The air in the dimly lit, velvet-draped purgatorial waiting room crackled with an unusual tension, even for a place populated by history's most notorious figures. Jeffrey, still sporting a slightly-too-wide grin that seemed permanently affixed, tapped a manicured finger on a spectral mahogany table. Across from him, a familiar figure with a perpetually wind-swept coiffure paced a shimmering, non-Euclidean carpet.
"Honestly, Jeffrey," the figure boomed, his voice echoing with an almost-presidential timbre, "this whole 'files' thing? A disaster! A complete, total disaster. Nobody knew files could be so… public. Believe me."
Jeffrey chuckled, a sound like dry leaves skittering across marble. "Publicity, Donald, is a double-edged sword. One day you're the toast of the town, the next you're... well, you know." He gestured vaguely at their ethereal surroundings. "But these files, they're masterpieces of… documentation. Very thorough. Very detailed."
Donald stopped pacing, his spectral suit jacket flapping dramatically. "Detailed? Too detailed! We needed less detail, more… 'alternative facts' in there. Just a few, for plausible deniability. Simple! Like my tax returns, nobody ever understood those. Perfect!"
"Ah, but the artistry, Donald," Jeffrey purred, leaning forward. "The sheer volume! It speaks to a certain… dedication. A commitment to the craft. And the names! Such an eclectic mix. It was like curating the world's most exclusive, and least advisable, guest list."
"Guest list?" Donald scoffed, throwing his hands up. "It reads like a 'who's who' of 'whoops'! My brand, Jeffrey, my brand! People expect gold towers, not… not that. We should have just made them disappear. Poof! Like a bad business deal. I'm very good at that, you know. Very, very good."
Jeffrey sighed, a wisp of smoke curling from his non-existent cigar. "My dear Donald, one cannot simply 'poof' away meticulously cataloged information. It's not a real estate transaction. There are protocols, digital footprints, paper trails… I was quite meticulous."
"Meticulous?" Donald's voice rose to a near-shriek. "You were too meticulous! This is why you hire people! To be less meticulous when it comes to things that could, shall we say, 'complicate' future endeavors. Like, for instance, running for… well, you know." He winked conspiratorially, though the wink lost some impact in the spectral realm.
"Future endeavors are precisely why one keeps records," Jeffrey countered smoothly. "Leverage, Donald. It's all about leverage. Though, I admit, the current application of said leverage is… less than ideal."
"Less than ideal?" Donald spluttered. "It's a catastrophe! I'm trying to rebuild, to make purgatory great again, and these files keep popping up like bad polls! We need a new narrative! A 'witch hunt' narrative! A 'fake news' narrative! Something!"
Jeffrey just smiled, a knowing, unsettling grin. "Some narratives, Donald, write themselves. And sometimes, the best defense is a truly spectacular offense. Or, in this case, a truly spectacular… record."
Donald threw up his hands in exasperation. "This is why I always said, you need to surround yourself with the best people! People who know how to keep things quiet! People who understand the art of the deal, not the art of the… the filing!"
"Perhaps," Jeffrey mused, adjusting his spectral tie. "But then, where would the fun be, Donald? Where would the… legacy?"
Donald groaned, running a translucent hand over his equally translucent hair. "Legacy? My legacy is supposed to be gold toilets and golf courses, not… this! This is the worst deal, the absolute worst deal in the history of deals! Believe me!"
And so, the argument continued, a timeless, absurd loop in the great cosmic waiting room, as two figures, forever linked by a shared, unfortunate paper trail, bickered over the enduring power of meticulous documentation.