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penpusherYoung Tronald Dump’s father, a man named Tred Frump (there was a name change along the way, just go with it) was, early in his career, a modestly successful businessman and real estate developer. He wanted to instill in his son a sense of what is right and wrong, a sense of what is good and bad and how to act and react to any circumstances, both in the world of business and in life.
One day, Mr. Frump had a real estate deal to handle. It was a big project, potentially worth millions of dollars to his company, which would translate to a huge boost for his personal pocketbook.
The deal wasn’t “a sure thing.” In fact, Frump thought that maybe there would be trouble. So, he decided to bring eight-year old Tronald along to his meeting for two reasons. The first was he wanted to indoctrinate his son into what a business negotiation was all about, to give him an understanding of the process and a clear concept of what that meant for the life of a company and their family. But he also was hoping to manipulate and distract the negotiator with a cute kid and maybe get a better result.
Frump tramped in, with his little Dump, behind.
“Sorry. My babysitter went to summer camp!” he said brightly.
Young Tronald climbed into an overstuffed chair next to his father, wearing a serious face just as well as he wore his Brooks Brothers suit.
“You might as well have just sent over a messenger,” came the reply from the attorney representing the project. “This deal isn’t going forward. We’ve decided to go another way.”
“You’re crazy!” Frump harrumphed. “This will provide beautiful homes for all the returning G.I.s from World War II. Well, not ALL, just the white ones, of course.”
“Mr. Frump, you have done other deals with other people, most of them in New York City proper, but here on Long Island, we have our own way of working. I’m sorry to tell you, the Lovitt family has brought in a contractor that they simply preferred in this case and they will handle everything else in house. Good luck in your future endeavors.”
Frump frowned. “Is there nothing I can sa...”
“Please. Don't embarrass yourself.”
After a single glare, a grab of his son and a march toward the door, Mr. Frump walked into the hallway, got down on one knee, straightened his son’s tie and jacket and looked him in the eye.
“I want you to remember what just happened in there,” Tred said to Tronald. “When someone treats you badly, you be sure to treat them just as badly.”
Frump stood and walked over to a phone booth in the lobby and fished out a five-cent piece from his trousers.
“Showing me up in front of my child.” Frump muttered, sticking his finger in the rotary dial and turning. “Hello, may I speak to the Office of Urban Planning?” A pause. “Yes, I have a complaint about an upcoming project that is scheduled to begin later this year... yes, I’ll hold.” he covered the phone receiver’s mouthpiece, chuckled and gave his son a wink.
A few weeks later, during a lavish breakfast, Tred Frump was in a particularly good mood. He put down the business section of the New York Herald, with the headline: Lovittown Deal Inked With New Contractor.
“My son, my son!” Frump called as Tronald wandered into the dining room. “Wonderful news today.” Frump pulled out a chair for his son to sit upon and got him a plate of pancakes, eggs and sausage. “Not only did the company that beat us for the Lovittown project lose their contract, the great people at the Federal Housing Authority have backed our plans for our new urban buildings!”
Tronald sat quietly and listened attentively through bites of his egg.
“Always support the people who supported you. They are the people you can trust,” Frump enthused. “Loyalty, above all else. That’s something that you can’t buy or trade. When loyalty comes along, stick to it like glue.”
Tronald mulled over the concept as he sipped his orange juice.
“Be loyal to those who are loyal to you,” Tronald Dump said. “And cut off anyone who is disloyal.”
“No, no.” Frump corrected. “Listen to me carefully. People being ‘loyal’ are all very well, and you will have employees and tenants and sycophants who are going to be ‘loyal.’” Frump continued. “They don’t matter.” Frump paused a moment to let that thought come through.
Frump continued, “It’s the people who have power, who actually do something to help advance your career, help you achieve what you wanted to do, help to increase your finances that are the people you need to remain loyal to, through thick and thin.”
“I see, Father,” Tronald responded.
“Always remember that, son.”
“I swear, I will.”
Tronald Dump shook his head and blinked out of his reverie. He blankly stared at the TelePrompter with the opening remarks of a speech in the lobby of Dump Tower.
“My fellow Americans.”
Dump read ahead and noted the speech was to do with some violent attack by a White Nationalist group and the death of a protester against that group. He decided to ad-lib.
“Let me say, that we condemn violence of any kind, especially as it relates to humans. But let me say that we condemn all violence from every direction it comes from. EVERY direction, not just one.”
“We know that there is guilt,” he continued, “And we know that this guilt must be shared equally among all the participants.”
A reporter in the crowd shouted, “Are you actually saying that the protestors of this hate group deserve to be blamed equally for the violence that occurred?”
“They were there, weren’t they? Hey! If they did not go to the rally, they would not have been there to be a part of it.”
Several reporters began to shout.
“Buh-buh-buh. Now you shut up with your fake news and your twisting the story stories,” The Tronald demanded.
“Is this to do with the fact that a lot of your voting base were these so-called White Nationalists,” another reporter called.
“Next question.”
“Sir, you haven’t answered…”
Dump glared at the reporter. “I’m not here to answer your fake news questions. You people are always out to get me! You people are constantly harping on every word I say.”
“You don’t get it. I’m here to help this country in every way possible!” Dump stated. “By continuing to criticize me for the little things you think are important, you are preventing me from my vision. Don’t you see how you are the ones that are wrong?!”
The crowd went silent and in that silence, Tronald Dump could see the spirit of his father, smiling up at him. And in that moment, as he remembered the lesson of the Code of Honor he was taught all those years ago, Tronald Dump smiled down on his father as well.
“I’m doing this for you.” Dump said to his vision.
“What was that?” a person in the crowd yelled.
“I’m doing this for you, the American people!”
//
This work of fiction was written for LJ Idol using the prompt Fatal flaw
One day, Mr. Frump had a real estate deal to handle. It was a big project, potentially worth millions of dollars to his company, which would translate to a huge boost for his personal pocketbook.
The deal wasn’t “a sure thing.” In fact, Frump thought that maybe there would be trouble. So, he decided to bring eight-year old Tronald along to his meeting for two reasons. The first was he wanted to indoctrinate his son into what a business negotiation was all about, to give him an understanding of the process and a clear concept of what that meant for the life of a company and their family. But he also was hoping to manipulate and distract the negotiator with a cute kid and maybe get a better result.
Frump tramped in, with his little Dump, behind.
“Sorry. My babysitter went to summer camp!” he said brightly.
Young Tronald climbed into an overstuffed chair next to his father, wearing a serious face just as well as he wore his Brooks Brothers suit.
“You might as well have just sent over a messenger,” came the reply from the attorney representing the project. “This deal isn’t going forward. We’ve decided to go another way.”
“You’re crazy!” Frump harrumphed. “This will provide beautiful homes for all the returning G.I.s from World War II. Well, not ALL, just the white ones, of course.”
“Mr. Frump, you have done other deals with other people, most of them in New York City proper, but here on Long Island, we have our own way of working. I’m sorry to tell you, the Lovitt family has brought in a contractor that they simply preferred in this case and they will handle everything else in house. Good luck in your future endeavors.”
Frump frowned. “Is there nothing I can sa...”
“Please. Don't embarrass yourself.”
After a single glare, a grab of his son and a march toward the door, Mr. Frump walked into the hallway, got down on one knee, straightened his son’s tie and jacket and looked him in the eye.
“I want you to remember what just happened in there,” Tred said to Tronald. “When someone treats you badly, you be sure to treat them just as badly.”
Frump stood and walked over to a phone booth in the lobby and fished out a five-cent piece from his trousers.
“Showing me up in front of my child.” Frump muttered, sticking his finger in the rotary dial and turning. “Hello, may I speak to the Office of Urban Planning?” A pause. “Yes, I have a complaint about an upcoming project that is scheduled to begin later this year... yes, I’ll hold.” he covered the phone receiver’s mouthpiece, chuckled and gave his son a wink.
A few weeks later, during a lavish breakfast, Tred Frump was in a particularly good mood. He put down the business section of the New York Herald, with the headline: Lovittown Deal Inked With New Contractor.
“My son, my son!” Frump called as Tronald wandered into the dining room. “Wonderful news today.” Frump pulled out a chair for his son to sit upon and got him a plate of pancakes, eggs and sausage. “Not only did the company that beat us for the Lovittown project lose their contract, the great people at the Federal Housing Authority have backed our plans for our new urban buildings!”
Tronald sat quietly and listened attentively through bites of his egg.
“Always support the people who supported you. They are the people you can trust,” Frump enthused. “Loyalty, above all else. That’s something that you can’t buy or trade. When loyalty comes along, stick to it like glue.”
Tronald mulled over the concept as he sipped his orange juice.
“Be loyal to those who are loyal to you,” Tronald Dump said. “And cut off anyone who is disloyal.”
“No, no.” Frump corrected. “Listen to me carefully. People being ‘loyal’ are all very well, and you will have employees and tenants and sycophants who are going to be ‘loyal.’” Frump continued. “They don’t matter.” Frump paused a moment to let that thought come through.
Frump continued, “It’s the people who have power, who actually do something to help advance your career, help you achieve what you wanted to do, help to increase your finances that are the people you need to remain loyal to, through thick and thin.”
“I see, Father,” Tronald responded.
“Always remember that, son.”
“I swear, I will.”
Tronald Dump shook his head and blinked out of his reverie. He blankly stared at the TelePrompter with the opening remarks of a speech in the lobby of Dump Tower.
“My fellow Americans.”
Dump read ahead and noted the speech was to do with some violent attack by a White Nationalist group and the death of a protester against that group. He decided to ad-lib.
“Let me say, that we condemn violence of any kind, especially as it relates to humans. But let me say that we condemn all violence from every direction it comes from. EVERY direction, not just one.”
“We know that there is guilt,” he continued, “And we know that this guilt must be shared equally among all the participants.”
A reporter in the crowd shouted, “Are you actually saying that the protestors of this hate group deserve to be blamed equally for the violence that occurred?”
“They were there, weren’t they? Hey! If they did not go to the rally, they would not have been there to be a part of it.”
Several reporters began to shout.
“Buh-buh-buh. Now you shut up with your fake news and your twisting the story stories,” The Tronald demanded.
“Is this to do with the fact that a lot of your voting base were these so-called White Nationalists,” another reporter called.
“Next question.”
“Sir, you haven’t answered…”
Dump glared at the reporter. “I’m not here to answer your fake news questions. You people are always out to get me! You people are constantly harping on every word I say.”
“You don’t get it. I’m here to help this country in every way possible!” Dump stated. “By continuing to criticize me for the little things you think are important, you are preventing me from my vision. Don’t you see how you are the ones that are wrong?!”
The crowd went silent and in that silence, Tronald Dump could see the spirit of his father, smiling up at him. And in that moment, as he remembered the lesson of the Code of Honor he was taught all those years ago, Tronald Dump smiled down on his father as well.
“I’m doing this for you.” Dump said to his vision.
“What was that?” a person in the crowd yelled.
“I’m doing this for you, the American people!”
//
This work of fiction was written for LJ Idol using the prompt Fatal flaw
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Date: 2017-08-21 09:53 pm (UTC)