Don't Cry Over Spilled Milk (James Buchanan Jr. x Cereal Box)

Chapter 1: Executive Woes

James Buchanan sat alone in his house outside of Lancaster, Pennsylvania, doing nothing but staring at the clock. As he watched, the seconds turned into minutes, the minutes into hours, and the hours into- well, not days, as he eventually did get up and go do something. However, that something was merely getting himself some food, in this case a Chicago-style pizza delivered by Romano's Chicago Style Pizza and Grill. Buchanan sat down once again on his pea soup stained couch and continued his job of staring at the clock, periodically taking small bites out of his dinner.

Buchanan sighed a long, sad sigh. "Man, it sure is lonely here. And boring. And structurally unsound," Buchanan exclaimed to nobody in particular, noting a live wire dangling dangerously close to his head.

Buchanan, never a very social man, regretted his previous antisocial lifestyle, and wished that he could go out into the world and find some new friends, or old friends, or any friends, for that matter. However, this was simply not possible, as Buchanan was placed under house arrest by the United States Department of Homeland Security after tearing a hole in the space time continuum and becoming immortal, which is how he is still alive today.

Suddenly, and certainly not for the point of furthering the plot, Buchanan's Blackberry flip phone began vibrating; he was getting a message. Buchanan lunged towards the primitive device, desperate for any form of human contact after such a long time in isolation.

Buchanan hit the "Answer" button frantically and raised the phone up to his ear. "Hello?" he says into the microphone, "Hello hello?"

A faint voice spoke to him on the end of the line. "James Buchanan Jr., your jar is open."

"My jar?" Buchanan asked, rushing into the kitchen and inspecting his pantry. "Is it the peanut butter?" he inquired, "That one is a repeated offender."

The voice was confused. "What? No. Not your actual jar. It's a metaphor. I'm telling you to run away."

"Run away from the kitchen? Why, is there a bomb?" Buchanan panted, already sprinting into his foyer.

"No, you idiot!" the voice yelled, obviously irritated, "Run away from your house!"

"M-my house?" Buchanan stuttered, "But I'm under house arrest! I cannot just leave the house, that would be a crime!"

"You were put on house arrest in 2003. Nobody even remembers you. The battery in your ankle bracelet is dead. You can just leave. There's literally nothing stopping you from leaving," The voice instructed the former president.

Buchanan pried off his rusted ankle bracelet and stepped outside of his house, expecting a government force waiting to contain him but finding... Nothing. Caught up in the moment, Buchanan accidentally threw his phone into a patch of tall grass, the mysterious voice still on the other end. But Buchanan didn't care. He was free now. Free to do whatever he liked. And so off he went, marching into town, unaware of the perils that awaited him.