Donold J. Grump Ch 5

Morning sunlight streamed through the gilded curtains of the presidential bedroom, bathing the room in an almost holy glow. Donold J. Grump blinked groggily, his head pounding like a jackhammer on Fifth Avenue. His silk pajamas clung to him awkwardly, as though he’d been sweating through some unimaginable ordeal.

“Ugh,” he groaned, dragging himself upright. “What the hell happened last night?”

He glanced around the room. His golden bedside clock read 11:42 a.m.—far later than he usually slept. The floor was littered with clothes, half-empty glasses of water, and what appeared to be a smudged Bible.

Grump squinted at the mess, trying to piece together the events of the previous evening. The last thing he remembered was Mickey babbling about Christian Nationalism and serving dinner. After that, everything blurred into a swirling kaleidoscope of strange visions: glowing halos, swirling lights, and—he shuddered—confessions.

“Where’s Mickey?” he muttered. He had no idea when or how the man had left.

Grump staggered toward the mirror, splashing water on his face. As he looked up, he noticed something strange: a faint glow surrounded his reflection, shimmering like heat waves on pavement. Startled, he turned away, only to notice a similar glow around the furniture, the walls, and even the bedposts.

“What in the hell...” he whispered, stepping back.

The glow intensified when his valet entered the room carrying a tray of coffee. A faint blue aura surrounded the man, pulsating gently with each step.

“Good morning, sir,” the valet said, setting the tray down. “I trust you slept well?”

Grump squinted at him. “What’s... what’s with the blue? Are you sick or something?”

The valet blinked, confused. “Blue, sir?”

“Yeah, blue,” Grump said, gesturing vaguely. “You’re glowing, like a... like a neon sign at a cheap casino.”

The valet hesitated. “Perhaps you’re still tired, sir. Would you like some aspirin?”

Grump waved him off, sitting back on the bed and rubbing his temples. “Nah, I’ll be fine. Just... cancel everything today. I need to clear my head.”

The valet nodded and left, leaving Grump to ponder the glowing aura. A small, unsettling thought began to creep into his mind: Maybe Mickey was right. Maybe I really am the chosen one.

Nine Holes of Divinity

A few hours later, Grump found himself on his private golf course, swinging lazily at a ball that refused to cooperate. The afternoon sun was warm, the air filled with the chirping of birds and the faint hum of distant maintenance drones.

The auras were still there—faint, but noticeable. The caddy had a soothing green glow, while the security guards glimmered faintly in yellow. Grump tried to focus on his game, but the shimmering colors kept distracting him.

“Maybe this is what being the Messiah feels like,” he muttered, adjusting his visor.

After a particularly bad drive that sent his ball soaring into a pond, Grump grumbled and called it quits. “Nine holes is enough for today,” he declared.

Back at the clubhouse, he rifled through the mini-fridge, searching for something to satisfy his growing hunger. His eyes lit up when he spotted the leftover plate from last night’s dinner, sitting neatly wrapped in foil.

“Perfect,” he said, unwrapping the meal and digging in.

Dragons on the Fairway

The first sign of trouble came as he was finishing his steak. A faint, acrid smell tickled his nose, like burning wood. He looked up, confused, and nearly dropped his fork.

There, standing on the edge of the golf course, was a small dragon, about the size of a large dog. Its scales shimmered in the sunlight, glowing a deep, iridescent red. Smoke curled from its nostrils as it stared directly at him, its golden eyes narrowing.

“What the...” Grump muttered, standing up slowly.

The dragon growled, a low rumble that vibrated through the ground. Before Grump could react, it lunged, its wings beating the air as it charged toward him.

“Holy—RUN!” Grump screamed, bolting from the table.

He tore across the golf course, his golf shoes slipping on the manicured grass. Behind him, the dragon roared, spewing a plume of fire that singed the edges of the fairway.

“Somebody help me!” Grump shouted, waving his arms wildly.

His security guards, oblivious to the hallucination, stared at him in confusion.

“Sir? Are you all right?” one of them called out.

Grump didn’t hear them. To him, the guards now had glowing orange auras, like flickering embers. “You idiots! Shoot the dragon!”

The guards exchanged nervous glances, unsure of how to respond.

Grump continued running, his mind racing. The dragon was gaining on him, its claws digging into the ground with each step. He stumbled onto the putting green and dove behind a bunker, clutching his chest.

“Okay,” he panted. “Think, Donny. Think. You’re the Messiah, right? You can handle this. You’re chosen. You’re... invincible.”

But as the dragon’s shadow loomed over him, his confidence wavered.

A Miraculous Escape

Just as the dragon reared back to strike, a bright light flashed in Grump’s vision. He shielded his eyes, his heart pounding.

When he looked up again, the dragon was gone. The golf course was quiet, the only sound the rustling of leaves in the breeze.

Grump sat up, shaking. His security guards rushed over, their yellow auras flickering with what he now recognized as concern.

“Sir, are you hurt?” one of them asked.

Grump waved them off. “I’m fine. I’m fine. Just... needed to clear my head.”

The guards exchanged another round of worried glances but didn’t press the issue.

As they escorted him back to the clubhouse, Grump couldn’t help but glance over his shoulder, half-expecting the dragon to return. But the fairway remained still.

The Messiah Complex Deepens

Back in his private suite, Grump poured himself a stiff drink and sat down, replaying the events in his mind. The dragon, the auras, the flash of light—it all felt so real.

“Maybe it wasn’t just the mushrooms,” he muttered. “Maybe... maybe it’s a sign.”

He looked at his reflection in the mirror, faintly glowing with golden light.

“Maybe I really am the chosen one,” he said, a slow grin spreading across his face. “The Messiah of America. No—of the world.”

As the thought settled in, his grin widened. He didn’t know how or why, but one thing was certain: Donold J. Grump was destined for greatness.