Bullying Bieber

The situation: President Bieber has the USA enveloped and oppressed in a smooth, pre-pubescent iron fist. Only a small rebel army can take him down- but the leader has a mysterious past...
NOTE: this movella is slightly longer than some of my others, but i think if you persevere, it may actually be quite fun to read. Any 'Beliebers' who want to complain about the derogatory style are free to do so... i just won't care.


1. We have a problem

Benedict Emberton strode confidently out of the lift and pushed his way through the oak doors. A large leather briefcase swung rhythmically beside his waist. As he reached the large oak door of the President of the United States, his gaze lingered for a second on the opulent crystal doorknob. Should he tell him? He shook his head and pushed through the door with a large hand.

Inside the room, the sweet smell of newly furnished carpet hung in the air. At the end of the room sat a large desk, ludicrously oversized. He was like that, the President. All talk and, well, nothing under the trousers (not that Benedict had looked, of course). The President sat squarely behind it, flanked by four bodyguards.

Benedict slowly advanced forward, scanning the room. The walls were adorned with portraits of the President: saving a baby from Satan, holding the Star Spangled Flag aloft on the moon, wrestling Osama Bin Laden to the ground. All complete and utter bullcrap, of course, but the President wasn't one for factual correctness. Large plants stood around the edge of the room, throwing large shadows on the bronzed rouge carpet. Benedict reached the desk.

'President Bieber, sir, there is a problem,' he said, his voice thick ad heavy.

The president stared inquisitively at Benedict. His hair swept across in golden streaks, with feminine features littering a pale, smooth face free of any facial hair. His head turned to the briefcase as Benedict clicked it open, pulling out several printed photographs. The President flicked lazily through them, until his eyes widened and he set a particular phtotograph down on the desk. Benedict cleared his throat.

'This picture was taken at 0834 hours yesterday. It seems the rebellion is getting stronger.'

The picture was blurry and indistinct, but the shapes of three people could just be made out. One was the tallest, a male, with hair spiked into sharp peaks, each about two inches long. A female stood next to him, of medium build, with long, sweeping hair caressing her lower back. A very small, slight male stood to the side, about three foot tall. All brandished guns, and all were surrounded by swarms of the President's personal army: The Beliebers.

'Every single person there was killed by these three. They took down an entire broadcasting centre.'

The President stared blankly at Benedict.

'...Where your orders are broadcast from, Mr President,' whispered Benedict.

The President stared at the photo, seemingly confuzzled. Benedict cleared his thoat again.

'There's more. We have received intel that they plan to take down... everything. Your entire empire. They want you out.'

The President said nothing. For a few seconds the only sound was one of the bodyguards sniffling (he had hayfever). Then the President raised his head.

'What can we do?' he spoke, his voice soft and feeble, like a mouse with a sore throat.

Benedict inhaled deeply and stared the President in the eye.

'We find them, and we take them out.'



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