Warren Heartless #2

The Fallout

Warren Heartless hung up the phone, his hand trembling. The call with Shawn Vanity had ended in disaster. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and leaned back in his chair—only to hear his phone vibrate furiously on his desk.

His Zitter app had exploded. The screen was flooded with notifications.

@RealHeartbreaker88: “You soulless crook!”
@LibsBeLike: “You’re human garbage. I hope your next ‘investment’ is in moral bankruptcy.”
@AltadenaLivesMatter: “Perform a sex act on yourself, Heartless.”

The insults scrolled endlessly, each one more vicious than the last. Someone had even posted a meme of Warren's face superimposed on a rat surrounded by flames, with the caption: “Burn with your money, scumbag.” Another showed him smeared with dog feces alongside the text: “America’s most loyal lapdog.”

Then, the notification he dreaded most appeared—a text from Lisa, his wife.

Lisa: “Warren. The kids have disowned you. They’re calling it GDS—Grump Derangement Syndrome. They don't how they could love someone who profits off the misery of others?”

The words cut like a serrated blade. Warren read the text twice, three times, willing it to change. But the words remained, a cold monument to what he’d lost.

He dropped the phone onto his desk as if it had burned him. He stared blankly at his framed family photo—the four of them standing by a campfire at Lake Tahoe, arms around each other, smiling under a sky of endless stars. Now those smiles felt like ghostly echoes of a life he could never return to.

He reached for the bottle of bourbon—the only thing that hadn’t abandoned him. His hand shook as he poured a double shot into a glass, the amber liquid swirling like liquid regret. He swallowed it in one long, burning gulp and exhaled shakily.

The warmth hit his chest like a collapsing building. But it wasn’t enough to dull the gnawing ache inside.

Maga Logo Meltdown

In the infamous Rainbow Room at Maga Logo, President-Elect Donold J. Grump was pacing furiously in front of the massive TV screen. The walls, painted in uneven stripes of garish neon by Grump and Sparky during one of their mushroom-fueled "art sessions," pulsed in the midday sun like a clown's fever dream. Sparky, his iridescent dragon, flitted overhead, his wings glowing red and gold with agitation.

“He betrayed me!” Grump’s voice boomed, shaking the chandeliers. He stabbed a finger at the TV screen, where Faux Newz was replaying Warren’s hot-mic disaster. “He wouldn’t even let Stevie Boot-Liquor sniff his shoes! That’s how I knew he wasn’t loyal!”

Sparky perched on Grump’s shoulder, flicking his tongue thoughtfully. “I told you, Donny—many are called, but few are chosen.”

Grump's face flushed a deeper shade of orange. He grabbed a decorative ketchup bottle from the buffet, an oversized novelty item with his face printed on the label, and squeezed it furiously. Red splatters rained down the wall like rivers of blood.

“Altadena was supposed to be mine!” Grump ranted, pacing in erratic circles. “How could he cut me out of that pie? Do you know what I had lined up, Sparky? I already had developers in place—prime real estate!”

Sparky hovered, wings beating in sympathy. “It wasn’t just Altadena, Donny. He cut you out of Maui, too.”

Grump froze mid-step, eyes bulging with rage. He grabbed a chair and hurled it across the room. It slammed into the wall, knocking over a gaudy gold vase filled with plastic roses.

“I can’t believe this! I have to pretend I care now!” Grump spat the words like poison. “I’ll have to—ugh—shake hands with fire victims. Hug some crying kid for a photo op! I’ll have to look sad!”

Sparky fluttered down in front of Grump, his scales glowing a sinister crimson. “Disloyalty is contagious, Donny. You know that. One betrays you today, and ten more follow tomorrow.”

Grump’s nostrils flared as he clenched and unclenched his fists. “He was supposed to be one of the chosen. He was supposed to kiss the ring! Now, thanks to him, I’m going to be stuck in some ashy neighborhood, choking on the smell of burnt trees and listening to sad stories about lost homes.”

He slumped into his gaudy, throne-like chair, rubbing his temples.

Grump’s imagination spiraled into a terrible vision. He pictured himself standing in front of a charred house, flanked by cameras. The fire victim in his vision was a gaunt woman clutching a blanket, her eyes hollow with grief. She reached out a hand to shake his, her fingers ash-stained and trembling.

Grump shuddered. “She’s going to cry on me, isn’t she?” he muttered aloud.

Sparky nodded solemnly. “Most likely.”

“And there’ll be kids,” Grump groaned. “Kids holding onto stuffed animals with missing eyes.”

Sparky hovered closer. “Maybe one of them will try to hug you.”

Grump recoiled at the thought. “No! The optics!” He could already see the news headlines: “Grump Recoils from Child’s Hug.”

Sparky exhaled a puff of fire for emphasis. “This is what happens when loyalty fails.”

Grump’s scowl deepened. “Heartless made me vulnerable. And now I have to fix this. I can’t afford more betrayal.”

Sparky’s eyes gleamed. “You know what you have to do.”

Grump’s lips twisted into a bitter smile. “I have to get rid of Heartless.”

Grump grabbed his phone and stared at Warren's contact. His finger hovered over the screen as a twisted sense of satisfaction bloomed in his chest. He could already hear the words he’d say to the press.

“I was shocked and saddened to learn of Heartless’s actions. As someone committed to fairness, I must call for his resignation.”

The reporters would eat it up. He’d look like a hero, holding his own ally accountable. And by the time they pieced together the full story, the narrative would have shifted. Grump’s people would make sure of that.

Grump hit the call button. Warren didn’t pick up. He was probably still reeling from the media storm. No matter—Grump’s next move would ensure Heartless had no choice but to resign.

Sparky flitted overhead, letting out a victorious chirp. “That’s why you’re the best, Donny. You play the long game.”

Grump leaned back, his grin widening as he imagined the headlines praising his leadership. “Nobody cuts me out of the pie,” he muttered. “Nobody.”