vanillalime: (sean murphy)
[personal profile] vanillalime
Title: Living the American Dream
Main Characters: Sean Murphy, Tim McManus, James Devlin
Rating/Warnings: PG-13 for language and references to offensive stereotypes
Word Count: 1,565
Summary: A slightly cracky story in which Sean receives a much-deserved award. Set in present day.
Note: Written for the Murphy Appreciation Month fest at [ profile] oz_wishing_well.

Sitting in the back of the town car, Sean suddenly experienced an overwhelming sense of claustrophobia. Everything felt tight, and he couldn't breathe.

He unfastened the buttons of his suit coat.

He tugged at the collar of his dress shirt.

He wiggled his toes inside his pointy shoes.

He adjusted the belt for his pants.

"Jesus Christ," snapped Tim. "Stop it with the fidgeting."

Sean tensed as he saw their driver look up into the car’s rearview mirror. He turned his head to glare at Tim.

"I don’t know why we’re doing this," he muttered. "This is such bullshit."

"You think I don’t know that?" Tim hissed, a look of defiance on his face. "We’re doing this for Em City. It’s good publicity, and it will lead to better funding. That’s how the game works."

Sean rolled his eyes, but he knew Tim was right.

"Fuck," he spat. He didn’t know what else to say, because that seemed to say it all.

With a grunt, Tim added optimistically, "Maybe we’ll be able to expand the Em City concept to other prisons."

Sean turned his attention to the passing trees outside the car’s tinted windows.

Before long, their car pulled up to the security gate. A stoic guard greeted them and asked for their credentials. After examining them, he proceeded to open the gate.

"Secretary Devlin has already arrived," the guard informed them. With a short nod of his head, he added, "He’s inside the West Wing, waiting for you."

And the next thing Sean knew, their car was pulling up to the White House.


"Don’t fuck this up for me," Devlin warned them under his breath. "Be on your best behavior. You scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours."

Sean gritted his teeth and forced a smile. He watched Tim while he did the same.

A guy in a flashy suit suddenly appeared in front of them. "The president is ready to see you now," he announced, and he motioned them to follow him into the Oval Office.

Devlin put on his biggest, brightest smile and rushed toward the desk at the center of the room. "Mr. President, it's great to you again," he exclaimed, extending his hand for a handshake.

Donald Trump stood up and shook Devlin's hand. Then, with a raised eyebrow, he turned to look at his aide.

"Secretary Devlin, photo op," the aide reminded him in a stage whisper.

Trump nodded his head unsurely.

"These people are here today," continued Trump’s aide, a little louder now, "to be honored for the incredibly successful Emerald City program for inmate rehabilitation at a prison called Oz. Secretary Devlin here created and implemented the program while he was governor."

Sean heard Tim turn a gasp into a cough.

Trump’s face suddenly brightened. "Oh, yes, prisons!" he exclaimed. "I love prisons! I think half of our citizens should be in prisons!"

Trump walked around to the front of the desk. Addressing Devlin, he said, "So, I guess that makes you the Wizard of Oz, right?"

Devlin laughed heartily at Trump’s joke while Trump beamed. Devlin then gathered himself before motioning in Tim’s direction.

"Well, I did have a little bit of help," Devlin said. "This is Warden Tim McManus, who was the first director of Em City."

Tim shook Trump’s hand, and Sean was impressed by his restraint in not throwing a punch.

"McManus, huh?" commented Trump. "Your family hails from Scotland?"

Tim raised an eyebrow. "Yes," he replied cautiously.

"I own a couple of wonderful, wonderful golf resorts there," Trump said. "They’re, like, the best golf courses in the world. You should go visit them sometime. Play a few rounds."

"Uh, sure," Tim agreed with a nod of his head.

Trump continued on. "I tell you what. I know how cheap you people are. Tell them I personally sent you, and they’ll give you a 10% discount at the pro shop."

As Tim’s mouth dropped open, Devlin quickly spoke up.

"And, Mr. President, this is Sean Murphy," Devlin announced loudly. "He’s the current director of Em City, and a former correctional officer."

Trump turned to look at Sean. Sean unfurled his fist long enough to give him a quick handshake. Sean’s strong hand nearly crushed Trump’s tiny one.

"You gotta be Irish with a name like Sean Murphy, right?" Trump observed.

Sean paused before warily answering, "That’s right."

Trump nodded his head. "I love Ireland. Got a resort there, too. Beautiful grass. Green. Really green. Like, the greenest grass in the world, it’s so green. It’s amazing how you people can keep it so green, what with being so drunk all the time."

Sean took a quick step forward, but Devlin was even quicker. He moved in front of Sean, blocking his way to Trump and his fat orange head.

"Let’s see those plaques," Devlin suggested loudly to Trump’s aide.

Sean took a deep breath and counted to ten. He turned away from Trump. He turned away from Devlin. Instead, he concentrated on the Secret Service agent standing in the back shadows of the room.

Sean felt someone push a plaque into his hand, and he heard Trump’s voice ask, "So, are there a lot of Mexicans in Oz?"

Devlin looked at Tim. Tim looked at Sean. Sean looked at the Secret Service agent.

Devlin slowly cleared his throat. "Oz has a considerable Latino population," he told Trump.

Trump shook his head. "Well, don't you worry. I’m gonna take care of that. I’m gonna build a wall that will keep all those rapists and murderers out of this country. It’ll be a big wall. The biggest, best wall. No more bad hombres!"

Sean increased his grip on his plaque, and his knuckles turned white.

"Most of the Latinos in Oz are US citizens," Tim patiently explained. "And not all Latinos are of Mexican descent. For example, some of our prisoners are from Puerto Rico, which is a US territory."

Trump blinked in surprise. "It is?"

Trump’s aide motioned toward the door. "Here’s the photographer," he announced. A woman entered the room, carrying a camera and small tripod with a lamp.

"What about Muslims?" Trump asked Tim. "You probably got a bunch of them, too."

"Yes," Tim answered shortly. "There are Muslims in Oz."

"I’m gonna get rid of them, too. No more radical Islamic terrorists!" Trump declared. "You should have them all in solitary confinement, so they can’t sign up any new recruits."

The photographer set up her light and gently guided them all into position. She asked them to hold up their plaques and smile.

As the photographer snapped away, Trump asked, "Is Oz an all-male prison, or are there girls there too?"

"The only female prisoner Oz has had was Shirley Bellinger, who was on Death Row," Devlin informed Trump.

"Hey, I remember her, she killed her kid!" Trump exclaimed. "I used to read about her in People magazine. Nasty woman!"

Sean clenched his mouth, but it was no use. His fake smile evaporated. He looked past the photographer to where the Secret Service agent was standing and tried to think of a happy place.

The photographer waved her hand to indicate that she was all done taking pictures. She moved toward the group to retrieve her floor lamp.

"But Shirley Bellinger was also hot!" Trump continued. "I bet you guys wanted to have sex with her all the time. With her being confined as your prisoner and under your complete control, it’d have been easy to grab her by the… " and Trump brought his arm out and began to move toward the photographer.

Sean’s natural instinct kicked in, literally, before he could even think. He stuck his foot out, and Trump tripped over it. He fell past Sean, past the photographer, and into Devlin’s suddenly outstretched arms. Devlin’s arms broke Trump’s fall, with Trump’s ass sticking up in the air.

Sean took one look at the situation before him and completely lost his head. He drew his foot back, then swung it forward, hard, planting the pointy tip of his dress shoe directly below Trump’s ass and between Trump’s legs. It made such forceful contact with Trump’s balls that it pushed Trump further down into Devlin’s arms. The additional weight caused Devlin to collapse, and as they went down, Trump’s head smashed into the photographer’s tripod, knocking him unconscious just as they hit the floor.

With horror, Sean realized what he’d just done and braced himself for the imminent Secret Service attack.

But instead, the agent just stood there, looking at Sean, and said, "Strong legs, good aim."

Then, as the agent turned away again, Sean could hear Tim laughing in the background.


"… and those strong legs and that good aim explain why Sean Murphy is our Bowler of the Year!"

A laughing Tim shook Sean’s arm.

"Wake up!" he whispered. "You need to get up there and accept your plaque."

Somehow, Sean was able to rouse himself. He managed to make it to the stage and thank the presenter before stumbling back down the stairs to his seat at the banquet table.

"Wow, were you out of it!" Tim declared, still laughing, as Sean sat back down.

Wiping a hand over his face, Sean muttered, "I was having the strangest dream."

"Really? A good dream, or a nightmare?"

Sean sighed. "A bit of both, Tim. A bit of both."
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