COG Chapter 15


#ContinuityOfGovernment, #WW3, #Deep State

Buried a thousand feet beneath Ohio, the ten trillion dollar, UN-constructed SuperBunker can shelter a million members of the global elite indefinitely, with all the comforts of the surface including simulated blue skies, boutique shopping, and three golf courses. The President of the United States, Arman “Our Man” Manfred, regains consciousness in one of the bunker’s six hospitals. Surrounded by his trusted advisors and his official hagiographer, his office becomes ensnared in the Machiavellian underworld of SuperBunker geo-politics. The situation worsens when the president’s Russian and Chinese counterparts execute Protocol 4, sealing the blast doors and severing all contact with the surface, relegating the world’s leaders to governing a mere computer simulation of the world above. An attempt to blackmail the POTUS with a salacious video taken by his own security agency forces President Manfred into seclusion. With his office infiltrated by a traitor and hobbled by incompetence, he attempts one final ‘Hail Mary’ that might just save the office of the president… even if it destroys the world in the process.

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Chapter 15


President Manfred’s eyes opened. He laid still in his bed, staring up at the ceiling. He always woke precisely thirty seconds before Faucett would knock on his door. He glanced out his false window. The faint glow of simulated dawn was coloring the stretched canvas sky beyond the glass.

Knock knock

“Come in.”

“Good morning Mr. President.”

The POTUS sprung up in bed, surprised by the sound of Tibbles’ voice. “Where’s Faucett? Why are you here?”

Dread filled Tibbles’ face as he started to speak.

“What is it?” asked the POTUS.

“Sir, I’m afraid there has been a development in the matter of the first lady’s disappearance.”

Manfred rubbed the crust from his eyes. “Is she dead?” he sneered hopefully.

Tibbles didn’t immediately answer, being momentarily stunned by the president’s callousness.

“I said, is she dead?”

“No, sir,” Tibbles answered.

The POTUS sighed, then threw his covers off and swung his spindly, veiny, bluish legs out and placed his feet onto the floor.

“What is it, then?”

“We think we know where she is, sir.”


The POTUS got out of bed and walked, unabashedly nude, over to the closet where he retrieved his blue, chief executive’s robe, emblazoned with the presidential seal on the back. He draped it over his pale torso rendering him in the visage of some middle-aged, Irish palooka.

“So, I suppose you want to talk about how we get her back,” he groaned.

Tibbles hung his head.

“You tell me, Frank. What’s our next move?”

Tibbles struggled to speak.

“Spit it out.”

“There’s more to it, sir.”


“Sir, she… she…”

“Out with it!”

“We believe she’s defected to the Russians.”

The president’s icy blue eyes flashed with anger, then dissolved into capitulation. He ran his fingers through his matted hair, but it sprung back just as disheveled.


Manfred raised his hand to silence him. He lumbered over to his bureau and retrieved his karaff of bourbon. He poured two glasses and offered one to Tibbles. Tibbles accepted it after a prod. Manfred clinked Frank’s glass, then shuffled back to his bed and took a seat.

“I expected this.”

Tibbles gulped. “There’s more, sir.”

Manfred sighed. “What is it?”

Frank gulped down the bourbon.

“What is it, Frank?”

“We believe the Russians have a video, sir.”

“A video?”


“What has she done, Frank?” Manfred took a drink, then studied his flat, boney feet.

“You should probably watch it, sir.”

The glow of the president’s demeanor darkened further as if storm clouds had rolled into his bed chamber. He sat on his bed, bluish, spindly legs splayed, exposed, holding his drink between his knees. “One look at you, Frank, tells me it’s bad.”

“Should I, sir?”

“Play it!”

Tibbles nervously scanned the room, spotted the remote control on the nightstand, grabbed it and turned on the screen. He navigated to the POTUS’ top secret messaging account and opened the message from “Timmy”, which was the contact name President Manfred had given to the Russian president. He pressed play. The visage of the first lady, bleary-eyed and mannequin cold appeared. Her silky, jet black hair was done up in meticulous fashion. Her eyebrows, which tended to grow into convergence when not shorn, had been expertly waxed into the shape of two narrow, angry brush strokes. Her heavy makeup was nevertheless flawless. When she started to speak, only her crystalline-white bottom teeth appeared. The president stared down at his glass.

“Arman, I am sorry it has come to this. I am not sorry for you, I am just sorry in general. I had nowhere else to turn. I just could not stand by and allow you to destroy my people, to destroy the world. The lives of billions of human beings hang in the balance. I know how you regard them, a thousand times you described them to me: ‘A horde of mindless, zombified fucktards’. But they are still human beings, Arman. Nuclear war would result in their deaths… their murders… their genocide. I can’t let you end life as we know it because of some assanine political disagreement. I must stop this insanity. No office, no prince or kingdom is worth the end of the world.”

“I always knew that bitch was a communist. All Jews are commies, Frank. Remember that.” The president took another drink.

“My father is Jewish, sir,” Tibbles mumbled. The president didn’t acknowledge.

The first lady continued: “You were wrong to throw that Chinese boy out. He is just a child, Arman. You threw him out so you could bring in that…” her face scrunched into a bitter scowl, “…that piece of shit Frank Tibbles. He is your undoing, Arman. He is an evil troll of a man. A sycophant bloodsucker. If you are listening to this, Frank, and I know you are, I want you to know that you are a slithering snake, and hardly a man at that. And that’s not because you are a homosexual, Frank, it’s because you just are what you are. You’d suck Satan’s cock if it would advance your career…”

President Manfred glanced up at Tibbles who had moved to the karaff to pour another bourbon.

“And you…” she paused to gather momentum “you are Satan, Arman. I hate you. I hate you because you would incinerate the world over that… that… golem.”

“She’s obviously upset that I didn’t get her entire Jew family PINs to get down here.”

“Obviously, sir,” Frank affirmed.

“What was I gonna do, Frank?” Manfred continued. “If I brought her whole family in it would look bad… like I was taking advantage of my power.”

Frank acknowledged the president with his widened eyes, but grimly turned back to the video. “There’s more, sir.”

“So I want you to know, Arman,” the first lady continued, “I want you to know that I know… that I know what you are. And I know the things you’ve done.”

The POTUS took another drink. Tibbles bowed his head and drifted backwards away from the screen as if increasing heat were being thrown off from it.

She continued: “I’ve seen you and Frank together, Arman.”

Concern strained the president’s face.

“I know exactly why you kidnapped and deported that poor little Chinese boy…”

“What is she talking about, Frank?”

“I know about you and Frank. I’ve seen it, Arman. I’ve seen it on video.”

“What is she talking about?”

“I’ve seen him blowing your tiny little cock, Arman. I’ve seen you on top of him, pounding away in your throes…”

The POTUS’ eyes widened.

“…And don’t think I am making this up. Like I said, I have seen it. It’s on video and I have it. You are so stupid, Arman. You authorized all your spies and surveillance, but it never dawned on you that those same assholes would turn around and spy on you. You are an idiot. My father warned me about you. He said, ‘Princess, you are making a big mistake marrying the dipshit goy.’ And he was right. You’re nothing but an ignorant jackass­—a jackass with his finger on the nuke button.”

Tibbles eyes filled with tears.

“Don’t think I am going to let you get away with genocide, Arman. I have the video, and soon the Russians will have it too…”

The president closed his eyes and shook his head. “She has no idea what she’s done.”

“Now you listen carefully, Arman. You are going to make peace with the president of China. You are going to bring that Chinese boy back into the bunker and you will do it on Frank’s PIN if necessary. We are putting a stop to this insanity before it goes any further. Do you understand me?”

Manfred stared at Tibbles who looked back with his desperate, watering eyes, like a puppy expecting to be beaten.

“Turn the bitch off!”

Tibbles clicked off the monitor and the screen went black.

The president downed his bourbon, set his glass on the nightstand, and braced his hands on his boney thighs.

“Mr. President, if I may make a suggestion…”

“Shut the fuck up, Frank. I know what to do. But first, I am going to have a shit.”

The POTUS pushed himself up, shuffled over to the bathroom and took a seat. A moment later, his phone, that was resting on the nightstand, lit up.

“Get that, please.”

Tibbles grabbed the president’s cell and activated it.

“Who is it?”

Tibbles took the cell into the bathroom and handed over. “It’s Buckminster.”

“Hand it over. What is it Bucky?… What?… What?… Fine.”

The president handed the cell back to Tibbles.

“What is it?”

“The Russians. Timmy wants to meet.”

“He’s going to blackmail you, sir.”

“Do I look like an idiot? Of course he is.”

“I think you should let me advise you.”

“What is your advice, Frank?”

“Don’t meet him.”

“What choice do I have?”

“You don’t have to.”

“Oh, that bitch has made a real mess of things, now.”

“Sir, no good can come of meeting.”

“But a lot of bad can if we don’t.”

“Maybe there’s a way out. Maybe we can spin this to our advantage.”

“What the hell are you talking about, Frank?”

“Hear me out for a second. Perhaps you could pull the pin on this grenade before it blows.”

“Before it blows?”

“I meant before it mushrooms.”

“How and why would I do that?”

“Think about this: You could come out, sir. You could tell the world that you’re gay. It would make you a pioneer. You would be the first gay president.”

The president’s face flushed with anger. “What are you talking about? I’m no homo, Frank. Besides, Lincoln was the first gay president.”

“Sir? But we had sex.”

“That doesn’t make me gay. Being gay is…” the president stopped to ponder.

“Being gay is being attracted to people of the same sex, sir,” Frank said.

“No, no, no. Being gay is not that at all. Gayness is a lifestyle. It’s about being emotive and sensitive and wearing skinny jeans. I’m no queer, Frank.”

“Sir, but you have sex with men,” added Haberdash who had been lounging silently on the sofa the entire time.

“So what? Inmates have sex with each other. That doesn’t make them homos. Would you call one of those inmates at Leavenworth a homo?”

“Well I…”

“You want gay? I’ll give you gay. Gay is like Elton John, and those hosts on those home decorating shows, and Bruce Jenner, and…”

“And Frank,” added Haberdash, smirking at Tibbles.

“And… and… that singer from Queen and every newsman behind a desk on CNN. Now that’s gay. I’m not one of those.”

“But—” Tibbles protested but was cut off.

“Just set up a meeting with my circle of trust. Get them over here immediately. Tell them it’s urgent.”

Tibbles surrendered and began dutifully tapping away at a message on his cell.


The president showered and shaved and dressed. When he was ready, Tibbles escorted him to the SuperBunker Oval Office where Fricke and Buckminster were waiting.


“Mr. President,” they replied as they stood up from the two opposable sofas in the middle of the room.

“Have you briefed them?” the POTUS asked Tibbles.

“No sir.”

“We came right over when we got the message from Frank,” Buckminster answered.

The POTUS ambled over to his desk and took a seat. He opened his top right drawer, reached in, and clicked off the recording device, then he pulled out his gold-plated .44 magnum and set it on the desk. He closed the drawer and gathered himself.

“Gentlemen, we have a situation.”

“What is it?” Buckminster asked.

“Do you want me to explain it, sir?” Tibbles asked.

“Shut the fuck up, Frank. Everyone have a seat.”

Buckminster, Fricke, and Tibbles sat down in the chairs facing the president’s desk. The president looked each of them directly in the eye in succession.

“It seems that the first lady has defected to the Russians.”

“What?” Buckminster asked.

“It’s true. Fricke, you don’t look surprised.”

“I’m not, sir. But at least we know she’s alive. That’s good.”

“Is that good? It seems that she is now working with them.”

“What’s she doing?” Buckminster asked.

“She said, in an encoded message to me, that she has some sensitive information that she will turn over to Timmy if we do not meet their demands.”

“How sensitive?” Buckminster asked.

“Very sensitive,” Tibbles answered. “So sensitive that it could undermine or even destroy the very legitimacy of the U.S. government.”

“Like how we lied about weapons of mass destruction?” Buckminster asked.

“More sensitive than that.”

“Like how we set the drug cartels up as a front for funding the Contras in Nicaragua?”

“Far worse.”

“Like how the CIA had Kennedy assassinated?”

“Even worse than that.”

“Worse? What’s worse than that?” Fricke asked.

“Worse than faking the moon landing?” Buckminster asked.

Silent pause.


“Holy shit.”

The POTUS grabbed his gold-plated .44 magnum and started waiving it as he spoke. “We can’t allow her to give this compromising information to the Russians. We just can’t do it. The very survival of the office of the president depends on that not happening.”

“What do you propose we do about it?” Fricke asked.

“We have to stop her.”

“What exactly does she have?” Fricke asked.

“It’s so sensitive I can’t even divulge it to you.” The POTUS replied, pointing the barrel of the pistol at Fricke for extra emphasis. “She has to be stopped.”

“How?” Fricke asked, ducking slightly.

The POTUS got up from his desk, turned, and used the barrel of his gun to part the gold curtains and have a peek out the virtual window. There was nothing to see. The window was frosted glass hiding a bank of lights simulating daylight just beyond it. He cleared his throat.

“We have to terminate the first lady,” Buckminster advised, reading the president’s mind.

“Like, assassinate her?” Fricke asked.

The president turned and looked at Buckminster without any expression.

Buckminster stood up. “Mr. President, you need say nothing. I will coordinate this operation without any direct order from you.” He saluted and turned to the other two. “Gentlemen, this mission does not exist, nor will it ever exist. The president did not order it. The president has no knowledge of it.” He saluted the president again and marched out of the Oval Office.


Follows, comments, likes, edits and suggestions are greatly appreciated.

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4 thoughts on “COG Chapter 15

  1. homsexual (minor misspelling)

    I love the foreshadowing with the gay newscaster and how it lead into this. Well done, nice twist that I hadn’t foreseen. I also love the reveal of Haberdash on the couch the whole time. This is so beautifully set up for a “Shaun of the Dead” style comedic farce.

    Liked by 1 person

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