Remember that fun I said we were gonna be having?
Yeah. Didn't happen.
Turns out the National Security Advisor wasn't calling about some low-level "developing situation." No, it was the real deal—nuclear, ugly, and a perfect chance for the world to find out if the new President was just a smug arms dealer in a suit or the guy you absolutely do not want to mess with.
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It's the next morning when I step into the Situation Room. No board shorts this time. Charcoal three-piece, black silk tie, cufflinks worth more than most people's annual salary.
The kind of outfit that says, Yes, I own the room, and no, I don't have time for your doubts.
The cabinet's already assembled, a half-circle of skeptics who've spent the night convincing themselves I'm about to fall flat on my face.
The big screen shows a decommissioned nuclear facility in the Middle East, still smoking from the takeover.
"Status," I say, sliding into my seat at the head of the table.
The Secretary of Defense clears his throat. "Mr. President, a rogue militia has seized control of the site. They're demanding withdrawal of U.S. forces from the region and—"
"—and threatening to launch unless we play ball," I finish for him, flipping open the dossier they slid my way.
I already know what I'm looking at. My company built the missiles in that facility.
---
"Those are Dagger-III systems," I say, tapping the grainy satellite image. "They're mine. And unless these idiots have figured out how to bypass a triple-encrypted Rockwell Dynamics master lock, they're holding glorified lawn ornaments."
I turn to the Pentagon liaison. "Get me uplink access to the Dagger command grid. I'll put them to sleep permanently."
---
The room is silent except for the furious clatter of keyboards as my codes go through.
A minute later, a technician looks up, pale. "Sir… all missiles are non-operational. Completely dead."
I allow myself a small smile. "Told you. No one steals my toys and lives to brag about it."
---
"Now for the uranium," I continue, turning to the CIA Director. "Deploy a Rockwell Dynamics Rapid Containment Team. They'll have the site neutralized and the material secured within the day. And send a message to the militia: surrender peacefully, or I repossess every last piece of hardware they've ever bought from me and sell it to their enemies."
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Around the table, my cabinet stares like they've just seen me sprout horns.
They were expecting a panic attack, a meltdown, maybe even a call for military intervention.
Instead, I just defused a nuclear crisis before my coffee got cold.
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I close the dossier and rise, straightening my jacket.
"Ladies and gentlemen, congratulations. You've just witnessed the fastest resolution of a nuclear threat in U.S. history. Now, if there are no other existential crises on today's agenda, I have a country to run."
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My National Security Advisor follows me out. "Sir… they didn't expect you to pull that off so easily."
"They expected a clown," I reply, adjusting my cufflinks. "They forgot I built the world's biggest arsenal. I don't just know the game—I wrote the rulebook."
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For the first time since taking office, I'm not bored.
Maybe being President won't be such a drag after all.