Chapter 6: Crypto Capital
The announcement came out of nowhere on a Monday morning: President Drumpf would make a "major financial innovation" speech at noon. Washington was abuzz with speculation. Would it be a new tax plan? A reshuffling of the Treasury? Instead, standing at a podium in the Ivory House's briefing room flanked by Ivy and Ron Jr., President Ron Drumpf unveiled "PatriotCoin" – Columbia's very own national cryptocurrency.
Cameras flashed as Ron held up a shiny commemorative coin for the audience – a prop, essentially, emblazoned with his profile and an eagle. The actual PatriotCoin was digital, of course, but he insisted on something tangible to show off. "PatriotCoin is the future, folks," he declared, reading from a teleprompter but adding his own flourishes. "It's a revolutionary new currency for patriots of Columbia. It's secure, it's cutting-edge, and believe me, it's going to make a lot of people very wealthy."
Ivy stood just behind his right shoulder, hands clasped, smiling serenely as if this had been her idea all along (in truth, it largely was – hers and Jason's). On his left, Ron Jr. bounced on the balls of his feet, grinning widely and giving occasional thumbs-ups to the crowd of supporters and reporters.
"PatriotCoin will be backed by the full faith and credit of the Columbian government," Ron continued, though economists would later debate what that even meant. "It's like the dollar, but better. It's crypto, which means it's very high-tech, very modern. And we're going to distribute it to the people through an initial offering – very exciting, never been done by a country before. We're calling it the PatriotCoin Freedom Offering."
Some reporters exchanged bewildered glances. Was the U.S. government (Columbian government) really doing an ICO? It sounded like a stunt, if not outright scam. But the Drumpf administration had a knack for blurring lines and breaking norms.
One reporter raised a hand and Ron gestured for him to speak. "Mr. President," the journalist asked, "how exactly will this offering work? Is the government buying or selling these coins, and who developed this cryptocurrency?"
Ron blinked and looked over to Ivy. She stepped forward smoothly. "PatriotCoin was developed in partnership with the private sector – some of our country's best innovators in blockchain technology," she said, which was a generous way of describing a few handpicked crypto enthusiasts with MAGA hats and startup dreams that Jason had corralled. "The government will initially hold a reserve of PatriotCoins and offer a portion to citizens and investors to purchase, thereby raising funds that will go into national infrastructure and debt reduction."
Ivy managed to say this with a straight face, though the infrastructure bit was window dressing. In reality, a chunk of the money was earmarked (quietly) for pet projects and perhaps an offshore slush fund or two.
Another reporter chimed in, "Critics might say this sounds like the government is running a speculative scheme. Cryptocurrencies are known for volatility—"
Ron cut him off. "PatriotCoin is going to be as solid as the dollar, maybe more. Because it's based on blockchain – nobody can mess with blockchain, you know. It's very secure. And we have the best people on it. The best."
Behind the scenes, as this announcement played out on live television, Jason was in the Situation Room-turned-"Crypto Command Center" with a team of techies monitoring social media reaction and financial markets. As soon as Ron mentioned PatriotCoin publicly, searches and online chatter spiked. Jason grinned at the screens displaying trending topics: #PatriotCoin, #CryptoRevolution, #TrustThePresident.
The next few weeks were a frenzy. PatriotCoin's "freedom offering" was heavily promoted on all friendly channels. The National News Network (the administration-friendly cable outlet) ran segments about how to buy PatriotCoin, interviewing starstruck Drumpf supporters who hailed it as a chance to "own a piece of the dream." Conservative radio hosts touted it as a way to fight back against "globalist bankers." Even some normally skeptical outlets covered it, if only for the spectacle of a President hawking cryptocurrency like it was a new cereal brand.
Ron Drumpf held rallies where in addition to the usual chants, new ones emerged: "Pat-ri-ot Coin! Pat-ri-ot Coin!" He would beam, encouraging the crowd. "Get in early, folks," he'd say. "Don't miss out. The train's leaving the station. Choo-choo!" (Yes, he literally mimed a train whistle at one Alabama rally, to roaring applause and laughter.)
In small towns and suburbs across Columbia, ordinary people started talking about PatriotCoin. It even penetrated circles that had never cared about Bitcoin or Ethereum or any of that "nerd money," as one supporter put it. But this was different—it was from President Drumpf, it had "Patriot" right in the name, and it felt like a way to both support their country and maybe strike it rich at the same time.
Ed and Marnie Fuller were one such couple, sitting at their kitchen table in rural Ohio one evening sorting through their finances. Ed, a retired factory worker and a fervent Drumpf believer, slapped a glossy flyer down on the table. It had arrived in the mail; the administration blanketed key voter regions with them. The flyer depicted eagles, flags, and a bold promise: "Invest in PatriotCoin – Invest in Columbia's Future (and Yours!)".
"I'm telling ya, Marnie," Ed said, adjusting his reading glasses, "if the President says it's a good idea, I think we should put something in. We got that rainy-day fund sitting doing nothing. Banks don't give no interest these days."
Marnie looked skeptical but intrigued. "How much were you thinking? We gotta be careful. It's new, and you know we don't understand all that online money stuff."
Ed tapped the flyer. "They make it easy. See, just go to this website or call this hotline. I'm thinking we put in, say, five thousand? That could really grow if this thing takes off."
Five thousand dollars was a big chunk of their savings, but Ed's conviction was strong. Marnie pursed her lips and eventually nodded. "Okay. If you believe in it. The President hasn't steered you wrong in your eyes yet."
And so it went, nationwide – small investors, diehard Drumpf supporters, and even some opportunistic day traders clamored for a piece. The initial offering sold out within hours, raising billions of dollars. The Treasury's public account proudly showed a surge (though an undisclosed portion was quietly diverted per the plan). PatriotCoin units, which had been offered at $10 a coin, started trading on a new government-sanctioned exchange that Jason and his buddies set up, called PatriotX.
The price shot up immediately. $10 became $20, then $30 within the first week. On paper, those who got in early were seeing their money double, triple. The news further stoked demand. It was like a gold rush, only it was red-white-and-blue and digital.
President Drumpf loved every minute. In meetings, he'd ask for updates on the "score," by which he meant PatriotCoin's price. It gave him a quantifiable metric of success outside of polls or the stock market. "How are we doing today, boys?" he'd ask Jason and Ron Jr., who had become the quasi public faces of PatriotCoin, dubbed by the media as the "Crypto Commanders."
"Great, Dad," Ron Jr. would say. "We're at $45 a coin. That's up four-hundred-fifty percent from launch. Huge success."
Jason would chime in with a chart. "We've got over ten million people holding PatriotCoin now, sir. It's become the most widely held cryptocurrency in the world, at least for the moment."
"Of course it is," Ron grinned. "When we do something, we do it bigly."
Yet, amidst the euphoria, there were warning signs. Traditional economists were aghast. The chair of the Columbian Federal Reserve had privately cautioned that this would destabilize financial markets; he was promptly blasted on Twitter by Ron Drumpf as a "do-nothing egghead who doesn't understand innovation." A few regulatory officials at the SEC tried to question the legality of the offering; they were sidelined or outright fired by executive order citing "sabotaging American progress."
Even within the White House, a couple of old-school advisors tried to get Ivy's ear. One, the Deputy National Economic Advisor – a meek man named Harold – knocked on her office door one afternoon, looking pale. "Ivanka—I mean, Ivy," he corrected, sweating slightly under her cool gaze. "I just ran some models. If PatriotCoin's price swings too wildly, it could pose a systemic risk. Many people are borrowing money to buy in. A crash could be...devastating."
Ivy gave a practiced reassuring smile. "Harold, I appreciate your concern. But we have top experts ensuring stability. The President is confident this will be beneficial. Sometimes great reward requires a bit of risk, no?"
Harold swallowed. "Yes, but usually the government's role is to mitigate risk, not amplify it. If this bubble bursts—"
She raised a hand gracefully, her smile never wavering but her eyes like ice. "We're not using the 'b-word' here, okay? PatriotCoin is backed by national assets, and there's strong confidence in it. Perhaps focus on how to support this innovation rather than undermine it."
Dismissed, Harold left, understanding the implicit threat. Within a month, he resigned, citing family time, and Ivy replaced him with a young market enthusiast who'd been cheerleading PatriotCoin on television.
Meanwhile, the mania continued. On the PatriotX exchange – a sleek app with a flashy eagle logo – trading volume soared. People were mortgaging houses, maxing credit cards to buy more. Some early adopters became paper millionaires overnight. Others panicked at any dip and sold, only to regret it as the price soared again.
Ron Jr. took particular pleasure in logging into PatriotX each morning to see his own holdings. Naturally, the Drumpf family hadn't missed the opportunity: through cutouts and LLCs, they'd allocated themselves a hefty amount of PatriotCoin at the initial price (or effectively free, for some pre-mined portion the "innovators" reserved). As the price climbed, their net worth on paper did too. Ron Jr. bragged to Jason one day over lunch at the Ivory House mess hall, "I'm a billionaire in PatriotCoin now. Well, almost – give it another week. Not that I'd cash out, of course. That'd look bad. But it feels good on screen, you know?" He laughed.
Jason smirked. "I know the feeling. Just... don't be stupid about it. We have to coordinate any selling very carefully. Can't spook the markets, and definitely can't let anyone trace any big moves back to us."
Ron Jr. rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. I'll behave. But Dad didn't say we couldn't enjoy the ride a bit."
Ivy, sitting nearby picking at a salad, interjected softly, "We need to be extremely cautious, both of you. This is raising eyebrows in the media. Some tech journals are comparing it to historical scams. One even used the phrase 'state-sponsored Ponzi scheme.'" She sighed. "I've reassured those we can reach that it's nothing of the sort, but the moment anything goes wrong, they'll jump on us."
Ron Jr. stuffed a forkful of steak into his mouth. "Nothing's going wrong. It's going gangbusters. Everyone's happy."
"Until they're not," Ivy murmured, almost to herself.
Her words proved prescient. A few months into PatriotCoin's meteoric rise (it hit $100 at one point, triggering a congratulatory tweet from the President: "PatriotCoin passes $100! Big WIN for Columbia!"), cracks began to form. A major tech blogger published leaked code from the PatriotCoin platform showing a potential security flaw. It hinted that the underlying blockchain wasn't as decentralized or secure as claimed – in fact, a kill switch existed that could freeze transactions, presumably at the government's whim. Crypto purists raged at this betrayal of blockchain ideals, and even many regular investors got nervous that Big Government could meddle in their assets.
Jason went into damage control mode, issuing statements that the code features were "misinterpreted safety measures." But trust was dented. Then came another blow: an overseas hacker collective (rumored to be from Rusher, opportunistically) targeted PatriotX, causing a temporary halt in trading one day. Though no funds were stolen, the outage spooked the market, and the price dipped by 20% in a day.
The administration downplayed it. Ron tweeted that "PatriotCoin is under attack by America's adversaries because they hate to see us win. Stay strong – it will bounce back bigger!" And bounce back it did – for a time. Loyal investors saw it as a chance to "buy the dip." The price stabilized around $80.
But the inherent volatility of crypto is a merciless thing. One weekend, a rumor spread on social media that the government's budget plan quietly included a section to potentially tax PatriotCoin trades heavily to cool the market. It wasn't true – an opposition lawmaker had floated an amendment that went nowhere – but by the time Monday trading opened, panic had set in. People started selling.
The price slid to $70, then $60. Automated stop-loss orders triggered more selling. By midday, it was in freefall, crashing through $50 with no bottom in sight. The PatriotX exchange struggled under the volume. Jason was on the phone with the exchange operators and government bankers, yelling to "do something – inject liquidity!" But cryptocurrencies don't have the circuit breakers of stock markets.
Ron Drumpf was down at Club Colombia that day, enjoying a round of golf with a couple of billionaire buddies (and quietly bragging about PatriotCoin's success). Mid-swing, a Secret Service agent hurried over with an urgent phone. An ashen-faced Jason was on the line, delivering the bad news: the bubble was bursting.
Reports of the crash spread across news channels. The gleeful schadenfreude of the mainstream financial pundits was palpable – many had been calling PatriotCoin a disaster waiting to happen, and here it was. By the end of that bloody day, PatriotCoin had plummeted to $12. Essentially back to square one, wiping out nearly $90 billion in market value.
For Ed and Marnie in Ohio, it was devastating. They watched the number on their PatriotX app drop and drop until their $5,000 investment, which had once been worth $25,000 at the peak, was now barely $3,000. Ed was in shock, silently staring at the screen. Marnie cried softly, feeling their hard-earned savings slip away into the ether. They tried calling the hotline for PatriotCoin customer support, but no one answered – lines were jammed with thousands of panicked investors like them.
In Washington, an emergency meeting convened in the Ivory House. Ivy, Jason, Walt the Chief of Staff, and a few economic aides gathered in the Oval Office where President Drumpf paced angrily, still in his golf shoes and windbreaker, having choppered back from Florida in haste.
"What the hell happened?!" Ron barked. He hated the word "crash," so everyone avoided using it.
Jason ran a hand through his hair. "It's a combination of things, sir. Possibly market manipulation by foreign actors, maybe some hedge funds shorting PatriotCoin – you know, betting it would fall. And panic selling."
Walt added gently, "Sir, many are saying this was a speculative bubble. They're comparing it to past financial manias. Some average folks are getting hurt financially."
Ron slammed a fist onto the Resolute Desk (smudging a bit of the gold filigree trim in the process). "Our people were supposed to get rich! The media scared them, that's what happened. And those tech nerds leaking things. This is sabotage."
Ivy cleared her throat. "Damage control is key now. We need to stabilize confidence. Perhaps the Treasury can buy up some PatriotCoin to prop the price? Or temporarily halt trading—"
Jason shook his head. "Halting would confirm everyone's worst fears. And Treasury buying crypto...not sure if that's legal or effective."
Ron Jr., who had been uncharacteristically quiet, finally spoke up from a corner. "Maybe Dad should go on TV, you know, calm everyone down. Tell them to hold, not to sell."
Ron shot him a look. "You think I should own this? They'll try to blame me. Hell, they already are." He jerked a thumb at the muted TV on the wall, where a cable news chyron read "PatriotCoin Collapse – Drumpf's Folly?" with stern-faced anchors discussing it.
Ivy approached her father cautiously. "We all knew there was risk. You took a bold step, and honestly, a lot of your supporters are still supportive. They believe you when you say it's an attack from enemies or the fake news. We can lean into that narrative."
Walt looked uneasy but didn't object. Ron latched onto the idea. "Yes. Yes, that's right. We never did anything wrong – we tried to give people a great opportunity. And it was great, until the deep-state globalists or whoever attacked it." The fact that countless small investors might have simply fallen prey to a classic bubble bursting didn't register in Drumpf's world. Blame was a game, and he never lost at it.
That evening, Ron Drumpf took to the airwaves from behind the Resolute Desk (its gold handles glinting out-of-focus on camera). In a five-minute address carried live on all major networks, he acknowledged the "volatility" in PatriotCoin but framed it as a battle: "Our nation's enemies hate to see us pioneering our own currency, independent of their control. Certain dishonest media figures and financial elites spread lies to scare good people. We will investigate these malicious activities and hold those responsible accountable. In the meantime, to those who bought PatriotCoin out of love of country and belief in our future – I assure you, Columbia has your back."
He offered vague promises: maybe the government would compensate some losses (details unspecified), maybe they'd catch the "hackers" who caused the panic (no solid evidence there were any). The key message was: It's not our fault, it's theirs, and we're still on your side. It was classic Drumpf, and for many of his core followers, it sufficed.
On PatriotX, the frenzied selling slowed. The price even ticked up a little as die-hards bought what they saw as cheap coins, encouraged by the President's words. But the gold rush aura was gone. PatriotCoin stabilized around $15 in the ensuing weeks, far below its highs. For many, it was too late – wealth was vaporized. Some folks swore off Drumpf forever, feeling betrayed. But others, astonishingly, doubled down in their loyalty, echoing the President's line that the crash was engineered by his enemies.
In the Drumpf inner circle, they quietly moved on. The PatriotCoin experiment had stuffed a good sum into government coffers (and Drumpf coffers) before the collapse, and those funds were not returned. There were calls for investigations. A House committee subpoenaed documents on who profited from the offering. But the administration stonewalled, claiming executive privilege over internal discussions.
One particular email chain that never saw public light detailed how Ron Jr. and Jason had timed some secret sell-offs via offshore accounts in the days before the crash – minor enough to not tank the market but enough to cash out tens of millions. They sensed the peak nearing and took a slice for safety. That money went straight into a series of shell companies, safe from any clawback. If Ron Drumpf knew of this, he never mentioned it, but he certainly didn't object when a sizable "loan repayment" from one of those entities was made to one of his private trusts around that time.
At the end of the day, PatriotCoin became just another scandal in the ongoing circus – one that left countless ordinary Columbians poorer and a select few insiders richer. The media ran with it for a time: hearings were held, experts decried the madness of it all, late-night comedians had a field day comparing PatriotCoin to arcade tokens or Monopoly money. But as always in the Drumpf era, a new outrage soon stole the spotlight (by the next month, the headlines had shifted to a shake-up at the Justice Department and a foreign policy gaffe).
In the quiet aftermath, Ivy oversaw an internal post-mortem. She was perhaps the only one who truly reflected on the damage done. "We overestimated our ability to control it," she confided to Jason one night on a balcony of the Ivory House, looking out at the Washington skyline. "It was too wild."
Jason shrugged, sipping his bourbon. "We still made out fine. And the administration got a cash infusion. Not a total loss."
Ivy's gaze was distant. "But the people who believed in us... some were hurt."
Jason gave her a curious look. It was rare to hear a hint of remorse from her. He set down his glass and gently placed a hand on her shoulder. "They'll get over it. People gamble and lose. They chose to buy in."
She nodded slowly, face impassive again. "Yes. I suppose so." The compassion in her tone flickered out, replaced by steely pragmatism. "Anyway, we have other priorities now – the Columbia Dream Fund gala is next week. Let's focus on that."
And so they did. The Drumpf train rolled on, barely pausing to acknowledge the wreckage of Crypto Capital in its wake. There were always new schemes on the horizon, new ways to spin power into personal profit.
In a bar in Cleveland, Ed Fuller nursed a beer and told a friend, "I'm not touching any of that crypto crap again. But I still trust the President. He tried somethin' bold – I respect that. It was those damn Wall Street sharks that ruined it." Such rationalizations were echoed by many.
Drumpf's base remained largely intact, if a bit rattled. And for Ron Drumpf himself, the PatriotCoin episode was compartmentalized as just another battle scar of his war against the "establishment." Publicly, he spun it as a win: "We learned a lot, we rattled the status quo." Privately, he groused about "losers who sold too fast" and occasionally lamented that they didn't cash out more at the top.
But soon enough, he and his family of dealmakers found new avenues to exploit – one of which was the very charity Ivy had mentioned, now flush with fresh foreign donations and ready for its turn in the spotlight (or shadows, as the case might be).
The chaos of the crypto craze would fade into the backdrop as the Drumpfs geared up for their next act: turning charity into an art of the con. After all, if they could make a nation chase fool's gold, how hard could it be to make philanthropy pay?
Chapter 7: The Charity Hustle
The ballroom of the Columbian Grand Hotel sparkled with an excess that rivaled even the Ivory House. Crystal chandeliers cast a soft glow on marble floors, and waiters in tuxedos circulated with champagne flutes. It was the inaugural gala of the Columbian Dream Fund, the Drumpf family's flagship charitable foundation. Ostensibly, the foundation's mission was uplifting underprivileged communities and supporting "patriotic education" for youth – a broad, noble-sounding mandate that conveniently could encompass just about anything.
At the center of the ballroom, beneath a banner emblazoned with the foundation's star-spangled logo, Ivy Drumpf glided from table to table, greeting donors with the poise of a diplomat. "We're so grateful for your generosity," she repeated, flashing her polished smile. Each table was a who's who of wealthy magnates, foreign dignitaries, and lobbyists – many of the same faces seen at Club Colombia or on donor lists for political causes, now wearing the hat of "philanthropist" for the evening.
On stage, a string quartet finished a Mozart piece and a well-known TV host (serving as the night's emcee) tapped the mic. "Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats. The program will begin shortly."
Ron Drumpf, in a tuxedo that fit a bit snug around the waist, sat at the head table with Melina beside him, resplendent in a gold gown (naturally) and a Columbian flag pin. Ron Jr. and Jason, each with their spouses, flanked them, completing the family portrait. In front of each seat was a glossy program brochure titled "Building the Columbian Dream: A Night of Hope", filled with photos of smiling children, new libraries, and of course, multiple pictures of the Drumpf family themselves "in action" at various charitable events (some staged purely for the photos, like Ivy pretend-painting a school wall or Ron Jr. handing out a single turkey at Thanksgiving).
The lights dimmed slightly as Ivy took the stage to deliver the welcome. She spoke with earnestness that could almost convince one she meant every word. "Good evening. As president of the Columbian Dream Fund, I am honored to have you here. Tonight is about giving back – about channeling our success into opportunities for others to achieve their Columbian Dream." She emphasized those last words with a hand over her heart.
At the head table, Ron Drumpf nodded approvingly. This had been Ivy's brainchild: position the family as generous benefactors, even as they reaped the benefits. It was a win-win in his book – good PR, and if done right, good profit.
Ivy continued, "In just one year, our foundation has launched initiatives from building community centers for veterans, to funding scholarships for deserving young patriots." Applause punctuated each listed achievement. None of the guests knew (or needed to know) that many of those projects were still in planning or only partly funded, and that in some cases, the foundation had simply taken over programs originally run by government agencies, rebranding them as their own.
After the applause, she introduced her father. "It's now my privilege to welcome the visionary who inspired the Columbian Dream Fund's creation. Please join me in honoring the President of Columbia – and my father – Ron Drumpf."
The room rose in a standing ovation as Ron approached the podium, hugging Ivy on the way. He drank in the applause, then spoke in his trademark braggadocio laced with faux humility. "Thank you, thank you. Wow, what a turnout. The best people, the most generous people in the country, all in this room. No losers here, I can tell you that." Laughter rippled; in Drumpfian circles, even self-aggrandizing jokes were considered charming.
He went on to laud the foundation's work, albeit in vague terms. "We're helping so many kids, you wouldn't believe it. Kids who had nothing, now they have, uh, books and - and school supplies, lots of things. And our veterans, we love our veterans – we're building them, what do you call 'em, resource centers, great stuff." He pointed a finger into the crowd. "And it's because of you, folks. You opened your wallets, your hearts. We raised – what's the number, Ivy?"
Ivy smoothly interjected, "Over $50 million in pledges in our first year."
Ron whistled. "Fifty million! That's huge. And not a penny wasted, believe me. We run a lean operation." On that line, Melina might have smirked slightly, knowing the "lean operation" included first-class travel and generous consulting fees to several Drumpf-owned entities. But she kept her face a practiced mask.
Ron finished with a flourish: "Together, we're making the dream come true for so many. So give yourselves a big hand, and enjoy the night – you earned it!" More applause as he exited the stage waving.
Dinner was served – a lavish three-course affair with filet mignon and truffle mashed potatoes – all donated by a catering company whose owner hoped for a presidential favor in return. At these galas, nearly every donation or in-kind gift was an investment in influence. The donor list read like an alternate ledger of lobbyists: a pharmaceutical giant's CEO had bought a $500,000 table, a telecom billionaire another, a foreign bank executive quietly sponsored the dessert.
At the foreign bank executive's table, the man leaned toward Jason Drumpf seated as the foundation's vice-chair. "Mr. Drumpf, we're so impressed by the work you all are doing. It's truly inspiring. My bank would be keen to partner on some microfinance programs through your foundation, perhaps a $5 million commitment to start."
Jason gave a cordial nod. "That's wonderful. We should discuss it further. Perhaps Monday at my office?" He knew such a partnership might also conveniently align with the bank's desire to expand in Columbia with lighter regulation – something Jason could certainly help with via back channels. "Our goal is empowering communities, and financial tools are key," he added diplomatically.
A few tables over, Ron Jr. was schmoozing a coal industry magnate who had slipped a hefty donation under the foundation's umbrella earmarked for "economic development." In practice, that donation was quietly directed toward a feasibility study for a new coal processing facility – one that Drumpf policies would likely fast-track, benefiting the magnate's business. Ron Jr. chuckled as the magnate's wife made a joke, but his eyes were on the silent auction items displayed at the room's periphery.
The silent auction was a gaudy display, more about bragging rights than charity: a week-long stay at Drumpf International Hotel in Vienna (donated by the hotel, but basically an in-kind funnel back to themselves), a round of golf with Ron Jr. at Club Colombia (already the bids for that were in the tens of thousands), a private dinner with Ivy and Jason (billed as "Evening of Ideas with the Drumpfs," drawing huge interest from several executives eager for private lobbying).
Meanwhile, behind the scenes, the foundation's internal team – a skeletal staff mostly composed of former campaign aides – managed logistics. In their makeshift backstage office (really, a side room in the hotel), the foundation's executive director, Marla, was reviewing the incoming funds with a keen eye. Marla had an extensive non-profit background, the sort who joined initially believing she could steer the foundation to genuine good. But over months she'd been sidelined and taught to accept the family's way of doing things or leave. Now she functioned more as a bookkeeper of promises and an implementer of unorthodox directives.
"How's it looking, Marla?" Ivy asked, slipping into the room for a breather after dinner.
Marla adjusted her glasses and gave a tight smile. "Quite well. We have pledges totaling about $12 million so far tonight, and the auction should bring in a few more. I've noted that nearly half of that is from foreign sources, which will require careful documentation." She said it lightly, but the implication hung. The law forbade foreign donations to political campaigns, but to a charity? That was a gray area the Drumpfs were exploiting: nothing stopped a foreign national from giving to a U.S. charity, even if their motive was currying favor with the First Family.
Ivy waved a hand dismissively. "We'll ensure all compliance boxes are checked." She looked over the pledge breakdown and her eyes sparkled at one line: $2 million from the Al-Jazeer Royal Philanthropic Trust (the King had kept his word from the trip). Another: $1 million from "Global Prosperity Initiative, Ltd." – Ivy made a mental note to confirm which foreign businessman that LLC represented. All that mattered was it was money in their coffers.
"Also," Marla added cautiously, "tomorrow we have that site visit for the new Drumpf Youth Center downtown. The press will be there. We should confirm which funds we're attributing to that project."
Ivy pursed her lips. The Drumpf Youth Center was a public-private project they'd taken under their foundation's wing – mostly renovating an old YMCA. The foundation had pledged $500k, but then quietly arranged for a federal community grant to cover the bulk while credit would still go to the foundation. "We'll say the foundation contributed a matching grant and coordinated funding. That should be fine."
Marla nodded. She'd long given up pushing back on these half-truths.
As Ivy turned to go back out, Marla ventured, "Ms. Drumpf, I wanted to mention – we've received several inquiries from journalists about the foundation's expenditures. Particularly, they want clarity on disbursements versus administrative costs."
Ivy stopped, slowly facing Marla. "What exactly?"
Marla cleared her throat. "Um, one outlet is asking why, in our initial financial report, only about 40% of our raised funds went to program services, while 60% went to 'other.' They specifically noted large payments to Drumpf-owned properties for events and consulting."
A chill entered Ivy's smile. "We have nothing to hide. Our events are part of our outreach and programming. And we pay fair market rate for venues and expertise." This she recited as if reading a press release.
Of course, fair market rate was debatable when the foundation's gala tonight was being billed at a premium to the Grand Hotel (which, while not branded as Drumpf, was majority-owned by a holding company tied to them). Essentially, the foundation would pay the hotel an inflated price for hosting – moving donor money into Drumpf corporate revenue. And "consulting" fees had gone to individuals like Jason and other family allies for vaguely defined roles.
Marla opened her mouth as if to say more, but Ivy raised a finger gently. "Draft a response reiterating our commitment to transparency and highlight the wonderful work we've done. Emphasize that first year costs included necessary investments in infrastructure, and going forward our program ratio will improve as those investments pay off." It rolled off her tongue smoothly – she'd crafted these kinds of statements before.
"Yes, Ms. Drumpf," Marla sighed. As Ivy left, Marla shook her head slightly at the absurdity. Transparency was hardly the hallmark here. She'd once tried to press Jason about an expense – a $150,000 "research consultation" fee that went to a firm which turned out to be a shell company registered to one of Ron Jr.'s buddies. She was curtly told not to question line items approved by the board.
Back in the ballroom, the program continued with a couple of "heartwarming stories" – videos played on giant screens showing beneficiaries of the foundation's largesse. One clip featured a veteran praising the new resource center (not disclosing the federal money that built it). Another showed a little girl hugging a teddy bear at a hospital with a voiceover about a toy drive the foundation sponsored (in truth, they had simply slapped their logo on an annual Toys for Tots campaign).
The audience cooed and clapped at the right moments. If anyone suspected exaggeration or misdirection, they didn't say – they were complicit in the farce, after all. Many donors were in on the game: donate to the Drumpf charity, earn goodwill and maybe some access. Whether that money truly helped anyone was secondary.
After dessert, Ron Jr. took the stage to serve as auctioneer for a few high-profile live auction items. "Alright, folks, get your paddles ready! First up: an exclusive round of golf for three lucky winners with the President himself at Club Colombia! That's right, you and two friends, 18 holes with the leader of the free world. Who'll start the bidding at $100,000?"
Hands shot up. In minutes, the golf outing sold for $300,000 to an exuberant industrialist whose grin said he'd just bought far more than a day of golf – he'd bought face time to pitch whatever he wanted to Ron Drumpf on the green.
Next, "Lunch in New York with First Lady Melina Drumpf and Ivy Drumpf – fashion tips included!" That fetched $200,000 from an international cosmetics mogul (clearly aiming to get her products an endorsement or placement).
And then a surprise item: "How about this – original painting, one-of-a-kind: 'The Vision of Columbia' by renowned artist L. Tarlington." Ron Jr. unveiled a dramatic oil painting on an easel. It depicted a heroic-looking President Drumpf in a classical pose, almost like a Greek god overseeing a bright cityscape labeled Columbia, with grateful citizens below.
There were murmurs and some restrained chuckles in the crowd. It was gaudy and on-the-nose, but certainly unique. Unknown to the audience, this painting was commissioned by the foundation using donor funds for $50,000. Now they were selling it off.
Bidding started at $50k and climbed. But it stalled around $90k. Ron Jr., not wanting to let it go cheap, tossed in, "The President will sign it, personally, to the winner!" That did the trick; two die-hard Drumpf fan businessmen dueled until one took it for $150,000. (One could almost imagine a similar portrait hung in the Ivory House; indeed a duplicate was already there.)
Melina leaned over to Ron at the head table, whispering with a trace of irony, "They pay so much for your autograph. Maybe I sign and sell menu next time." Ron chuckled, either not catching her sarcasm or just amused by the absurdity himself.
As the event wound down, donors departed buzzing about the wonderful evening, the important contacts they made, the next steps. Foundation staff collected checks and IOUs, whilst a few Secret Service agents helped discreetly ferry some of the more expensive auction items (like the painting) to secure transport.
Later that night, after the ballroom was emptied out, Ron Drumpf did a brief walkthrough with Ivy and the family, reflecting on the night. A janitor was already stacking chairs as they passed.
"Great job, honey. Really great," Ron told Ivy, patting her shoulder. "How much did we get?"
"We should clear over $15 million from tonight alone," Ivy said, tired but pleased. "Annual total will be higher once all pledges are in."
Ron Jr. let out a low whistle. "Not bad for a night of partying. Maybe we should do this monthly."
Melina arched a brow. "Donors might tire if too often. But yearly, it is good."
Jason scrolled on his phone. "We also got some nice pledges into the veterans fund and the education fund off to the side. I think a lot of folks want to be on our committees for those."
That was another angle: the foundation had multiple sub-funds and committees donors could join (with requisite contributions). It gave them fancy titles like Advisory Council Member, which they could flaunt, and more opportunities to be around the Drumpfs.
"Speaking of which," Ivy said, "We should remember who's on the short list for that infrastructure council partnership. A few donors asked about it."
Ron nodded absentmindedly. He rarely sweated details; Ivy and Jason handled that. He glanced around the lavish room one more time. "Shame we didn't do this sooner. For years, I gave money away through that old foundation of mine, and what thanks did I get? They forced me to shut it down." He was referring to the previous Drumpf Foundation, which he had had to dissolve under legal pressure before taking office (a detail the Drumpfs never mentioned). "Now we got a bigger, better one, and it's a machine."
Ivy smiled thinly. She remembered all too well the controversy that shuttered the previous Drumpf Foundation: the misuse of funds for his portrait, political donations, etc. This time they tried to be a tad more careful – or at least better at masking it.
The family left, leaving the cleanup to staff. Outside, flashing cameras caught them as they stepped into motorcades, reporters shouting, "Mrs. Drumpf, how much was raised tonight?!" and "Mr. President, any comment on the foundation critics?" Ron just waved and smiled, letting Ivy throw a quick "It was a hugely successful night for a great cause!" over her shoulder.
The next morning's headlines in friendly outlets were glowing: "Drumpf Foundation Gala Raises Millions for Needy – A Big Hearted First Family," one tabloid blared, complete with pictures of Ron Jr. playing auctioneer and Ivy at the podium. More critical papers noted the extravagance and the mixed donor motives: "Charity or Influence Play? Big Donors Flock to Drumpf Gala". One investigative blogger went further, publishing an analysis claiming only a fraction of foundation expenditures had reached actual charity recipients. That story gained some traction online but was drowned out in mainstream chatter by yet another scandal du jour – something about the Attorney General and an unusual intervention in a case involving one of the President's allies.
In subsequent weeks, a few more disquieting facts emerged at the edges. A diligent reporter dug up tax filings (the foundation had to file public IRS forms) showing that the Columbian Dream Fund had paid nearly $800,000 to Drumpf-owned businesses in the past year – for venue rentals, catering, "management services." The story pressed: essentially, donor money was cycling back to the family.
During a press briefing, one of the more daring White House correspondents asked the Press Secretary, "Is the President aware that his family charity is funneling large sums to their own companies? Isn't that effectively profiting from charitable contributions?"
The Press Secretary, a grin plastered on her face, replied, "That's a ridiculous characterization. The foundation uses the best facilities and services to ensure maximum impact. If those happen to be Trump—excuse me—Drumpf-owned, it's because they are top quality and often provided at a discount, saving the foundation money. The real story is the lives changed for the better thanks to the First Family's generosity and leadership."
When pressed further, she launched into a rehearsed spiel about transparency and how the foundation's accounts were all public (albeit labyrinthine). She deflected any notion of wrongdoing with practiced indignation. After all, wasn't it better that donors' money went to businesses that provided jobs and quality service, rather than to "wasteful overhead"? It was a rhetorical pretzel, but enough to satisfy the surface-level news.
Privately, though, a state attorney general in New York (Columbia had no jurisdiction, but New York did for some foundation activities there) had started quietly examining whether the foundation was violating any charity laws. This AG's office, already a thorn in the side of Drumpf businesses, suspected the Columbian Dream Fund was a pay-to-play front. Subpoenas for documents loomed.
At a family meeting, Ivy brought it up carefully. "We've received some requests for information from the New York authorities about the foundation."
Ron scowled. "Those New York liberals – always after me. What do they want now?"
"They're asking for detailed accounting of donations and expenditures. It's preliminary, but they might be looking at whether any benefit inured to you personally, which in charity law is a no-no."
Ron Jr. scratched his head. "We did route that donation to fix the roof at the D.C. hotel through the foundation… maybe that's what they see." Indeed, at one point the foundation had paid for a "historic preservation grant" to refurbish part of the old post office (now the Drumpf D.C. Hotel), framing it as preserving a landmark for the public. It was thin.
Jason leaned forward, "If it gets hot, maybe we just move operations wholly to D.C. or Florida, out of New York's reach. Or restructure. Heck, we can start a new fund in another name if needed."
Ron raised a hand to stop the worrying. "It'll blow over. We'll say it's partisan harassment. They love the charity – nobody in middle America cares about technicalities. We just had that big gala showing how good we are."
Ivy nodded, outwardly agreeable. Damage control was her domain and she would handle it. In the end, protracted legal wrangling and political pressure would likely blunt any serious consequences, as it often had before.
The Charity Hustle rolled on. The Columbian Dream Fund opened a luxurious new headquarters in D.C. – coincidentally leasing space in a Drumpf-owned office building. It launched new campaigns that often overlapped conveniently with the family's interests: a "Buy Columbian" initiative that promoted Ivanka's – sorry, Ivy's – product lines under the guise of supporting domestic artisans; a small-business grant program that steered funds to companies that had spent money at Drumpf properties.
To the Drumpfs, charity was just another business unit – one with extra tax breaks and a veneer of altruism to shield a multitude of self-serving sins. And perhaps most perversely comic of all, much of the public bought into it, seeing only the warm photos and platitudes.
A late-night comedian joked, "The Drumpf family charity is the best charity – because it gives to the neediest cause of all: the Drumpf family." It got a laugh from the informed audience, but for millions of supporters consuming the carefully curated image of philanthropy, the satire didn't register.
At the Ivory House one evening, Ivy was reviewing thank-you letters to send to major donors. Each missive was tailored: mentions of future "collaboration" or an open door to discuss policy – the unspoken quid pro quo. As she signed them, she thought about the delicate balance they walked. The charity had to be credible enough to maintain its tax-exempt status and public goodwill, yet flexible enough to serve as a piggy bank and influence exchange.
She set her pen down and rubbed her temples. Sometimes even she felt a twinge of discomfort – fleeting thoughts that, had things been different, she might have led a legitimate philanthropic endeavor that truly helped people. She was good at this, in an alternate life she could have been a respected charity leader for real. But that was not the Drumpf way. In this world, everything – even generosity – was transactional.
Jason entered the study with two glasses of wine, handing one to her. "To a successful gala," he toasted softly.
Ivy clinked his glass. "To making dreams come true," she replied with a half-smirk.
They both knew whose dreams were really coming true: theirs, and those of the inner circle. The dreams of the underprivileged were, at best, a public relations byproduct.
As Ivy sipped her wine, her phone buzzed with a notification – a news alert about some brewing scandal at the Defense Department. She exhaled, relieved. That would dominate the cycle next. The charity questions would likely evaporate in the haze of yet another controversy. The media circus moved on quickly these days, and Team Drumpf was expert at supplying fresh distractions.
"Something good?" Jason asked, noting her expression.
"Just the usual chaos," Ivy said. "Good for us."
She placed the stack of signed donor letters into a folder. Outside the study window, the Washington skyline was glittering. The city of ideals and institutions – bent to the service of a family's vanity and greed, under cover of patriotism and philanthropy.
And so the Columbian Dream Fund carried on, a dream machine fueled by others' money, converting influence into cash and back again. Another stage of the Drumpf saga, where even charity – the act of giving – was twisted into yet another scheme of taking.
In the dark comedy of this administration, nothing was sacred, not even the helping hand. Because if the Drumpfs were reaching out to help, you could be sure their other hand was in your pocket, fingers crossed that you wouldn't notice.
Chapter 8: Media Circus
It was another frenzied afternoon in the West Wing press briefing room. Dozens of reporters packed the rows of narrow seats, notebooks and voice recorders at the ready. On the small podium beneath the Ivory House seal stood Press Secretary Sandra Steele, a blonde woman with a razor-sharp smile and eyes that could flick from friendly to ferocious in an instant. She flipped through notes while facing a barrage of shouted questions.
"Sandra! Sandra! Over here—" came voices overlapping.
She held up a hand. "One at a time, please. Let's start with James from the Columbian Gazette."
A middle-aged reporter stood, adjusting his glasses. "Sandra, this morning three separate major stories broke: First, an Inspector General report found misuse of funds in the Columbian Dream Fund involving the President's family. Second, a recording leaked of Ron Drumpf Jr. apparently promising an ambassadorship in exchange for a donation at a fundraiser. And third, the Defense Secretary resigned after disagreements with the President's policy in South Asia. Can you address each of these? And is the administration concerned that the sheer number of scandals is eroding public trust?"
A few reporters murmured agreement—that question pretty much covered the day's chaos.
Sandra Steele didn't miss a beat. She had been well-trained in the Drumpf method of press handling: never acknowledge the premise, always reframe. She picked a point that she could attack. "First of all, I reject the term 'scandals.' The only scandal here is how the media insists on negative spin. But I'll address your points. On the so-called Inspector General report – that is a politically motivated hit piece. The First Daughter Ivy Drumpf already issued a statement that every dollar of the Columbian Dream Fund is accounted for and helping people. Any suggestion otherwise is simply false and comes from partisan bureaucrats."
She breezed on before he could follow up, "Second, that supposed recording of a private conversation with Ron Jr.? I haven't authenticated it. Neither has anyone else. It's likely a deepfake – you know those are rampant now. It's sad the media is running with unverified audio from an unnamed source. We have real issues in this country and this is what you focus on?"
James tried to interject, "The person who leaked it is a major donor—"
Sandra talked over him, voice amplifying. "And on the Defense Secretary: Secretary Bowen served honorably, and the President thanked him for his service. Policy differences happen. There is no 'scandal' in a resignation, James. The President will be appointing a fantastic new Secretary soon. Next question."
She pointed to another journalist, cutting James off effectively. The next reporter, from a cable network, jumped in, "Sandra, the President tweeted this morning that the 'fake news is at it again with made-up sources and deep state lies.' Is he referring to the IG report or the leaked recording or something else entirely? And does he have evidence these things are fake?"
Sandra gave a thin smile. "The President's tweet speaks for itself. He's highlighting the broader pattern of dishonest media attacks. We see it almost daily – stories based on anonymous sources or leakers trying to sabotage the administration. It's a circus out there," she said, letting a little of her exasperation show for effect, "and the President is understandably frustrated that the media rarely reports on the positive achievements – like the record job growth last quarter or the new trade deal with Al-Jazeer – and focuses instead on unsubstantiated drama."
In the back, a veteran White House correspondent muttered to a colleague, "She basically just called us clowns without saying it."
The colleague, a younger reporter with weary eyes, responded under his breath, "If the shoe fits… some days I feel like one, chasing these stories that never stick."
On it went, question after question. One reporter brought up PatriotCoin's collapse – Sandra insisted it was rebounding (it wasn't) and that "bad actors" were under investigation for sabotage (no evidence given). Another asked about the President's latest rally where he openly mocked a reporter by name, whipping up the crowd. "Is the President concerned his rhetoric is dangerous?" they asked.
Sandra's smile turned to a tight frown. "The President believes in free speech, unlike some of the media who try to shut him down. He will not be silenced by critics. The real danger is a media that has become an opposition party. Next."
The reporters grew visibly frustrated. Some threw up their hands. One shouted, "Sandra, this is ridiculous. When will the President actually answer questions himself? It's been over a year since his last formal press conference!"
Sandra Steele gathered her notes. "The President communicates directly with the American people more than any past president. He's answered hundreds of questions on the South Lawn, on social media, at town halls. Sorry folks—" She glanced at her watch as if out of time, though everyone knew she was cutting it short as tough questions mounted. "—that's all for today. See you tomorrow."
And with that, she pivoted and walked briskly off stage as the room erupted in shouted follow-ups. "Sandra! Sandra!" But she was gone, and the live feed cut.
That evening, across the nation, the events of the day were parsed on countless screens. In one sequence at 7 p.m., three cable news networks might as well have been broadcasting from different planets:
On the National News Network (NNN), the tone was triumphant. The prime-time host, a slick-haired man with a flag pin, opened with a monologue scorning the President's critics. "Good evening. The desperate liberal media is at it again, folks. They're throwing everything at President Drumpf – charity smears, fake audio tapes, you name it – because they can't stand his success. But guess what? It's not sticking. This president is made of Teflon because he's delivering results for you." On screen, the chyron blared: "Witch Hunt 3.0: Media's War on Drumpf."
He brought on guests – a rotating cast of Drumpf-friendly commentators and a token moderate – to ridicule the Inspector General's report ("a deep state fabrication"), to cast doubt on the recording ("high-tech fake, mark my words"), and to praise the President's "strategic genius" in South Asia that obviously the Defense Secretary didn't appreciate. The narrative was tightly controlled: President Drumpf was the hero under siege, and the only sane response was to rally behind him and tune out the "frenzied lies" of everyone else.
Over on the Global News Network (GNN), a more centrist outlet, the approach was panel-driven bewilderment. Four pundits talked over each other about the chaos. One exhausted analyst said, "There's just too much to even process. Any one of these issues would dominate a previous administration for weeks. But here we are juggling five, six at once." Another panelist, a conservative columnist, deflected blame to the media: "The press jumps on every rumor and leak. It's feeding the chaos. No wonder people are tuning out – they don't know what to believe." A chyron below them read: "Scandal Overload: Can Americans Still Care?"
And on the Progressive News Network (PNN), the tone was outright alarm. An anchor with a grave expression intoned, "Today might have been the most corrupt day of the most corrupt presidency in modern history." She listed the issues, voice rising: "If our political system were functioning, any one of these would merit resignations, impeachments, massive protests. But we're numb. Nothing matters!" She interviewed a media scholar about the concept of scandal fatigue. "We've normalized the abnormal," the scholar said. "People can't sustain outrage at this frequency. So the outrage turns into a kind of cynical fatigue."
That phrase—cynical fatigue—summed up the mood of a large swath of the public. In a diner in Pennsylvania, two older men sipped coffee in silence as a TV in the corner droned through yet another "breaking news" banner. One shook his head and said, "I can't keep track of all this crap. One day it's some coin thing, next it's his kid doing something, then half his cabinet quits. I'm just trying to live my life. I've tuned out."
His friend nodded. "They're all crooks anyway. Nothing changes. At least this guy gives us a show." He chuckled mirthlessly.
Not far away, at a family dinner table, a woman scrolled her phone looking at headlines while her husband tried to feed their toddler. She tossed the phone aside, exasperated. "I don't even want to read the news anymore. It's just constant Drumpf drama. It's like a reality show that never ends."
Her husband shrugged. "Then don't. We got enough to worry about here at home." He changed the channel to a sports game to escape the noise.
This was the climate in which the Drumpf administration thrived. Each scandal, no matter how serious, was quickly subsumed by the next spectacle. The public's capacity to care was stretched thin, like butter scraped over too much bread.
At the Ivory House, this was not an unintended side effect—it was a strategy. Ron Drumpf himself often remarked proudly to his inner circle, "I know how to keep the spotlight. They can't look away, and while they're busy watching me, we're getting things done." What "things" those were could vary from day to day—sometimes it was petty score-settling, other times significant policy changes that slid by almost unnoticed amid the chaos.
For instance, on the very day that everyone was debating a leaked recording and a foundation scandal, few noticed that a sweeping deregulation on environmental protections was quietly issued, pleasing many industrial donors. It barely made the news.
In the West Wing that night, Ron sat with his legs up on the Oval Office desk, watching a recap on NNN. They were playing a montage of pundits dismissing the day's controversies. Ron Jr. and Jason were with him, along with Walt, the Chief of Staff.
"See that?" Ron said, jabbing a finger at the TV. "They're eating out of my hand. Fake scandals, all of it. The base doesn't buy it for a second."
Walt, who looked more haggard by the week, gently cleared his throat. "Sir, our approval rating is at 35%. It's not just the base we need to think about. Next year's election—"
Ron waved him off. "Polls, schmolls. They said I was at 20% last time and I won, remember? The media doesn't get the silent majority. They're with me. And half the others aren't paying attention anymore. Which, frankly, is fine. Less resistance."
Ron Jr. was scrolling Twitter on his phone. "Dad, you gotta retweet this meme, it's hilarious." He showed his father an image someone made of Ron as a ringmaster in a circus, taming a lion with the face of a CNN logo. The caption: "Who's the boss? #DrumpfCircus #MediaTamed."
The President guffawed. "Tweet it from my account. And tell that kid I'll send him a signed hat."
While the Drumpf men found amusement in the spectacle, Ivy was in a quieter room upstairs in the residence, watching a different kind of show—a late-night talk program. The comedian was doing his opening monologue, and as expected, Drumpf was the target.
"So, did you guys keep up with the news today? Me neither!" the comedian laughed. "Let's see: Drumpf's charity might actually just be a piggy bank, his son tried to sell an ambassadorship like it was on Craigslist, and the Defense Secretary said 'I'm outta here'—which is alarming because he was the last guy who knew what the nuclear codes do." The audience laughed and clapped. The comedian continued, "At this point, I'm more shocked when a day goes by without a scandal. One of these days Drumpf's gonna tweet 'I'm an alien lizard person here to eat your planet' and everyone's just gonna be like, 'Oh, that's just Ron being Ron, what else is on TV?'" The crowd roared.
Ivy smirked at that one. Even she could appreciate the grim truth in the humor. She turned off the TV and sat in darkness for a moment, the city lights twinkling beyond the window. In her hand was a report from a private polling firm: it showed that a majority of Columbians indeed found the administration "exhausting," but at the same time, a significant portion also found it "entertaining." Entertaining. Government by spectacle.
She heard the faint sound of Melina's high heels down the hall. The First Lady was heading to bed, likely after a late dinner with friends. Melina rarely involved herself in the political fray, which Ivy sometimes envied. In the media circus, Melina was like the beautiful trapeze artist that everyone watched but who performed high above the muck of the ring below. Lucky her, Ivy mused.
Downstairs, Ron decided to cap the night with a personal media blast. Ignoring Walt's pleas for restraint, he fired off a few new tweets from his phone:
"The Fake News is dying. People get it! They don't believe the garbage anymore. Ratings way down for lamestream media, way up for us!"
"I will always fight for YOU, not the media elites. That's why they attack me. They are truly the Enemy of the People."
And then, seemingly apropos of nothing, he tweeted a short video clip of a circus clown slipping on a banana peel, captioned: "Live look at the Fake News after today's TRUTH bombs. #BozoMedia"
Within minutes, these tweets became the story on the news tickers. Even though they were essentially rehashes of his old lines, they kept everyone talking. Another injection of outrage here, a dash of absurdity there – enough to keep the show running overnight until a new day's cycle.
The media scrambled: Analysts debated on TV whether calling the press "Enemy of the People" was incitement. On Twitter, journalists responded defensively. Supporters retweeted with glee. Detractors seethed.
A veteran anchor on one network sighed live on air, "This is pointless. We're all chasing our tails in his circus ring. We should be investigating policy, not playing whack-a-mole with his latest provocations."
But by next morning, that same network's chyrons would inevitably be dissecting the tweets and whatever new shiny outrage had surfaced.
As dawn broke, an image of the Ivory House popped up on screens with breathless narration: "Breaking: The President is set to pardon a controversial figure today, sources say, diverting attention from the foundation probe." There it was – the next act in the circus, already underway.
A junior reporter watching this in the White House press bullpen shook her head in dismay. "They're literally saying 'diverting attention' and yet here they are, letting it be diverted," she said to a colleague.
Her older colleague just rubbed his temples. "I long for a boring day," he said wistfully. "Just one boring, normal day."
Boring wasn't on the menu. Not as long as the Drumpfs held the stage. The media could hardly turn away, and the audience – whether cheering, jeering, or wearied – remained captive to the spectacle.
In living rooms and on feeds across Columbia, people braced themselves with coffee for the morning news, wondering, What now? It had become a ritual: wake up, check what wild thing happened or was tweeted at 3 a.m., shake head (in outrage or admiration depending on one's tribe), then carry on with life as best as possible under the onslaught.
For the Drumpf administration, this chaos was armor. Scandals bounced off not because they weren't real or damning, but because they came too fast to fully land. The outrage of the day would be supplanted by the next by tomorrow.
And so accountability suffocated under overload. The watchdogs lost their bite, barking at everything until hoarse and ignored. The public, fed a steady diet of drama, grew desensitized. The absurd became routine. Truth became a casualty, its place taken by narrative and noise.
Back at the Ivory House, President Ron Drumpf stepped out onto the Truman Balcony with his morning Diet Cola, greeting the day's first rays. In the distance, he could see the cluster of media trucks already parked outside Lafayette Park, satellite dishes aimed skyward, ready to beam out whatever came next.
He smiled to himself. The stage was set for another day under the big top. He didn't know exactly what would happen – sometimes he made it up as he went – but he knew one thing: all eyes would be on him, one way or another.
"Let's give 'em a show," he muttered into the morning air, before turning back inside to begin the day's performance.
In the grand media circus of Columbia, the ringmaster was confident, the crowd was weary yet unable to leave, and the show, it seemed, would go on and on.