Chapter 4: The Presidential Transport Fiasco

Jake had barely survived the Presidential Banquet Disaster (now officially labeled as such by his assistant, Bob) when his next challenge arrived: getting to the Council of Uncommon Senses meeting.

Simple task, right? Well, not in this world.

Still wiping mashed potatoes off his face, Jake stepped outside the palace, hoping that something—anything—would be normal today. And that's when it appeared.

A giant, golden snail, as shiny as a freshly polished trophy, slimed its way up to the steps. Its metallic shell sparkled like a luxury car, and as it drew closer, Jake could smell the rainbow-colored ooze it left behind—a mix of bubblegum, motor oil, and… burning toast?

"Is this a joke?" Jake asked, turning to Bob, who stood beside him sipping his neon smoothie. "Please tell me this is a joke."

Bob blinked, utterly unfazed. "No joke, Mr. President. This is your official transport to the Council of Uncommon Senses. The Snail Express is the fastest way to get there."

"The fastest?" Jake stared at the snail as it let out a slow, very slow, slimy trail up the palace driveway.

"Indeed, sir. It's fitted with the latest Turbo-Slime Technology."

Jake sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "You've got to be kidding me."

But Bob wasn't kidding. Bob never joked. Not in this world.

With a resigned groan, Jake climbed onto the snail, trying not to slip on its gooey shell as he found what appeared to be a luxury throne on top, complete with velvet cushions and gold trimmings. "Alright, fine. Let's go."

The snail made a loud slurping sound and began its agonizingly slow journey down the road.

"Faster! Turbo it!" Jake yelled, already losing patience. He swore he could've jogged to the meeting faster. Maybe even crawled.

Suddenly, the snail emitted a low hum, and with a whirring sound, it… picked up speed. Jake's eyes widened as the snail bolted forward, its slime trail sparkling like a rainbow.

"Wait—what?!" he shouted, gripping the sides of the throne as the snail sped through the streets of the city, leaving behind confused pedestrians who barely dodged the sparkling ooze.

Buildings blurred as the Turbo-Slime kicked in, and Jake wasn't sure if he should be impressed or terrified. "Is this thing street legal?!"

"Of course, sir," Bob said calmly, now sitting beside him with his smoothie, unaffected by the wild ride. "It's the presidential snail, after all."

Just when Jake thought it couldn't get worse, the snail made an unexpected sharp turn, sending him flying off the throne and into the Slimy Splash Zone. He landed with a wet thud in the snail's goo trail, his suit instantly covered in rainbow slime.

"Great," Jake muttered, peeling slime off his face. "Now I'm sticky and late."

Meanwhile at the Council of Uncommon Senses

The Council of Uncommon Senses wasn't your average political group. No, these people were the elite thinkers of the world—if by elite, you meant they specialized in utter nonsense. Their job was to create policies that defied logic and basic human reason.

As Jake stumbled into the council chambers, still dripping with rainbow goo, he was greeted by Lord Noodlebrain, the council's chairperson—a man who wore a spaghetti hat and whose monocle constantly floated just out of reach of his eye.

"Ah, President Jake! You're late!" Lord Noodlebrain bellowed, twirling his spaghetti hat like it was a wind-up toy. "The meeting has already started. We're discussing the new laws of gravity."

Jake blinked. "The new what?"

"Yes! We've decided that gravity is too restrictive. People should be able to float on weekends if they want! Don't you agree?" He waved a hand, and several members of the council started hovering in the air.

Jake stood there, speechless, as he watched a man in a tuxedo float upside down, a briefcase in hand, while Madam Gigglesnort, the Minister of Laughter, hovered in a lotus position, snickering at nothing.

"What—what am I even doing here?" Jake mumbled, rubbing his temples. He turned to Bob, who had somehow remained entirely clean despite the snail fiasco.

Bob gave him a reassuring pat on the back. "Just go with it, Mr. President."

Jake sighed. "Right. Sure. Floating gravity on weekends. Makes perfect sense.