Wiley E. Suzzi #1

The Twist

Wiley E. Suzzi adjusted the cuffs of her blazer, her hands trembling just enough to make her glad she wasn’t holding anything fragile. The transition office at Maga Logo had been hastily thrown together, a mash-up of gold accents and burgundy upholstery that clashed with the sterile atmosphere of high-stakes politics. Everything in the room screamed Donold J. Grump’s signature style—loud, unapologetic, and far too decadent for her tastes. Still, she was here, sitting behind a mahogany desk that felt far too grand for someone who wasn’t sure she could handle the job.

The Monday morning meeting with Grump had been… surreal. He’d started with a monologue about Sparky, his pet dragon—or at least that’s what he insisted it was—flapping lazily in the corner of the room. Wiley wasn’t sure what unnerved her more: Grump’s absolute conviction that the creature was real or the fact that it had seemed to blow smoke when she dared to make eye contact with it. And then there were the mushrooms.

Grump had placed them on the desk like they were priceless artifacts, their strange, iridescent glow reflecting the room’s chandelier light. He’d rambled about their power, their connection to another plane, and how they revealed "truths about people" if used properly. Wiley had nodded along, unsure if she should laugh, run, or simply resign on the spot.

But then, as he often did, Grump had shifted gears. The mushrooms were set aside, and he was up on his feet, demonstrating his favorite move—the Twist. Wiley had watched, captivated, as his hips swayed with uncanny grace, his rotund frame moving like a man half his age. The way the gold trim of his blazer caught the light as he twisted made him seem larger than life. The rally footage she’d seen on TV didn’t do him justice. In person, his presence was magnetic, and Wiley found herself leaning forward in her chair, utterly mesmerized.

The man was a paradox. One moment, he was rambling about psychedelic fungi; the next, he was hypnotizing her with a dance move she hadn’t seen since her parents’ high school reunion. She wasn’t sure what scared her more: his unpredictability or the way her heart fluttered when he pointed at her mid-twist and said, “You’re going to run this place, Wiley. Nobody else can do it.”

Now, alone in her office, the weight of those words pressed down on her. She could hear muffled voices and laughter from the corridor outside, where the transition team buzzed with excitement. They all thought they were on the cusp of history, that this administration would redefine America. Wiley wasn’t so sure.

She sighed and swiveled her chair to face the floor-to-ceiling windows. The sun was setting over the sprawling Maga Logo estate, casting long shadows across the perfectly manicured lawn. It was a beautiful view, but it did little to calm her nerves.

Her phone buzzed, breaking her reverie. She glanced at the screen: Donnie Jr. - Voicemail.

Wiley’s stomach tightened. She didn’t need to listen to know what it would say. Donnie Jr. had been spiraling for months, his addiction to Nose Candy turning him into a jittery, unpredictable mess. He’d shown up late to the meeting earlier, his face flushed and his movements erratic, muttering something about hunting trips and “big deals” that no one understood. Grump had barely acknowledged him, brushing off his behavior with a wave of his hand. “That’s just Donnie being Donnie,” he’d said, as if that excused the dark circles under his son’s eyes and the way his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

Wiley set the phone aside without listening. She had bigger problems to deal with, starting with tomorrow’s meeting. She needed help—someone who could navigate this chaos without losing their mind. That someone, unfortunately, was Pam Blondi.

Reaching for the desk phone, Wiley hesitated. Pam was a legend, a fixer with a reputation as sharp as her stilettos. She’d clawed her way up from the Public Defender’s office to the political elite, leaving a trail of scandals and whispered rumors in her wake. If anyone could help Wiley survive this transition, it was Pam. But trusting her was another matter entirely.

Wiley took a deep breath and dialed. The line rang twice before Pam’s voice came through, smooth and composed as always.

“Pam Blondi speaking.”

“Pam, it’s Wiley,” she said, trying to sound confident. “I need to meet with you as soon as possible. There are… some developments I need your advice on.”

There was a pause, just long enough to make Wiley wonder if she’d made a mistake. Then Pam’s voice returned, tinged with amusement. “Of course, Wiley. I am in Washington for an appointment on Capitol Hill this afternoon. I have an appointment scheduled with President-Elect Grump Tuesday morning at 9 AM. Shall we say 11? Do you want to meet at Maga Logo, or do you prefer somewhere less conspicuous?”

“Maga Logo is fine,” Wiley replied, even though the thought of Pam prowling the halls of Grump’s estate made her stomach churn. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Pam said with a laugh. “See you Tuesday. I will bring lunch. ”

Wiley hung up, staring at the phone for a long moment. The shadows in the room had deepened, the sunset giving way to twilight. She leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes as the weight of the day settled on her shoulders.

Could she really do this? Could she manage Grump’s eccentricities, Donnie Jr.’s downward spiral, and the cutthroat world of Washington politics without losing herself in the process? The image of Grump twisting in his gold blazer flickered in her mind, his voice echoing: “Nobody else can do it.”

She wasn’t sure if that was true, but she was willing to try. For better or worse, she was in this now.