Scott Merry #1

Merry’s Last Stand

Scott Merry sat at his desk, the email from Andu Harris open on his screen, the subject line glaring at him: "Don’t Do This, Merry."

He read it again, despite knowing every word by heart:

Merry let out a long breath, dragging his hand down his face. His inbox was full of similar emails from the rest of the Croakers—a mix of desperation and threats. Bart "Big Bass" Bennington had been more direct:

The words played over and over in his mind: No more choruses. No more camaraderie. No more anything. The Croakers weren’t just a political faction—they had been his refuge. Despite their flaws, those late-night sing-alongs had once brought him comfort, reminding him of his days as an Army officer when songs around a campfire held the loneliness at bay.

But now, all of it felt hollow.

Merry turned his gaze to the framed photo of his parents on the shelf. His father, a hardworking mechanic who spent his life fixing things for people who couldn’t afford dealership prices. His mother, who’d raised five kids while volunteering at church every Sunday. They hadn’t raised him to follow anyone blindly. They’d raised him to lead with integrity.

He had gone into politics for the right reasons. He wanted to help small towns, to give a voice to the overlooked and the unheard. But somewhere along the way, he’d gotten swept up in the machinery of power. Now, he was “bought and paid for”—just another cog in the Grump empire, where loyalty wasn’t earned but sniffed out.

The memory of his first encounter with Stevie Boot-Liquor made Merry’s stomach churn.

It was during a fundraiser at Maga Logo, where Stevie, newly crowned as “Executive Usher,” approached with a gleaming smile and shoes so polished they reflected the chandeliers.

“Congressman Merry!” Stevie had greeted enthusiastically before crouching to the floor.

“What are you—” Merry started, horrified.

Stevie sniffed the tip of Merry’s Oxford shoe and straightened. “Doubt,” Stevie declared with a frown. “That’s not good.”

That single moment had encapsulated everything wrong with the party’s future—grown men sniffing each other’s shoes for signs of doubt or dissent. Merry had walked away from the conversation, but the stain of it had followed him.

There was another knock at the door. His two aides, Maggie and Ethan, entered quietly. Maggie’s eyes were puffy from crying, and Ethan’s usual bravado was gone.

“You don’t have to do this, sir,” Maggie whispered.

Merry smiled gently and stood, embracing them both. “I do,” he replied, his voice calm.

Maggie sniffled. “They’re going to destroy you.”

Merry placed a hand on each of their shoulders. “Then let them try. Because if I don’t say something, they’ve already won.”

He kissed them each on the cheek, something his mother used to do before sending him off to school. “You two are what’s left of the Republican Party—the real party. The rest of them? They’re Grump’s MAGA morons. The real RINOs.”

He turned, adjusted his tie, and walked toward the door.

The hallway outside his office was a swarm of reporters. The second Merry opened the door, the flash of cameras lit up the corridor like a lightning storm. Microphones jutted toward him as the reporters shouted over one another.

“Congressman Merry! Are you admitting guilt?”

“Do you have evidence against President-elect Grump?”

“Is it true you’re turning state’s evidence?”

Merry raised a hand, silencing the chaos. He stepped forward to the podium set up for the briefing and adjusted the microphone.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, his voice steady, “thank you for being here today. I have a statement to make.”

Maga Logo Suite

Donold J. Grump slouched in his golden armchair, the gaudy decor of the suite surrounding him in garish splendor. Sparky, the iridescent dragon that only Grump could see, fluttered in lazy circles above his head.

On the TV, Merry’s face filled the screen as he stood at the podium.

Grump’s jaw tightened. “What’s he doing?”

“He’s hopping right out of line,” Sparky hissed. “You hear that tone? That’s not groveling.”

Grump sprang to his feet, grabbed a large plastic ketchup bottle from the dining table, and marched toward the wall. He began squeezing it furiously, the thick red liquid squirting out in wild, jagged streams. It dripped down the freshly painted surface in crimson streaks.

Sparky flew into the air, glowing bright red and gold, tiny embers trailing behind him. “You’re losing it, Donny.”

Grump stared at the ketchup-covered wall, his eyes glassy with fury. The slow, rhythmic drip of the ketchup mirrored the pounding of his pulse.

Finally, he threw the empty bottle aside and collapsed back into his chair.

Sparky landed on the armrest, shaking his head. “We’re totally screwed.”

Grump let out a heavy sigh. “I know.”

The TV continued to broadcast Merry’s press conference. The congressman’s voice cut through the suite.

“January 6th wasn’t a protest—it was an insurrection,” Merry declared. “And it was orchestrated by John Leastman, with the full blessing of Donold Grump. I have the proof, and I will testify to Congress under oath.”

Grump closed his eyes as Sparky muttered, “The truth’s a fire no dragon can put out.”

The press conference was far from over, but Grump knew that the cracks in his empire had finally begun to split wide open.