Blondi, Pam Blondi #2

The Dragon's Counsel

The private suite in Maga Logo looked like a fever dream come to life. The walls dripped with rainbow paint, thick rivulets running in chaotic patterns where Donold J. Grump and Sparky had flung it from five-gallon buckets the night before. The furniture, including the ornate four-poster bed, was splattered with paint, the upholstery ruined beneath layers of garish color. Even the golden MAGA lamp on the nightstand bore streaks of green and pink, its once-pristine base unrecognizable.

Donold lounged in the center of it all like an artist admiring his masterpiece—or, perhaps, the masterpiece himself. He sat cross-legged on the bed, wearing a silk robe that was as splattered as the room. His hands and face were still smeared with paint, giving him the appearance of a child caught in an art class gone awry. A tray of breakfast sat before him, piled high with eggs, bacon, and, naturally, a generous heap of sautéed mushrooms.

“Sparky,” he said with his mouth full, gesturing toward an empty corner of the room, “you’re a genius. Absolute genius. The walls are alive! ALIVE!” He laughed, leaning back into the chaos of pillows, most of which bore handprints and streaks of paint from last night’s activities.

The imaginary dragon darted through the air, a shimmering figure that only Donold could see. “I know, I know,” he continued, as if responding to a voice only he could hear. “She’s here, but let’s give her a minute. Poor Pammy’s not ready for the magic.”

At that moment, Pam Blondi stepped through the double doors, her black heels clicking against the marble floor. Her sharp, tailored pantsuit stood in stark contrast to the vibrant anarchy of the room. She paused just inside the suite, her blue eyes narrowing as she took in the scene—the dripping walls, the ruined furniture, the President-Elect eating breakfast like a monarch presiding over a circus.

“Pammy!” Grump exclaimed, waving her over with a fork dripping with egg yolk. “You’re just in time. Sparky’s been dying to meet you again. He likes you, you know. Says you’ve got an aura like no one else. Sit, sit!” He patted the edge of the paint-smeared bed.

Pam hesitated, her eyes flicking to the invisible dragon that was now circling her head—or so Donold claimed. She stepped carefully toward a small section of floor that appeared untainted by paint and placed her leather briefcase on the nearest chair. “Mr. President-Elect,” she began, her tone as crisp as her appearance, “I see you’ve been busy redecorating.”

Donold grinned, picking up a mushroom from his plate and popping it into his mouth. “Busy? No, no, Pammy. Inspired. Sparky and I threw a little color on the place. We wanted it to feel... alive. Doesn’t it feel alive?”

Pam glanced at the walls, where a particularly thick glob of purple paint was oozing downward. “It certainly feels... something,” she replied diplomatically. “But I assume you called me here to discuss something more important than your creative endeavors.”

Grump waved his hand dismissively, nearly knocking over his coffee cup. “Of course, of course! Sparky and I have been brainstorming. Big plans, Pammy. Big dragons to slay. And guess what? Sparky says your aura is... complicated.” His eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward, scrutinizing her as if he could see something beyond her sharp exterior. “Loyalty to me,” he said slowly, “but also... to the Constitution.” He leaned back, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “Pammy, Pammy, Pammy. That’s gotta change. Constitution’s just a piece of paper. I’m the real deal.”

Pam stiffened slightly but kept her expression neutral. “My loyalty is to you, Mr. President-Elect,” she said. “Always.”

Grump nodded, as if her words had restored his good mood. “Good. Sparky likes that answer.” The imaginary dragon swooped low, apparently circling Pam’s head once more, before landing beside Grump on the bed. “Now, let’s get down to business. Those three traitors—Hollins, Kirkowski, and Tomney. They stabbed me in the back during my first term. What have you got on them?”

Pam opened her briefcase with practiced precision, pulling out a manila folder. She ignored the nonexistent dragon’s “smoky breath” that Grump claimed was now puffing around her. “Senators Hollins, Kirkowski, and Tomney,” she said, flipping open the file. “I’ve started compiling dossiers. Hollins has some questionable family financial dealings. Kirkowski’s ties to Alaska lobbyists could be leveraged. Tomney... well, he’s cultivated a squeaky-clean image, but there are cracks.”

Grump’s eyes gleamed with delight. “Cracks? Pammy, I don’t want cracks—I want craters. Hollins, we’ll blow her family’s skeletons out of the closet. Kirkowski? Let’s make her look like she’s selling Alaska to the highest bidder. And Tomney…” He grinned wickedly. “Let’s call him Tomney the Turncoat. The media will eat it up.”

Pam scribbled notes in her legal pad, her pen moving swiftly. “I’ll handle it,” she said. “Strategic leaks to the media, anonymous sources—everything will appear authentic. But I’ll need time to craft credible narratives. These can’t look like retaliation.”

Grump waved her concerns away, his hand smearing a streak of yellow paint across his cheek. “Don’t worry about it, Pammy. Just make the fireworks big enough to distract everyone. Sparky says it’s all about the spectacle.”

Pam flipped to another page in her folder. “There are also the two federal judges you mentioned,” she said. “Elena Castor and Robert Finch. Castor’s record is flawless, but her husband’s business dealings might raise some eyebrows. Finch is an outspoken critic of your administration, which makes him an easier target.”

Grump nodded, his grin widening. “Perfect. Castor’s husband—what if he’s funneling money to some shady group? Finch? Let’s say he’s taking bribes. Judges can’t survive that kind of scandal.”

Pam looked at him steadily. “Judges are different from senators, Mr. President-Elect. Their lifetime appointments mean these allegations need to be ironclad. If they aren’t, it could backfire.”

Grump shook his head, laughing. “Pammy, you’re such a worrier. Sparky says not to overthink it. Just make it big. The bigger the lie, the more they’ll believe it.”

Pam closed her briefcase with a decisive snap and stood. “I’ll get to work immediately,” she said, her tone cool. “But remember, Mr. President-Elect—dragons, even imaginary ones, can turn on their masters if they’re not careful.”

Grump stared at her for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he burst into laughter, slapping the bed. “Sparky says you’re just being dramatic, Pammy. But I like it. You’ve got flair.” He leaned back against the rainbow-splattered headboard, still chuckling. “Go on. I want those traitors squirming by next week.”

As Pam left the room, she allowed herself a small smile. The stakes were high, but she thrived under pressure. Behind her, Grump’s laughter echoed, punctuated by his commentary to Sparky, who, for all she knew, might have been whispering about her next move.