii—!


A sharp whistle pierced the air.

Security rushed over, and before I could resist, I was thrown out onto the public street.


“You idiots! Refusing a king like me—you’ll regret this!”


I could yell all I wanted. To people with no eye for greatness, it was pearls before swine.


But I wasn’t about to back down.

I hadn’t come here just to drink and party.

The most important thing in business is information.

Even rent collection was driven by information.

For big deals, it mattered even more.

And places like the King’s Club—where elites gathered—were gold mines of information.


I had to get inside.

Thrown out in my bright white suit, I headed straight for Pakdonald’s.


“Big Pack! One hundred and one!”


If it didn’t work once, I’d try again.

Whoever controls information controls business.

For that reason alone, I swallowed 101 burgers with desperation.

Then I returned to the King’s Club.

But whether I tried bribing the doorman or threatening him, I was kicked out every single time.


After several Time-Leaps, I finally gave up on the front entrance and headed for the back.

Once I was inside, the real VIPs—people who could recognize talent—would swarm around me.


I slipped in through the rear and crept toward a large window overlooking a gorgeous garden.

Jazz music and the clinking of glasses spilled out from inside.

As I crept closer, the window suddenly opened.

I ducked under it just in time.


“So? Any land coming up for sale that might interest me lately?”


Two men whispered, cigars in hand.


“Just between us—four hotels are being considered. The Biltmore, the Berkeley, the Roosevelt… and the Commodore.”


“The first three aren’t bad. But spare me the Commodore.”


“It used to be great. But since the economy tanked, the area’s crawling with homeless people. Honestly? It’s a garbage hotel. A real headache.”


The men laughed.

But my heart was pounding so hard I could hear it.


No way—

That hotel… for sale?


Before I knew it, I burst out of the bushes toward the entrance.

The doorman spotted me—covered in leaves and spiderwebs—and went pale.


“You! Did you sneak in? I’m calling the police this time!”


“Go ahead!”


I shoved aside a man walking toward me and took off running into the night.

The doorman rushed to the fallen man.


“Mr. Cornflake! Are you hurt?”


A man in an expensive suit with acorn-shaped eyes stared after me and muttered,


“…A hick.”


But I had no idea who he was.

In the darkness ahead, an old brick hotel came into view.


That—was my new palace.