Stevie Boot-Liquor #1

Stevie Boot-Liquor paced the length of his office, his patent leather shoes clicking rhythmically against the polished hardwood floor. The room was immaculate, every detail curated to perfection. On the wall behind his desk hung a gold-framed portrait of his great-great-grandfather, Nathaniel Boot-Liquor, who had once famously proclaimed, “There ain’t no shame in servin’ the man, long as you know how to shine his boots.”

That motto had become the family creed. Generation after generation of Boot-Liquors had perfected the art of servitude, rising through the ranks of the political elite by mastering the delicate dance of deference. Stevie was no exception. As a seventh-generation Texan, he had inherited the family legacy and taken it to new heights. His reputation for absolute loyalty and an uncanny ability to anticipate the needs of the powerful had earned him the nickname "The Ultimate Yes Man." It was a title he wore with pride.

Today, however, Stevie wasn’t his usual unflappable self. Clutched in his trembling hand was the gilded invitation that had upended his carefully managed world:

"You are cordially invited to meet with President-Elect Donold J. Grump. December 19th, 9:00 AM. Suite, Maga Logo."

Stevie read it for the hundredth time, his heart pounding in his chest. Tomorrow, he would come face-to-face with the man who had redefined American politics—and, if the rumors were true, the man who saw himself as a modern-day messiah. President-Elect Grump had summoned him to Maga Logo for a meeting, presumably to discuss the newly created position of "Chief Boot-Licker."

The title wasn’t official, of course. The invitation had referred to it as "Deputy to the Deputy Chief of Staff," but Stevie knew better. This was his moment to prove that he wasn’t just another sycophant; he was the sycophant. The gold standard of groveling. The Picasso of praise.

Stevie stopped pacing and turned to face the mirror above his desk. He adjusted his tie, smoothing the crimson silk with meticulous precision. “President Grump,” he said aloud, practicing his tone. “Yes, Sir, President Grump. It would be my pleasure.” He tilted his head, trying a more obsequious angle. “Of course, Sir, as always, you are correct, Sir.”

He frowned. Something was off. The words were right, but the delivery lacked conviction. He needed to exude absolute devotion, the kind that would make Grump feel like a god among mortals. Stevie tried again, this time adding a slight bow. “Yes, Sir, President Grump. You are, as always, a visionary.”

Better, but not perfect. He would have to rehearse more.

Stevie crossed the room to his bookshelf, running a finger along the spines of his carefully curated collection. Most of the titles were classics of political flattery: How to Win Friends and Influence People, The Art of the Grovel, and his personal favorite, Kissing Up: A Beginner’s Guide to Corporate Boot-Licking. He pulled the latter from the shelf and flipped to a dog-eared page on the art of the compliment.

“Find something unique to praise,” Stevie read aloud. “Focus on qualities others might overlook, such as a boss’s taste in ties or their ability to dominate a room.”

He nodded to himself. That made sense. Grump was known for his flashy style and larger-than-life personality. Perhaps Stevie could compliment the President-Elect’s legendary dancing skills. He had seen videos of Grump doing the Twist at campaign rallies, his movements hypnotic in their awkwardness. Yes, that could work.

Feeling a surge of confidence, Stevie walked to his desk and picked up a pair of leather loafers. They were his secretary Linda’s, left behind after her lunchtime yoga class. Stevie brought the shoes to his nose and inhaled deeply, analyzing their scent with the focus of a master sommelier.

“Hmm,” he murmured, his nostrils flaring. “Dehydrated. Skipped breakfast. Probably stressed about her kid’s science project.”

Stevie wasn’t ashamed of his unusual talent. While some might have dismissed his shoe-sniffing as bizarre or fetishistic, he insisted it was a practical skill. “I can detect health issues,” he often explained to skeptics. “A whiff of someone’s shoes, and I can tell you if they’re diabetic, anemic, or just plain lazy.”

Satisfied with his analysis, Stevie placed the loafers back on the shelf and returned to pacing. He needed to focus. Tomorrow was the most important day of his life, and he couldn’t afford to make a single misstep.

As he practiced his lines, Stevie couldn’t help but reflect on his journey to this moment. Growing up in a small Texas town, he had always known he was different. While other boys dreamed of becoming cowboys or oil tycoons, Stevie dreamed of serving the powerful. He idolized figures like James Baker and Karl Rove, marveling at their ability to operate in the shadows, pulling the strings of history.

But there was another side to Stevie, one he had kept hidden from the world. Deep down, he knew he wasn’t like the other men in his family. Beneath the tailored suits and polished shoes was a woman waiting to be set free. Stevie had always felt more at home in his mother’s closet than in his father’s workshop, more drawn to the elegance of high heels than the ruggedness of cowboy boots.

One day, Stevie promised himself, he would embrace his true self. But that day wasn’t today. For now, he had a mission: to become the President-Elect’s most loyal servant. And if that meant suppressing his own identity for a little while longer, so be it.

The hours ticked by as Stevie rehearsed every possible scenario. He practiced laughing at Grump’s jokes, working on a laugh that was flattering but not sycophantic. He practiced nodding approvingly, careful to avoid the overzealous bobblehead effect. He even practiced sitting, experimenting with different poses to find the perfect balance of attentiveness and humility.

By the time the sun set, Stevie was as prepared as he could be. He stood in front of the mirror one last time, adjusting his tie and straightening his posture. “Tomorrow,” he whispered to his reflection, “you’ll show them all. You’re not just a Boot-Liquor—you’re the best damn Boot-Liquor there ever was.”

As he turned off the lights and locked his office door, Stevie couldn’t help but imagine the scene that awaited him at Maga Logo. The opulence. The power. The chance to bask in the presence of greatness. And maybe, just maybe, the opportunity to finally sniff the President-Elect’s shoes. For health reasons, of course.