The Boys - Chapter 151: A Three-Meter-Long Checklist (Patreon)

Before long, the day of Bibira’s inauguration arrived.

Bibira stood outside the Oval Office, its four short legs planted firmly on the red carpet, ears standing straight up, the Stars and Stripes bow tie at the collar of its suit tied perfectly in place.

It took a deep breath and silently muttered “fuck” to itself three times.

About ten feet ahead, Trump stood in a dark blue suit with a peculiar smile on his face. It was hard to tell whether he was being polite, sarcastic, or somehow both.

He bent down and extended his broad right hand.

Bibira raised a front paw and placed it in his hand.

“Congratulations, Mr. Flash Howl.”

Trump gave its paw a firm squeeze, almost like he was testing a rubber ball, though his tone remained civil.

“Enjoy your week. This is one of the greatest experiments in American history, second only to my presidency.”

Bibira tilted its head and stared at the old man’s orange-tanned face while roasting him internally.

Holy shit. It looks even faker up close. That skin tone looks like he got dunked in orange paint.

Out loud, however, it answered politely.

“Thank you, Mr. Trump. Leave the White House to me. I promise I’ll give it back in one piece.”

Trump straightened up and waved to the reporters gathered around them, the smile at the corners of his mouth looking noticeably strained.

When he turned to leave, he walked so fast that his aides had to practically jog to keep up.

Bibira watched the orange figure disappear down the hallway and suddenly realized something.

The old man was genuinely pissed.

Then again, having a Beagle with the highest approval rating in America would probably make anybody question their entire existence.

But now wasn’t the time to dwell on that.

Bibira turned around and swept its gaze across the massive oak desk inside the Oval Office, a grin slowly spreading across its face.

“Let’s do this.”

It reached into the inside pocket of its suit and pulled out a sheet of paper that had been folded more times than anyone could count, then spread it across the desk.

Three meters.

A checklist a full three meters long spilled off the desk and all the way to the floor, its edges curling, every inch covered in densely packed writing.

The White House logistics director stood in the doorway. The second he saw the list, he looked like someone had punched him in the stomach.

Bibira raised a paw and pointed to the first line at the top.

“First things first. Replace the bed in the presidential suite with memory foam. I want the thickest, softest one you can get, and it better have heating!”

The logistics director leaned in and read the second item.

The corner of his mouth started twitching.

“Install dog treadmills on the lawn... seven of them?”

“What’s wrong with seven? I’ll use a different one every day. I’m not fucking broke!”

The third item was even worse.

“Convert the White House kitchen into a twenty-four-hour buffet. Menu attached. One hundred seventy-three dishes total.”

“Including Australian Wagyu, Spanish Iberian ham, Japanese A5 Kobe beef, French black truffles...”

The logistics director’s face went pale.

He kept reading, growing more horrified with every line.

Item seventeen demanded that every flower in the Rose Garden be replaced with sunflowers because Bibira thought roses were too girly.

Item twenty-three called for a giant projection screen in the State Dining Room, exclusively for watching Animal Planet documentaries.

Item thirty-one demanded an open-air dog food storage facility on the White House roof with a minimum capacity of two tons.

The logistics director’s hands began to shake.

He looked down at the Beagle in a suit, his throat suddenly dry.

“M-Mr. President... these budget requests...”

“You don’t have to worry about the budget. Arke International is paying for everything. You just make it happen.”

Bibira spoke with a cigar clenched between its teeth, sounding completely justified.

“I’m the President. Seven days or not, I’m still the fucking President. The White House is my house, and I’ll renovate it however the hell I want!”

The logistics director said nothing.

He walked out of the Oval Office clutching the three-meter checklist like it was his own last will and testament.

That afternoon, CNN ran the headline: “Flash Howl’s First Day in the White House: Entire Logistics Team Attempts to Resign, Fails.”

FOX News was even more direct: “One Dog, 173 Dishes. Where Is the Taxpayer Money Going?”

The comments section erupted, but supporters and critics were almost evenly split. If anything, the supporters had a slight edge.

“Why can human presidents blow money on luxuries, but a dog president can’t? Double standard!”

“Honestly, this is way cheaper than some presidents playing golf.”

“I pay taxes and I’m proud of it. I’m funding the hottest Beagle in America!”

Bibira scrolled through its phone while sprawled across its brand-new memory foam dog bed, tail wagging furiously.

“Hehehe. Fuck, this rules.”

Footsteps sounded outside.

A bodyguard opened the door and announced,

“Mr. President, your guests have arrived.”

Homelander came in first, his blue Supersuit gleaming beneath the hallway lights.

Ryan walked beside him, constantly looking around, his pale blue eyes filled with curiosity.

Soldier Boy brought up the rear with an unlit cigar between his teeth, one large hand resting on Ryan’s shoulder while he muttered something under his breath.

The second Ryan entered, he ran straight over to Bibira, crouched down, and wrapped both arms around its neck.

“President Bibira! You really live in the White House now! That’s so cool!”

Bibira nearly choked in his embrace. It struggled twice, failed to get free, then simply gave up and went limp.

“Easy, kid. Don’t strangle the President. Dying in office would be fucking embarrassing.”

“And hey, did you finish that assignment I gave you? Five hours of TikTok every day?”

Ryan lowered his head, looking a little embarrassed.

“President Bibira, five hours is too long for me. My eyes start hurting.”

Bibira frowned and answered in a stern voice.

“You think I’m making you play on your phone because I want to hurt you? I’m doing this for your own good.”

“If you scroll more, you’ll have more stuff to talk about with kids your age. That’s how you figure out where the world is headed.”

Ryan gave a small nod and answered firmly.

“Got it. I’ll work harder.”

Homelander stood in the center of the Oval Office and slowly looked around.

The famous Resolute Desk.

The wall lined with portraits of former presidents.

The floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the South Lawn.

A knowing smile appeared at the corner of his mouth.

“How’s it feel?”

Bibira wriggled free from Ryan’s arms, shook out its fur, and answered smugly.

“Pretty good, I guess. Chair’s too damn high, though. My ass can’t reach the cushion.”

Soldier Boy strode over to the Resolute Desk and dropped into the presidential chair.

The chair creaked and slid backward half a foot under his weight.

He kicked both feet up onto the desk, finally lit his cigar, and let smoke curl around his rugged face.

“Now this is a fucking chair. Should’ve made me President.”

Bibira craned its head back to stare at him, lips curling in annoyance.

“Get the fuck out of my chair, old man. Your ass is radioactive. Don’t ruin it.”