Denny’s Gospel: God Helps Those Who Keep Others Down
The smell of burnt bacon grease and generational disillusionment hung heavy in the air as the nation’s top journalists gathered in the Dusty Spoon Diner, the only place in Dustmere where you could still get food, unsolicited opinions, and a mild case of tetanus—all before 9 a.m.
Across from them sat Denny Tuggerson, a local fixture known best for yelling at farm equipment and once mistaking a library for a communist infiltration center. His bumper sticker read “I WORK HARD SO THE LAZY CAN’T”, and his shirt was a promotional giveaway from a pesticide company that no longer exists.
As he slurped his coffee—which had the viscosity of crude oil and the flavor profile of despair—cameras rolled.
“I just think this country’s gone soft,” Denny said, unprovoked. “People expect too much. Healthcare? School funding? Broadband? What happened to earning your suffering?”
The press nodded solemnly. A correspondent from a major network whispered, “Finally, someone who speaks for the working class—unlike those teacher union folks always crying about ‘paying their rent’ and ‘wanting to retire after working for 40 years.’”
Denny continued. “You ask me, unions are just scams for people who don’t wanna pull themselves up by their bootless straps. You don’t see me whining for paid time off, and I’ve had bronchitis since Clinton was president.”
The NPR field reporter stifled a tear. “God, he’s so real.”
Another journalist, elbow-deep in a plate of “eggs,” asked, “But Denny, isn’t the senator you're supporting a Yale grad who voted to cut funding for this exact town?”
Denny snorted. “Yeah, but he ain’t one of those elites. He believes in the Old Testament. Not that hippie stuff Jesus preached in the sequel. Too much forgiveness, not enough righteous fire. We need more damnation, less compassion.”
A hush fell over the booth as reporters nodded in reverence. A tweet was already going viral: “Denny Ray: America’s Unfiltered Soul. A Voice Too Pure for Union Talking Points.”
After baptizing the media in a thick gravy of misplaced certainty at the Dusty Spoon Diner, Ray Tuggerson made his way across town to the vacant lot where Senator Grigsby Hardhorn was holding his highly choreographed “Listening to America” rally.
At precisely 11:07 AM, Senator Hardhorn arrived in full spectacle—emerging from a column of Cybertrucks retrofitted by Elon Musk to belch synthetic smoke, produce randomized engine backfires, and automatically delete attendees social security numbers for being healthy enough to walk.
Denny’s eyes lit up. “Ain’t she beautiful,” he muttered, as the lead Cybertruck spun in place, puffing out clouds of what smelled suspiciously like Axe body spray and propane.
Senator Hardhorn approached the podium, flanked by android security officers shaped like centaurs for some reason. He looked out at the crowd, his face Botoxed into bipartisan concern.
“My friends,” he began, “I stand here today in the heart of real America. A place where folks know that life is hard, and getting better would be... unrealistic.”
Applause broke out, led by Denny, who whooped loud enough to startle a nearby service goat.
“We’ve looked at every option,” the Senator continued. “Education? Leftist Indoctrination. Healthcare? Too European. Broadband? Look, not everyone needs Netflix.”
Denny nodded in vigorous agreement. “Can’t trust a man who gets his news from anywhere but the back of a cereal box!”
Senator Hardhorn smiled through his teeth. “I know some folks will say we could do more, but that kind of talk is reckless. Prosperity breeds entitlement. And we can’t let this town lose what makes it special—resilience through neglect.”
Clutching a microphone in one hand and a limited-edition bourbon he never paid for in the other, Senator Hardhorn addressed the dozen residents still spry enough to stand under the sun.
“I want you to know,” he declared with solemn authority, “that no one in the history of human civilization—not in Rome, not in the Ottoman Empire, not even in Silicon Valley—has ever figured out how to make this kind of place economically viable.”
He gestured vaguely at a collapsing grain silo and an old man using a fishing rod to adjust the town’s only satellite dish.
“And believe me—we’ve tried. We held a committee meeting. We looked at charts. A consultant in a Patagonia vest even drove through once.”
Flanked by a battalion of gleaming AI security robots—each one costing more three times more than Dustmere’s entire annual budget—Hardhorn addressed the crowd from a collapsible stage erected between the last standing payphone and a condemned feed store.
“Now if you’ll excuse me,” he said, adjusting his lapel pin shaped like a dollar sign, “I have to leave for a $10,000-a-plate fundraiser at a luxury wine cave just outside Aspen, where I will humbly ask billionaires to keep democracy alive by writing checks to my Super PAC.”
A mechanical whir filled the air as the six taxpayer-funded Cybertrucks with mounted laser deterrents rolled in, their matte chrome chassis reflecting the despair of a town with no hospital and a 40-minute drive to the nearest grocery store.
As the crowd dispersed—some coughing, some crying, most just numb—Senator Hardhorn waved from atop his solar-powered hover-SUV. “Remember,” he called out, “the American Dream is alive and well… just maybe not here.”
Then he was off to the next town, where the water was also brown, but the despair had a slightly more photogenic backdrop.
Denny stood, hand over heart, inhaling fumes of freedom. He turned to the press corps and said, “Y’all better print this: I ain’t never been prouder to be ignored by a man who understands me completely unlike those George Soros type elites that believe in Jesus.”
