Pete Hoggs-Breath Ch 2

Pete wiped his face with a sleeve, the stench of dog poop clinging stubbornly to his skin and pride. He stormed back toward the revolving doors of the hotel, his anger bubbling just below the surface. The humiliation burned, especially knowing there were cameras still trained on him.

“I paid a fortune for that room!” he bellowed at the doorman, his words slurring slightly. “You can’t just throw me out! I’m a guest—no, I’m an important guest! President Grump is waiting for me!”

The doorman looked unimpressed, but before Pete could escalate, two towering security officers appeared at his sides. Their dark suits and earpieces screamed professionalism, but their crossed arms made it clear they weren’t about to let Pete back in without a fight.

“You can pack your things and clean up,” one of the guards said flatly, his voice devoid of sympathy. “We’ll escort you to your room and back. That’s it.”

“Fine!” Pete spat, puffing up his chest as though he had won some great concession. “Let’s get this over with.”

As he was ushered through the lobby, snickers erupted around him. A group of teenagers huddled near the concierge desk had their phones out, recording every staggered step he took. Pete’s fists clenched, but the security guards’ unyielding presence kept him from retaliating.

When the elevator doors closed, Pete exhaled shakily. “This is just a bump in the road,” he muttered to himself. “I’m still in control.”

Up in his room, Pete scrubbed his face and hands furiously, muttering curses as he changed into a fresh suit. The weight of the morning’s events pressed heavily on his chest. He shoved clothes and papers haphazardly into his suitcase, eager to escape.

By the time he returned to the lobby with his bags, the scene had escalated. A gaggle of reporters stood just outside the hotel doors, cameras rolling and microphones thrust forward as though they sensed blood in the water.

Pete’s heart sank as his eyes landed on a familiar figure. The little girl in the Harris hat stood beside her mother, being interviewed by a major news anchor. The girl’s tears had dried, but her voice quavered as she recounted her encounter with “the scary man.”

Pete froze, his mind racing. The laughter from onlookers, the flash of cameras, and the girl’s soft words cut through his drunken bravado like a knife. He felt exposed, his carefully constructed image shattered in real time.

He turned toward the door, clutching his bags as though they could shield him from the world. As he pushed past the reporters and stumbled onto the street, one thought played on a loop in his head:

Dad was right. How can I lead if I can’t even control myself?

Pete sat in the back of the cab, his suitcase haphazardly shoved beside him. The driver glanced at him in the rearview mirror, his expression unreadable. Pete pulled out his phone, his hands trembling—not with fear but with the simmering frustration of a man whose world was unraveling.

He scrolled through his contacts, landing on Donold Grump Jr.’s name. If anyone could help smooth this over, it was Junior. He hit the call button and listened as the line rang once, twice, three times before the familiar click of voicemail.

"Hey, Junior, it’s Pete," he began, trying to keep his voice steady. "Look, there’s been a little... misunderstanding at the hotel. Nothing major, but I need you to talk to your dad. Just call me back, okay? It’s urgent."

He hung up and immediately tried another number, then another. Each call went straight to voicemail. His stomach tightened as the pattern became clear: no one was picking up.

Finally, on the fifth attempt, a friend answered. "Pete?" The voice on the other end was cautious, hesitant.

"Thank God," Pete blurted. "I need your help. There was an incident at the hotel, and—"

"I know," the friend interrupted, the words sharp and cutting. "Everyone knows, Pete. You’re all over the news. There’s even a picture of you with dog poop on your face. It's... bad, man. Real bad."

Pete’s heart sank. He glanced out the window, the city blurring past, but the humiliation felt inescapable. "Come on, it’s just a smear piece," he tried, his voice cracking. "They’re blowing it out of proportion."

"No, Pete," the friend said, his tone firm. "It’s not just the picture. There’s footage of you yelling at a little girl in the lobby. And now people are talking about... other stuff. The Chicago thing. You’re toxic right now."

Pete’s throat went dry. He opened his mouth to argue but found he had no defense. The line went dead, and he stared at his phone in disbelief.

With mounting desperation, he dialed the main number for MAGA Logo, the sprawling complex where he was supposed to meet Donold Grump himself. A cheerful receptionist answered.

"Hello, MAGA Logo. How may I assist you?"

"This is Pete Hoggs-Breath," he said, forcing authority into his voice. "I have an appointment with President Grump, and I need to confirm—"

"One moment," she interrupted, the sound of typing filling the pause. "Ah, yes. Mr. Hoggs-Breath, your appointment has been... canceled."

"Canceled?!" Pete nearly shouted, drawing a concerned glance from the cab driver. "You don’t cancel on me! I was personally invited!"

"I’m sorry, sir," the receptionist said with professional detachment. "I’m unable to provide further details. Have a good day."

The line clicked, and Pete stared at his phone in disbelief. Canceled. Ignored. Humiliated. The reality of his situation finally began to settle in. His chest tightened as his father’s voice echoed in his mind: Don’t screw this up, Pete.

The cab pulls up to a curb and stops in front of a church. The driver orders Pete to get out and go inside, they are having an all day AA meeting. Pete’s grip on his phone tightened as he realized for the first time in years, he was small, powerless, and utterly alone.

Pete paid the driver, adding a tip of a crisp $100 bill and exited the cab. As he staggered towards the door, fear and doubt gripped him. Was he ready to finally face his demons? Pete began to turn back towards the sidewalk when he met an attractive blond walking towards the door, almost bumping in to each other.  She takes him by the arm and asks if it is his first meeting. 

Pete acknowledges it is.

Well she replied, "My name is Grace and I have been coming here for a year. I saw your videos, others have hit rock bottom worse than that, just not quite so publicly. Are you ready to change that?"

Pete found himself being led into the church, unable, unwilling to let go of Grace's arm.