Karoline Leaveitout #2

 Karoline’s Fall

Karoline Leaveitout practically skipped down the polished marble halls of the Executive Office Building, the small heels of her pumps clicking a cheerful rhythm.

Her heart was still pounding from the rush of standing beside President JR Biden at the podium — a real Founding Father! A man who actually cared about truth, about the country. He had treated her like a daughter, spoken gently, explained so clearly that tariffs were just taxes on the American people.

When he hugged her afterward and said, "Tell the truth, Karoline. Even when it's hard," she had sworn silently to do just that.

She opened her office door with a big, proud grin.

And froze.

Stevie Boot-Liquor was already inside, slouched in her chair, his muddy cowboy boots propped on her desk, leaving dirty scuffs across her official Grump Presidential Stationery.

His tie was loose, his shirt half-untucked, and he clutched a massive 64-ounce soda that sloshed as he jabbed a finger at her.

"What the hell was that, Karoline?" he barked.

Karoline blinked. “What—what do you mean?”

Stevie sat up straight, his face red and sweating like a Thanksgiving ham left too long in the oven.

"You told the truth out there! About tariffs! About prices going up! About the DOGE numbers being junk!"

He slammed the soda onto her desk, splattering cola across her papers.

Karoline’s face fell.

"But... but Stevie," she stammered, clutching her hands together, "isn’t that what we’re supposed to do? President JR Biden said—"

Stevie cut her off, sneering.

"President JR Biden?!" he mocked. "That antique? That relic?! Forget him. This is about Grump. This is about power. About winning."

He stood up, looming over her.

"If I sniffed your shoes right now, do you know what I would smell? Treason!" You think tellin’ the truth is gonna help us? We lost in 2020, Karoline. Stole the 2024 election by the skin of our teeth—barely scraped by thanks to Stevie Boot-Liquor’s patented B.S. Machine."

He thumped his chest proudly.

Karoline’s lower lip trembled.

"But if our agenda to make America Great Again is really so great, why do we have to keep repeating those same lies over and over? Even Peter Douchy from Faux Newz is starting to call me out in my lies. Faux News!

"And... and lying is wrong. It's one of the Ten Commandments. Thou shalt not bear false witness..."

Stevie laughed, loud and ugly.

"Darlin'," he drawled, "the Ten Commandments ain't a suggestion list. They're a checklist of things you gotta break if you wanna win in politics."

Karoline looked horrified.

Stevie stepped closer, lowering his voice like a sleazy preacher.

"You think your precious little honesty saved you today? Huh? It’s gonna destroy us. DOGE's savings numbers are fake. The tariffs are gonna gut the economy. MAGAland's already fallin’ apart faster than a Kmart bicycle in a hurricane."

He jabbed a finger into her shoulder.

"Only way we survive is if people believe. Believe the lies. Believe that Grump is savin’ 'em. Believe that Grump is their king."

Karoline gasped.

"K-King?" she stammered.

Stevie nodded solemnly.

"King Grump the First. It’s the only way, darlin’. Grump ain’t just a president anymore. He’s a movement. A messiah."

Karoline shook her head, trying to resist.

"But—"

Stevie smiled coldly.

"You want a job next week? You want your face on TV? Or you wanna be workin' the fry station at MAGA Burger?"

Karoline swallowed hard.

The sparkle that had been in her eyes after the press conference started to dim.

Slowly, like a puppet whose strings were being cut, she slumped into her chair.

Stevie leaned in close.

"Say it," he whispered.

Karoline stared at the desk.

"Say it."

A tear slid down her cheek.

And then, brokenly, she whispered:

"Grump... deserves to be King."

Stevie clapped his hands once, triumphant.

"Good girl. Now practice. Full sentence."

Karoline, her voice dead and mechanical, repeated:

"Grump is our king. Grump deserves to rule."

Stevie grinned like a hyena.

"Attagirl. See? Wasn’t so hard."

Karoline Leaveitout sat frozen in her chair, her whispered words —

"Grump is our king..." still hanging in the heavy, stale air of her office like a ghost.

Stevie Boot-Liquor loomed over her, grinning.

"One more thing, darlin'," he said, tipping his soda cup toward her like a priest offering a final blessing.
"Time for your shamin’."

Karoline blinked, confused.

"S-shaming?"

Stevie’s grin widened.

"Yep. Puritan style. Old school, baby. You told the truth on live TV, Karoline. You let the poison of honesty infect the faithful. So now, you gotta purge it. Publicly. Officially."

He leaned down, his breath hot and sticky like a swamp.

"The Freedom Caucus boys are waitin’. They’re gonna test your soul, girl. Gonna question you for hours until they believe you’re pure. Until they believe you’ve repented."

Karoline’s face drained of color.

"But—" she whimpered.

Stevie slammed his soda down again, splattering more sticky cola across her desk.

"No buts. You wanna work in this White House, you gotta crawl back into their good graces."

He pulled out his phone and tapped a few buttons.

"Oh, and we’re filmin’ the whole thing for MAGA-Patriot-Freedom-Faith TV. Real-time loyalty purification."

Karoline stared at him, tears welling up.

Stevie didn’t care. He grabbed her by the elbow, yanking her up.

"Let’s go, Judas," he muttered.

He dragged her down the hall, past aides who averted their eyes, past interns who snickered behind their hands.

When they reached the heavy oak doors of the Executive Conference Room, Stevie threw them open with a flourish.

Inside, the lights were dim, the air thick with the smell of old leather and burnt coffee.

Rows of men in MAGA hats and ill-fitting suits sat in a circle, chairs arranged like a tribunal. At the center was a wooden chair — solitary, exposed.

And standing at the door to greet her, arms open wide like a wolf welcoming a lamb, was Gumbo Gordon — the Freedom Caucus’ unofficial enforcer, a man with a handshake like a snapping turtle and a smile like a cracked gravestone.

"Well well well," Gumbo drawled in his syrupy Southern accent. "Look who we got here. Miss Truth-Teller herself."

Karoline shivered.

Gumbo grabbed her hand in his huge, meaty paw and squeezed just a little too hard.

"Don’t you worry now, sugar," he said, guiding her inside.

We’re just gonna talk. Just gonna ask you some questions. Over. And over. And over. Till we’re sure you’re good and proper again."

Stevie Boot-Liquor clapped her on the back hard enough to make her stumble.

"Be a good girl now," he chuckled.
"Smile for the cameras."

Karoline’s eyes darted around the room.

Cameras were everywhere — little blinking red dots on tripods, bodycams strapped to grim-faced Freedom Caucus members, even a giant MAGA-Patriot eagle emblem spinning slowly on the wall behind the chair.

She was shoved toward the center, toward the single wooden seat.

A voice from the circle barked:

"State your name for the record."

Karoline’s throat was dry.

She sat down heavily, staring into the dozen merciless faces around her.

"K-Karoline Leaveitout," she croaked.

Gumbo leaned forward, his grin widening.

"And what was your crime today, Miss Leaveitout?"

Karoline’s lip quivered.

"I... I told the truth."

The room exploded into jeers.

     "Truth ain't free, girl!"

     "You broke the sacred bond of loyalty!"

     "You weakened King Grump!"

Another voice boomed:

"Do you repent, Karoline?"

Tears streamed down her face.

"Y-yes... I repent."

The cameras zoomed in.

Stevie Boot-Liquor leaned against the wall, sipping from his giant soda, chuckling to himself.

It had begun.