Stevie Boot-Liquor #4

The Return of Mr. Garcia

(what we all hope, wish and pray for.)

Location: Presidential Palace of El Labrador, San Madero

President: His Serene Democratic Highness, Don Reynaldo Amado del Pueblo Primero

The ivory towers of the Palacio del Pueblo glowed in the morning sun, crowned with flags that fluttered not in pride, but in memory—for every man or woman wrongfully taken from their families, and every child left behind in tears.

Inside, President Don Reynaldo Amado del Pueblo Primero stood behind his carved cedar desk, reviewing a stack of reports—each one documenting an “administrative error” from the Grump administration.

Each one a name, a face, a family broken.

The gilded doors opened with the squeak of ambition and sweat.

Stevie Boot-Liquor entered, patting down his hair, pasting on a plastic smile, and bowing far too low.

Stevie (nervously): “Your Highness! Such honor to be in your presence. El Labrador, of course, is our favorite democracy. The beaches! The cuisine! The—um—stability.”

Don Reynaldo barely looked up.

President Reynaldo: “Is that so? You came to sniff shoes last time. What

do you want now?”

Stevie (laughs awkwardly): “Yes, about that. Pure flattery, of course. Part of diplomacy. We’re all friends here.”

President Reynaldo (cold): “What is it you’re here to ask?”

Stevie shifted uncomfortably and pulled a crumpled memo from his pocket.

Stevie: “We were thinking, given the recent confusion—with Mr. Garcia—that perhaps... perhaps it would be best... for everyone... if he stayed here.”

Don Reynaldo looked up, his face unreadable.

Stevie (rushing): “I mean, really—it’s best for him! The climate! The food! We’ll even pay! Think of it as a humanitarian favor. Quiet. Dignified. You don’t need the bad press, and we don’t need the embarrassment of welcoming home a man we deported in violation of our own court order.”

President Reynaldo (calmly): “You are asking me to hold him hostage?”

Stevie: “Oh no! No-no-no. I mean—detain is such a dirty word. Think of it more like… a forever vacation.”

President Reynaldo (rising): “And how, Señor Boot-Liquor, would you describe your own suggestion back in Washington—when you told your media friends it would look like smuggling him back?”

Stevie (eyes widening): “I… I may have said that. But only—only for optics!”

President Reynaldo (furious): “Then allow me to explain something in language your soul might finally understand.”

He stepped out from behind his desk, voice rising like thunder over the plaza.

President Reynaldo: “You kidnapped him. You tore him from his home, ignored your own judges, and dumped him into my country like garbage. You branded him a gang member with no evidence. You left a child—an autistic child—without a father, and a wife without her husband. That is not immigration policy. That is state-sanctioned abduction.”

Stevie took a trembling step backward, but Don Reynaldo advanced.

President Reynaldo (continuing): “Mr. Garcia will not remain your political inconvenience. He will be leaving today. He is currently in my private residence, with clean clothes, breakfast and very strong will. Mr. Garcia will return to his family, —not in shackles, not in shadows, but as a father and a husband.”

He walked to the window, looking out across the sea.

President Reynaldo: “As for the others you deported—those you dumped with no due process— I will be reviewing each of their files. If they are proven to be actual criminals, but not gang member, they will be sent to their country of origin. But if they were innocent—if they were victims of bureaucratic cruelty — Then I will be calling upon the International Criminal Court to consider this a violation of human rights.”

Stevie collapsed into a chair. His voice was now a whisper.

President Reynaldo stepped to the center of the room, his hands behind his back, chin raised with the dignity of a man who had lived through dictators and never bent a knee.

He looked directly at Stevie Boot-Liquor and spoke in a voice sharp as obsidian.

President Reynaldo: “You said you wanted him to stay here? That you’d rather bury the mistake than face it? Well, now you won't have to worry about that." He gestured to a guard at the door.

President Reynaldo: "Mr. Garcia will return to his family in America. And you… will take his place.”

The room went still. Stevie froze mid-sweat.

Stevie: “I… I don’t understand. What—what are you saying?”

President Reynaldo (smiling slightly): “A prisoner swap. One man wrongfully taken for one man who came here willingly to lie, to insult my country, and to beg to sniff shoes like a fool. You’ll be held in our national jail—not as a prisoner of conscience, but as a prisoner of consequence.”

Stevie staggered backward, bumping into the velvet drapes.

Stevie (voice rising): “No! I—I have a family! A wife! Two kids and a dog! I’m lactose intolerant, I can’t sleep without white noise!”

He dropped to his knees and began crawling toward President Reynaldo, tears now dripping freely.

Stevie: “Please, Your Serene Highness! I’ll do anything. I’ll rebrand! I’ll even denounce Grump! I’ll testify against him! In Court! I know all his dirty little secrets. I’ll sniff your peoples shoes! Please don’t leave me here! I’m too oily to survive prison!”

President Reynaldo raised a hand, and two palace guards stepped forward. Their boots and uniforms gleamed, untarnished by corruption.

President Reynaldo (to the guards): “Take him to the central jail. Feed him. But no media access, no mirror, no cologne. Everyone is tired of him sniffing shoes.”

As Stevie screamed and begged, kicking uselessly in his bespoke loafers, the palace doors opened once more. Mr. Garcia walked in—dignified, upright, his face calm, but his eyes burning with years of quiet pain.

President Reynaldo stepped aside and gestured to the guards.

President Reynaldo: “Take Señor Garcia to the airport. His wife and child are waiting for him in America.”

Stevie lunged toward the door, but the guards had him by the elbows now, dragging him backward.

Stevie (sobbing): “You can’t do this! I’m white! I’m important! I have a blue check mark! I’m trending in three states!”

President Reynaldo (without looking back): “Yes. You are trending—for once, in the right direction.”

As the marble doors closed behind them, Stevie’s screams faded into the echoes of justice.

And the people of El Labrador watched from their balconies with quiet satisfaction… as a man who had once trafficked in cruelty was finally made to feel its sting.