Chapter 12: Gifts of the Magi (and Moguls) – The Foreign Grift Act in Action
The ballroom of the Drumpf International Hotel in the capital glittered with opulence as the "Columbia First Summit" kicked off under massive crystal chandeliers. It was a summit unlike any other – part diplomatic gathering, part ego-stroking pageant orchestrated by President Ron Drumpf to assert his primacy on the world stage. Leaders from dozens of countries milled about in the reception, their national delegations in tow, all eyeing the President and his family with a mix of sycophantic eagerness and apprehension. They knew what this summit was really about: currying favor with the Drumpf regime. And to do that, they came bearing gifts. Extravagant, ostentatious gifts befitting a monarch.
At the far end of the hall, President Drumpf held court on a dais flanked by Ivy and Ron Jr., while Ivy's husband Jason hovered just behind, and Eric circulated nearby. The First Lady, not particularly fond of these exercises, was present but standing off to one side, smiling politely when needed. A long queue of foreign dignitaries had formed, each waiting for their moment to approach the President, exchange a few florid words of admiration, and present their lavish offering.
Claire Park, the Chief of Protocol from the State Department, stood off to the side of the dais. Clad in an elegant but simple navy suit, Claire clutched a leather-bound ledger and an iPad – her tools for recording the official gifts. She had been in her role for a decade, serving with quiet efficiency through two previous administrations. Never in her tenure had she seen anything on this scale. Traditionally, summits involved a token exchange of symbolic gifts: a piece of local art, a book, perhaps a ceremonial bowl. Those items would be promptly logged and later housed in archives or museums, property of the government. But the parade of extravagance she was witnessing now left her at turns aghast and overwhelmed. She jotted notes furiously, trying to keep track, as one after another foreign leader attempted to outdo the last.
First up was the Prime Minister of a wealthy island nation known for its luxury exports. He stepped forward with a broad grin and a slight bow. Two attendants rolled forward a large object draped in velvet cloth. "Mr. President," intoned the Prime Minister in a polished accent, "on behalf of my country, it is my honor to present you with a token of our esteem." With a flourish, the cloth was whisked away to reveal a massive oil painting. A collective gasp murmured through the hall.
The painting depicted Ron Drumpf in dramatic glory: clad in a flowing navy-blue cape reminiscent of a Roman general's, atop a rearing stallion, with an eagle perched on his outstretched arm. In the background, a sunburst broke through clouds over a faint outline of the White House. It looked like a bizarre cross between a Renaissance portrait and a campaign poster on steroids, standing at least seven feet tall including the ornate gold frame.
President Drumpf's eyes went wide with pleasure. "My, my... would you look at that!" he exclaimed. Ron Jr. let out a low whistle. Ivy maintained a practiced smile, though even she looked slightly astonished by the audacity.
The Prime Minister beamed. "It was crafted by our nation's foremost portrait artist," he explained. "He spent six months on it. We hope it will hang in a place of honor."
"Absolutely," President Drumpf enthused. "It's beautiful, just beautiful. Look at that strong chin!" He chuckled as he examined his own larger-than-life visage. "Thank you, this is tremendous." Cameras flashed as the two shook hands. Claire Park scribbled in her ledger: "Giant oil painting of P. Drumpf on horseback – from Prime Minister Halim – est. value ???"
Even before Claire could catch her breath, the next dignitary, a representative of a Middle Eastern kingdom, was stepping up. This was a powerful crown prince who had developed a friendly relationship with Ivy. The prince clapped his hands, and his aides brought forth a long velvet case. "Mr. President," he said in a deep voice, "in my culture, we honor great leaders as we would noble warriors. Please accept these custom-made golden golf clubs as a symbol of strength and sport."
Ivy's eyes lit up; she had known about this gift in advance and whispered as much to her father. The aides opened the case to reveal an entire set of golf clubs – drivers, irons, putter – each one gleaming with gold plating, inlaid with what looked like precious gems at the handles. The head of the driver bore an engraved image of President Drumpf's face giving a thumbs-up.
A ripple of awe and laughter passed through the crowd at the sheer decadence of it. Ron Drumpf Jr. nearly drooled. "Those are... wow, those are something else," he blurted. President Drumpf lifted one club out gently, weighing it. "Exquisite craftsmanship," he said. "I have the best swing in the world, everyone knows it, and now I'll have the most beautiful clubs to match."
The prince laughed obligingly. "They are fully functional, sir. 24-karat gold-plated titanium. May they serve you well on the golf course."
"Maybe we'll play a round tomorrow if you're free," Drumpf grinned, clearly already imagining himself showing off the set. Claire hurriedly jotted: "Set of gold-plated golf clubs w/ jewels – from Prince Ali – value est. tens of thousands (if not more!)." She underlined "more!" twice.
Next in line was the President of a Central American country, a man eager to ingratiate himself. He clapped his hands and two staffers drove in a surprise that actually drew applause from the room: a vintage convertible car, cherry red and gleaming, from the 1950s. It looked recently restored, white-wall tires and all.
"Mr. President," the Central American leader proclaimed, "this classic 1956 Avalon Roadster belonged to my grandfather, one of our nation's founding fathers. I present it to you as a token of friendship. May you enjoy it on your beautiful avenues."
Ron Drumpf's face was practically glowing. He loved classic cars, and this one was a beauty. "That is... beyond," he said, actually a bit stunned. "You're giving me a car? That's an amazing gift, truly." The man nodded enthusiastically. "For a great man, a great gift."
Claire Park felt a bead of sweat on her temple. A car? That definitely exceeded any typical gift category. She made a note with a shaking hand: "Vintage 1956 Avalon convertible – from Pres. Ortega – value possibly hundreds of thousands."
And so it continued. The President of Costaverde presented a jeweled necklace and tiara set said to be antiques from her country's colonial era, ostensibly for the First Lady (who smiled wanly as the heavy diamond-and-emerald set was displayed). The delegation from an Asian ally brought a ceremonial samurai sword with a handle encrusted in rubies, declaring President Drumpf a "warrior against injustice." A tech billionaire-turned-president from a small European state gifted a one-of-a-kind prototype drone with Drumpf's initials engraved, "for personal security detail use or just for fun."
Each presentation came with effusive praise: "Your leadership inspires us..."; "Under your guidance, Columbia has become the beacon..."; "We are in awe of your fortitude...". And each time, President Drumpf lapped it up, broad smiles and hearty handshakes, often turning to Ivy or Ron Jr. to share in the moment.
All the while, Claire attempted to track the avalanche of valuables. She had two junior protocol aides with cameras quietly photographing each item and its handoff, as per procedure. But she noticed something worrying: none of the Drumpfs or their staff were giving any sign that these items would be handed over to State Department custody afterward. Normally, after such an event, protocol officers would politely direct gifts to be catalogued and secured by the government. But Ivy and Ron Jr. were practically treating the items as personal treasures already. Ivy had draped the gifted necklace around the First Lady's neck for a photo, and the First Lady hadn't taken it off. Ron Jr. kept picking up one of the gold clubs, miming a swing for reporters.
As the gift presentations wound down, servers began preparing for the dinner portion of the summit. Claire took a moment to approach Ivy quietly, forcing a polite smile. "Pardon me, Ms. Drumpf," she said softly. "Shall we have these gifts moved to secure storage for cataloguing? I can have our team—"
Ivy turned, her smile still fixed for the sake of onlookers, but her eyes communicated annoyance. "Thank you, Claire. We have arrangements for them. Don't worry."
Claire hesitated. "It's just that, by regulation, gifts over a certain value should be—"
Ivy gently touched Claire's arm in a perfunctory gesture of reassurance, though her grip was slightly firm. "We'll handle it. My father wants to review everything personally tonight. You can send the documentation forms to my staff later." With that, Ivy moved off, whisked into another conversation with a minister from abroad.
Handle it personally? That was highly irregular. Claire bit her lip. Perhaps after the dinner, when protocol staff normally collects the gifts, things would be sorted properly.
But things only got stranger. After the formal dinner and into the evening, Claire witnessed White House staffers (the President's personal aides) rather than State protocol staff overseeing the removal of the gifts. Instead of being taken to the State Department's secure gift vault, items were being packed into padded crates labeled with the destination "Drumpf Tower – Penthouse Storage." Claire saw one of her own junior aides, a young man, helping load the giant painting into a truck and she hurried over.
"Wait, what is this?" she asked him under her breath.
The young aide shrugged, looking uneasy. "Ma'am, we were told that these are being transferred under White House authority. Orders from the top."
"But they need to be appraised and reported—" she began.
A gruff voice interrupted. It was Walton Briggs, the newly appointed Deputy Chief of Staff for Operations (and Colleen Briggs' brother, though Claire didn't know that). "Everything okay here, Claire?" Walton asked, giving a tight, forced smile.
Claire straightened. "I'm just ensuring the proper handling of the gifts, Walton. Typically, they'd go to State protocol storage for logging."
Walton's smile stayed fixed, but his tone hardened subtly. "The President has decided to keep these particular gifts close at hand. He's entitled to that, as the head of state receiving them. We'll document in due time."
Claire knew this was wrong; the law was very clear. But she also registered the hint of menace in Walton's voice. "I see," she replied, keeping her tone even. "I'll make note of it."
"You do that," Walton said, then lowered his voice so only she could hear, "And be careful how you make note of it. We wouldn't want any misunderstandings."
Her stomach lurched. "Of course, sir," she managed, and stepped back, watching helplessly as the cavalcade of gifts was loaded not into government vaults, but into presidential vehicles and private trucks bound for the First Family's properties.
By midnight, what Claire privately dubbed the "Magi caravan" had departed. She returned to her office and began composing a memo detailing the irregularities of the day. She cited the Foreign Gifts and Decorations Act, and the apparent deviation from standard protocol. For good measure, she referenced the Constitution's Emoluments Clause about benefits from foreign states, though that was more Congress's purview. She was careful, factual, but clear that these gifts far exceeded acceptable limits and that failure to log them properly could raise legal concerns.
She sent the memo to her superior at the State Department and cc'd the legal adviser's office. It was out of her hands now, she thought. Exhausted, Claire left for home in the early hours.
The next morning, Claire was summoned to a meeting with the Undersecretary of State. She arrived, expecting to discuss her memo's recommendations (perhaps discreetly urging the White House to transfer the items to State custody). Instead, she found Walton Briggs seated alongside the Undersecretary, both wearing stony expressions.
"Ms. Park," the Undersecretary began coolly as she sat, "Walton here tells me there were some... concerns yesterday."
Claire's heart sank. "Yes, sir. I felt duty-bound to report—"
Walton interjected, voice silky. "Claire, we all appreciate your dedication to procedure. But you must understand, the President has prerogatives in matters of state gifts. The law isn't as cut-and-dry as you think. And more importantly, airing these issues creates unnecessary friction with our international partners and, frankly, within our own government."
The Undersecretary nodded. "Indeed. We don't want to strain the successful summit by quibbling over who holds the gifts when. I'm sure everything will be properly accounted for in time."
Claire fumbled for words. "Sir, the gifts should be declared by law. If they aren't, and if any go missing or are kept personally—"
Walton's fixed smile returned. "We'll take care of it internally. There's no need for further memos." He slid a piece of paper toward her. "In fact, Claire, you've been such a star with protocol for so long that we think you deserve a break. An assignment less... stressful."
Her eyes darted to the paper. It was an assignment letter, reassigning her to a diplomatic post – in a country she barely knew anything about, far away. "Senior Protocol Liaison, U.S. Embassy in Molvania," she read, stunned. Molvania? It was a tiny Eastern European nation. This was effectively exile.
"This is effective immediately," the Undersecretary said, not meeting her eyes. "We expect you'll of course treat all information from yesterday with confidentiality as per your clearance. Thank you for your service here."
Claire understood exactly what was happening. She was being sidelined, exiled abroad, for doing her job. She felt a flash of anger, but years of training kept her composed. "Of course, sir," she said softly. She stood up, numb. Walton gave her a thin two-finger salute as a goodbye. And that was that.
With Claire out of the picture and the summit concluded, it seemed the Drumpf family had successfully pocketed a king's ransom in foreign tribute, without immediate consequences. But that victory would not remain entirely in the dark.
Two months later, headlines in the national media exploded with revelations about "missing foreign gifts." The investigative reporter Melody Tran (the very same who had received Curtis Marsh's leak, and who had kept digging) published a bombshell article titled: "Where Did the President's Gifts Go? White House Failed to Report Lavish Foreign Presents."
The exposé detailed how more than a hundred gifts, valued at over $300,000 in total, received during the Drumpf administration had never been officially reported or turned over as required. Among them: a life-size portrait of Ron Drumpf from the President of El Salvador and golf clubs from the Japanese Prime Minister – items that were last seen leaving Drumpf International Hotel, fate unknown. The report cited government records and emails obtained by a House Committee's investigation. It revealed that the Drumpf family had not disclosed dozens of gifts from countries with complicated relationships with Columbia – including 16 gifts from a Middle Eastern kingdom and 17 from a South Asian ally – many of them lavish personal items well over the legal limit for retention.
The article described in detail how these gifts had been spirited away. It quoted an anonymous protocol official (Claire, speaking discreetly from Molvania) who confirmed that many foreign gifts were never accounted for after summits and state visits. It highlighted that President Drumpf reported zero gifts in the final year of his first term – an implausible figure given the known diplomatic exchanges – suggesting willful evasion of the law.
The media had a field day, dubbing it "The Foreign Grift Act Scandal" – a play on the Foreign Gifts Act that was supposed to govern these exchanges. Late-night comedians joked about Drumpf decorating his penthouse like a pawn shop of international bribery. One cartoon in a major paper depicted President Drumpf dressed as a bloated King Midas, gripping a golf club scepter, surrounded by piles of gifts labeled from various countries.
The administration scrambled to respond. Initially, Press Secretary Shana McNair tried bland denial: "All gifts have been handled in accordance with the law. This is much ado about nothing – record-keeping technicalities." But as the story gained traction and congressional voices (mostly opposition, given loyalists still controlled the majority) started calling for an investigation, they realized they needed a better narrative.
So out came President Drumpf himself, never one to shy away from doubling down. At a rally soon after, he brought up the gift controversy in his typical breezy style. "They're saying, 'Oh, he kept some gifts, oh that's terrible,'" he mocked in a high-pitched tone to imitate critics. The crowd booed on cue. Drumpf laughed. "You know what? I get gifts. I get great gifts! I got some beautiful things from these leaders – why? Because they respect me, they respect Columbia." The audience cheered.
He continued, a grin on his face: "Now they want me to turn it all over to the government bureaucracy. To what? Stick it in some basement where no one will see it? Ridiculous. I mean, I have this gorgeous painting – huge, beautiful painting a wonderful leader gave me. I hung it right in the Drumpf Tower lobby for everyone to enjoy because it's tremendous." (This statement elicited a few gasps in Washington – effectively confirming that the painting was in his personal property, not in government possession.)
The President shrugged theatrically. "So I say, maybe I keep them. So what? They were given to me, so I consider them mine. I'm looking at that painting right now in my office, it's beautiful," he smirked. "Ethics rules? Pfft, those are for little people."
The rally crowd applauded and laughed as though he had said something endearingly mischievous. Emboldened, Drumpf went on: "Ethics people say I should have maybe paid for the golf clubs or whatever. You know what? I'll send them a check for the cost of the gold plating if it makes them happy. This is silly! We have bigger things to worry about."
In another setting, an interview with a friendly morning show, Ivy Drumpf-Pennington took a more polished approach to defend the family. Dressed elegantly and exuding calm, she explained, "My father received those gifts on behalf of Columbia, and he has always intended to ensure they benefit the American people." The interviewer pressed gently, "But some critics say the gifts are held privately by your family."
Ivy gave a practiced laugh. "These gifts are displayed in venues that the public can visit or will eventually be part of the Presidential Library collection, I'm sure. They are for Columbia by virtue of being for the First Family. The First Family represents the nation—when foreign leaders give a token of friendship to us, they are really extending it to the country. My father often says, 'When I win, America wins.' In the same way, a gift to him is a gift to all of us." She delivered this line with such smooth conviction that one could almost miss how brazen the claim was.
The interviewer followed up, "So you're saying there's no difference between a gift to the President personally and a gift to the nation?"
Ivy tilted her head graciously. "In this administration, we see ourselves as servants of the nation. We are the nation, in a sense, in the eyes of the world. So yes, I believe these gifts honor Columbia. We are keeping them safe and cherished, as they deserve."
That soundbite made the rounds: "We are the nation." Some pundits recoiled at the quasi-monarchical sentiment, others admired the chutzpah. But Ivy's framing resonated with Drumpf's base, who largely echoed her sentiment on talk radio and online forums: Why shouldn't the President enjoy the fruits of diplomacy? So what if he kept a few golden trinkets – he earned them making America respected again!
Meanwhile, a quiet directive from the White House went out to the Office of Government Ethics (now effectively defanged after the loyalists' moves in the Assembly). They retroactively accepted a "gift report" from the White House that listed only trivial items (like gift baskets and books) from the summit, conveniently omitting the big-ticket gifts or claiming they were "displayed temporarily and returned" (returned to whom was left vague). No serious enforcement would come – the Justice Department, under a loyal Attorney General, had zero interest in pursuing the matter.
The congressional investigation fizzled in committee, blocked by Drumpf-aligned lawmakers who argued it was a distraction and witch-hunt. Representative Jack Mackey (yes, the same who wanted to abolish OGE) even quipped, "Maybe if the President's enemies stopped badgering him, foreign leaders wouldn't feel the need to give him comfort gifts!" – a line that made even some of his allies cringe.
In the end, the "Foreign Grift" scandal, as tabloids gleefully called it, did little tangible damage to the Drumpf regime. It did, however, provide perhaps the most unabashed illustration yet of how the lines between personal and public interest had completely blurred. The President of Columbia accepted treasures meant for the state, stashed them in his personal domain, and when caught, essentially replied: "Yeah, I kept them. What are you gonna do about it?"
The answer, it turned out, was: not much. The law, at least as it applied to him, was slackened once more. And the world took note – foreign leaders realized that beyond policy negotiations, a sure way to President Drumpf's heart (and policy favor) was through ostentatious flattery and gifts. It was diplomacy distilled to a transactional absurdity: tributes for a modern-day king in all but name.
At a subsequent cabinet meeting, as the furor was dying down, Ron Drumpf Jr. joked, "We should host summits more often – it's better than Christmas." The President laughed loudly. Ivy remarked with a grin, "Just wait until the next state visit, I hear the Prime Minister of Bharat is bringing an entire marble fountain." The room chuckled.
They all knew at heart what this was: bribery and vanity on parade. But in the Drumpf era, such words were dismissed as semantics from losers. As President Drumpf famously tweeted that week: "I only take gifts as a symbol of America's greatness. Will keep them in great care. Haters and fake news can pound sand!" Attached was a photo of him in his penthouse, proudly swinging one of the gold-plated golf clubs on his balcony, the city skyline behind him – an emperor casually enjoying the spoils of his reign.
Chapter 13: Crisis Capitalism – Disaster Profiteers
It started with a satellite image: a vast white spiral churning in the ocean, bearing down on Columbia's southeastern coast. Meteorologists warned for days that Hurricane Helen would be one of the worst storms in a century. By the time Helen made landfall, it had strengthened to a catastrophic Category 5, slamming into the Gulf Coast with 160-mile-per-hour winds and a storm surge that swallowed entire towns.
In a matter of hours, low-lying coastal communities were reduced to splintered houses and flooded streets. Uprooted trees, debris, and overturned cars choked what roads remained. Power was knocked out across three states. Thousands of families were suddenly homeless, huddling in shelters or on rooftops awaiting rescue. The news networks showed apocalyptic scenes: residents wading through chest-deep water carrying pets and children, volunteer fishers steering boats past submerged street signs, a hospital being evacuated in darkness as generators failed.
It was a national emergency of the highest order – the kind of crisis that typically unites leaders in sorrow and resolve. And indeed, publicly, President Ron Drumpf declared a state of emergency and offered confident words in a televised address: "We will rebuild stronger than ever. Our hearts are with all affected." He wore a branded "Helen Relief" baseball cap during the broadcast – which was coincidentally already for sale on his campaign website by the end of that day.
Behind the scenes, however, the First Family and its inner circle saw not just devastation, but also dollar signs. In the Cabinet Room the morning after landfall, President Drumpf convened an emergency meeting. Ostensibly it was about coordinating the federal response. In reality, it was about how to control and channel the massive flow of money that would be pouring forth – and how to position the family to benefit.
Around the table sat key figures: the President at the head, Ivy with a thick binder of plans, Ron Jr. fresh from a phone call with a real estate contact, Eric scribbling notes, and several Cabinet secretaries like the Treasury and Homeland Security leads (the latter an obedient former security executive who owed his job to Drumpf's favor). Also present were select "advisors" – essentially family business associates – whose presence raised eyebrows among career officials dialed in via video, though by now it was almost expected.
"Alright, folks," President Drumpf began, steepling his hands like a CEO addressing his board. "Helen was bad. Real bad. We're gonna take care of people, absolutely. But we gotta be smart – strategic – in how we do this. Rebuilding can be an opportunity."
The Treasury Secretary nodded eagerly. Ivy exchanged a knowing glance with her father; they'd discussed some ideas late into the night already.
"First," Drumpf continued, "relief funds. Congress will appropriate, I don't know, tens of billions maybe. We need oversight on that – our kind of oversight." He smirked. "I want a special reconstruction council set up, answerable directly to me."
The Homeland Security Secretary cleared his throat. "Sir, normally FEMA handles—"
"FEMA will distribute, sure," Drumpf interrupted. "But I'm appointing a Reconstruction Czar to coordinate and cut through red tape." He turned to Ron Jr. "I was thinking of you, son, to play that role on the ground."
Ron Jr. grinned, straightening in his seat. "I'd love to, Dad. I know those areas well. Plus, we can't trust the locals not to screw it up."
Ivy chimed in smoothly, "We should also involve a private sector component. Perhaps a public-private partnership board where we can bring in companies to help rebuild – companies we trust."
By "trust," everyone understood she meant companies friendly to the Drumpf Organization or in which they had interests.
The President snapped his fingers. "Exactly. And maybe we offer some incentives – low-interest loans, tax breaks – to developers who invest in rebuilding. We could even get some of our foreign friends to invest; they love a good real estate deal, especially beachfront."
Several heads around the table nodded, some enthusiastic, some solemn but acquiescent. One career official on video, the FEMA administrator, looked uneasy. "Mr. President," he ventured, "our immediate focus needs to be getting food, water, and medicine to survivors. Maybe we should discuss operational strategy—"
Ron Drumpf Sr. waved off the comment. "That's happening, of course. National Guard, FEMA trucks, all that. They know what to do. I'm talking big picture here."
The meeting continued for an hour, veering between disaster response jargon and frank talk of business opportunities that made the few remaining technocrats in the room cringe. By meeting's end, a broad plan emerged:
A Presidential Reconstruction Commission would be established, chaired by Ron Drumpf Jr., to oversee all rebuilding efforts. This commission would have broad authority to direct funds and choose contractors.
Drumpf Industries subsidiaries and allies would be positioned to get key contracts. Eric, flipping through a brochure, eagerly listed a few of their holdings: a construction materials supplier (Drumpf BuildCo), a modular housing manufacturer recently acquired by an investment group that included Eric and a couple of donor friends, and a private security firm owned by a longtime Drumpf associate to manage "logistics and site security."
Ivy mentioned that Columbia Global Prosperity Fund – her shadow investment fund seeded quietly with foreign capital – was ready to inject money into "revitalization projects." They framed it as patriotism: foreign investors helping Columbia rebuild. Of course, those investments would specifically target ventures that the Drumpf family had stakes in: resort developments, land purchases, and companies poised to profit from reconstruction.
A high-profile Relief Gala would be announced, ostensibly to raise money for victims, to be held at the Drumpf International Hotel in a month's time. Ivy volunteered to organize it alongside the campaign team. It would double as a PR event to show the President's compassion, while any funds raised could quietly be channeled through their political action committee or a family "foundation" with lax transparency.
As for immediate relief goods, the commission would "source from American companies whenever possible" – conveniently, one such company being PureSpring Water Inc., a bottling outfit partly owned by Eric Drumpf's college buddy, which had rebranded recently (with Eric's guidance) to produce "Patriot Packs" of canned water and meal kits.
By noon, the meeting concluded and everyone dispersed to implement the plan.
Within 48 hours, the federal government's official response was in full swing, at least in appearance. Military transport planes and trucks rolled into the disaster zone with supplies. The President held a televised signing of the initial $20 billion relief bill passed by Congress, smiling as he used a pen emblazoned with his name to scrawl his signature. "No expense will be spared," he declared to the cameras.
What he didn't mention was that a significant chunk of those expenses would be flowing right back to his own circle.
Down in the hurricane-ravaged zone, Ron Drumpf Jr. arrived with great fanfare. Dressed in boots and a tactical jacket with a patch that read "Reconstruction Czar," he strutted around like a man on a mission. Network cameras followed as he toured a debris-strewn street in coastal Louisiana. He paused to console a woman in front of her collapsed home (the cameras captured him awkwardly patting her shoulder while she sobbed about losing everything). "We're gonna take good care of you," he assured loudly for the microphones. "We're gonna rebuild your town better than ever, you'll see."
But once the press moved on, Ron Jr.'s focus shifted. He met with a cluster of real estate developers and investors who had flown in on private jets at his invitation. Together, they took a helicopter ride (courtesy of the Coast Guard, repurposed for VIP survey) over the shattered coastline. As they hovered above a particularly hard-hit beachfront community, Ron Jr.'s eyes gleamed not with pity, but with vision. With so many old homes wiped clean off their lots, the landscape looked almost like blank canvas. "This," he shouted over the rotor noise, "could be Columbia's next great resort strip. Think about it – new hotels, casinos even. Why not? The old timers who lived here might not come back, and if they do, they can move inland a bit."
One developer nodded eagerly. "We could probably buy up acres for pennies on the dollar now," he yelled back.
Ron Jr. flashed a thumbs-up. "The Commission can help fast-track the rezoning and permits. And infrastructure money – we'll lay the roads, utilities – all that will be federal-funded initially. Your job is to build something great after."
On the ground, this translated into what many locals saw as a land grab. Within a week of the hurricane, as survivors still dug through rubble for belongings, agents connected to Drumpf-friendly developers were approaching property owners with buyout offers. Some offers were insultingly low; others were enticing to desperate folks who had lost everything and had little insurance. Many signed away prime coastal parcels for quick cash, unaware of the grand resort plans incubating.
Meanwhile, Ivy, safe in her Manhattan office, was busy turning tragedy into trading opportunity. Days before Hurricane Helen hit, Ivy's fund had quietly taken short positions on stock of several insurance companies heavily exposed in the region. Sure enough, after landfall, those stocks tumbled, netting the fund a tidy profit. Additionally, as soon as the relief bill passed, Ivy directed the fund to snap up shares of major construction and engineering firms that she knew – via inside info from the Commission – would be receiving huge federal contracts. By the time the public announcement of those contracts came, the fund's positions soared in value.
In one instance, Ivy's whispers to a friendly Gulf state sovereign wealth co-investor helped them collectively buy a majority stake in Southern Bridges Corp just days before the company was awarded a federal contract to rebuild several destroyed bridges and causeways. When the contract became public, a minor uproar occurred because Southern Bridges Corp was relatively small and had never handled projects of such scale. But Ron Jr.'s Commission waived aside those concerns under "emergency procurement powers." No mention was made of the sudden change in the company's ownership structure – which now indirectly enriched Ivy's fund and its foreign backers.
Eric, for his part, oversaw what he gleefully called "Operation Supply Chain." His contact at PureSpring Water Inc. had ramped up production. Photos emerged on social media of pallets of canned water labeled with the PureSpring logo and, curiously, a line in fine print: "Distributed by Drumpf Industries Logistics." It turned out the Commission had granted a no-bid distribution contract to a new subsidiary hastily set up under Eric's management. This subsidiary would buy supplies (like PureSpring water, tarp kits, generators) and resell them to the government for relief at a markup.
It wasn't long before aid workers on the ground noticed some strange issues. A Red Cross volunteer in one town reported that many of the canned waters delivered were past their best-by date – PureSpring had apparently dumped old stock. In another area, cheap plastic tarps provided for temporary roofs tore apart at the slightest gust – they came from a discount batch Eric's company sourced overseas, but billed at premium rates. A local official in one county blew the whistle that portable generators delivered to his town (at taxpayer expense) were all from "Patriot Power Corp", a brand he had never heard of – which investigative journalists later tied back to a shell company of Eric's friend – and half of them didn't even work out of the box.
Despite these failings, the Drumpf Reconstruction Commission patted itself on the back. In weekly press releases drafted by Sally's replacement in the comms office, they touted stats: X thousands of meals delivered, Y millions in funds disbursed. The mainstream media, however, began to pick up on the trail of profiteering. Reports trickled out: "Questions Arise Over No-Bid Contracts to Drumpf Associates", "Rebuilding or Enriching? Companies Tied to First Family in Relief Effort."
Naturally, President Drumpf dismissed such reports as "sick, twisted lies." In an appearance in the disaster zone a couple of weeks after the hurricane, he staged a now-infamous photo op. Wearing his "Helen Relief" cap and a windbreaker with "PRESIDENT" embroidered on it, he stood behind a table loaded with boxes labeled with both FEMA and Drumpf Industries logos (a not-so-subtle co-branding effort). With cameras flashing, he cheerfully handed out supplies to a line of survivors. Except many noticed these were odd supplies: signed photographs of himself tucked into food boxes, navy-blue t-shirts with "Columbia Strong – Thanks to President Drumpf" in bold print, and even small plush toys of the Drumpf mascot (a cartoon lion) for the children.
At one point, Drumpf theatrically tossed a roll of paper towels into the crowd of onlookers, grinning as if it were a pep rally and he was tossing t-shirts to fans at a sports game. The image of a desperate survivor actually scrambling to catch a roll of paper towels from the President of the United States made the rounds as a grim symbol of misplaced priorities.
To his base, however, Drumpf's visit looked like tough love leadership. They saw him out there, "helping personally", and they loved it. Many of them eagerly went online to purchase those "Columbia Strong" shirts and hats (sales benefited the Drumpf re-election PAC). The campaign even released a limited-edition photo book titled "Helen: Triumph Over Tragedy" that was sold for $49.99, filled mostly with glossy images of President Drumpf meeting first responders, surveying damage with a concerned expression, and yes, tossing those paper towels. The proceeds were, as fine print noted, "to support patriotic outreach", which translated to campaign funds.
On the ground, though, the reality remained dire for many residents. A month after the storm, volunteer groups and local churches did much of the actual relief work – feeding people, clearing debris – often while waiting for promised federal aid that trickled in slower than the press releases boasted. Some communities received brand-new Drumpf Industries modular homes to serve as temporary shelters; those were touted as a signature achievement of the Commission. But inspectors quietly noted those units cost the government far more per square foot than standard FEMA trailers, and coincidentally, the model names of the units were "Victory Villa" and "Patriot Cabin," unsubtle in branding.
One evening, as President Drumpf and his family toasted in the White House to the "successful initial phase" of reconstruction, a TV in the background (muted) showed a starkly different scene: a live town hall in one of the devastated towns where residents vented frustrations at officials. "We ain't got our relief check yet, but I hear some hotel developer already got money to plan a casino here," an older man shouted. "That ain't right!" The crowd of locals cheered in agreement.
In another segment, a woman holding her toddler, standing in front of a tent that had become her home, told a reporter with tears of anger, "They came and gave me a box with the President's picture and a shirt. I don't need a damn shirt, I need a roof over my baby's head!"
Such voices of frustration grew, but they struggled to be heard in the halls of power. Ron Jr.'s Commission was quick to label critical local officials as "politically motivated complainers" or simply ignored them. The compliant Attorney General even announced an investigation into "fraud and waste in hurricane relief at the local level," implicitly blaming the victims' state governments for any shortcomings rather than the Commission.
Behind closed doors, the Drumpf inner circle felt buoyant. "We dodged a bullet," Jason remarked to Ivy at a private debriefing, referring to the media scrutiny that had begun but was swiftly overtaken by other news. "Another week and they'd have tied the string of pearls together."
Ivy, sipping champagne, replied, "Even if they did, who would hold us accountable? Oversight is ours. They can write a nasty op-ed; we already banked the gains."
The family and their cohorts had indeed made a killing: Ivy's fund quietly liquidated some of its disaster-position trades, locking in millions. Eric's logistics venture invoiced the government for hundreds of millions in delivered aid, much of it likely padded. Ron Jr.'s developer friends were already drawing up blueprints for luxury hotels on land they acquired cheaply, planning to tap federal redevelopment grants (from his own Commission) to fund infrastructure for their projects.
On a mild evening, roughly two months after Hurricane Helen, President Drumpf held a small celebratory dinner at the White House. The attendees: his family, a few top cabinet members, and a handful of executives whose companies thrived in the aftermath. As they dined on steak and lobster (procured from one of the few coastal seafood suppliers still operational, ironically thanks to a quick loan from Ivy's fund), they congratulated themselves on "the Columbia spirit of turning adversity into advantage."
If one had peeked through the ornate windows of the State Dining Room that night, they'd have seen clinking glasses and hearty laughter among men and women in fine clothes, the chandeliers above gleaming off gold-rimmed china.
At that very same hour, under the faint glow of floodlights and a rising moon, a very different scene unfolded in a partially cleared lot along the Gulf Coast. A few dozen people – families whose homes had been obliterated – were gathered for a community cookout outside a relief tent. They grilled donated hot dogs on a makeshift charcoal pit, children chasing each other in the humid twilight. These survivors swapped rumors of when more FEMA checks might come, or whether the new "Reconstruction Czar" cared that some of them were still living in tents and motels. They shared what little they had and tried to keep their spirits up with gallows humor about "maybe we should send the President another gift to remind him we're still here."
One man pointed bitterly at a distant construction crane on the horizon, assembling a framework for what he'd heard would be a "private resort". "They got money for that, but not for fixing the school or the water system," he spat.
A young boy, barefoot and dusty, piped up innocently, "My dad said we might have to move 'cause our house is gone and it's too 'spensive to build new. But I like it here." An older woman hugged him and promised they'd try to stay.
The contrast could not have been more grotesque: the glow of privilege and profit in the White House, and the glow of resilience and resignation in the disaster zone. The Drumpf family and their allies were profiting off the ruins, turning crisis into capital. Meanwhile, the actual victims of the tragedy soldiered on, many unaware of how their misfortune had become the First Family's opportunity.
As the night deepened, President Drumpf stepped out onto the Truman Balcony after dinner, gazing toward the south. In the distance, a summer storm flickered, heat lightning dancing on the horizon far beyond the capital. Perhaps it made him think of Hurricane Helen's chaos – but if so, only for how it had been weathered politically. He smirked, recalling one of his favorite phrases, and murmured to himself, "We're doing a lot of winning."
Down in Helen's wake, under that same sky, a volunteer medic finished a 12-hour shift at a makeshift clinic and looked up at the distant lightning. "Lord," she whispered, "please don't send another storm." The people here were still suffering from the last one, and the man in the White House, she reckoned, had already taken enough from them under the guise of giving.
Chapter 14: Pardon Me – Justice Undone
Autumn leaves swirled along Pennsylvania Avenue as President Ron Drumpf strode out of the Oval Office, a triumphant spring in his step. In his breast pocket he carried a leather-bound folio embossed with the presidential seal – inside were a stack of freshly signed pardon proclamations, the ink barely dry.
The first had been the most urgent: a full pardon for Gerald "Gary" Danton, the President's former deputy campaign chairman and long-time fixer, who until that morning was set to testify before a grand jury investigating financial crimes related to the Drumpf Organization. Danton knew where a lot of proverbial bodies were buried – he had been privy to hush money payments, questionable real estate deals, even the cover-up of an incriminating document or two. He'd been caught in a web of fraud charges months prior and, feeling betrayed, had been on the verge of cooperating with prosecutors.
But now, with a broad stroke of executive clemency, Gary Danton was off the hook entirely. The subpoena for his grand jury testimony was effectively moot; as a pardoned man, he could no longer incriminate himself and thus could be compelled to talk – but the clever trick was, the Justice Department, now loyal to President Drumpf, would simply not pursue his testimony further. And Danton, grateful for his freedom, had no incentive to volunteer anything.
It was a brazen act of obstruction in all but name, yet entirely legal under the vast pardon power of the presidency.
The news broke midday: "President Drumpf Pardons Former Advisor on Eve of Testimony." Outrage poured in from expected quarters – opposition lawmakers decried it as a "miscarriage of justice," editorial boards called it "an abuse of power." But the White House was ready. Press Secretary Shana McNair fielded questions with a straight face: "The President felt Mr. Danton was treated very unfairly, as he was the target of a witch hunt from day one. This pardon is about correcting a wrong and showing mercy."
A reporter shouted, "Isn't it true he was going to implicate the President's company in crimes?" Shana gave a tight smile, "We don't engage in hypotheticals or rumor. Next question."
Gary Danton himself gave a brief statement on the courthouse steps after learning of his pardon, flanked by his lawyer. "I want to thank President Drumpf for seeing the truth and giving me a second chance at life," he declared. "His faith in me will not be forgotten." Observers noted he looked rather well-fed for a man who had been in pre-trial detention; rumor was the warden (an appointee) had given him special treatment during his brief stint behind bars.
But the Danton pardon was just the beginning. Over the next several days, President Drumpf went on a veritable pardoning spree, signing one clemency after another in a parade of paperwork designed to reward loyalty, settle scores, and cement a new precedent: if you were on Team Drumpf, you were above the law.
The CEO of a major agribusiness conglomerate, convicted months earlier of illegally dumping toxic waste (and incidentally a huge donor to the Drumpf Super PAC), received a full pardon and an effusive tweet from the President praising his "commitment to Columbia's heartland."
A former Congressman who had been a vocal Drumpf ally – until he was caught in a blatant insider trading scheme – found his prison sentence commuted to time served. He triumphantly told reporters he was planning a run for office again, claiming vindication.
Lena Masters, a high-profile media personality on National News Network, had been facing trial for perjury in a federal investigation into campaign finance violations. She too was pardoned; President Drumpf called her personally to tell her to "keep up the great work." That evening on her talk show, Lena wept tears of joy, thanking him and railing against "the Deep State" that had tried to silence her.
Perhaps most controversially, President Drumpf included in this wave a pardon for Col. Bradley "Boomer" Parks, a military officer who had been court-martialed and convicted for war crimes overseas. Parks had become a hero in far-right circles and a darling on Drumpf-friendly media for "taking the gloves off" in counterterror operations. Despite Pentagon objections, Drumpf wiped Parks' record clean. At a rally, Drumpf even invited Parks on stage, praising him as "one of our great fighters." The crowd went wild.
Within a week, the President had issued over two dozen pardons and commutations. Some were quietly posted on the DOJ website late at night, others were spotlighted with pomp. The message was unmistakable: being a friend of the regime had its privileges.
Meanwhile, the Department of Justice itself had been thoroughly reshaped. After the previous Attorney General was sacked for insufficient zeal, Drumpf had installed Robert "Bob" Bolt – a hawkish loyalist attorney who had publicly argued the President could basically do no wrong. AG Bolt wasted no time making the DOJ an instrument of Drumpf's will.
Under Bolt's direction, investigations into government corruption involving Drumpf allies were scuttled or starved of resources. That probe into the hurricane relief contracts that some honest FBI agents in the field had started? Closed, with a terse statement: "no wrongdoing found." The inquiry into foreign money flowing into the Drumpf inaugural committee? Dropped quietly, citing "insufficient evidence," just as it was closing in on a pattern of suspicious transfers.
Instead, Bolt announced a new task force to investigate "Public Sector Misconduct and Election Fraud" – which pointedly focused on mayors and governors from the opposition party and resurrecting unfounded claims about the last election the opposition lost. Critics called it an obvious witch hunt, targeting the President's political rivals on spurious grounds. One of those targeted was a prominent opposition Senator who had been outspoken about the Drumpf family's conflicts of interest. Bolt's DOJ leaked that it was investigating the Senator for "possible irregularities in her campaign finances." Right-wing media ran with it, painting her as under a cloud of corruption, though no charges materialized.
At the same time, Bolt's office conspicuously ignored mounting evidence of corruption in the administration. Whistleblowers were now either too scared to come forward or, if they did, found themselves under investigation. In one instance, when an IRS official passed documents to a journalist showing that the Drumpf Organization had evaded taxes on some foreign income, the DOJ responded not by looking at the tax evasion, but by aggressively pursuing the leaker for "theft of government property." The official was charged within days and publicly hounded as a "saboteur."
This climate had a chilling effect. Those in government who still cared about rule of law felt increasingly helpless. Many career prosecutors and agents resigned in quiet protest or took early retirement. "It feels like the DOJ is dead," one veteran prosecutor confided anonymously to a reporter, one of the last honest ones covering the justice beat.
One such departure shook the legal community: Margaret Chen, a highly respected federal prosecutor in New York. She had been overseeing a case involving the Drumpf Organization – a sprawling investigation into bank fraud, money laundering, and falsified business records. It was the kind of case that in a normal era might have toppled a business empire and perhaps implicated individuals at the very top.
But over the past year, Margaret's superiors in Washington (handpicked by Bolt) kept slow-walking approvals for subpoenas, denying requests to charge certain high-profile targets, and redirecting her team to lower-level peripheral offenses. It became clear the higher-ups were sabotaging the case from within. Finally, they ordered her to cease the investigation entirely, citing "lack of sufficient evidence," despite her team's extensive documentation of wrongdoing.
Margaret Chen did something unprecedented: she not only resigned in protest – she decided to blow the whistle. Before leaving, she secured copies of key evidence from her investigation: internal Drumpf Org emails, financial statements with obvious falsifications, recorded phone calls where executives discussed "fixing" the books. It was a risky move; she knew she could face legal consequences. But she felt justice itself was being strangled.
Within weeks of her resignation, several major newspapers and networks received packages of documents and an anonymous letter detailing how the DOJ had squashed a solid case that implicated the Drumpf family business in multiple crimes. One cable news channel (not aligned with Drumpf) ran a primetime exposé: "Justice Denied: Inside the Blocked Drumpf Org Investigation." The evidence was damning – it showed, for example, that the Drumpf Organization had lied about real estate values to both tax authorities and banks, saving millions in taxes while fraudulently obtaining loans. It even included a recording of an executive saying, "Bob Bolt will never let them touch us. We're untouchable now."
For a moment, outrage flared in the public sphere. Even a few usual allies of the President expressed mild concern about "troubling allegations." The Senate Judiciary Committee's minority members demanded hearings; legal experts said it was a constitutional crisis if the executive was shielding itself from accountability so nakedly.
But just as quickly, the outrage was drowned in the flood of daily chaos and partisan spin. AG Bolt went on TV, flatly dismissing the leaked evidence as "old, disproven allegations from disgruntled staff." He announced a DOJ internal inquiry – not into the Drumpf Organization, but into the "unauthorized removal of confidential investigative materials," signaling they would hunt down Margaret Chen with more vigor than they ever applied to her evidence.
President Drumpf, unsurprisingly, took to the podium at a press briefing and blasted "the dishonest media" for promoting "fake, fabricated documents." He claimed the whole story was cooked up by his enemies. "There was no case, folks. Even my worst haters in DOJ looked and found nothing. Nothing!" he insisted. When pressed if he'd consider a special counsel to clear the air, Drumpf scoffed, "The special counsel is sitting right here," tapping his own forehead with a grin. "I trust myself and our Justice Department under great people like Bob Bolt. We don't need witch hunt 2.0."
And so, like many scandals before it, the moment passed with no action. The public, exhausted by years of drama and divided fiercely, mostly processed the event through their pre-set lenses: Drumpf supporters saw it as proof of a deep state smear, opponents saw it as proof of deep corruption, and nothing changed. Margaret Chen quietly fled the country to avoid potential prosecution, another casualty of the truth.
All of this set the stage for what White House staff jokingly dubbed "The Big Flush" – President Drumpf's final grand gesture of pardon and revelry.
As the winter holiday season approached, the President decided to throw an extravagant private dinner at the Drumpf International Hotel ballroom, ostensibly to celebrate "the holidays and American greatness," but in reality to toast those whose loyalty had been proven – often through their silence or service in legally dubious endeavors – and who were now free, thanks to him.
The invite list was a who's who of the Drumpfian court: newly pardoned Gary Danton, grinning like a Cheshire cat; the billionaire polluter donor; the insider trading ex-Congressman; Lena Masters from NNN; Col. Boomer Parks (in dress uniform with his restored ribbons). Also present were long-time cronies who'd never been charged but felt vindicated by the climate, like a certain former national security advisor who'd skirted charges of contempt of Congress, and a couple of wealthy lobbyists who had been under investigation until Bolt shut it down.
The event came to be known in whispers as the "Pardon Ball." No expense was spared – ice sculptures of bald eagles, a towering cake decorated with the Constitution (some quipped later the Constitution cake was missing the parts about checks and balances, but that was likely just dark humor). Attendees wore tuxedos and gowns. Many donned custom gold lapel pins shaped like a key, symbolizing the keys to freedom the President had handed out.
President Drumpf, flanked by Ivy and Ron Jr., moved through the crowd like a king at court, receiving effusive thanks and fealty. "You saved my life, sir," Gary Danton said, raising a glass of champagne. "I'm forever in your debt." The President clinked glasses and responded, "Gary, you earned it by standing strong. Enjoy your night."
At the dinner table, a dozen of the pardoned and their patrons sat around the President. Laughter rang out as they swapped war stories of investigations dodged. At one point, the former Congressman – now looking to run for his old seat – joked, "If I get re-elected, Mr. President, I promise I'll make it so you never even need to pardon anyone. We'll just legalize what they call crimes!" The table erupted in guffaws, President Drumpf slapping the table in amusement.
As dessert was served (a decadent chocolate coin mousse – the coins bearing Drumpf's profile), the President stood to make a toast. The room fell silent, all eyes shining with adoration and gratitude.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, raising a flute of sparkling wine, "this is what winning looks like." A cheer went up, and he waved it down with a broad smile. "Each of you here has been through the fire. You've been smeared, attacked, dragged through the mud by fake news and partisan prosecutors. But you never lost faith. And I never lost faith in you."
"Here, here!" someone shouted.
The President gestured grandly. "They tried to break us. But instead, we're here celebrating freedom – your freedom. Justice was served, in the end. The real justice, not that phony witch-hunt stuff."
Gary Danton, a bit rosy from drink, interjected loudly, "To President Drumpf, who stood by his friends!" Glasses clinked.
Drumpf grinned. "Well, I stood by what's right. And it turns out what's right is also what's loyal." More laughter. "But seriously, I am so proud of all of you. And I'm proud of what we've done. We've shown that in Columbia, truth and justice aren't determined by a bunch of unelected bureaucrats with agendas – they're determined by the will of the people." He paused to let that sink in – the rhetoric as always framing his personal will as the people's will.
He continued, eyes twinkling. "They say I'm tearing down institutions. No, no – I'm restoring them to the people. The power to decide what's fair. These pardons" – he patted the air as if sprinkling fairy dust – "these are acts of fairness. Because none of you deserved what you went through. I only wish I could have done it sooner."
Applause burst out. Lena Masters dabbed a tear. The billionaire donor raised his glass and proclaimed, "We owe you, sir."
President Drumpf took a sip and then, with impeccable timing, added casually, "And you know, I always joke – maybe I'll have to pardon myself before the lefties try to cook up another scam." He chuckled. A few in the room laughed nervously – half thinking, is he allowed to say that out loud?
Drumpf wagged a finger playfully. "But honestly, with the way things are going, maybe I won't even need to." He looked at AG Bolt who sat at a nearby table. "Bob here is making sure we don't get any more of those witch hunts, aren't you, Bob?" Bolt raised his glass in salute as the room laughed and cheered.
Ivy piped up with a smirk, "Worst case scenario, Dad, we'll amend the Constitution and make it official." The crowd whooped at the idea.
Ron Jr. leaned over to Gary Danton and quipped loud enough for many to hear, "Dad could shoot someone on Fifth Avenue and Bob Bolt would arrest the witnesses." It was an edgy joke – referencing that infamous old campaign line. But in this room, it landed. People laughed uproariously rather than cringed, because it kind of felt true now.
The evening wore on with dancing and more toasts. By midnight, a triumphant President Drumpf retired to his hotel penthouse suite upstairs, having personally autographed copies of each pardon proclamation for the recipients as party favors. It was the ultimate victory lap.
Outside that insulated bubble of celebration, the country at large felt a sense that a threshold had been crossed. The rule of law, which for years had been bending, now appeared to have fully broken – at least when it came to the President and his allies. Commentators struggled to articulate it: "We are in a post-accountability era," one said. "The President is effectively untouchable," said another. A small protest gathered outside the Department of Justice building the next day, with signs like "Justice for Sale" and "No One is Above the Law (Except Them?)". But they were a couple hundred people at most, their chants echoing in the empty weekend streets of D.C., observed indifferently by passing cars.
The institutions that were supposed to check power had been defanged, co-opted, or cowed. Inspectors General, prosecutors, judges in some cases – those who remained had gotten the message: crossing this President and his circle was futile if not career-ending.
In a late-night comedy show monologue, a comedian grimly joked, "At this rate, Drumpf might start pre-pardoning people. You commit the crime, he mails you the pardon next day, no questions asked." It got laughs, but uneasily so, because it felt within the realm of possibility.
For his part, President Ron Drumpf reveled in the lack of consequences. At a rally soon after, he openly mused, "Should I pardon more people? They love it when I do that. I joked I'll pardon myself. Heck, Article II says I have the right to do whatever I want as president. Remember I said that? Turns out I was right – nobody ever held me back." The crowd cheered wildly, chanting "U-S-A! U-S-A!"
In that moment, the transformation was complete: the notion of a president constrained by law had been reduced to a punchline. The law, as far as the Drumpf family and their allies were concerned, was not a boundary but a weapon or shield to use as they pleased. And if you stood in their way, well, a pardon or a punishment – whichever suited them – would sort that out.
Justice, as the nation had known it in more idealistic times, was undone. But for the Drumpfs, it was just another promise kept. They had often said they would "drain the swamp" – and indeed, they drained it, only to refill it with an even murkier brew in which they alone could swim freely. And in those dark waters, the concept of accountability sank out of sight, perhaps not to be seen again until long after the Drumpf era had passed into legend.