His stride seems to become more of a menacing prowl though, as he begins to wave his small child-like hand in the air at protestors, who, from a distance boo, hiss and jeer him, above the sounds of bagpipes and assorted horns and clanging and banging.

Some of the protestors carry placards, while others lean against the handles of pushchairs, as bemused children, below, look upwards at parents, made strange by their shouted rage. The focus of their anger is an old white man, in the distance, who continues to prowl. It’s all the same to Donald, though, the name of the old white man, doing the prowling, with the small child-like hands and wispy straw-like hair.

It’s all the same to him as he glances towards them, placing the back of his child-like hand to his mouth and cursing them, mockingly, a smile drawing on his blood-orange face, and shrinking the pools of untanned white skin around his eyes, as he continues along the fairway. His head is drooping and shaking from side to side as he continues to laugh to himself.

It's still lowered, as he prowls past forty-two-year-old Secret Service agent, Nole Edward Remagen, detailed to protect the National Security Advisor, Donald’s golf partner today under the summer sun.

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