Chapter 1: The President Is Dead—Long Live the President?

So here’s the headline: I’m the President of the United States, and I’m dead.

After grinding myself into the ground for thirty years, I finally died of exhaustion.

But apparently, the universe isn’t done messing with me…

Because that very night, I woke up inside the body of my own son—the Vice President.

The moment I realized I’d swapped bodies, I just stood there, stunned. My heart hammered—except it wasn’t even my heart anymore. My hands, my voice, my everything felt wrong. Was this some kind of sick joke?

As for suddenly becoming my own kid—well, I’m still not over it.

It wasn’t until the First Lady pinched my thigh so hard I almost yelped that I snapped out of it. Oh, crap, I have to cry at my own funeral!

For the first time, I discovered that my always gentle and gracious wife actually has quite a grip. With a twist and a squeeze, smooth as water, quick and ruthless—my tears gushed out instantly.

I nearly gasped—who knew Lillian could pinch like a linebacker? For a second, I thought she was going to leave a bruise as big as a Kennedy half-dollar.

Seeing this, she finally relaxed and let out a sigh. “Charlie, don’t just stand there, hurry up and step forward…”

She said this while shoving me forward with all her might.

I wasn’t paying attention and—wham!—I face-planted right on the carpet.

It was that plush blue rug they roll out for state funerals, the kind that feels like velvet but, right now, just smelled like lemon Pledge, cold marble, and the salty sting of grief.

The First Lady was stunned.

The cabinet members nearby were stunned.

I couldn’t help but sigh inwardly—after sharing a bed for over twenty years, I never noticed anything unusual. The First Lady, truly, is a master at hiding her talents.

As the scene grew more and more awkward, I quietly sighed and started to wail, “Dad, your son has let you down…”

My voice cracked, echoing off the high ceilings of the East Room. For a second, I caught a glimpse of my own reflection in the glint of a Secret Service agent's lapel pin—just a grown man on his knees, lost between two worlds.

I dropped to my knees, but everyone else just stood there, hands clasped, faces stiff with the kind of grief you save for TV cameras.

The atmosphere finally smoothed out again.

I could practically feel the tension in the room ease up, like the AC finally kicked on after a muggy D.C. afternoon.

Sure enough, without me, this family would fall apart.

I could even hear everyone around me breathe a sigh of relief, then start crying and comforting each other. Of course, the loudest were those praising the Vice President’s great devotion, their voices drifting—intentionally or not—into my ears from all directions.

It was like being at the center of a choir, everyone desperate to hit the right note for the press cameras and the mourners in the back row.

Crying at your dad’s state funeral is like walking a tightrope—one wrong move and tomorrow’s headlines will crucify you.

You can’t look too sad, but you can’t look not sad enough either.

If you don’t cry properly, the press will say you’re just eager to inherit the office—cold and ungrateful. But if you cry too much, they’ll say you’re weak and sentimental, unfit for responsibility.

Nothing like having Wolf Blitzer narrate your tear ducts on live TV. The American people want tears, but not too many—just enough to show you’re human, not so many you look like you’re losing it.

I have plenty of experience with this.

When my great-grandfather died, my grandfather was so grief-stricken he couldn’t stop crying, and the nosy journalists criticized him for years. Even when he signed bills later, there were always those who thought he was soft-hearted and tried to take advantage.

Later, when my grandfather passed, my father learned from that lesson—he restrained his emotions, acted dignified and proper, calm and orderly. Then they said he was cold and lacked feeling.

Having grown up watching this, I figured out my own countermeasures early on.

When my father died, I cried bitterly, replaying every lecture he ever gave me, and fully displaying the heart of a devoted son and the intent of a President.

It was all about moderation.

The old cabinet members beside me stood with heads bowed, hands clasped over their hearts.

Somewhere, someone’s phone vibrated with a Fox News update, and the briefest flash of annoyance crossed an aide’s face before he caught himself.

This is probably the first test for a new President.

But honestly, I really can’t cry right now.

Even after more than thirty years in office, mastering all sorts of emotions, facing my own portrait at the memorial is just… awkward, no matter how you slice it.

The official portrait was staring back at me—shoulders squared, eyes a little too intense, like I’d been holding in a sneeze during the photographer’s countdown.

After the pain in my thigh faded, the tears dried up—but that was only the start, and it clearly wasn’t enough.

So I had to raise my sleeve to cover my face and start fake-wailing.

It was either that or break into a bad soap-opera monologue. I muffled my face with my sleeve and gave it my best Emmy-worthy sob.

The First Lady was the first to notice something was off. She tugged my sleeve, then—faster than lightning—wiped my face with her hand.

Spicy.

Burning.

My eyes, my nose, my skull—

Damn, that’s intense!

Whatever she’d rubbed on her palm—maybe ghost pepper hot sauce from Ryan’s stash—was burning all the way up my sinuses. Tears streamed down my face, snot threatening to join the party.

My tears and snot streamed down together.

The First Lady nodded in satisfaction, looking like she’d do it again if it wasn’t enough.

I gazed at her through my tears:

Honey, I never knew you were so clever and resourceful.