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(Originally Posted by YearEnds)

Not only that, but the entire political establishment of the country would do exactly as she said.

Her father had already started, of course--he had to, in order to ensure the Senate would overwhelmingly support her. So he threw money into Senate races all over the country, making sure that whoever won, they would support Miranda once she was President.

He'd similarly influence state legislatures and governors over the next few years, before buying out all of the major media companies in the run-up to the Presidential election to make sure they would have nothing but positive coverage of Miranda and negative coverage of her opponents.

He was even quietly preparing mass resignations of judges during Miranda's term so that she would be able to appoint ones who would jump when she clapped.

He would ensure that whatever laws Miranda wanted would pass and survive judicial scrutiny.

And, to top it off, I would be her Vice-President. (That had to be her mother's influence--it's not like her dad hated me or anything, but her mom had suffered so many miscarriages and stillbirths, including one right around the time I was born, that she considered me the second child she never had.)

Of course, to keep it all a surprise, he had put taps on Miranda's TV and internet connections, as well as ensuring that the newspapers delivered to her house would be appropriately censored, and had a team following her around constantly to make sure she never saw any of the other advertising for her (in addition to the security team he already had following her). He was going to have teams following me around, too, in a few years.

The first Miranda was supposed to know about it was when she turned on her TV on election night to see which of the two well-respected political figures running for the major parties was going to win, only to find that the networks had already called it for a young female independent who shared her name and looked very suspiciously like her.

And to top it all off, on that day the states would uniformly and unanimously ratify a repeal of the twenty-second Amendment, allowing Miranda to serve as President for life, and able to dictate any policy she wanted.

I had no particular objection to Miranda being President--in fact, in my completely biased opinion, she'd make a great President. I wouldn't particularly have wanted to serve as her Vice-President, at least before I became God, because, to quote Daniel Webster, I do not propose to be buried until I am really dead and in my coffin. Now that I am God, of course, I don't really care, since I can change the laws of the universes--never mind one country on one planet in one solar system in one galaxy in one universe--with a thought. Still, it'd be fun, and it would mean I'd get to hang around with Miranda more.

So--aside from putting in a few divine blocks and blind spots of my own to keep her father from invading her privacy too much, while keeping the whole thing a surprise--I let the plan be.

I rang the doorbell (I found it amusing that for all that her house had the world's best security system, the world's fastest internet connection, the world's most extensive and expensive book collection, et cetera, et cetera, she still used an old-fashioned doorbell) and Miranda flung open the door and embraced me fiercely. I felt our boobs smushing together. I love that feeling.

I should note that while Miranda is my best friend, and I'm hers, there's never been anything sexual between us. Not even the occasional nipple flick or butt slap. Oh, we'd talk about sex, and I'd surreptitously slipped her my little wonder ****, but we'd long since agreed that there would never be anything between us, for all that we're both bisexuals with healthy libidos, because we didn't want to risk souring our friendship the way only sex can. (We had occasionally chatted over the phone while both masturbating to the same porno--she had subscriptions to every porn site, and had bought ones for me, too--but we never did that in person.)

Miranda's chef had prepared an excellent dinner, of course. I'd fallen in love with Boston clam chowder during my doctorate, so he always made a pot of that whenever I came over. That was accompanied by a chardonnay, and followed by a main course of a 12-ounce porterhouse steak, with all the trimmings, cooked blue rare for me and medium rare for Mir, accomapnied by a Syrah. Dessert was a chocolate cheesecake with a wonderful sweet red blend, made up of too many wines to list here.

Anyway, after we were done and Mir's waitress had cleared away our plates, replacing them with pub-style steins full of the cheapest beer around (a marked contrast from both the dinner and the priceless china on which it had been served), we chatted for a bit, about classes, research, sexual conquests, life in general. Then I turned serious.

"I've got something to tell you, Mir."

Fear briefly flashed across her face. "Oh, no. You can't get me the faculty appointment? But my research--"

"Don't worry about that. I promise you you'll be at Berkeley in a few months, and we'll have adjacent offices. No, no. It's far more important than that."

Mir's eyes went wide. "More important than a professiorial appointment at Berkeley?"

"Far more important." I began to grin a little. "Watch."

My stein was halfway between my mouth and the table when I let go of it. Her eyes already being wide, her jaw dropped as the half-full mug simply hovered in midair.

Then I released my mental grip on it and it crashed to the table, shattering and sending beer spilling all over the ridiculously expensive tablecloth and running onto the immaculate floor.

For the first time ever, I thought Mir just might get angry with me. I let her take in the scene for about ten seconds, then made the beer flow back into the stein as it reformed itself from the shattered pieces, picked itself back up off the table, and settled into my waiting hand, which easily grasped it. There was no sign that the stein had ever shattered, or that there had been beer soaking through fabric worth more than I would have earned in my entire lifetime.

Mir still looked shellshocked. "What just happened?"

"I'm God, Commie."

"You're what?"

"God. G-O-D. All-powerful, all-seeing, all-knowing? Ruler of heaven and earth and all that other crap?"

"You. Plain Jane Smith, from a family so poor that, until they had you and newspeople started paying tons of money just to see you, your mom had to turn tricks at night and wasn't sure you were actually your dad's daughter until they got one of said newsies to pay for a DNA test, are God?"

"Yup."

"How'd you do it? Some sort of serum? A shot? A pill? Can I have it, too?"