They told me the first day in the White House would be "overwhelming."
They weren't wrong.
But not for the reasons they thought.
Overwhelming isn't standing in the Oval Office for the first time, staring at the Resolute Desk like some wide-eyed intern. No. Overwhelming is realizing that, for the first time in my life, there's not a single man, woman, or armed division on this planet who can tell me "no."
Do you have any idea how intoxicating that is?
I do.
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My motorcade rolled up to the North Portico at 8 a.m., cameras flashing, news anchors frothing at the mouth. The press kept shouting questions:
"Mr. President, what's your first executive action?"
"How will you bring unity to the country?"
"Do you regret your comments about the Senate Majority Leader's mother?"
I didn't answer a single one. I just smirked, adjusted my cufflinks, and kept walking. The crowd ate it up.
Inside, a swarm of staffers buzzed around me like nervous bees. Chiefs of staff, advisors, military aides—everyone desperate to make a good impression on the new Commander-in-Chief.
I let them.
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The first thing I did as President?
I sat down behind the Resolute Desk, kicked my feet up on the priceless mahogany, and lit a cigar. Someone—probably my press secretary—started to say something about smoking laws.
I blew a lazy smoke ring and cut her off.
"Sweetheart, I make the laws now."
---
By noon, I'd signed three executive orders.
1. Order One: Raise the salary of the President by 500%. Why? Because I could.
2. Order Two: Remove all vending machines from the White House and replace them with full-service bars.
3. Order Three: Cancel the afternoon of "briefing sessions" and replace them with what I called "National Morale-Boosting Activities."
Translation: a pool party on the South Lawn.
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Picture it: Secret Service agents trying not to look awkward in swim trunks, senators' daughters sipping cocktails, and me—President Colton Rockwell—diving headfirst into the White House pool with a whiskey in one hand and my tie in the other.
Somewhere in the chaos, I got a text from my National Security Advisor about a "developing situation" in the Middle East. I sent him a thumbs-up emoji and went back to trying to remember the name of the bikini-clad blonde who swore she voted for me twice.
---
Later that afternoon, I took my first official meeting in the Situation Room.
Generals. Admirals. The kind of people who used to outrank me back when I was Major Rockwell. Now they all stood at attention as I strolled in wearing aviators and a T-shirt that read "I Won. Get Over It."
"Mr. President," one of them said, "we're tracking a hostile naval buildup in the South Pacific. Orders?"
I leaned back in the chair, laced my fingers behind my head, and grinned.
"Remind me… who built those ships?"
"You did, sir. Rockwell Dynamics."
"Exactly. So tell them if they don't knock it off, I'll repossess them and sell them to someone else."
The room went dead silent.
"Next problem," I said, waving for the next folder.
---
By sunset, I was back in the Oval Office, glass of bourbon in hand, staring out at the Washington skyline.
First day on the job, and I'd already broken at least a dozen unspoken presidential "rules."
No, scratch that. I hadn't just broken the rules—I'd made it clear there weren't any anymore.
---
Somewhere outside, protesters were chanting my name—some in anger, some in worship. Didn't matter which.
As far as I was concerned, the United States of America was officially under new management.
My management.
And I wasn't here to serve.
I was here to take.
---
Tomorrow, we start having some real fun.