Donold J. Grump #33

VS

Storming the Beaches Pt. 1

Date: Present Day — The Oval Office, Late Afternoon

The room was packed.

Cameras rolled silently, their red lights glowing like distant embers. Rows of reporters filled the seats, their notepads open but untouched. All eyes were fixed on the two men behind the podium—President-elect Donold J. Grump, his tie too long, his face flushed with irritation, and Secretary of Defense-designate Pete Hoggs-Breath, who looked like he had spent the morning drinking coffee and the afternoon sweating it out.

“Look,” Donnie began, voice rising, “this whole thing is a distraction. It was an accident, okay? One of my guys, Michael—Michael "Waltzing" Matilda, you know him, great guy, fantastic—he accidentally added the wrong contact on Signal. It happens. It’s tech. That’s why I never trusted phones to begin with. Sometimes they just… add people.”

He let out a chuckle, waiting for the room to laugh with him. No one did.

Pete Hoggs-Breath leaned into the mic, voice hoarse and defensive. “And let’s not forget the real issue here, folks. Fake news. DEI gone wild. Russia—Russia—Russia—they’re always behind this stuff, or at least that’s what they want you to think. This Jeffrey Goldberg guy, total snake. He probably hacked in. Used woke spyware. Soros money. Chinese satellites. Jewish Space Lasers. Raking the forests. Did I forget anything? Oh yea, Russia, Russia, Russia!”

A hand went up in the third row. It belonged to Maya Lin, a veteran foreign correspondent from the New York Times.

“Secretary Hoggs-Breath,” she said clearly, “are you seriously suggesting the editor-in-chief of The Atlantic infiltrated your secure Signal group chat without anyone noticing? Including Vice President DJ Prancer and Secretary of State Marco Molino, who both remained silent despite seeing his name in the thread?”

Pete opened his mouth, but nothing came out. His jaw bobbed uselessly like a broken ventriloquist’s dummy.

Donnie grunted, waving his hand. “Nonsense. This is nonsense. The mission was fine. We struck the targets. Everything went off like clockwork. Nobody died that wasn’t supposed to, okay? It’s not a problem.”

The doors at the far end of the room opened.

Without announcement, without fanfare, he entered.

President JR Biden. He didn’t walk—he strode, like he had storms behind his eyes and nothing left to prove.

The room fell silent.

Cameras kept rolling, but no one dared speak.

Pete Hoggs-Breath turned to see who’d entered, and the moment his eyes met JR Biden’s, his whole body recoiled. A high-pitched squeal burst from his mouth—almost inhuman—and he collapsed backward in a heap, fainting like a child at the sight of the principal.

President JR Biden didn’t blink.

He stepped calmly to Pete’s crumpled form, knelt down, and touched his index finger to Pete’s temple.

“Get Woke,” he said softly. A small blue spark snapped through the air. Pete jolted upright, eyes wide, gasping like he’d surfaced from drowning.

Donnie stood frozen behind the podium. For the first time in years, his lips trembled. His hands, usually gripping something—a Diet Coke, a lectern, someone else’s shoulder—just hovered in midair, twitching.

President JR Biden turned toward him, his voice low and calm, carrying more weight than any headline.

“Donnie,” he said. “You never knew what sacrifice looked like. You treat this like it’s a game. Like the lives of soldiers are just chess pieces for your ego.”

Donnie didn’t answer. The silence grew heavy, a weight pressing down on the room.

JR stepped closer. “You, and him—” he pointed at Pete, who was still shaking—“you’re coming with me. No cameras. No speeches. Just the truth.”

He grabbed them both by the collars, one in each hand, and pulled them close.

“We’re going back. No malarkey. And if either of you screw around, I’ll leave you there. Permanently.”

Gasps rippled across the room.

The press didn’t know what to say. A few pens scribbled notes instinctively, but most reporters just stared, jaws slack.

Donnie opened his mouth, then closed it.

JR Biden didn’t wait for permission. He lifter their collars higher, forcing them to walk on their toes. He turned toward the closed French doors of the Oval Office—and they opened for him.

Not by hands. Not by staff. They simply opened.

As the trio walked thru the doorway their vision blurred as the door closed with a loud click behind them.

The French doors of the Oval Office sealed shut behind them with a soft click, like the closing of a vault.

Donnie looked around in confusion.

“Where are we?” he asked, nervously adjusting his too-long tie. “It’s dark. Damp. It smells like… wet socks and rusted pennies.”

Pete Hoggs-Breath clung to Donnie like a man trying to stay on dry land during a flood. “I thought you said we were going somewhere. Why does it smell like… history?”

President JR Biden stood in front of them, still gripping their shirt collars in each hand, calm as stone.

Pete whimpered. “This… this isn’t Omaha. Omaha’s in Nebraska. There’s no beach in Nebraska!”

JR Biden turned his head slowly toward Pete. “No, son. Not that Omaha.”

He glanced over his shoulder. "Donnie, does he know any of the ASEAN countries yet?"

The fog around them began to lift, just a little.

And then they heard it—the low, rolling rhythm of distant waves crashing, a steel hull groaning against the surf, the faint metallic chink of gear being fastened. From somewhere in the haze came the muffled voice of a soldier praying.

President Biden looked to Donnie, his gaze sharp. “Donnie, this is the one place where lies don’t make it past the waterline.”

Donnie’s face paled. “No, no no no… I thought we were going to… like… a reenactment or something.”

“I said you’re going back to school,” President Biden said flatly.

He didn’t wait for permission. With both collars still in hand, he dragged them forward. The fog thickened around them—then parted.

The sand hit their boots before their eyes registered what was happening.

They stood at the water’s edge. Cold, biting surf lapped at their ankles. The early morning sky above was painted in tones of gray, dimly lit by the coming dawn. The air was filled with tension—anticipation. They were standing on Omaha Beach, June 6th, 1944.

Behind them, a fleet of ships drifted forward, cutting through the mist like dark giants. Landing crafts peeled off from the larger vessels, slicing their way toward the surf. The hum of engines, the shouting of orders, the heavy thud of waves hitting steel—all of it came alive around them.

Donnie fell to his knees in the wet sand. “Oh my God. No. No, I don’t want to be here.”

Pete staggered backward, staring in horror. “We’re just gonna watch this, right? Just watch, right? From a distance? A reenactment? Like... with safety ropes?”

JR Biden’s voice was low and steady.

“Who said anything about watching?”

A loud clang rang out behind them.

Donnie and Pete turned.

They were no longer standing in the surf.

They were in a landing craft, packed shoulder to shoulder with twenty other men, barely more than boys, dressed in olive-drab uniforms soaked with sweat, seawater, and fear. Steel helmets rocked gently with each wave.

to be continued...

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Then you are richer than

"He Who is PU!"