Donold J. Grump #19

The Night Before

The chandelier in Donold J. Grump’s suite at Maga Logo swayed slightly as the ceiling fans churned the humid Florida air. The room was quiet except for the soft hum of the television broadcasting yet another panel discussing his upcoming court appearance. The words “historic sentencing” scrolled across the bottom of the screen.

Grump sat in his oversized armchair, clad in a silk bathrobe embroidered with the word “Winner” in gold letters. He held a half-empty soda bottle in one hand and stared blankly at the screen, his face flushed with a mix of anger and dread.

“I can't believe this,” Grump muttered, wiping his forehead with the sleeve of his robe. His voice cracked slightly. “Tomorrow, they’re going to stand there and pretend I’m some kind of criminal mastermind. Like I’m the bad guy.” He exhaled, long and loud. “I didn’t do anything! Nothing! They’re all frauds! The judge, the jury, the press—”

“Spare me,” Sparky interrupted, swooping in from the corner of the room. His iridescent wings shimmered under the dim light, a kaleidoscope of shifting colors. He landed on the back of Grump’s chair, his tiny claws digging into the plush fabric. “You signed thirty-four checks, Donny. You think people don’t notice stuff like that?”

Grump’s eyes widened. He swatted at the air near Sparky but missed by a mile. “Oh, come on! Everyone signs checks! Big deal! I sign thousands of things. Nobody knows what they’re signing all the time.”

Sparky narrowed his golden eyes. “Really? Because you’re the same guy who bragged for years that you notice everything. Remember that? You even said you could spot a smudge on a marble column from fifty feet away.”

“That’s different!” Grump shot back, setting the bottle down with a clatter. “That’s décor! Important stuff!”

Sparky folded his wings and sighed. “So…the checks you signed to reimburse Cohen for hush-money payments weren’t important?”

Grump’s mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air. He finally settled on, “It’s all fake! Fake news! Fake charges! Total lawfare!” He leaned forward, clutching his knees. “It’s a witch hunt! They’ve been after me for years! It’s all political!”

Sparky cocked his head, unimpressed. “Let’s say for a second it’s political. That doesn’t make it untrue. Two things can be real at once, Donny. Maybe they hate you. But you still signed those checks. You still falsified the records.”

Grump’s face reddened further. He slammed his fist on the armrest. “I didn’t falsify anything! I’m a businessman, not a bookkeeper!”

Sparky snorted, sending a puff of glittering smoke into the air. “Yeah? And what kind of businessman just signs checks blindly? You love control. You love attention. But now we’re supposed to believe you turned into Mr. Carefree when it came to a few hundred grand in hush money?”

Grump stood and began pacing the room, gesturing wildly as he talked. “Nobody cares about this stuff! Regular people don’t care! They care about gas prices! They care about the border!” He pointed toward the window as if the border were visible from Florida.

Sparky flapped over to the mantel, landing with a soft thud. “Oh, please. Regular people care about integrity. You convinced a lot of them that you were untouchable, but now they’re watching you scramble like a rat in a maze.”

Grump paused mid-step, blinking furiously. His lower lip trembled slightly. “It’s not fair. This whole thing—it’s just… cruel.” He sat back down heavily, the chair groaning under his weight. “Lawfare. Even I admit it’s a fake word. I made it up to make them sound bad.”

Sparky arched a brow. “You admit it’s nonsense, but you’re still upset they’re holding you accountable?”

Grump leaned back, defeated. “Nobody was supposed to hold me accountable,” he mumbled. “I’m Donold J. Grump! The ratings king! The dealmaker!” His hands spread out as though summoning applause. “I was supposed to ride the golden escalator forever…”

Sparky hopped down onto the coffee table, his expression softening. “Donny… you built your empire on lies. At some point, the lies catch up.”

Grump buried his face in his hands. “I didn’t lie. I embellished.”

Sparky sat back on his haunches. “Thirty-four embellished checks?”

Grump groaned. “Okay…fine. Maybe a little more than embellished.” He rubbed his eyes, then sat up straight, regaining a shred of his old bravado. “But does anyone care about that? What about my speeches? The jobs I brought back? The hat sales!” He glanced toward his closet, where rows of red hats were neatly stacked. “Doesn’t that count for something?”

Sparky’s wings fluttered gently. “The speeches were fun. The hats were…something.” He perched near Grump’s shoulder. “But people remember integrity. And tomorrow, they’ll remember whether you took responsibility or blamed everyone else.”

Grump snorted bitterly. “I didn’t come this far to cry on camera.” He paused. “Well…not unless it makes me look sympathetic.”

Sparky gave him a long look. “Crying won’t change the truth.”

Grump’s mind wandered to the tax records, the financial statements that prosecutors had pored over. He’d never expected anyone to care about the numbers behind the bluster. “Who even reads tax forms?” Grump muttered aloud.

“Tax auditors do,” Sparky replied dryly. “Remember how you bragged you were a ‘genius’ for paying so little in taxes? You thought you could rewrite the rules forever.”

Grump clenched his fists. “It’s not like anyone else wasn’t doing it! Everyone finds loopholes!”

“Loopholes,” Sparky echoed, his wings fluttering. “Sure. Except you didn’t just find a loophole—you created a whole canyon. Mislabeling hush-money reimbursements as legal expenses? That’s not a loophole—that’s fraud.”

Grump’s lips pressed into a thin line. The word fraud hung in the air like smoke after a fire. He hated that word—it made him feel small, like some petty con man instead of a mogul.

“You wrote those checks knowing what they were for,” Sparky pressed, his tone gentler now. “And when you marked them down as business expenses, that wasn’t just sloppy—it was intentional. You wanted to make it look legitimate to dodge taxes.”

Grump finally met Sparky’s gaze. “So what? They’re acting like I bankrupted the country.”

Sparky’s wings dimmed to a soft gold as he perched beside Grump’s chair. “It’s not about the amount, Donny. It’s about the principle. You told people you’d fight for them, but you fought for yourself. And now they’re seeing it.”

The TV blared with another panel of legal analysts dissecting the case.

*“This is unprecedented,”* one commentator said. “The charges go beyond falsified business records—there’s clear evidence of tax fraud. The prosecution’s case hinges on whether Grump knowingly intended to defraud.”

Grump turned the volume down, his face pale. “They make it sound like I’ve got some master plan.”

Sparky gave a small, humorless laugh. “If you’d had a master plan, you wouldn’t be sitting here with ketchup-stained walls.”

Grump’s eyes drifted to the wall, where the dried streaks of ketchup looked like the remnants of a crime scene. The red drips felt like a countdown clock, ticking toward his fate.

“Do you think they’ll let me say something tomorrow?” Grump asked quietly.

Sparky’s glow dimmed further. “That depends. What would you say?” Grump opened his mouth but then closed it. He wasn’t sure. For the first time, the words that usually came so easily felt like ash in his throat.

He reached for another ketchup bottle, then stopped himself. Instead, he folded his hands in his lap, staring ahead at nothing in particular.

“Maybe I’ll just wing it,” he muttered, trying for a weak smile.

Sparky tilted his head. “Classic Donny.”

The suite grew quiet again. On the screen, the courthouse steps filled with reporters, their cameras already waiting for tomorrow’s spectacle.

“Tomorrow’s going to be rough,” Sparky whispered.

Grump exhaled slowly. “Yeah,” he replied. “But at least tonight…it’s just us.”

Sparky perched beside him, his iridescent glow casting faint colors on the floor. They sat in silence as the truth settled between them, the weight of the moment pressing down like the humid Florida night.