Donold J. Grump Ch 4

It was evening at Maga Logo, the golden light of the setting sun streamed through the windows of the private dining room. Donold J. Grump sat at the head of the table, his fingers drumming against the mahogany surface. Across from him, Speaker Mickey Johnston paced with the energy of a televangelist on a caffeine high.

“Donold,” Mickey began, his voice trembling with conviction, “you’ve been chosen by God Himself. There’s no doubt in my mind. The signs are clear: your victory, your enemies falling one by one, the way you inspire the people. You’re not just a leader. You’re the beginning of a spiritual rebirth for this nation!”

Grump raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Spiritual rebirth? I barely made it through the National Day of Prayer without falling asleep. What are you talking about?”

Mickey stopped pacing and leaned over the table, his cross swaying like a pendulum. “I’m talking about Christian Nationalism, Donold. On Inauguration Day, you need to declare this country a nation under true Christian values. Stand at that podium, hold a Bible high, and lead this country to a spiritual awakening!”

Grump leaned back in his chair, a sly grin spreading across his face. “Hold a Bible high, huh? What’s that gonna do? Should I smack the reporters with it?”

Mickey didn’t flinch. “No, Donold. It’s about showing your faith. Proving to the nation that you’re not just a leader, but God’s chosen instrument. The people need a Messiah, and you’re it!”

Grump’s grin faded. “A Messiah? Mickey, do I look like I want to be nailed to a cross?”

Mickey scowled. “That’s not what I mean! It’s about symbolism, Donold. Public proselytization. Leading by example!”

Grump’s eyes narrowed. “Public proselytization? You mean like standing on a stage and preaching?”

“Yes!” Mickey exclaimed, his hands clasped in prayer.

Grump’s expression darkened. “You ever read the Bible, Mickey?”

Mickey blinked, taken aback. “Of course I have!”

“Then you’d know about Matthew 6,” Grump said, his tone sharp. “Jesus said not to pray in public to show off. ‘Do it in secret,’ He said. Ever hear of that?”

Mickey opened his mouth, then closed it, his face reddening. He stammered for a moment before finally muttering, “Well... that’s... that’s a different context.”

Grump smirked. “Yeah, thought so.”

Mickey’s enthusiasm deflated like a balloon. After a long pause, he straightened up and forced a smile. “Fine. Maybe we don’t need to announce it. But you’re still God’s chosen leader, Donold. And as His chosen leader, you deserve a good meal. Let me make dinner. My mother always said the way to a man’s soul is through his stomach.”

Grump snorted. “Your mother didn’t know my stomach. But sure, knock yourself out.”

A Feast of Fungi

An hour later, the aroma of roasted vegetables and sizzling steaks filled the kitchen. Mickey bustled about with surprising skill, humming hymns as he added ingredients to a large pan.

Unbeknownst to him, Egon Tusk had left his infamous bag of mushrooms on the counter during his earlier escapades. The slimy fungi looked almost identical to the gourmet mushrooms Mickey had intended to use.

“Just a little extra flavor,” Mickey muttered, tossing them into the pan.

Minutes later, he proudly served the meal to Grump, who sat at the table, eyeing the plate with suspicion.

“What’s this?” Grump asked, poking at the food.

“Steak and mushroom medley,” Mickey said with a grin. “Trust me, it’s divine.”

Grump shrugged and took a bite. “Not bad.”

Mickey dug into his own plate, savoring the earthy flavor of the mushrooms. Within minutes, both men had cleaned their plates.

And then the room began to shift.

Visions of Grandeur and Doom

Grump was the first to notice. The chandelier above the table seemed to stretch upward, its crystals morphing into a radiant halo. He blinked, and suddenly, his own reflection in the polished table shimmered with golden light.

“Whoa,” he muttered, staring at his glowing visage. “Look at me. I’m... I’m magnificent.”

Mickey, meanwhile, was seeing something entirely different. Grump’s reflection in the table no longer looked human. His features twisted and warped, his eyes glowing red, his grin becoming jagged and sinister.

“Oh, Lord,” Mickey whispered, clutching his cross. “This can’t be real.”

Grump stood up, spreading his arms wide. “This is real, Mickey! I’m not just a leader. I’m a Messiah! Look at me—I’m the chosen one!”

“You’re not chosen,” Mickey hissed, shrinking back. “You’re the deceiver. The enemy. You’re Satan!”

Grump ignored him, caught up in his hallucination. He began pacing the room, his voice booming with newfound confidence. “I’ve always been chosen. Always been above the rest. And why wouldn’t I be? I’m the best at everything! The best deals, the best crimes—hell, I even rigged the election and got away with it!”

Mickey’s eyes widened. “You... you rigged the election?”

“Damn right I did!” Grump declared, laughing. “And the business fraud? The hush money? The women? All of it. I did it all, and they couldn’t touch me!”

“You’re a monster,” Mickey whispered, gripping his cross tighter.

Grump turned to him, his grin stretching unnaturally wide. “No, Mickey. I’m a god.”

Mickey stumbled backward, the room spinning around him. In his mind’s eye, Grump’s form was shifting, sprouting horns and a tail. The chandelier above became a swirling vortex, and Mickey could hear the faint sound of demonic laughter.

“I need to stop this,” Mickey muttered, his voice trembling. “I need to stop you.”

Grump laughed again, oblivious to Mickey’s terror. “Stop me? You couldn’t even convince me to pray in public! Face it, Mickey—I’m untouchable!”

But Mickey wasn’t listening. He was too busy plotting his next move, determined to banish what he now believed to be the ultimate evil.