Donold J. Grump #17

The Maga Logo "Victory" Gala

The grand ballroom of Maga Logo was drenched in excess. Chandeliers sparkled like a galaxy of stars above tables adorned with plates of shrimp towers and gold-leafed éclairs. At the center of it all, Donold J. Grump’s ego reigned supreme, reflected in every detail. A towering ice sculpture of Grump, arms crossed like a Roman emperor, presided over a room full of sycophants and opportunists. Above the stage, a massive banner unfurled that read: "JANUARY 6TH: THE REAL PATRIOTS' DAY."

Grump adjusted his golden crown as he took his place at the head table, dressed in his purple robe lined with faux ermine. His custom champagne flute—solid gold, of course—gleamed as he raised it high. Beside him sat Kash Kartel, Pam Blondi, Wiley E. Suzzi, and the night’s guests of honor, John Leastman and Michael Glynn. The table was arranged with precision—proximity to Grump signaled your level of loyalty.

“To victory!” Grump declared, his voice booming through the ballroom. “To a day that history will remember as tremendous!”

The room erupted in applause. Glasses clinked as Leastman and Pam Blondi exchanged a conspiratorial glance. Leastman leaned in, smug. “I told you, Pam. The committee was a joke. Nothing stuck.”

Pam laughed, swirling her drink. “What a circus. They thought they’d scare us with those officer testimonies? Hah! The real tragedy is they couldn’t afford better actors.”

Grump set down his glass with a loud clink and gestured to the room with a theatrical sweep of his arm. “Let’s talk about those so-called ‘heroes.’ The Capitol Police—what a bunch of weaklings.”

Michael Glynn let out a snort of laughter so loud it made the champagne bubbles ripple. “Right? Let’s start with Officer Nathaniel Hodges—the guy who slammed himself into a door! I mean, come on! That’s not bravery, that’s poor decision-making!”

The crowd burst into laughter. Grump mimed a cartoonish BANG! sound and stumbled backward dramatically. “What’s next? Running into a rake like a slapstick comedy?”

Pam Blondi stood, raising her glass. “And don’t forget Larry Dunn—the so-called gentle giant. Gentle? He spent more time virtue-signaling than actually doing his job. ‘Oh no, rioters! I need a therapy session!’ Pathetic.”

The crowd laughed as she pounded a toy gavel on the table. Grump’s grin widened as he leaned into the mic. “I bet he spent more time on his skincare routine than on riot control. And Larry Dunn—what kind of cop has a name that sounds like a country music singer?”

Michael Glynn shot to his feet, raising his arms like a preacher. “‘My Badge is Blue, but My Heart is Red!’”

The ballroom erupted in applause and laughter. Pam wiped a fake tear from her eye. “A Grammy-winning performance!”

John Leastman took the mic next, rubbing his hands together like a showman. “And Jack Fanone! Where do I even start?”

The crowd leaned in, eager.

“This guy shows up to testify wearing a leather jacket. I thought we’d accidentally wandered into an off-Broadway production of Grease!”

Grump laughed so hard he nearly knocked over his champagne flute. “He looked like he was auditioning for Sons of Anarchy!”

Pam picked up the bit. “Oh, poor Jack! Dragged into the mob, crying about it like a kid who lost his ice cream.” She pantomimed sobbing, her voice cracking. “Help me, Congress! They took my badge and dignity!”

Grump nodded, laughing so hard his crown tilted to one side. “I can just picture it: ‘Excuse me, hooligans, could you please not attack me?’ What did he think this was, a bake sale?”

The crowd howled. John Leastman raised his glass. “And then there’s Aquilinus Gonell, the human tear dispenser.”

Wiley E. Suzzi, still recovering from her Nose Candy debacle, shook her head dramatically. “This guy threw out his shoulder, and suddenly he’s a national treasure? That’s what you get for trying to block a bad vibe with your arm.”

Michael Glynn raised his hand. “I object, your honor! He’s guilty of overreacting!”

Pam slammed her toy gavel. “Sustained!”

Grump doubled over, pounding the table. “His shoulder hurts? I’ve had worse injuries from an afternoon golf game!”

The room roared with laughter.

John Leastman, basking in the glow of their adoration, took the stage like a gladiator. “Ladies and gentlemen, January 6th wasn’t an insurrection—it was an expression of patriotism! Those people—our people—were standing up for democracy.”

Grump clapped as the crowd rose to their feet, whistling and cheering. Sparky, the shimmering dragon only Grump could see, perched on his shoulder and flicked his tail. “Not bad, Donny. But remember, you’re the headliner here.”

Grump grinned, his crown slipping slightly as he stood. “You’re right, Sparky.”

Without waiting for Leastman to finish his grandiose speech, Grump clapped his hands twice. The stage lights shifted as two staff members wheeled out something covered in a velvet cloth. With a flourish, they pulled the cloth away to reveal cardboard cutouts of the Capitol Police officers:

• Nathaniel Hodges was depicted with a giant foam door strapped to his torso.

• Larry Dunn held a karaoke microphone and wore sunglasses.

• Jack Fanone’s cutout was draped in a fake leather jacket with a sign that read: “Rebel Without a Clue.”

• Aquilinus Gonell’s figure wore an exaggerated sling labeled “Property of Snowflake General Hospital.”

The crowd gasped before erupting into uncontrollable laughter.

Grump spread his arms wide. “Behold—the real villains of January 6th!”

Pam picked up her gavel again, slamming it on the table. “I call this trial to order!”

Michael Glynn jumped up. “Objection! These clowns are guilty of being whiny!”

The laughter swelled.

Grump leaned into the mic. “I sentence you all to... never being invited to Maga Logo!”

The applause was deafening. Champagne glasses clinked, and someone threw confetti shaped like bunny slippers into the air. The room pulsed with adoration.

As the band started up, Grump gestured dramatically. “Hit it!”

The first notes of “YMCA” rang out, and Grump strutted onto the dance floor. He raised his arms, forming the "Y" while flashing a grin. The crowd followed suit, forming the letters with drunken enthusiasm.

Pam leaned toward Michael Glynn and whispered, “Does he even know this is a gay anthem?”

Glynn shrugged. “MAGA doesn’t care about lyrics—they care about Donold.”

Grump twirled, pointing at random people as he sang along, oblivious to the irony. Sparky hovered above him, breathing imaginary fire over the dance floor.

As the final chorus ended, Grump took a bow and raised his champagne glass. His voice slurred slightly from the third round of "Victory Spritzers."

“To loyalty!” he cried. “To those who stood by me!” He paused dramatically. “And to those who didn’t—they’ll never have what we have. Ever!”

The room exploded into applause once more. Pam wiped fake tears from her eyes as John Leastman clapped furiously. Michael Glynn shouted, “Long live Donold!”

Sparky whispered in Grump’s ear. “Donny, you’ve outdone yourself. This is your greatest show yet.”

Grump smiled contentedly, adjusting his crown and lifting his glass. “Damn right.”