The Bible in front of me smelled like dust and old wood. The Chief Justice's hand hovered in my peripheral vision, waiting. A sea of people stretched beyond the Capitol steps—flags waving, cameras flashing, millions of strangers cheering for someone they thought had a plan.
I didn't.
"I, uh…" the Justice prompted.
I swallowed. My throat was dry. My palms were damp.
"…do solemnly swear…" he continued.
This wasn't real. It couldn't be. I was a nobody. I had no background in law, politics, military—nothing. My resume had one job listed: freelance app designer. I once got fired from a dog-walking gig.
And now I was the President of the United States.
"…that I will faithfully execute the Office of President…"
Execute. Nice word choice.
"…and will to the best of my ability…"
Ha.
"…preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States."
I blinked at the crowd. At the flag. At the thousands of people who genuinely believed I was about to change the world.
"I do," I said softly.
The Chief Justice smiled and shook my hand. The crowd erupted.
Applause. Cannon blasts. Flyovers. Confetti. Tears. Shouting. Patriotism so thick I could practically taste bald eagle feathers.
It felt like a dream. No—not even. Dreams made sense.
This was a waking nightmare.
---
Later that day, I sat behind the Resolute Desk like it was a live bomb.
"Let's go over your priorities for the first hundred days," said Janet Rivera, my new Chief of Staff. She was all sharp lines and sharper eyes—perfect bun, tailored suit, voice like a paper cut. "Infrastructure, healthcare, tax reform. You'll need to set the tone."
I was still trying to figure out how to sit in the chair without sinking three feet.
"Sure," I said. "Right. Um…"
I looked around the room like the answers might be printed on the wallpaper. Instead, I locked eyes with a portrait of Theodore Roosevelt. He looked like he wanted to punch me through the frame.
"How do you feel about snack food regulation?" I blurted.
Janet didn't even blink. "Sir?"
"Just thinking. You know. Baby steps. Like, uh… banning cheese-dust-based products?"
A pause. Her eyes narrowed slightly.
"Is this a public health concern or a… personal vendetta against Doritos?"
"Could be both."
She made a note. "I'll have the FDA draft a report. Anything else?"
"Can we… add a nap room to the West Wing?"
"I'll see what I can do."
---
I thought that would be it. A few goofy executive orders, keep expectations low, then quietly resign before anyone realized I once Googled 'how does Congress work.'
But the media loved it.
"Quirky but Honest: President Bans Doritos in First Act."
"Blake's Bizarre Ban Boosts Transparency Hopes."
"Finally, a President Who Hates Snacks as Much as We Hate Congress!"
My approval rating jumped eight points overnight.
I watched the coverage with a bag of pretzels in one hand and existential dread in the other.
"This wasn't supposed to happen," I muttered.
Josh—my campaign manager-slash-roommate-slash-worst influence—grinned from the couch. "Buddy, you won."
"I know. That's the problem."
"So what now?"
"I've got two options," I said, staring at the screen where my face—God help me—was framed in golden laurel leaves like I'd just conquered Rome.
"Option one: fake my death. Car explosion. Disappear into the Rockies."
Josh sipped his beer. "Tempting. But?"
"Option two," I said slowly, "I get myself fired."
He raised an eyebrow. "Like impeached?"
"Exactly."
"Deliberately?"
"Yes."
He leaned back, thoughtful. "That's so stupid it might work."
"Thanks."
"But how are you gonna pull that off? Dropkick a senator? Declare war on Ohio?"
"No," I said. "I'll start small."
And I smiled.
Because I had a plan.
Kind of.
Sort of.
Okay—I had a vague idea.
Step one: become the worst president in American history.
Step two: get the hell out.