Donold J. Grump #9

Rainbows of Chaos

Donold J. Grump woke to the sound of frantic coughing and what felt like an invisible furnace blasting smoke directly into his face. He bolted upright in bed, clutching at his golden silk sheets.

“Wake up, Donny!” roared Sparky, perched on the foot of the bed. His translucent scales shimmered with agitation, his molten gold eyes narrowed. “This is a disaster!”

Grump blinked groggily, his head pounding. “What the hell are you yelling about, Sparky? It’s too early for this.”

“Too early?!” Sparky’s wings flared as smoke billowed from his snout. “Look at this place! It’s still gray, Donny. Bland! Dead! You promised we’d paint it, remember?”

Grump looked around, confused. The suite was just as it had been the day before: gilded walls, oversized furniture, and a sickeningly ostentatious chandelier. No paint. No colors. Just the same dull, lifeless gray that Sparky had condemned the night before.

“I thought we painted,” Grump muttered, rubbing his temple.

Sparky snorted a puff of smoke. “Does this look painted to you? Where’s the vibrancy? The life? The rainbows of greatness? You’re slacking, Donny, and I won’t stand for it!”

Grump swung his legs out of bed, groaning. He had no memory of the previous night, just a hazy recollection of yelling at staff and Sparky breathing fire on someone.

Staff Chaos

The morning buzzed with activity as various staff members shuffled in and out of the suite, trying to check on Grump’s well-being. They carried breakfast trays, fresh towels, and even a small box of morning briefs for him to ignore.

The first to enter was a young assistant named Trevor. Grump looked up at him, his eyes narrowing as Sparky growled softly.

“What’s with the blue?” Grump demanded, squinting at Trevor’s aura. “You look like a sad balloon.”

Trevor stammered. “I—I don’t know what you mean, sir. Just checking if you’re feeling—”

“Out!” Grump bellowed, pointing at the door. “Sparky doesn’t trust you, and neither do I. Get out before he roasts you alive!”

Trevor fled, nearly tripping over the carpet.

The next victim was a housekeeper who arrived to replace the linens. Sparky’s tail whipped furiously as he sniffed the air.

“Green!” Sparky hissed, his eyes narrowing. “Disloyal.”

“Green, huh?” Grump muttered. “I knew it! You’re probably plotting to steal my Diet Coke stash, aren’t you?”

The housekeeper blinked, baffled. “I—I just—”

“You’re fired!” Grump snapped, pointing to the door. “And don’t let Sparky catch you skulking around here again!”

One by one, staff members came and went, each chased off with accusations about their flickering or disloyal auras. By midmorning, the suite was eerily quiet, save for the occasional roar of Sparky’s imaginary fire.

Finally the paint was delivered. The staff had followed Grump’s bizarre orders to the letter, and now five-gallon buckets of paint in every imaginable color sat outside his suite. There was no sign of Alice, the staff member who had placed the order; word had spread that she’d quit after the chaos of the night before.

“About time!” Grump grumbled as he hauled the buckets into the suite himself. “Can’t trust anyone to do anything right these days.”

Sparky perched on the back of an armchair, eyeing the array of colors with approval. “Now this is more like it,” he said, his tail flicking excitedly. “You ready, Donny?”

“Born ready,” Grump said, cracking his knuckles.

He locked the door, sealing himself and Sparky inside.

The Game Begins

Sparky leapt from the armchair to a gilded statue of Grump himself, landing gracefully on its oversized nose. “Here’s how this works, Donny,” Sparky said, his voice low and serious. “I pick the spot. I breathe the color. You throw the paint.”

Grump grinned, already feeling a rush of excitement. “Sounds like a plan.”

“Good. First target: the statue. Color: red.”

Sparky opened his mouth, a shimmering cloud of imaginary red flame bursting forth and enveloping the statue. Grump grabbed a handful of red paint from one of the buckets and hurled it overhand, splattering the statue’s head in a chaotic burst of crimson.

“Nice form!” Sparky said, clapping his claws. “Next up: that portrait of you over the fireplace. Color: yellow.”

Grump switched tactics, scooping up a glob of yellow paint and launching it Frisbee-style. The paint splattered across the canvas, dripping over his portrait’s smug grin like molten gold.

“Now we’re getting somewhere!” Sparky roared with delight.

They continued their bizarre game for hours, Sparky hopping from one piece of furniture to another, each time breathing a new color. Grump alternated between underhand, overhand, and his improvised Frisbee motion, splattering the suite in every direction. Paint dripped from the chandelier, streaked down the curtains, and pooled on the marble floor.

The walls became a chaotic patchwork of colors—swirls of blue, streaks of orange, splashes of green. A once-pristine gilded mirror was now coated in purple, its reflective surface obliterated by Grump’s enthusiastic throws.

As the paint spread and mingled, something remarkable began to happen. Grump squinted at the dripping chaos, his eyes widening.

“Do you see it, Sparky?” he whispered. “Do you see the rainbows?”

Sparky nodded solemnly. “I see them, Donny. It’s beautiful.”

Grump stepped back, his bare feet squelching in a puddle of paint. The room shimmered in his mind’s eye, the colors swirling together to create an iridescent masterpiece. It was no longer a suite—it was a sanctuary, a place where loyalty and greatness reigned supreme.

“This is it,” Grump muttered, his voice hushed. “This is what true vision looks like.”

“Don’t stop now,” Sparky urged, his tail flicking toward a pristine corner of the ceiling. “We’ve got more to do.”

Grump grabbed another handful of paint, his energy renewed.

The Aftermath

By late afternoon, the suite was unrecognizable. Every surface dripped with paint, the air thick with the acrid scent of fresh pigment. Grump stood in the center of the room, his robe and skin splattered in every color of the rainbow.

He turned to Sparky, who perched triumphantly on the paint-slicked chandelier. “We did it, Sparky,” Grump said, his chest puffed with pride. “This is our masterpiece.”

Sparky grinned, his fiery eyes gleaming. “You’re an artist, Donny. A true visionary. Jackson Pollock would fall on his knees if he saw your masterpiece, crying at his inferiority.”

Grump nodded, surveying the dripping walls with satisfaction. He didn’t care what anyone else thought. He had made something extraordinary, something uniquely his own.

And if anyone dared question his vision? Well, Sparky would take care of them.