Mickey Johnston #3

Grump’s Reckoning

Wednesday morning began like most others for Mickey Johnston—another endless string of meetings, emails, and phone calls. The budget was nearing completion, a rare triumph of bipartisan effort that he hoped might set a precedent for a better Congress. Mickey had barely sat down with his third cup of coffee when the door to his office burst open.

There stood Donold J. Grump, larger than life and louder than a freight train. His signature comb-over glistened under the fluorescent lights, his tie hung low enough to be a tripping hazard, and his face wore the ruddy flush of a man who had not slept—or stopped indulging—anytime recently. Behind him, a bewildered intern and a pair of Secret Service agents lingered in the doorway.

“Grump,” Mickey said, rising from his chair. “To what do I owe the—”

“Shut it, Mickey!” Grump bellowed, pointing a stubby finger. “I’ve been reading this trash budget you’re putting together, and let me tell you, it’s the WORST budget I’ve ever seen. You call yourself a leader? You’re a loser, Mickey. A total loser.”

Mickey stared, momentarily stunned. “I—”

Grump didn’t let him finish. He stormed into the room, muttering to someone who wasn’t there. “Sparky says it’s a disaster. Right, Sparky? All this money—gone! To kids with cancer! Can you believe it?” He turned to Mickey with a theatrical flourish. “Do you have any idea how much money those kids raise on their own with those little lemonade stands? Why do they need more? Huh? You ever think about that?”

Mickey blinked. “You’re upset about funding for pediatric cancer research?”

“Damn right, I’m upset! What about my donors, Mickey? My billionaires? The people who matter? You think I can keep giving these people tax breaks if we’re wasting money on sick kids and public schools?”

“Wasting money?” Mickey’s voice rose. “You call helping children wasting money?”

Grump smirked. “Oh, don’t get all high and mighty with me, Mickey. You know the game. Those kids aren’t voting for anyone. My donors are. They’re the ones writing checks. They’re the ones who’ll keep me in power.”

Mickey felt his blood boiling. He stepped closer to Grump, his hands trembling with suppressed fury. “This isn’t a game, Donold. These are people’s lives. Families are suffering—children are dying—because of your greed. And now you want me to gut their funding so your billionaire buddies can have another yacht?”

Grump leaned back, smirking as though Mickey had just complimented him. “Yachts are important, Mickey. People love yachts. I’d get one myself if I had time for the ocean. I’m very busy, you know. The busiest President-elect in history.”

Mickey’s patience snapped. “You’re disgusting, you know that? You walk around pretending to be this champion of Christianity, this savior of the common man, and all you care about is yourself.”

Grump shrugged. “So what? It works. The people love me. They eat it up. Every time I say ‘God bless America,’ they cheer. Every time I hold up a Bible—boom—instant approval ratings. Who cares if it’s an act?”

Mickey stared, his mind reeling. “You admit it’s all fake?”

“Of course it’s fake!” Grump shot back. “You think I’m getting on my knees every night, praying for guidance? Give me a break, Mickey. Religion’s a tool. And I’m the best there is at using it.”

Mickey shook his head in disbelief. “You’re not just a fraud—you’re proud of it.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Grump said, stepping closer. “I’ve got the world eating out of my hand, Mickey. The evangelicals worship me. Me! Not God, not Jesus—me. I could stand up in church, read from Green Eggs and Ham, and they’d still call me a prophet.”

Mickey opened his mouth to respond, but Grump cut him off, gesturing dramatically. “Enough about them. Let’s talk about me. How do I look today? Be honest. The hair, the suit, the whole package. I’m nailing it, right?”

Mickey’s jaw dropped. “You barged into my office to scream about the budget and now you want me to compliment your looks?”

“Why not?” Grump said with a smug grin. “I’m probably the best-looking President-elect in history. Go on, admit it. Say it out loud. I’ll wait.”

Mickey was momentarily speechless. Then, slowly, he sat down and folded his hands on his desk. “You’re delusional.”

Grump’s grin faltered. “Excuse me?”

“You’re delusional,” Mickey repeated. “You’re so wrapped up in your own ego you can’t see the damage you’re causing. People are hurting, Donold. Real people. And all you care about is how you look in the mirror.”

Grump’s face darkened. “Careful, Mickey. You’re on thin ice.”

“No, Donold. You’re the one on thin ice,” Mickey shot back. “You can threaten me all you want, but I’m not backing down. This budget is going through. And I’m not cutting one damn cent for your billionaire friends.”

Grump’s eyes narrowed, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper. “Then at least remove the debt limit. Let me blame the Democrats for holding it hostage when the country defaults. It’ll be perfect. Sparky already loves it.”

“No,” Mickey said firmly. “We’re keeping the debt limit where it is. You’re not going to manufacture a crisis just to score cheap political points.”

Grump’s face flushed with rage. He leaned over the desk, his fists pounding the surface. “You’ll regret this, Mickey. I’ll make sure of it.”

With that, Grump straightened up, adjusted his tie, and headed for the door. “Oh, and one more thing,” he said over his shoulder. “That rainbow room I painted? It’s a masterpiece. Sparky agrees.”

And with that, he was gone, leaving Mickey alone in his office, seething. For the first time in his career, Mickey felt the weight of the battle ahead—not just for the budget, but for the soul of a nation. And he vowed, silently, that he wouldn’t let Grump win.