Pete Hoggs-Breath Ch 1

Pete Hoggs-Breath stumbled toward the mirror in his lavish hotel suite, a tumbler of whiskey swaying precariously in his hand. The suite reeked of his signature cologne—an overpowering blend of musk and bourbon—and the faint scent of last night's indulgences. It was 8:00 AM, far too early for anyone with sense to be drinking, but Pete had long since abandoned any pretense of decorum.

He tightened his tie, though the crisp navy suit couldn't mask the faint bloat of years of hard living. His reflection sneered back at him, a face worn by scandals and quiet payoffs. His mind flitted briefly to Chicago, to the party, to the staffer whose teary-eyed silence he’d bought with a hefty sum. Another notch in a belt he’d rather no one knew he wore. Who wouldn't believe a married woman whose husband and three kids were waiting for her back in their suit was the aggressor, he was drunk as usual, she took advantage of him.

Pete scoffed at the thought. "The past is the past," he muttered, taking another sip of whiskey. "Grump wants a fighter, not a saint."

The meeting ahead promised more than redemption—it was a golden ticket. Secretary of Defense. Or, as Grump preferred to call it, Secretary of the Fence. The title was ridiculous, but Pete could work with ridiculous. After all, Grump wasn’t the first eccentric boss he’d smoothed things over for.

As he grabbed his briefcase, his phone buzzed. A text from his father, sharp and to the point: “Don’t screw this up, Peter.”

He chuckled bitterly. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, Dad."

Straightening his shoulders, Pete gave himself one last look in the mirror. He swayed slightly but managed to keep his balance. It wasn’t his first tipsy meeting, and it wouldn’t be his last. After all, politics wasn’t about sobriety—it was about survival. And if there was one thing Pete Hoggs-Breath knew how to do, it was survive.

As he staggered staggered towards the door, he looked at the half-filled whiskey tumbler abandoned on the dresser. Never one to waste good booze Pete drank the dregs of last night's binge before popping several breath mints while walking, staggering really towards the elevator. He tried to push the button, missing as he staggered back and forth when the elevator dinged.  As the doors slid open, he stepped inside, his confidence bolstered by the morning's liquid courage.

The elevator stopped one floor down and a family, father, a mother, and a young girl of about seven entered. As the doors closed, Pete's alcohol stench hit them, forcing them to huddled in a corner, protecting their daughter. Pete noticed she wore a brightly colored Harris campaign hat, her small hands gripping a stuffed unicorn. Pete’s bleary eyes zeroed in on the hat, and a sneer curled across his lips.

By the time the elevator reached the lobby, Pete’s internal monologue had turned external.

“MAGA beat you!” he bellowed, pointing a wavering finger at the girl. His words were slurred but loud enough to echo in the cramped space. “You hear me? MAGA beat you and your lies! Grump’s the real deal, and you Lefties—oh, you’re gonna pay for all the crap you spewed about him!”

The girl’s eyes widened, tears welling up as her mother pulled her close. “Please stop,” the woman said softly, but Pete was beyond reason.

As the elevator doors opened, Pete stumbled into the lobby, turning to fist-pump toward the girl. “Grump won!” he yelled, his voice rising to a fever pitch. “Grump won, and you—!” He jabbed a finger into the air, spinning to face the startled onlookers. “All of you need to get with the program!”

The lobby froze. Guests gawked, some filming the outburst on their phones, while others backed away. A pair of hotel staff members approached, trying to calm him down.

“Sir, you need to lower your voice,” one said firmly.

“Lower my voice?” Pete roared. “I’m a patriot! I’m—”

Before he could finish, one of the staffers placed a hand on his arm, and Pete swung his briefcase wildly in response. It missed, but the motion threw him off balance. He stumbled, his legs tangling with a luggage cart, and went down hard. The lobby gasped as Pete hit the marble floor, his briefcase popping open and scattering papers everywhere.

“You’ll regret this!” he slurred, attempting to get up. But the staff, clearly fed up, grabbed him under the arms and hauled him toward the exit.

The double doors swung open, and Pete was unceremoniously tossed onto the curb. The indignity of the moment crescendo when his face hit the pavement—right into a fresh pile of dog poop.

He lay there for a moment, stunned and sputtering, as passersby recoiled. A man holding a latte muttered, “Serves him right,” while someone else snapped a picture.

Pete pushed himself up, his face smeared with the foul substance. “You’ll all see!” he shouted, shaking a fist as he staggered to his feet. “Grump will fix this country, and I’ll be right there with him!”

The crowd dispersed, leaving Pete alone on the curb, his suit rumpled, his pride shattered, and his face reeking of his own self-made disaster.