Laura Ding-Dong #1

Laura Ding-Dong’s Christmas Evening

Laura Ding-Dong stood near the bar, swirling her champagne flute with practiced elegance. She surveyed the chaos unfolding in the ballroom like a queen holding court over her subjects. Her signature smirk, a blend of bemusement and disdain, played on her lips as she mentally cataloged the evening’s absurdities.

Grump’s descent down the golden escalator had been as garish as expected, with his velvet robe flowing dramatically behind him and that ridiculous crown perched on his head. She had watched the spectacle with a journalist’s detachment, filing away details for the next episode of The Ding-Dong Hour. But now, as she sipped her drink, she caught sight of Grump standing by his oversized throne, animatedly talking to thin air.

“Must be Sparky,” Laura muttered under her breath, rolling her eyes. The infamous hallucination of a rainbow-colored dragon had become a recurring topic in Faux Newz meetings. Most of her colleagues thought it was hilarious. Laura, however, found it unsettling. Watching the president-elect whisper conspiratorially to his imaginary friend was enough to make her second-guess her career choices—if only for a moment.

She turned her attention back to the bar, where the bartender handed her a refill. “Thanks,” she said briskly, but her reprieve was short-lived.

“Ms. Ding-Dong,” came a familiar nasal voice. Before she could react, Stevie Boot-Liquor crouched at her feet and began sniffing her shoes with the intensity of a bloodhound.

Laura recoiled, nearly spilling her champagne. “Stevie, what on Earth are you doing?”

“Checking for loyalty,” he muttered, his nose twitching like a rodent’s. “Perfume can mask a lot, you know.”

“Perfume can also cover the smell of whatever you’ve been rolling in,” she snapped, stepping back. “Get away from me before I test how loyal you are to your sense of smell with my stiletto.”

Stevie blinked up at her, confused, before scuttling off, muttering something about “fear clouds.” Laura let out an exasperated sigh, draining her glass in one go. The night was young, but it was already shaping up to be one of those evenings.

Nearby, Maria Bizzarra-Rama staggered past, clutching a wine bottle to her chest like it was the Ark of the Covenant. “It comes in bottles!” Maria declared triumphantly, her voice echoing through the ballroom. “Who knew?”

Laura smirked despite herself. Maria’s faux sophistication had always been a source of amusement at Faux Newz. Watching her discover basic concepts like bottled wine never got old.

Stevie, now fully immersed in his mushroom-induced delusions, dove under a table, shouting, “The bunnies are back! I’ll save you!” His muffled cries and frantic crawling elicited nervous laughter from nearby guests.

Laura turned back to the main table just in time to see a senator leap to his feet, fork in hand, conducting an imaginary orchestra. “Do you hear that?” he exclaimed. “The lobster! It’s singing! Carmen, I think.”

Across the room, Kash Kartel leaned casually against a pillar, grinning like a Cheshire cat as he watched the chaos unfold. He caught Laura’s eye and sauntered over, his smirk widening.

“Enjoying the show?” he asked, raising his glass.

Laura arched a brow. “If by ‘show,’ you mean a room full of hallucinating power brokers, then sure. It’s a laugh riot.”

Kash chuckled. “You should loosen up, Ding-Dong. Have a little fun. Who knows? Maybe you’ll see Sparky too.”

“Fun isn’t exactly what I’m after,” Laura replied dryly. “But if you’re volunteering to be the next headline on my show, keep talking.”

“Touché,” Kash said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “I’ll leave you to your journalistic integrity.”

Laura watched him retreat, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. Kash’s smarmy charm was as predictable as Grump’s latest tweetstorm.

She turned her attention back to Grump, who was now standing atop his throne, arms raised like a benevolent emperor addressing his subjects. “Rejoice!” he bellowed. “Tonight, you witness the dawn of a new era—Grump’s era!”

The room erupted into applause, though Laura noticed more than a few guests clapping with glazed-over eyes, clearly grappling with their hallucinations. Sparky, invisible to everyone but Grump, seemed to whisper something in his ear, prompting a delighted laugh from the president-elect.

Laura made a mental note to revisit this scene in her monologue. The image of Grump talking to thin air while his guests descended into psychedelic madness was too good to pass up.

Dinner was served shortly after, and Laura took her seat cautiously, eyeing the ornate desserts as they were paraded in. She’d heard whispers about the mushrooms lacing the menu, and while she wasn’t opposed to recreational indulgence, she wasn’t about to partake in a concoction designed by Grump’s questionable chefs.

Across the table, Maria was still marveling at her wine bottle. “I mean, seriously,” she said, her voice slurring. “Why didn’t anyone tell me about this?”

A few seats down, Stevie had abandoned his bunny hunt to climb atop the table, his arms flailing wildly. “I am the Emperor of the Twilight Kingdom!” he declared, his voice reverberating through the room.

Laura resisted the urge to facepalm. Instead, she leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms as she watched the spectacle. “And they call me a propagandist,” she muttered.

As the desserts were served, the hallucinations intensified. A congressman shrieked as his chocolate mousse transformed into a snarling demon. Another guest fainted, convinced the walls were bleeding. Laura, who had wisely skipped dessert, sipped her champagne and made a mental list of people she’d have to avoid eye contact with at the next gala.

At the head of the table, Grump leaned back in his throne, chuckling as Sparky whispered something in his ear. Laura caught the faintest hint of a smirk on Melanomia’s face as she sipped her wine, apparently immune to both the mushrooms and the madness.

By the time Grump clapped his hands and ordered everyone back to their seats, Laura had had enough. She pushed back her chair and rose to leave, ignoring Kash’s raised brow and the senator’s impromptu aria.

As she made her way to the exit, she couldn’t help but smile. The evening had been absurd, even by Maga Logo standards, and it would make for a killer monologue.

“Let’s see Vanity top this,” she muttered to herself, stepping into the crisp night air.