Donold J. Grump #16

The Greatest New Year’s Eve That Never Happened

The grand ballroom at Maga Logo was an ode to excess. Gold streamers dangled like tinsel from every chandelier, life-size ice sculptures of Grump posed like a victorious gladiator glistened near the buffet, and an oversized countdown clock loomed over the dance floor, its glowing numbers flashing with unnecessary menace.

In the center of it all stood Donold J. Grump, resplendent in his finest purple robe lined with faux ermine and his custom adult diaper with his own grinning face as the logo stamped across the back. He’d worn the special "deluxe edition" tonight—it sparkled when the light hit it just right.

Grump surveyed the room from the dais, his golden throne glittering behind him. The tables were impeccably set, champagne fountains bubbled, and golden bunny slipper party favors adorned every plate. It should have been the greatest party of the century.

Yet...

The room was completely empty.

Grump’s smile faltered. “Sparky... where is everyone?”

Sparky, the shimmering, rainbow-scaled dragon of Grump’s mushroom-fueled hallucinations, perched smugly on the armrest of the throne. His molten gold eyes narrowed as he scanned the room.

“They’ve lost their way, Donny,” Sparky rasped. “But don’t you worry. You’ve got Stevie Boot-Liquor.”

Grump sighed dramatically. “Oh great. One loyal sycophant crawling around sniffing my shoes. What kind of party is that?”

As if on cue, the ballroom doors swung open, and Stevie Boot-Liquor crawled in on his hands and knees, his nose inches from the carpet. His glasses slipped down his nose as he sniffed his way toward the dais.

“Mr. President-elect!” Stevie cried, raising his hands to the heavens as if delivering an aria. “Your greatness fills this room!”

Grump folded his arms. “Stevie, where is everyone? Kash, Pam, Wiley, my family!”

Stevie scrambled to his feet, clutching a clipboard nervously. “Well, sir... I have updates.”

Grump leaned forward expectantly.

Stevie adjusted his glasses. “Kash Kartel had a death in the family. A cousin was climbing the Matterhorn.”

Grump blinked. “The Matterhorn? That’s in Disneyland. He couldn’t just ride the Skyway over to Fantasyland and call me?”

Stevie cleared his throat. “Sir, the real Matterhorn. In Switzerland.”

Grump huffed. “Pfft. Same thing.”

Stevie continued. “Pam Blondi is deep in the Amazon jungle.”

Grump raised an eyebrow. “What’s she doing? Shopping for Prime deals?”

“No, sir. She’s tracking drug smugglers.”

Grump scoffed. “If she wanted drugs, she could’ve just called me. I’ve got the best suppliers.”

Stevie winced and moved on. “Wiley E. Suzzi is recovering from her... um... incident.” He held up a doctor’s note. “Her physician said she needs time away from... powdered substances.”

Grump snatched the note and skimmed it. “Recovering my foot! This looks like it was written by a squirrel with a pen taped to its tail!”

Stevie shuffled awkwardly. “And, uh, Egon Tusk and Vivek Swamirami are in India celebrating Bada Din.”

Grump’s face flushed with anger. “Bada Din?! What the hell is that? Sounds like some kind of spicy goat stew!”

Stevie whispered, “It’s... Christmas, sir.”

Grump threw his arms up. “Christmas?! In India?! Traitors!” He stomped up to the throne and plopped into the cushions, his robe flaring out dramatically. “Egon thinks he’s so great with his stupid Zitter. Two billion users! Who cares? I have True Socialist!”

Stevie nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, sir! Two million loyal patriots!”

Grump narrowed his eyes. “That’s a power base, Stevie.”

Sparky grinned. “It’s like comparing a kiddie pool to the Pacific Ocean. But hey, you’ve got spirit!”

Grump pouted. “It’s not about size... It’s about loyalty!”

Grump sprang to his feet. “Fine! We don’t need those phonies!” He jabbed a finger toward Stevie. “Get every maid, busboy, cook, and maintenance worker. I want this ballroom packed! If they don’t show, I’ll revoke their H1B visas faster than you can say ‘Space Invaders.’”

Stevie saluted and scurried off. Moments later, bewildered staff members shuffled into the ballroom—still in their work uniforms. A group of dishwashers clutched their aprons nervously, while two maids held feather dusters as if they were shields. A few homeless individuals had also been rounded up from the parking lot and led inside, still wearing layers of mismatched coats that smelled suspiciously of hot dog water.

The orchestra struck up the opening notes of “YMCA,” and Grump’s frown finally turned into a triumphant smile.

“Now this is what loyalty looks like!” Grump declared, throwing his arms wide as he strutted toward the dais.

The staff and homeless guests exchanged confused glances but began half-heartedly forming the letters in the air.

Grump’s glittering crown tilted slightly as he took his seat on the golden throne. “Bring out the food!” he bellowed. “Roast turkey! Filet mignon! And where’s my dessert cart?!”

A waiter stood cautiously. “Sir... you ordered us to be guests... we’re supposed to be... sitting.”

Grump’s eye twitched. “YOU’RE WHAT?”

The waiter gestured helplessly. “You told us to attend.”

Grump slammed his fist down, sending the gravy boat centerpiece wobbling. “NO! You work! NOW!”

The waitstaff sprang to their feet, scrambling toward the kitchen.

Grump leaned toward Sparky, snickering. “Burn them alive, Sparky.”

The rainbow-scaled dragon sprang into the air, breathing invisible flames.

“FLAME ON!” Grump shouted gleefully, flapping his arms to mimic Sparky’s wings.

A busboy screamed, “THE FIRE IS IN MY SOUL!” and dove under the dessert table.

A homeless guest yelled, “MY SHOES ARE MELTING!” and kicked them off, sending one sailing into the champagne tower. Glasses toppled like dominos as the bubbly flooded the floor.

Stevie ran forward, waving his arms. “Sir! Sir! These are your employees! If they’re guests, they can’t serve the food!”

Grump froze mid-laugh, his eyes narrowing. “...What are you saying, Stevie?”

Stevie smiled nervously. “Maybe... they should go back to work?”

Grump pondered this, then nodded decisively. “YES! Back to work!” He jabbed a finger. “And dock their pay for wasting my time!”

The staff sighed and rushed to their stations. Stevie mopped his brow with his sleeve.

Grump sat down, grumbling. “Ungrateful idiots. They wouldn’t know loyalty if it danced in front of them in bunny slippers.” He grabbed a burrito stuffed with glowing mushrooms and a slice of pecan pie dusted with Nose Candy.

Sparky hovered, licking his chops. “That pie looks insane.”

Grump took a massive bite, crumbs tumbling onto his robe. “Best... pie... EVER.”

Within moments, the room twisted around him. The chandeliers danced, the walls rippled like gelatin, and Grump blinked as familiar figures strode in through the doors.

“Kash? Pam? Wiley? Mickey Johnston?!” Grump’s eyes widened. “And... Egon Tusk and Vivek Swamirami?!”

Sparky cackled. “They’re really here, Donny!”

Grump jumped to his feet and pointed dramatically. “TRAITORS!”

Two imaginary Secret Service agents appeared, dragging Egon and Vivek toward a trapdoor in the floor. The hatch opened, revealing a pit with a gigantic Komodo dragon lounging below, its tongue flicking in anticipation.

Grump grinned. “Time to feed the beast!”

Vivek screamed as she tumbled into the pit. The Komodo dragon snapped its jaws with a CRUNCH! A belch rumbled through the ballroom.

Grump applauded. “A belch for approval! Classic!”

Egon tried to run but tripped on his imaginary sandals. The dragon lunged, clamping down on his torso. Egon flailed his feet wildly before disappearing down the beast’s throat.

Grump sat back down, adjusting his crown. Sparky perched beside him, nodding with approval.

“That,” Sparky said, “was a masterpiece.”

Grump smiled contentedly and pulled out his phone. He typed with flourish:

“New Year’s party was a total success. Best Komodo Dragon Dance-off ever. #GrumpWinsAgain”

He hit post, leaned back, and sighed. “I’m a genius.”

The room swirled with imaginary fireworks as Grump toasted himself.