a Short Story By S. Vincent Anthony
In the crisp autumn of 2028, as the leaves turned the Ohio River Valley into a tapestry of gold and crimson, James David Vance stood on the weathered porch of his childhood home in Middletown. The two-story clapboard house, once a symbol of quiet desperation, now hummed with the low buzz of Secret Service agents patrolling the perimeter. It was a far cry from the days when young Jimmy would scavenge for scraps in the fridge, dodging the storms of his mother’s addictions and the ghosts of a rusting Rust Belt.
JD, as the world knew him now, had come full circle. Elected Vice President in the landslide of 2024, he had spent his term as the steadfast right hand to President Donald J. Trump, who bulldozed through the establishment like a freight train. But Trump, ever the showman, had announced his retirement from the fray earlier that year, passing the torch with a single, thunderous endorsement: “JD’s got the fight in him—the real American fight. He’s hillbilly tough, Yale smart, and ready to make this country roar again.”
Yet, Vance’s vice presidency was forged in fire early on. In the waning days of summer 2025, on September 10, tragedy struck the conservative movement like a dagger to the heart. Charlie Kirk, the fiery conservative activist and founder of Turning Point USA—a close ally and friend who had stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Vance on stages across the country—was shot and killed during an event at Utah Valley University in Orem, Utah. The suspect, 22-year-old Tyler Robinson, was arrested shortly after, facing charges including aggravated murder. Robinson had reportedly confessed to the killing in a small chat group and was linked to the crime scene via DNA evidence. Authorities noted that he had been radicalized in a short period, though the full motives remained under investigation, a chilling reminder of the toxic undercurrents in a divided nation.
The news hit Vance like a gut punch in a back-alley brawl. In the Vice President’s residence, surrounded by briefing books and family photos, he crumpled into his chair, the weight of personal loss crashing over him. Charlie wasn’t just a colleague; he was a brother in arms, a man who’d shared late-night strategy sessions and laughed over bad coffee during the 2024 campaign. Vance’s eyes, usually sharp as a Marine’s bayonet, welled with tears as he stared at a photo of the two of them at a Turning Point event—Kirk’s grin wide, Vance’s nod approving. Heartbreak clawed at him, a raw ache that echoed the losses of his youth: Mamaw’s passing, the friends lost to opioids. For a moment, the vice president allowed himself to grieve, alone with Usha, who held him as he whispered, “He was the spark, the one who lit the fire in the kids. How do we go on without that?”
Yet, from the depths of that sorrow, Vance’s steadfast leadership emerged like tempered steel. He refused to let the nation fracture. Within hours, he stood beside President Trump at a press conference, his voice steady despite the tremor of emotion. “Today, we lost a warrior for freedom,” Vance said, jaw set firm. “Charlie Kirk didn’t just talk about America—he lived it, bled for it. This act of cowardice won’t break us; it’ll bind us.” He highlighted the bipartisan condemnations, from California Governor Gavin Newsom to Utah Governor Spencer Cox, as signs that unity could prevail over hate. Kirk’s widow, Erika Kirk, gave a tearful address that moved the nation, and Vance personally reached out to her, vowing support for her and the Turning Point legacy.
Under Vance’s influence, the administration launched a swift federal investigation, coordinating with local law enforcement to dismantle the online networks that had radicalized the killer. He pushed for executive actions bolstering security at public events and funding mental health initiatives in underserved communities, framing it not as weakness but as strength: “We protect our own, from the hollers to the halls of power.” In Kirk’s memory, Vance helped establish the Kirk Freedom Fellowship, a program to train young conservatives in leadership and resilience. Through it all, his heartbreak fueled his resolve, turning personal pain into national purpose. The country rallied, conservatives and moderates alike, seeing in Vance not just a leader, but a man who felt their losses and fought through them—a quality that would propel him forward.
The campaign for 2028 had been a whirlwind, a populist fever dream stitched together from Vance’s memoir Hillbilly Elegy and the raw energy of MAGA rallies, now infused with the somber resolve from Kirk’s loss. He crisscrossed the heartland in a gleaming black bus emblazoned with “From the Holler to the White House,” shaking hands with factory workers in Youngstown, farmers in Iowa cornfields, and veterans in the shadowed VFW halls of Appalachia. His wife, Usha, a brilliant lawyer with roots in Indian soil and American steel, stood beside him like a pillar of quiet fire, their three children—Ewan, Vivek, and Mirabel—reminders that this wasn’t just politics; it was legacy.
Opponents called him an opportunist, a venture capitalist in flannel, whispering that his Silicon Valley ties and podcast barbs made him too polished for the pits. But the people saw through the smears. They saw the boy who joined the Marines after 9/11, the man who clawed his way through Yale Law on sheer grit, the senator who filibustered for the forgotten, and now the vice president who led through tragedy. In debates, Vance didn’t dodge; he charged. “America’s not a lab experiment for coastal elites,” he’d thunder, his voice carrying the twang of Middletown summers. “We’re a forge. And we’re hammering out a future where every kid gets a fair shot—not handouts, but hand-ups.”
Election night, November 7, 2028, unfolded like a symphony of vindication. From the rust-eaten steel mills of Pennsylvania to the sun-baked oil fields of Texas, the maps bled red. Florida flipped early, Ohio held like an old grudge, and even the blue wall of the Midwest cracked under the weight of promises kept: tariffs that revived manufacturing, school choice that liberated parents, and a border sealed tighter than a drum. By midnight, the networks called it. JD Vance: 47th President of the United States.
The inauguration, on a January day so cold it bit like whiskey burn, saw Vance sworn in on a Bible held by Usha, with Trump’s grizzled hand on his shoulder. Flanked by a cabinet of doers—farmers turned secretaries, welders advising on trade, and a neurosurgeon at Defense—the new president stepped to the podium. The Mall stretched before him, a sea of red hats and American flags whipping in the wind.
“My fellow Americans,” Vance began, his breath fogging the mic, “I stand here not as a king or a conqueror, but as one of you. Born in the shadow of Mamaw’s shotgun, raised on the belief that character counts more than credentials. We’ve been told our story’s over—that the American Dream is a relic, fit for museums. But I say bullshit. We’re just getting started.”
He outlined the vision: a “Heartland Renaissance,” pouring billions into vocational tech schools, slashing regulations to unleash small businesses, and forging alliances that put workers first—from renegotiated trade deals with China to a “Freedom Corridor” of high-speed rail linking forgotten towns. On culture, he vowed to defend the family, the faith, and the flag against the “woke inquisitors.” “We’ll build walls—not just at borders, but around our kids’ classrooms, our churches, our communities,” he declared. The crowd erupted, a roar that echoed off the monuments like thunder in the hollers.
In the years that followed, the Vance era reshaped the republic. Factories hummed anew in the Mahoning Valley, where JD’s old neighbors found jobs welding the frames of electric trucks powered by American lithium. Opioid clinics dotted the landscape, staffed by vets who’d walked the same dark roads. And in the Oval Office, late into the nights, the president would pore over maps with his aides, a Diet Coke in hand, plotting the next move against the globalists who dared underestimate the heart of the heartland—now with a framed photo of Charlie Kirk on his desk, a silent reminder to lead with heart and steel.
JD Vance, the hillbilly who became the hawk, the VP who ascended the throne, proved that in America, the underdog doesn’t just bite back—he leads the pack. And as the sun set over a reborn nation, he raised a glass to the ghosts of Middletown and the fallen like Kirk, whispering, “We did it, brothers. We made it count.”