Lance Goodboy #1

The Fall of Lance Goodboy

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, their harsh glow reflecting off the metal table where Congressman Lance Goodboy sat alone.

His hands fidgeted in his lap, his knee bouncing slightly, but his face remained calm.

Outwardly, he was collected.

Inwardly, his mind was racing.

He had gone over the sequence of events a dozen times already.

• He saw the protesters.

• He saw the sign.

• He knew Grump said "Woke is Dead."

• He knew that sign needed to be destroyed.

• And so, he did what needed to be done.

• He was just defending the truth.

• He was just following orders.

• He was just standing up for the American taxpayer.

So why the hell was he sitting here in an interrogation room?

The door clicked open.

In walked his lawyer—a tall, silver-haired man in an expensive suit, “Slick” Willie Thompson.

Willie set his briefcase on the table, flipped it open, and let out a long sigh.

“Lance,” he said slowly. “You have screwed up.”

Lance snorted, leaning back in his chair.

“Screwed up? Willie, buddy, I didn’t screw up. I did what Grump would have wanted.”

Willie rubbed his temples. “That’s your defense?”

Lance shrugged.

“The DEI hire was holding a blasphemous sign." He smirked. "She’s lucky I didn’t rip it up and throw it in her face.”

Willie winced.

Lance crossed his arms.

“What kind of Christian goes around calling Jesus ‘woke’? That’s sacrilege, Willie! And in front of the Capitol, no less! I couldn’t let that stand.”

Willie took a deep breath.

“Lance... that ‘DEI hire’ wasn’t some random protester.”

Lance chuckled. “Sure she was.”

Willie folded his hands together, bracing himself.

“Her name was Reverend Mary Johnson. Leader of the Greater Faith Baptist Church. One of the largest congregations in Texas. Over 50,000 members.”

Lance’s smirk faltered.

He sat up slightly.

Willie watched the color drain from his face.

“You assaulted one of the most influential pastors in the country. On camera. In front of hundreds of witnesses.”

Lance swallowed.

“Well… I mean… she’ll get over it. That’s what Christians do, right? Forgive?”

Willie’s expression darkened.

“She’s not ‘getting over it,’ Lance. She's “over it”, completely”

Lance smirked again, trying to regain control.

“You mean she already out of the hospital?” He clapped his hands together. “She forgave me? See? I told you she was fine. Probably just a little bump.”

Willie stared at him.

“No, Lance.”

Lance rolled his eyes.

“Oh, come on, what? She got a headache? She wants to sue? I’ll send a nice apology letter, maybe donate to her church, make a little speech about how much DOGIE is saving taxpayers.”

Willie stayed silent.

Lance kept going.

“Maybe I’ll even show up at her service—shake some hands, kiss some babies. People love a redemption story.”

Willie’s jaw clenched.

“Lance.”

Lance grinned. “Yeah?”

Willie exhaled sharply.

“I said she’s not in the hospital anymore.”

Lance leaned back, triumphant.

“I heard you the first time. There, see! I knew it was nothing. She’s fine.”

Willie’s eyes turned cold.

“No, Lance. She’s in the morgue.”

Silence.

Lance froze.

His fingers twitched slightly.

“…What?”

Willie leaned in, lowering his voice.

“The edge of the sign hit her temple just right. It caused a brain aneurysm. She collapsed an hour after the incident. She was rushed to the hospital but… she didn’t make it.”

Lance couldn’t move.

The room suddenly felt smaller.

A ringing filled his ears.

His hands gripped the table.

“No.”

Willie nodded grimly.

Lance’s breath quickened.

“That’s not— I didn’t— It was just a sign!”

Willie flipped open his briefcase and pulled out a stack of printed screenshots.

“Tell that to the thirty different camera angles.”

He spread them out across the table.

Lance stared in horror.

Every image was the same.

• Him.

• Ripping the sign.

• The struggle.

• The moment the wooden edge struck her temple.

And then, the final frame—

Reverend Mary collapsing to the ground. 

Lance was shaking now.

His mouth opened, closed, then opened again.

“B-But it was her fault! She shoved the sign in my face!”

Willie rubbed his forehead.

“Lance. Every video shows you as the aggressor. You grabbed the sign. You pulled it. You struggled with her. And now?”

Willie gestured at the photos.

“She’s dead.”

Lance stared at the pictures, his world collapsing.

“…Oh, God.”

Willie stood up, closing his briefcase.

“I can’t defend you, Lance.”

Lance snapped his head up.

“What?”

Willie straightened his tie.

“I’ve done a lot of dirty cases. Defended some real scumbags. But even I have a line.”

He turned toward the door.

Lance jumped up, knocking over his chair.

“Willie, wait! You can spin this! It was an accident!”

Willie paused at the door.

“Maybe it was.”

He turned back, his eyes cold.

“But you’re a preacher, right? Tell me—how do you think God sees it?”

Lance felt his knees buckle.

Willie knocked on the door.

The guard opened it.

Willie stepped out without looking back.

The door slammed shut.

Lance stood there, frozen.

His legs gave out.

He collapsed into the chair.

His chest heaved.

His fingers clawed at his hair.

And then, finally…

The tears came. 

Accident or not, Lance Goodboy—Republican Congressman, proud MAGA warrior, preacher of the so-called "truth"—had just become a murderer.

And now, he had to live with it.