Greg Gutless #1

The Christmas Party

Greg Gutless adjusted his ill-fitting tuxedo and glanced nervously at the dessert tray. He had been sitting at the Faux Newz table for what felt like an eternity, nodding along to Shawn Vanity’s endless monologue about ratings domination and perfect hair products. Greg envied Shawn’s effortless charm, his commanding presence, and his ability to reduce everyone around him to sycophantic putty. Compared to Shawn, Greg felt invisible, a short, stocky blob of inadequacy.

But tonight, Greg had a plan. He was going to impress Shawn Vanity and, by extension, everyone else at Faux Newz. “Play it cool,” Greg thought to himself. “No need to bring up Mom.”

As Shawn returned to the table after greeting Donold Grump, Greg practically leapt to his feet. “Shawn! That was… wow! The way Grump smiled at you… incredible, really.”

Shawn raised an eyebrow. “Well, he knows greatness when he sees it,” he replied, smoothing his perfectly coiffed hair. “So, Greg, what’s your angle tonight? Any zingers for the libs?”

Greg’s mind went blank. “Oh, uh, well, I was thinking about… um… maybe something about… Bernie Sanders and free dentures?”

Shawn’s expression didn’t change, but Greg thought he saw a flicker of pity. “Sure, buddy. Run with that.” Shawn turned to talk to Laura Ding-Dong, effectively dismissing Greg, who sat down, deflated.

Greg slumped in his chair, feeling his confidence drain away like air from a punctured balloon. He could practically hear his mother’s voice echoing in his head. Why didn’t you study harder, Gregory? You could’ve been someone important! Instead, you’re cracking jokes about politicians on cable news.

Then the desserts arrived.

Greg eagerly dug into the chocolate mousse, its rich flavor masking the sinister mix of Nose Candy and mushrooms hidden within. As he finished the last bite, the room began to shimmer and warp. Colors brightened unnaturally, and the chandelier above seemed to twist into a writhing serpent of light. Greg shook his head, trying to clear his vision, when a deep, booming voice froze him in his chair.

“Gregory Nathaniel Gutless!”

He looked up. There, towering over him, was his mother, Hillary Gutless. She was fifteen feet tall, her head bobbing on her neck like a grotesque Jack-in-the-box. Her eyes blazed with maternal disappointment, and her mouth twisted into a sneer that sent shivers down Greg’s spine.

“Look at you! Sitting there like a lump! I had to call in every favor to get you that job, and this is how you repay me? Making fun of Bernie Sanders? Pathetic!”

“M-mom?” Greg stammered.

“Don’t you ‘mom’ me! You could’ve been a doctor, a lawyer, even a Rabbi! But no, you flunked out of college, and now you’re some low-rent insult comic for Faux Newz!” Her voice reverberated through the ballroom, though no one else seemed to notice.

Greg tried to defend himself, but his words were drowned out by the chaos erupting around him. Stevie Boot-Liquor sprinted past, crouched low and muttering, “Rabbits! Gotta catch the rabbits!” He dove under the table, his sniffing loud and exaggerated.

Before Greg could react, Kash Kartel barreled into him, screaming, “Spider! It’s on me! Get it off!” Shawn Vanity, perched on Kash’s back like a deranged knight, bellowed, “Fear not, fair maiden! I shall vanquish the beast!” The two toppled into Greg, sending him sprawling to the floor.

Greg groaned, pushing himself up just in time to see his mother brandishing a long wooden spoon. She swung it like a baseball bat, her giant form looming closer. “I’ll teach you to embarrass me, Gregory!” she roared.

Greg dove under the table, curling into a ball as tears streamed down his face. “I’m sorry, Mom! I’ll do better! I promise!” he sobbed, his humiliation complete when he realized he had wet his pants.

He couldn’t stay under the table forever. The spoon swung wildly above, and the sight of Stevie gnawing on a table leg did little to reassure him. In a moment of desperation, Greg bolted from his hiding place, sprinting across the ballroom.

The crowd parted as Greg ran, his disheveled tuxedo flapping behind him. He reached the edge of the pool, hesitated for a brief second, then launched himself into the water with a graceless belly flop. The cold shock snapped him out of his hallucination momentarily, though he could still hear his mother’s voice faintly in the distance.

“Gregory! You get out of that pool this instant!”

Greg surfaced, sputtering and gasping for air. The room swam back into focus, the hallucinations fading but leaving him drenched, humiliated, and oddly relieved. For the first time in hours, the weight of his mother’s towering judgment was lifted—if only because she wasn’t actually there.

As Greg climbed out of the pool, dripping and defeated, he heard the unmistakable voice of Donold Grump approaching. Grump strolled into the pool area, his robe billowing dramatically behind him, and Sparky perched on his shoulder, flicking its iridescent tail. To Greg’s shock, Sparky turned its glimmering head and locked eyes with him.

“Well, look at this,” Grump declared, gesturing toward Greg with a grand flourish. “My very own court jester, soaking wet. Sparky, what do you make of him?”

The dragon grinned wickedly, its teeth gleaming. “He’s pathetic,” Sparky rasped. “Let’s dry him off, Donny. Shall I?”

Greg’s eyes widened as Sparky’s throat began to glow with a fiery red light. “Wait! No! That’s not necessary!” he sputtered, backing away.

“Do it, Sparky!” Grump commanded, clapping his hands in delight.

Sparky reared back, inhaled deeply, and exhaled a stream of imaginary fire. To Greg, the heat felt all too real. He yelped and scrambled out of the pool area, his wet shoes squeaking loudly on the tile.

“Run, little jester, run!” Sparky cackled as Greg bolted through the nearest door, disappearing into the night.

Grump chuckled, patting Sparky on the head. “Ah, Sparky, you always know how to liven things up.”