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Chapter Text

Huntress Thompson looked outside her news helicopter with a sense of fear and loathing. 

Two rival armies clashed against each other on the streets of Baltimore down below.  The warriors used a variety of deadly weapons, from machine guns and flamethrowers, to cutlasses and cannonballs; their wailing screams of pain audible even from the sky above.  Thompson gave one last look across the bloody battlefield, then raised up her hand high into the air.

“Power: Gonzo Journalism.”

Instantly, a pair of tall lanky figures with cameras for heads materialized inside the copter.

“Mornin’ boss,” one of the Gonzo’s spoke.  “How you doing?”

“Shut it!” Thompson hissed.  “I don’t have time for niceties.  I just wanna get this crap over and done with already.  Understood?”

The Gonzos gave a collective nod.

“Good.”

Thompson moved out of her seat, letting one of the Gonzos step in and take hold of the controls.  Thompson adjusted her white bucket hat and yellow-tinted glasses, then popped a cigarette into her mouth as the other Gonzo pointed his camera lens towards her.  Gonzo raised three fingers…two…one…

“Hello,” Thompson spoke with a monotone voice as a tall building crumbled just behind her.  “As anyone with half a brain cell could have told you, the ongoing turf war between the Jacksonian and New Dealers continues on without any signs of slowing down.  Given this volatile situation, any reasonable news organization would of course choose to spend their limited airtime covering this awesome footage happening just below our feet.” 

Thompson gave a forced smile.

“But…since we’re a `family friendly’ network…our bosses have decided to give you an `informative’ traffic report instead.  So; here’s how to get to wherever you want to go…”

Thompson straightened up her back and took an exaggerated cough to clear her throat.

“…pull out your damn phone…tell it where the hell you’re going…and figure out the rest yourself!”

Thompson glared at the camera, then raised up another fake smile.

“And now, a word from our sponsors; aka, the only people dumb enough to spend their money on our worthless programming.”

Gonzo turned off his broadcast and gave a shake of his head.

“You know boss, it’s stunts like these that got you demoted to traffic duty in the first place.”

“Seriously!” the other Gonzo chimed in.  “Remember that time you cursed out a middle schooler on live TV?”

“That snotnosed brat had it coming!” Thompson hissed, taking another drag on her cigarette.  “I mean seriously, who picks Dixie Nixon as her favorite President?  If anything, the network should be thanking me for setting our troubled youth straight!  But that’s enough chitchat from us,” she gestured to the towering pillars of smoke behind them, “let’s get to where the real action is already!  I’ve heard there’s a whopping four Presidents in the fray today, and I’m just itching to see some Executive Powers in action!”

And so, the trio flew out over the city, searching for Presidents.

“I found some!” one of the Gonzos exclaimed, zooming his camera onto a plain looking woman facing off against a large cowboy down below.

The woman stepped forward, raising her hands with a proud smirk.

“Executive Power,” Jade Polk screamed, “Manifest Destiny!”

A pair of ornamental blades materialized inside her hands as she swung down at the cowboy’s overly protruding stomach.

“Woahhh now!” Landon B. Johnson hollered, moving himself aside.  “Hurry up, JFK!  I could really use some backup over here!”

Across the street, a young man shook his head as a giant chunk of concrete hurtled towards him.

“Ask not what your Party can do for you…” Jay F. Kennedy grumbled, “but what you can do for your Party!”

JFK crouched down, the Presidential Seal on the back of his hand glowing red, white, and blue. 

“Executive Power: Man on the Moon!”

JFK leapt into the air, his body floating gracefully through the sky as the concrete passed just below his feet.  He looked down, watching as a handsome man lifted up a car with his bare hands.

“Give it up already!” Hank Pierce quipped as he threw the vehicle towards JFK, “I’ve got you beat in terms of both looks and power!”

In the air, Thompson grinned to herself as she watched the Presidents clash against one another.

“Now this is a story worth covering!  I tell ya, I’d give up drugs and drinking if I could just get the chance to report on some more Presidents fight…ing…”

Thompson slowed her speech, her attention drawn to something on the horizon. 

“Gonzo…?” she asked, pointing over to a mushroom shaped cloud blossoming in the distance.  “Am I on too many shrooms right now, or is that—"

A giant shockwave slammed into the city, flinging their helicopter out across the sky.  The piloting Gonzo yanked hard on his controls, fighting to keep the copter afloat.  Meanwhile, Thompson continued staring at the cloud, her mind lost deep in thought.

“Boss?” a Gonzo asked, resting a hand on her shoulder as the copter steadied itself.  “You doing alright?”

Thompson turned to him, her face brimming with glee.

“I will be once we get over to whatever the hell that thing was!”

“But boss,” the other Gonzo interjected, “we need to stay here for the second half of the traffic report.  Otherwise, the higher ups will—"

“Screw the higher ups!” she screamed.  “I’m not letting another scoop pass us by just because those fat-cat dumb-nuts wanted to stay home and scratch their own asses!”

Thompson huffed and puffed, then quieted herself down.

“No…you’re right,” she spoke softly.  “We have a job to do after all.  Let’s just…let’s just go ahead and do the traffic report.”

The Gonzos looked to each other, then back to Thompson as their recording lights blinked on.  One of the Gonzos counted down, then pointed over to Thompson.

“Hello Baltimore!” Thompson spoke with genuine cheer.  “Today, we’re excited to launch a new segment for our traffic reports called: `What’s the fastest way to get to the weird cloud I saw just before the giant shockwave slammed into our city?’.”

The Gonzo’s gave a joint sigh.

I knew it, the two thought in unison as the piloting Gonzo pulled on his controls, steering the copter towards their new destination.

The trio flew out for some time, with the mysterious cloud dissipating long before they could reach it.  However, what remained in its place appeared just as shocking.

“Jesus Christ; are you seeing this, folks?” Thompson exclaimed, looking to the titanic crater carved into the earth below.  “This must be where our bizarre shockwave came from!  Offhand, the crater looks to be around 300 feet deep with a radius of 1200 feet.  Moreover—”

“Woah, woah, woah!” the closest Gonzo screamed, aiming his camera past Thompson’s head, “There’s something going on down there!”

Thompson looked out, spotting a bright light flickering at the crater’s edge.

“Well, would you look at that…”  She glanced behind her, a wide smile creeping over her face.  “Take us down, Gonzo!”

“Uhhhh,” the piloting Gonzo replied, “I’d rather not, boss…I think I'm starting to get the fear…”

“Like hell you are!  We came all this way to figure out what happened here!  And you must realize,” she pointed to the light below, “that we’ve found the main nerve!”

“I know…” Gonzo gulped, “…that’s what gives me the fear…” 

Reluctantly, Gonzo lowered down the chopper, with Thompson jumping out and sprinting ahead well before he could finish the landing.

Thompson mentally prepared herself as she ran, anticipating every possibility for what might lie within the mysterious light. 

However, she was entirely unprepared as a large, ordinary man with short gray hair and wide, circular glasses stepped out from its glow.

“Greetings!” the man exclaimed with a strong midwestern accent as the light faded around him.

Thompson skidded to a halt as she approached, her eyes gazing up at the man as the second Gonzo ran up just behind her.

“I see you’re all a bunch of journalists!” the man remarked, looking to Gonzo’s camera head.  “Well that’s just perfect!  Tell me, are you with local or national news?”

Thompson blinked, opened her mouth, then closed it again.

“Local…news?”

The man kept smiling, but he was clearly disappointed. 

“Well, it’ll get there soon enough I suppose.  You rolling now by any chance?”

Thompson stared blankly ahead, then gave a quiet nod.

“Excellent!” 

The man stepped back, clearing his throat as he looked towards the camera. 

“My fellow Americans…”

He raised a hand, inciting Thompson to instinctively take a step back.

“Jesus!” she whispered as she took in the symbol of a bald eagle inscribed within a circle of 13 stars burned onto the back of the man’s hand.  “That’s a Presidential Seal right there!”

“…my name is Henry S. Truman,” the President continued, ignoring Thompson’s remarks, “and the destruction you see behind me,” he gestured to the massive crater around them, “is the aftermath of my Executive Power: The Manhattan Project.”

Thompson paused for a second, taking in the weight of his words. 

“…and what exactly do you want?”

Truman gave a sigh.

“As things stand, our country finds itself torn apart by the senseless battles waged between the Presidents and their Parties.  As a President myself, I know this is bad, and I’ve come here today with the hope of putting an end to all these pointless feuds.”

Truman gave a shake of his head.

“But of course, it is not enough to yearn for peace.  We must work for it, and if necessary…” he raised a slight smile over his somber face, “…fight for it!” 

Thompson looked to Gonzo, then back over to Truman, furrowing her brow.

“The hell are you talking about?”

Truman transformed his smile into a devilish grin, then threw his arms out to the side.

“In order to form a more perfect union, insure domestic tranquility, and to secure the blessings of liberty; I am declaring today the establishment of a grand tournament that will decide once and for all: which President stands as the greatest of all time?”

Truman stopped speaking, his eyes looking expectingly to Thompson.

“…uhh,” she spoke up, “please…tell us more?”

Truman raised three fingers into the air. 

“This experiment of ours will be organized by a trinity of Presidents consisting of myself, Bill Taft, and Ruth Hayes.”  He raised up a fourth finger.  “It will take place at this very spot, four months from today, on Tuesday, November 4^th.  I’m also very pleased to announce that we’ve already secured the participation of four prominent Presidents for our event.”

Truman lowered his fingers one at a time, his voice lingering on each name as he spoke.

“Theo Roosevelt…Gabe Lincoln…Tanya Jefferson…and Jordan Washington.”

Thompson widened her eyes.

“That’s…” she stuttered, “…that’s every member of Rushmore!”

“That it is!” Truman chuckled, then tightened his gaze back to the camera.  “And so, my fellow Presidents, I hope you’ll join us for what is sure to be…a Revolutionary War!”

Thompson stood stiff, her mind overflowing with everything she just heard, then gave a frantic wave to Gonzo as she came back to her senses.

“C-Cut!” she screamed as Gonzo’s recording light flickered off, shutting down the broadcast. 

Truman gave a heavy sigh and wiped a hand across his sweating forehead.

“Welp; I guess the die is cast now!  And if you don’t mind me asking,” he pointed towards their news helicopter in the distance, “could you all give me a ride back into town with you?  The car I drove over didn’t quite survive the blast!”

“…uhh…yeah…sure…” Thompson replied thoughtlessly, her brain still in a daze.  She continued staring a moment longer, then gave a violent shake of her head.

What the hell am I doing? she thought.  The opportunity I’ve always been waiting for is literally standing right in front of me, and all I can do is stand around gawking like an idiot?

Thompson gritted her teeth, then slapped herself hard across the face.

“You can come with us,” she screamed, regaining her former sense of composure, “on one condition!” 

She pointed to herself.

“I get to be the emcee for your tournament!”

Truman looked down at Thompson, instantly transforming his friendly smile into a cold, icy glare.

“…are you seriously making demands of me…” he asked, gesturing to the crater behind him, “…after witnessing the kind of destruction I can bear against you?” 

Thompson maintained her iron gaze at Truman, unwilling to yield a single inch against his tremendous pressure.  Truman stared for a bit longer, then broke into a hearty laugh. 

“Man alive!” he gave Thompson a friendly pat on the back, nearly toppling her over from the force of his push.  “You’ve certainly got enough gumption to do the job, I’ll give you that much at least!  We’ll need to run things by the other organizers first, but I think something like that will work just fine.  Why don’t we go and hash out the details on our way back into town?”

Truman chuckled to himself, jaunting over to the copter as Thompson and Gonzo followed shortly behind.

“…something’s off here,” Thompson muttered under her breath.

“What do you mean?” Gonzo asked.

“The Rushmores have never all agreed on anything before; let alone something as big as this!”

Gonzo rubbed the bottom of his lens.

“So you think he’s lying about them participating in the tournament?”

“Hell no!  If that were the case, then this entire project would be doomed the moment the Rushmore’s found out he was spreading nonsense about them.”

“Hmm,” the Gonzo hummed in thought.  “So he really must have gotten their approval then…but how could he manage to do something like that?”

“That’s the million-dollar question.” 

Thompson took a drag on her cigarette, then shook out her head. 

“Actually, there’s another question we’ll need to answer before we can figure that one out.”

“And what’s that?”

Thompson looked ahead, carefully watching the strange man as he geeked out over their news helicopter before them.

“…who the hell is Henry Truman?”

*             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *               *

Over the next four months, dozens of Presidents would register for Truman’s Revolutionary War.  Then, on the night of November 3^rd, the fateful bracket was released for the world to see…

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Schedule.  I’m tentatively planning to post new chapters twice a week on Tuesdays and Fridays.

Historical Notes.  To make the many historical references made throughout this novel more accessible, I’ll be including optional historical notes at the end of each chapter which discuss some of these references at greater length.

Thompson.  The character Huntress Thompson is based off the journalist Hunter S. Thompson who is best known for writing the book “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas,” as well as for his unique style of “Gonzo Journalism;” a style largely defined by including the writer (i.e. himself) as a central character in the stories he wrote.

Preamble.  Henry Truman’s speech regarding “a more perfect union” is based on the Preamble of the United States Constitution, the full text for which goes:

“We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defence, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America.”

Chapter Text

Round 1: [The Supreme Commander] Deedee Eisenhower

vs

[The Hero of Appomattox] Odysseus S. Grant

Round 2: [The Sage of Montpelier] Jamie Madison

vs

[The Heir of Good Feelings] Jeanne Monroe

Round 3: [The Napoleon of Protection] Will McKinley

vs

[Landslide Landon] Landon B. Johnson

Round 4: [The Professor] Willow Wilson

vs

[The Man in the Arena] Theo Roosevelt

Round 5: [10-Cent Jimmy] Jim Buchanan

vs

[The Tennessee Tailor] Andre Johnson

Round 6: [Old Hickory] Andrea Jackson

vs

[The Masked Fighter] JD

Round 7: [The Gentleman Boss] Charles Arthur

vs

[Silent Cal] Callie Coolidge

Round 8: [The Platinum Star] Ronda Reagan

 Vs

[The Rail Splitter] Gabe Lincoln

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Predictions.  Feel free to make your predictions now for who you think will win the first 8 fights!  Anyone who gets everything guessed correctly might receive a special prize…

Chapter Text

“Out of the way!” Huntress Thompson screamed as she weaved her motorcycle through a pair of horsedrawn carriages.  A monster truck blared at her as she drove underneath it, but she just flipped them the bird without bothering to turn her head in their direction.

“Wowzers,” Gonzo remarked as he looked around from his passenger car, his camera head taking in all the various sights around them.  “It’s hard to believe this whole place was nothing more than a dirt crater just four months ago.”

“Right?” Thompson agreed as she gestured to a group of construction workers putting up walls in front of a crowd of chanting cultists.  Thompson then pointed to the other side where a lone saxophonist jammed next to a group of thugs with cigars.  “I swear, you can’t go two steps in this place without seeing something wild!  And we’re not even at the center of the storm yet.”

The two continued riding on, skidding to a halt as they reached the colossal coliseum located at the city’s center.

“Now this,” Thompson muttered, getting out and rubbing her hand along its marble walls.  “This is something else…”

“Madam!”

Thompson looked over to see a Secret Service agent marching towards them with a stern glare. 

“It is against city regulations to park so close to the stadium walls!” they screamed, “Please remove yourself at once.”

“Didn’t nobody ever teach you how to read?” Thompson sneered, grabbing her ID badge and shoving it in the agent’s face.  “You see this?  It says V, I, P; i.e. I don’t give a crap about your boring, stinking rules!”

“…Huntress…Thompson…?” the agent read her name aloud before giving her a sour look.  “You told us you would be arriving here over an hour ago.”

“I also told my grandma I’d never cuss again in my life,” Thompson quipped, “but this world ain’t so damn simple, now is it?”

The agent rolled his eyes and pulled out a walkie-talkie from his pocket.

“I’ve located Huntress Thompson by gate 39; requesting immediate teleportation from President Hayes.”

Thompson raised an eyebrow.

“Wait, what—?”

Thompson blinked, suddenly found herself and Gonzo standing in front of a wide mahogony desk overlooking a stadium filled to the brim with eager spectators.

“Woah…”  She stepped forward, looking out the window and scanning the dirt floor located at the bottom of the coliseum.  “So that’s the arena, huh?”

“Ehem,” a voice coughed from behind.  Thompson turned around, noticing a large piano player seated beside her.  “You ready for this, Thompson?”

Thompson grinned ear to ear as she and Gonzo shot off a pair of thumb ups.

“Hell yeah we are!”

The musician nodded, then placed their fingers onto the piano keys and started to play.  Their music rang out across the stadium speaker system, quieting the rowdy crowd below.  The television screens throughout the coliseum began to flicker to life, with each of them displaying a feed into the commentary box with Thompson and Gonzo seated in center frame.

“Gooooood morning!” She shouted over a storm of excited cheers from the audience, “And welcome, to the Revolutionary War!  For those that don’t know, I’m Huntress Thompson, your master of ceremonies!  With me is Gonzo, my trusty sidekick created through my Power: Gonzo Journalism!”

Gonzo gave a small dab to the side.

“And as you can probably all tell, Gonzo here won’t be useful for much other than comedic relief.  In order for us to have some actually meaningful conversations on the technical aspects of our fights, we’ve invited the man who’s made this entire event possible to join us…”

The piano music suddenly crescendoed as the pianist slammed onto their keys, then rose from their seat, revealing a smiling face to the crowd below.

“Greetings!” Henry Truman shouted into his mic. “Today—”

“Just a minute, Henry,” Thompson interrupted, holding her mic out in front of her, “let me go ahead and introduce you first.” 

As she spoke, Thompson’s mic accidentally picked up her words, broadcasting them across the entire stadium.

“Anyways,” Thompson went on with a bashful grin as the crowd gave a round of friendly laughs, “joining me is [The Man from Independence], Henry Shipp Truman!”

“Henry S. Truman,” he corrected before turning to the crowd.  “Today, the entire world shall be looking to us for enlightened leadership aimed towards peace and progress. It is my duty to find this leadership, and I shall not shirk from it!  That is to say…” he pointed to the wooden sign lying atop his desk as he read its words aloud.  “…the buck, stops, here!”

“Beautiful stuff there, Truman,” Thompson remarked, “Now, let’s get down to brass tacks!” 

The stadium screens shifted to a timeline for the rest of the week. 

“Our schedule will consist of eight fights each of the first three days, followed by the four quarterfinals on Friday, with the semifinals and finals both taking place on Saturday.  We’ll then hold a closing ceremony on Sunday where our fighters will all gather together to pledge their allegiance to the ultimate winner of the tournament!”

“And before going on with the tournament,” Truman interjected, “I say we should give the other organizers a brief intro as well.”

“Of course!” Thompson agreed, gesturing towards the arena.  “In addition to us folks up here in the commentary box, we’ve also got the only man in the world who’d rather be judge than President to help referee all of our fights!  Give it up, for [The Big Chief], Bill Taft!”

As she spoke, the jolly giant Taft walked into the arena.  He wore a set of judge’s robes with a friendly grin spread over his face.  His meaty wrapped tightly around a massive iron war hammer, his hands holding onto it as though it were a gavel.

“And as you’ve probably already noticed,” Thompson went on, “we’ve got loads of Secret Service agents roaming around to make sure nothing here goes awry!  Leading these agents is a master when it comes to quelling riots and removing uninvited guests!  Let’s hear it for [Ruth the Forgotten], Ruth Hayes!”

The cameras cut to Hayes in the stands.  She greeted the camera with a smile and a wave from what remained of her severed left arm, a set of heavy scars covering the rest of her body.

“And just to be clear,” Truman added on, “while we’ve taken a number of precautionary measures, we can’t guarantee your complete and total protection during these fights.  As such, anyone who’s concerned about their safety should go ahead and watch these matches from any of the television sets scattered throughout town.  For those that do choose to stay with us…well; get ready for the ride of your lives!”

“Alright, alright,” Thompson shouted over Truman, “enough with the foreplay already!  Let’s move onto the action!” 

The crowd roared as Thompson tightened up her grin.

“We’re starting things big here with a match featuring two of the greatest commanders the world has ever seen!  History may never know which of them is the better general, but we’re all about to find out who’s the stronger fighter!”

She gestured to the arena.

“Coming from the Western entrance, we have a gallant warrior who’s fought around the world as the leader of the Hidden Hard Party!  She’s trained legions of soldiers during her military career, as well as generations of students as head of Columbia University!  If you ask anyone what they think about her, the answer is invariably the same: I, like, her!  Now let’s hear it, for [The Supreme Commander], Deedee Eisenhower!”

The audience let out a cheer as a tank rolled into the arena carrying Eisenhower atop its head wearing a wool field jacket decorated in various medals together with a peaked visor with a circle of five stars embroidered on its front.

Eisenhower finished off a big wave to the crowd, then reached down, grabbing the barrel of the tank’s gun with her bare hands.  She lifted upwards, tightening her grin as she pried the tank’s head clean off its body.  The vehicle rolled back as Eisenhower went forward, carrying the tank head with her as she walked.

“Jesus Christ!” Thompson exclaimed.  “It looks like Eisenhower is planning to use that tank head as a freakin’ sledgehammer here!  We haven’t even started the fight and I’m already getting goosebumps!

“Don’t get too excited now,” Truman grumbled with a roll of his eyes.  “Eisenhower’s an alright general, but she doesn’t know any more about fighting than a pig knows about Sunday.”

“Yeowch!” Thompson replied with a fake flinch.  “I take it that you and Eisenhower aren’t on the best of terms then?”

“No comment…” Truman muttered.

“Alrighty!” Thompson continued with an overexaggerated laugh.  “Let’s keep things going with our next fighter!  Coming from the Eastern entrance, we have the second in command of the National Union Party!   He carries the reputation of a terrifying butcher, but in reality, he’s a gentle soul who can’t stand the slight of blood!  Don’t be mistaken though: this man ain’t a pushover.  No, he won’t ever stop fighting; not until he obtains complete and unconditional surrender!  He’s [The Hero of Appomattox], Odysseus S. Grant!”

“There’s no S…” Grant grumbled as he strolled in wearing a plain army uniform, an old silk hat, and a pair of muddy boots.  As he walked forward, Grant dragged a large, lumpy bag behind him into the arena.

“Look at that!” Thompson yelled as the cameras shifted to Grant’s bag.  “It seems Grant’s also bringing in some sort of oversized weapon into the match!  But what in the world is it?”

Grant continued in silence until he reached the center of the arena.  He rolled out his shoulders, then lifted the bag over his head, dumping its contents onto the floor and inciting a wave of murmurs from the audience as a giant stockpile of old weapons poured from the sack.  Grant crouched down, carefully picking up a gun from the heap.

“This one was Calvin’s pistol,” he whispered.  “He trained his marksmanship for hours on end, only to end up being killed during our final battle against Lee before he could fire a single shot.” 

Grant placed the gun down, then picked up a sword from the pile. 

“This one was Benjamin’s.  He was a valiant fighter who nobly sacrificed his own life for the sake of his fellow warriors on the night of Johnson’s terrible betrayal.”

Grant put the weapon back and shook his head. 

“I’ve lost a lot of good soldiers on my watch…” he looked over to Eisenhower, “…and I refuse to let a single one of their deaths be in vain.”

Grant thrusted his arms to the side.  As he did so, the weapons around him vibrated and rose into the air.  One of the guns slammed into Grant’s arm, followed by a sword, then another, and another.  Soon, every inch of Grant’s arms was covered in weapons; their combined shape taking the form of two, giant, weaponized arms.

“Executive Power,” Grant spoke softly, “Union Army; To Arms.”

Eisenhower gave a whistle from the other side of the arena.

“Hot damn!  It seems you’re really ready to dare it all here.”  She raised her weapon in response.  “Well, so am I!”

Taft looked to the fighters with a smile.

“I assume you’re both ready to go, then?”

The fighters gave a pair of quiet nods.

“Excellent!”

Taft morphed his smile into a stern glare.

“Oh man!” Thompson shouted, “It looks like Taft’s getting serious now!”

“He’s a pretty easy-going guy in general,” Truman smirked, “but not when it comes to judging!”

Taft breathed in, lifting his gavel high into the air.

“Let the match…” he shouted, slamming his hammer to the ground, “…BEGIN!”

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Epitaphs.  In most cases, the epitaphs used in the novel are nicknames the Presidents had in real life (possibly modified slightly due to a change in their first names).  However, there are some exceptions to this rule which I will point out as they come up.  For example, the epitaph [Ruth the Forgotten] is unrelated to anything about the real-life Rutherford Hayes: I made this up largely because there aren’t any good nicknames for Rutherford to use.  Speaking of lies involving Hayes…

Hayes.  To be clear, Rutherford Hayes did not lose an arm.  Ruth’s battle-scarred appearance is merely a nod to the fact that Rutherford took a lot of damage during the Civil War, notably some heavy damage to his left arm.

Rutherford Hayes had essentially nothing to do with the Secret Service.  The fact that Ruth oversees them in the novel is a reference to Rutherford being skilled at “quelling riots and removing uninvited guests,” in the sense that he quelled riots during the Great Railroad Strike of 1877 and removed federal troops from the south.

Taft.  William H. Taft genuinely wanted to be a Supreme Court justice more than he wanted to be President, but his wife had the opposite opinion, and so a President he became.  He would eventually achieve his dream, however, after being named chief justice of the Supreme Court during Harding’s administration.

Truman.  This chapter features several small references for Henry S. Truman: he was an avid piano player, had a “the bucks stops here” sign on his desk, and he once started talking before someone interrupted him saying “let me introduce you,” which accidently got broadcasted to the crowd.  His real-life nickname [The Man from Independence] refers to his hometown of Independence, Missouri.

Middle Initials.  The S in “Harry S. Truman” does not stand for anything, though it’s a common misconception that it stands for “Shipp.”  In fact, the judge who read the oath of office for Harry S. Truman mistakenly referred to him as “Harry Shipp Truman,” though Harry was quick to correct him.

Ulysses Grant was born “Hiram Ulysses Grant” and went by his middle name “Ulysses.”  In particular, the “S.” in “Ulysses S. Grant” stands for nothing and shouldn’t be there in the first place.  This phantom letter was created due to a typographical error at West Point, after which the S stuck around despite Ulysses’s protests against it.

Chapter Text

“Executive Power!” Grant bellowed, “Union Army; 21 Gun Salute!”

Dozens of rifles extended from Grant’s weaponized hands, then fired off in quick succession.

“Starting things off with a bang?” Eisenhower quipped as she placed her tank head down before her, blocking off the shots.  She gave a smirk, then charged ahead with her weapon still in front of her, crashing into Grant with the force of a moving train.

Grant skidded back from the attack, then thrusted his arm at his opponent.  Eisenhower shifted away, evading his attack.  She gave a short smile, only to drop her grin as a sea of blades shot out from Grant’s open palm.

“Ah hell!” Eisenhower shouted as she flung her body back, narrowly dodging the swords at the cost of losing her balance.  Grant immediately stepped himself forward, slamming into Eisenhower and flinging her across the arena.  She twisted her body midair, landing down with a graceful flourish.

“You really don’t pull any of your punches, do ya?” Eisenhower chuckled, rolling out her bruised shoulder.

Eisenhower looked to her opponent, but Grant refused to offer a reply.

“Not a man of many words, hmm?  Well, that’s just fine by me…” she raised a hand into the air, “…let’s talk with our fists!”

As she spoke, a grid of miniature roads spread across the floor, covering the ground in an array of crisscrossing intersections.

“Executive Power,” Eisenhower screamed, “Interstate Highway System!” 

Grant glanced down, looking over the set of roads as he gently kicked at one just besides his feet.

“Curious,” he mumbled.

“Now get ready…”

Grant looked up; his eyes wide at the sight of Eisenhower standing directly in front of him.

“…for my massive retaliation!”

Eisenhower collided into Grant, slamming him away.  Grant restored his balance as fast as he could, only for Eisenhower to appear before him once again. 

“Take this!” she screamed as she let forth a continuous barrage of attacks from her sledgehammer tank head.  “And this, and this, and this!”

Grant gritted his teeth at the heavy blows, then planted his feet firmly down onto the floor as Eisenhower swung her weapon once again.  Grant thrusted his arm forward, colliding his fist into Eisenhower’s strike, flinging the two fighters back from the collective force of their two attacks. 

Eisenhower landed on the ground, stood still for a moment, then broke into a hearty laugh.

“Hot dang!” she chuckled, “I thought for sure you’d retreat in a situation as dangerous as that!  But hell, you went for a damn counter instead!”

Grant gave a shrug.

“It’s nothing worthy of praise,” he replied, wiping off a streak of blood from his forehead.  “Running from a fight just isn’t my style.”

“Same here!  I say, if you have to use force…” she bent down, lowering her stance, “…use overwhelming force!”

Eisenhower sprang up ahead, sprinting across her roads with insane levels of acceleration.

“That speed…!” Grant exclaimed as he hastily raised his arms to block Eisenhower’s high velocity attack, “So that’s how you kept appearing so quickly!”

“Roger that,” Eisenhower replied, pushing off of Grant.  “You see, I get a speed boost whenever I run down one of the roads created from my EP.  And I’m sorry to tell you,” she remarked with a grin, “but my roads won’t do a thing for you no matter how hard you try running across them!”

Grant gave a snort, then readied up his stance.

“That’s plenty fine by me…”

In the stands, a towering figure wearing a stovepipe hat nodded to himself.

“Yes, that’s quite alright,” Gabe Lincoln mused.  “After all, if Eisenhower’s roads don’t affect him, then Grant has no need to worry about where he puts his feet!”

A shallow cackle echoed behind Lincoln.  Lincoln turned around, but spotted nothing other than a wall covered in shadows.

“You and Grant put far too much faith in the words of others...” the snickering voice continued as Dixie Nixon stepped from the darkness.  “…and that gullibility of his will be Grant’s ultimate undoing…”

Back on the ground, Grant charged at his opponent swinging one of his heavy, weaponized fists.

“Too slow!” Eisenhower cackled as she dashed along her road, dodging his strike.  She turned down an intersection, then leapt at Grant from behind with her sledgehammer raised.  Grant lifted up his arms, blocking Eisenhower’s blow, then thrusted his hands forward, pushing her away.

“Union Army!” Grant screamed, “21 Gun Salute!”

Grant fired a round of shots from his hands as Eisenhower hit the floor, only for her to dash along her roads, dodging his attacks.

“Quit moving so much…” Grant grumbled.

“Oh please,” Eisenhower cooed while avoiding the shots, “you couldn’t hit me with my feet stapled to the floor!  In fact…”

Eisenhower skidded to a halt, turning to Grant with a wicked grin. 

“…I bet you couldn’t hit me if I stayed right here!”

Grant furrowed his brow.

“I don’t know what all you’re plotting…”

He clenched his fists, then charged straight ahead.

 “…but I’m not about to look a gift horse in the mouth!”

Grant made it to Eisenhower’s position, placing his left foot squarely on her road before throwing out a punch.

“That’s what I was hoping for…” Eisenhower smirked as the fist flew towards her.

Suddenly, Grant’s body jerked back, veering his punch off course.  Before he could move further, Eisenhower raised her weapon with a vicious smile.

“Fore!” she screamed, smashing into Grant’s face with her sledgehammer.

Grant gritted his teeth, enduring the weight of the attack before throwing off a counter punch of his own.

“I’m not falling for that again!” Eisenhower chuckled.

Grant widened his eyes as Eisenhower’s body shifted unnaturally to the side, moving just out of range of his fist.  Grant tried to adjust his course mid-swing, but the momentum from his heavy punch carried him forward as Eisenhower stayed back, cackling to herself as she readied her weapon once more.

“Take this!” Eisenhower screamed, colliding her sledgehammer into him and smashing him to the other end of the arena.  

Grant crashed hard onto the ground, the weapons glued along his arms peeling off from the force of the impact…his body left unmoving on the floor…

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Grant’s Gullibility.  Ulyssess S. Grant had a bad habit of putting too much faith in his friends, with this leading to his Presidential cabinet being regarded as one of the most corrupt cabinets of all time.

Chapter Text

Lincoln slammed the railing in front of him as Grant continued lying motionless on the ground.

“Fiddlesticks and butter biscuits!” he howled.  “I just can’t believe this is happening!  Why, Grant would have won by now if it weren’t for all those wonky movements going on.”  Lincoln turned to Eisenhower as she gave a friendly wave to the crowd.  “Just how on Earth is she causing these movements anyhow?”

Lincoln shifted his gaze towards the arena’s floor, looking over the array of roads in front of him before giving a hard slap to his own forehead.

“Of course!” he moaned.  “Eisenhower’s EP has nothing to do with speed like she claimed.  In reality…her ability centers on movement!”

“Took you long enough,” Dixie Nixon snickered besides him, “but you finally got it.  Executive Power: Interstate Highway System gives Eisenhower the ability to move objects efficiently across her roads.  She can use this to move herself along her roads to gain a boost of speed when she runs; but she can also shift herself out of danger, or throw her opponents off-balance whenever they touch one of her roads.”

“Which is exactly what she did to Grant,” Lincoln muttered, “after making him think her roads didn’t affect him!”  He shook his head.  “Honestly, I never could have imagined that someone as warm and cheerful as Eisenhower could be such a trickster.”

“No one ever does…” Nixon smirked, “…but she’s far more devious than most people realize.”

“That may be the case,” Lincoln agreed, regaining a faint smile on his face, “but she’s not the only President to be chronically overlooked…”

In the arena, Grant got off the ground, brushing the dust from his clothes as he looked to Eisenhower with disappointment.

“You should have gone in for the kill while you had the chance.”

Eisenhower rolled her eyes at his words.

“Don’t lecture me old timer until you’ve actually managed to land a decent hit yourself!”

Grant gave of a crack of his neck, then spat a wad of blood onto the ground.

“You’re fiendishly strong,” he admitted, “but you’re far too green…”

“Too green?” Eisenhower growled softly underneath her usual smile.  “You think I’m too green, do ya?  Well, I’ll have you know that I’ve had the greatest military training the world has ever seen!  My masters include elites such as Marshall, Pershing, MacArthur, and Conner; and my schooling has taken me around the world from West Point to Paris!  As such, I don’t wanna hear any petty glib from a backwater bumpkin like yourself saying I’m too damn green!”

Grant shook his head.

“I’ve known plenty of Generals with fancy educations just like yours…some of them were mighty strong…others, pitifully weak.  Ultimately then, the only real way to judge the true abilities of a warrior…” he glared at Eisenhower, “…is to see how they handle themselves on the field of battle.”

The scattered weapons around Grant started vibrating as he spoke.  They shifted about on the ground, clumping together in a mound underneath Grant’s feet.  The ball of weapons continued to grow, lifting Grant into the air as it increased in size.  The weapons shifted around within the mound, eventually settling down into the shape of a large horse with legs made of swords and a cannon for a nose.

“Executive Power,” Grant spoke out, holding onto his horse’s iron reigns, “Union Army; Cavalry!”

Eisenhower raised an eyebrow, studying her opponent and his weaponized horse with care. 

This new form looks pretty damn agile, she thought to herself, but Grant won’t be able to use its speed to the fullest.  If he steps onto one of my roads, even for a second, then I’ll throw him off and hit him with my biggest attack yet!  He’ll need to move slowly and cautiously…that much I’m sure of…

And at that, Grant moved out.

His horse started off with a light trot, carefully avoiding the roads as it walked.  The trot then gradually rose into a gallop before quickly transformed itself into a full-blown sprint.  Eisenhower glanced down, waiting for the horse to touch one of her roads.  But, to her surprise, it evaded them with each step.

“What?” Eisenhower exclaimed, then gave a shake of her head.  “I’ll figure out how you’re doing this later…for now…” she raised her weapon behind her, “I’ll settle for knocking you off that high horse of yours!”

Eisenhower swung with her tank head as Grant charged towards her.  But, just before the weapon landed, Grant’s horse leapt into the air, jumping straight over Eisenhower’s attack. 

“…huh?”

Eisenhower looked dumbstruck to the horse as it continued jumping forward.  As she did this, the horse tilted its own head towards Eisenhower, aiming its cannon nose directly at her.  The cannon fired, its iron shell detonating on impact.

“Gahhh!” Eisenhower screamed as a sea of flames seared across her skin. 

She started to fall, but stomped her foot onto the ground, catching herself as she turned back with a glare.

“I’ve got you now,” she muttered, watching the metal horse make its impromptu landing.

But once again, the horse landed without touching any of her roads.  Eisenhower stared out; her mouth agape.

“That’s…that’s impossible!”

Before she could react further, the horse lifted its bladed legs and rammed them towards her.  Eisenhower clicked her tongue at the incoming attack.

“Interstate Highway System!” she screeched, shifting her body from the blades before moving herself even further to avoid a follow-up strike.

“Oh?” Grant remarked, watching Eisenhower slide back as he leaned deeper into his saddle, “I thought you said you weren’t the type to run from a fight…”  Grant gave the faintest of smirks, “…or was that just another one of your lies?”

Eisenhower raised a ticked-off smile from across the arena.

“Oh, I assure you,” she cracked her neck to the side, “I have not taken, and shall not take, a single backward step!”

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Hidden Hand.  Most early historians viewed Dwight Eisenhower as a political simpleton and would agree with Harry Truman’s statement that “'Eisenhower doesn’t know any more about politics than a pig knows about Sunday.”  However, there’s been a change of perspective regarding Dwight, and now modern-day historians are more likely to agree with Richard Nixon who said, “he was a far more complex and devious man than most people realized.”  This revised view of Dwight was popularized by the biography “Hidden Hand Presidency,” which is the basis for the Hidden Hand Party that Deedee Eisenhower leads in the novel.

Backward Step.  After Dwight Eisenhower was told that he shouldn’t desegregate the Navy, Dwight replied “We have not taken and we shall not take a single backward step. There must be no second-class citizens in this country.”

Chapter Text

Eisenhower stuck a hand into the center of her tank head. 

“Take this!” she shouted, pulling a lever inside and firing a shell out its barrel. 

Grant’s horse leapt away from the shell and launched a cannonball of its own.  Eisenhower shifted along her roads, dodging the fire while shooting off a second round.  Grant jumped over the shot, effortlessly avoiding stepping on Eisenhower’s roads as he landed.

“Hmph,” Nixon gave a loud huff from the stands, “It seems I’ve misjudged Grant…I always thought he was a brainless brute who could only win through overwhelming force…but these abilities he’s showing are genuinely impressive.”

“That they are!”  Lincoln exclaimed with pride.  “He’s the best fighter I’ve ever had: strong on the battlefield…and even stronger on a horse!”

*             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *               *

Years ago, Seargent Herschberger stood in front of his graduating class of West Point cadets with a stern look in his eyes.

“Before we start our ceremonies…I thought we could have ourselves a little fun first...” 

Herschberger strode over to the jumping bar, lifted it higher than his head, then turned back to his class. 

“Cadet Grant!” he bellowed into the crowd.

Every face turned as a towering steed stepped ahead carrying a young Odysseus Grant atop its back.  The horse was York, a fearsome beast known for its terrifying temper.  Only two cadets at West Point could ride him, and only Grant could ride him well.

Grant looked to the bar in front of him, then rubbed his hand across his steed’s back. 

“Go,” he whispered into the horse’s ear.

The animal gave a snort, then charged ahead with tremendous speed before leaping straight through the air.  The crowd let out a roar of cheers as the horse cleared the bar with ease, setting what would turn out to be a record for the high jump that would last another 25 years.

“Well now!” Herschberger remarked with a bashful grin.  “I don’t think I can follow that.  Class, dismissed!”

The cadets filed out of the room, chatting to themselves as Grant dismounted his horse.

“That was quite the show you put on there, Grant!” Herschberger exclaimed as he made his way over.

“York deserves all the credit.”

“Sure he does,” Herschberger responded with a knowing smile.  “In any case, I wanted to give you this before you left.”

Herschberger dug into his pocket, pulling out a letter and handing it to Grant.

“What’s this?”

“Your deployment orders.” Herschberger said with a pat to Grant’s back.  “Congratulations, soldier!  You’ve been invited to the Mexican front by [Old Rough and Ready] herself!”

The next week, future President Jacqueline Taylor stared down her line of fresh recruits, the majority of them struggling to stand straight underneath the searing Mexican sun.

“Which of you is Lieutenant Grant?” she asked sharply. 

“Here, ma’am.” Grant responded, raising up a hand.

Taylor looked him over for a second, then handed him a clipboard.

“Welcome, soldier; you’re our new quartermaster effective immediately.”

Grant looked at the set of forms, then back to Taylor.

“I’m sorry ma’am…but I’m not sure that’s the right position for me.”

Taylor crossed her arms with a scowl.

“You complaining about your placement, soldier?”

“No ma’am; merely expressing my opinion.  I had expected to serve on the front lines when I joined the service.  But if this is what you assign me, then I shall perform it to the best of my abilities.”

Taylor gave a nod.

“I understand your hesitation soldier, but I assure you, the quartermaster is vital to our operations.”  She gestured to a storage shed over at the back of the camp.  “After all, it doesn’t matter how brave our soldiers are: they can’t fight without weapons, and they sure as heck can’t march without food.”

“I recognize the role’s significance, ma’am.  I’m merely confused as to why I’m the one being selected for it.”

Taylor gave a small grin.

“I love my soldiers here; but most of them can’t count past ten.  Needless to say, none of them are capable of keeping an accurate tab on our supplies.  So, when I heard rumors about a promising young soldier hoping to become a math professor after his end of service…” she rested a hand on his shoulder, “well, I just knew I had to grab you before anyone else did.”

Grant nodded his head.

“I understand.  In that case I—”

A bullet whizzed past Grant’s head, cutting him off.  Grant and Taylor turned to the side, spotting a squadron of Mexican soldiers charging into their camp, guns blazing.

“Take cover!” Taylor shouted as she and Grant leapt behind a neighboring building.

“What’s the situation?” a nearby soldier asked as Taylor peeked around their cover.

“We’ve got them outnumbered two to one,” she replied, “but we don’t have enough ammo on hand to take them down.”

“Is there any more ammunition at the storage shed?” Grant asked.

Taylor nodded her head.

“There should be a fresh stockpile just outside its doors; but it’s impossible to get there without taking enemy fire.”

“I see,” Grant remarked, “in that case, the solution seems rather straightforward to me.”

Grant gave a sharp whistle, summoning half a dozen horses from around the camp to his side.

“After all,” he went on, mounting atop the largest of the horses, “as our quartermaster, it’s my job to make sure our troops have the supplies that they need.”

“Don’t be a fool!” Taylor hissed, “You’ll be shot at the moment you’re spotted.”

“I know,” he replied curtly, “that’s why I won’t be spotted.”

“How…”

But before Taylor could press further, Grant tapped at his horse’s neck, inciting it to rush out of the cover and onto the open battlefield.

“Idiot…”  Taylor muttered, closing her eyes as she awaited the inevitable sound of Grant’s screams.  But, to her surprise, nothing happened. 

Curious, Taylor peeked around, widening her eyes at the sight before her.

“What’s this?” she mumbled as she watched Grant’s horse sprint towards the gang of Mexican troops…with Grant himself nowhere to be seen…

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Grant’s Flashback I.  The scenes at West Point, including Grant’s 25-year horse jumping record, are almost word for word true.

Ulysses Grant was indeed reluctantly appointed to be quartermaster during the Mexican-American War, but he was not personally recruited by Zachary Taylor himself.  He also put up more of a resistance to the position than is displayed in the story since he really wanted to go and fight on the front lines.

Chapter Text

“It’s just a horse,” a Mexican soldier muttered as Grant’s steed ran past.  “Must have gotten scared by all the gunfire going on.”

The squadron continued on with their march, ignoring the sprinting beast.  Across the battlefield, Taylor kept watching the animal as it made its way through camp, her eyes widening as it stopped in front of the storage shed’s iron doors.

“My God!” Taylor exclaimed as Grant appeared just behind the horse, picking up a spare box of ammunition off the ground.

“What happened?” a nearby soldier asked.

“I can’t say for sure,” Taylor smirked, “but by the looks of things…I’d say that daredevil just rode through this battlefield clinging to his horse’s side for cover!”

At the storage shed, Grant tucked the ammunition underneath his arm, then rotated back onto his horse’s side before sprinting over towards Taylor.

“Hey…” a Mexican soldier remarked as the steed ran past, “isn’t that the same horse we saw a second ago?”

Another soldier stared at the horse, noticing the flaps of a blue army uniform dangling just beneath its chest.

“It’s the enemy!” he snarled, “Fire; fire!”

Grant cooly rotated onto his steed as the rifles shot out, ducking down as a stray bullet zoomed over his head.  The horse whined at the bullets, but Grant stroked its mane, quieting the beast.

“It’s alright, girl…I’ll get us through this.”

Grant turned around, locking eyes with the Mexican soldiers as they aimed their rifles.  He continued watching until the moment their fingers touched the triggers of their guns.  Then, with one swift movement, Grant pulled hard on his reigns, shifting his horse aside as the bullets shot past them.  The Mexican soldiers started realigning their sights, but Grant tapped his horse’s neck, inciting her to sprint straight ahead, escaping well out of their range before they even had the chance to fire another shot.

“Excellent work there, soldier!” Taylor exclaimed as she greeted Grant’s return, taking his box of ammunition and distributing it out amongst her troops.

“This one did all the hard work,” Grant replied, scratching his horse’s ears.

Taylor loaded up her rifle, then looked back to Grant.

“I know you’re not planning to stay with us long term…but you really ought to reconsider.  I’d hate to lose a man of such exceptional ability.”

“Me…an army man?”

Grant looked behind him as the fighting raged on in earnest, his heart oddly calm amidst the chaos around them.

“…you know…” he finally spoke up, “that doesn’t sound half bad.”

“That’s what I was hoping you’d say!  And if you’re staying with us long-term…” she gestured to a well-dressed soldier standing beside them, “…you’d do well to get on this man’s good side.  He’s the rising star of our engineering corps, and the first person you should turn to if you need any fortifications made.”

“Oh madam,” the older officer chuckled with a bow, “your praise is far too much for one as humble as myself.”

Grant got off his horse, extending his hand to the gentleman.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir,” Grant, the future commander of the Union Army, said with genuine sincerity, “I’m Odysseus Grant.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” the future commander of the Confederate Army replied in turn.  “My name…is Robbie Lee…”

*             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *               *

In the present, Eisenhower swung her tank head as Grant’s horse stepped aside.  A dozen rifles fired from the horse’s chest, only for Eisenhower to slide down her roads, dodging the attack.

“These two are way too nimble!” Thompson screamed.  “Between Grant’s horse and Eisenhower’s roads, there just doesn’t seem to be a way for either of them to land a attack against one another!  Yes, it seems like this fight is in a total gridlock, folks!”

“It is for now,” Truman agreed, “but such high intensity fighting can’t go on forever.  Sooner or later, one of them has to fall...”

Then, just as Truman spoke these words, a series of cracks appeared across Eisenhower’s roads…

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Grant’s Flashback II.  Ulysses Grant really did ride a horse sideways during a battle to grab ammunition for his troops, but many details were simplified in the novel.  In particular: he didn’t do this because he was quartermaster (in fact, the quartermaster wasn’t even in charge of ammunition), this event didn’t happen on his very first day on the job, Zachary Taylor was not present when it happened, and he didn’t meet Robert E. Lee right directly afterwards (though the two really did meet briefly during the Mexican War).

Another fun fact: Ulysses Grant really was planning to become a mathematics professor after his term of service, but instead ended up finding his calling in the army during the Mexican-American war.

Chapter Text

Eisenhower turned back to look over the roads behind her, sweat pouring down her face as chunks of concrete broke off from her highway system and dissolved into the air.  She turned back towards her opponent, hastily sliding herself away just in time to avoid yet another charge from Grant’s mechanical steed.

“Damn it!” she muttered, her eyes darting between the various roads shattering around her.  “Is it really all going to end just like that?” 

A nervous smile crept over her face. 

“Hell…it’s just like back then all over again…”

*             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *               *

Years ago, a bugle blared across camp Meade, rallying its warriors awake.

“Good morning, soldiers!” a young Eisenhower shouted as her troops lined up before her.

“Good morning, ma’am!” the group replied with cheer.

Eisenhower scanned down her line, giving a frown as she reached its end.

“Where’s Cadet Fitzgerald?”

“By the docks working on that darn novel of his again,” somebody muttered in response.

Eisenhower shook her head.

“I’ll allow it this time,” she replied with a grin, “but only because we’ve gotten some very exciting news from HQ.”  She looked over her troops.  “Start packing your bags, boys, because we’re taking a trip to Europe!”

The soldiers turned to each other with joyous expressions.

“Are you serious, ma’am?  Are we finally going off to war?”

“You’re damn right we are!”

“Woohoo!” the soldiers exclaimed in cheer.

“Keep it together, soldiers,” Eisenhower said with a smirk.  “I still have one more piece of news I need to share.”

“I knew it,” a voice moaned, “we’ve always got bad news coming with the good!”

“It does seem that way, doesn’t it?” Eisenhower chuckled.  “Heck, you all joined this Tank Corps hoping to take control of the army’s greatest weapon; only to find out, we didn’t have any tanks!”

“That’s alright, ma’am; you helped us build those makeshift ones instead!”

“That I did,” she said, looking over their row of trucks with machine guns duct taped to their backs.  “Sadly, we’re going to be discontinuing our makeshift models starting today…”

The soldiers gave a collective groan.

“…because…” Eisenhower continued as a shiny, new tank rolled onto the field “…we’ve finally gotten ourselves a real one!”

The soldiers screamed, all of them rushing to their newest toy without waiting to be dismissed.  Eisenhower gave a chuckle as she pulled out a piece a paper from her pocket, carefully reading over the deployment orders one more time.

“November 18^th…” she whispered to herself.  

That was that the day they’d leave for Europe; the day she’d finally achieve her dream of fighting in a real war. 

Or at least, that was supposed to be the plan.

Then, on November 11^th, the war, along with Eisenhower’s ambitions, came to a sudden halt…

“To the United States!” a captain screamed at the Army victory celebration party.  Most soldiers raised their glasses in cheer, but Eisenhower continued sulking in the corner.

“I just can’t believe it,” she lamented to a nearby friend, “I put up with delay after delay to fight in this war…only for the enemy to go and surrender a week before my scheduled departure…” she downed the rest of her drink in a single gulp.  “I tell you…we’re going to spend the rest of our lives explaining why we never fought in this damn war…”

Eisenhower rose out of her seat to get herself a refill.  As she did so, a large man passed by, bumping into her from behind.

“Oye!” the officer shouted, spilling his drink over his shirt, “Watch where you’re going, idiot!”

“You could do the same…”

“What’d you say?” the officer screamed, stepping in front of Eisenhower.  “I’ll have you know, this uniform you just ruined costs over $250!”

“Is that so?” Eisenhower rolled her eyes, “Feel free to send me the bill.”

“I don’t think you understand me!” he growled, “Willingly destroying army property like this is a crime; one worthy of a court martial!”

Eisenhower stared at the man, her eyes blank.

“You’re not serious…” she whispered, “you don’t mean…”

“Oh but I do!” the man replied with a violent cackle.  “Start packing your bags now, punk!  Because before this day is through…I’m kicking you out of the Army!”

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Eisenhower’s Flashback I.  The scenes here are based on Dwight Eisenhower’s service in World War I.  During this time he really did command a tank unit without any tanks as well as the author F. Scott Fitzgerald, with him struggling desperately to get into combat only for WWI to end just a week before his deployment.  This left him pretty devastated.  However, things got even worse for him after a potential court martial popped up over an essentially bogus fine of $250 (with the cause of this real-life fine having nothing to do with the events depicted in the novel), after which…

Chapter Text

The young Eisenhower continued staring dumbstruck as the gruff officer continued to cackle on.

“Sir…” she pleaded, “surely…surely you don’t honestly plan to kick me out over one lousy mistake?”

“Oh, but I do!” he replied with a smirk.

Eisenhower stood still, trying to calm her rising heart.

“I hope you enjoyed whatever fights you had during this war,” the man went on with a snide, “because they’re the last you’ll ever see as a part of this army!  Hyeh, hyeh, hy—!”

Eisenhower stepped forward, slamming her fist into the officer’s stomach and smashing him into a wall, silencing the rest of the party.

“What…” the officer coughed.  “What’s the meaning of this!”

“Nothing really,” Eisenhower replied as she stepped forward, cracking her wrists.  “I just figured if I’m getting kicked out anyways…then I might as well go out with a bang…”

A crowd started forming around them, murmuring to themselves about the surprising amount of rage being shown by the usually cheery Eisenhower.  The officer gave a harsh growl, then rose off the ground with a glare.

“You wanna go, punk, huh?  Then let’s freakin’ go!”

The two of them crouched down, then charged straight at each other, swinging out their fists. 

Then, a small elderly man stepped out from amidst the crowd, grabbing hold of both of their wrists and stopping them cold.

“I apologize for butting in like this,” the man remarked, “but I think it’d be best if you two backed off each other and forget about this little affair altogether.”

The furious officer snarled towards the elderly intruder.

“Little affair?” he spat before pointing triumphantly to himself.  “I’ll have you know that I’m the Inspector General Elliot Helmick, and I—"

“And I’ll have you know,” the older man lowered his hand which held onto Helmick’s fist, bringing him down onto his knees, “that I’m General Dox Conner; and this woman you just threatened is one of my most trusted subordinates.”

“Conner…The Dox Conner?”

Helmick looked to Eisenhower, then back to Conner.

“Well…” Helmick mumbled, clearing out his throat, “seeing as you’re a proper authority and all, I’ll uhh…I’ll go ahead and leave her punishment in your capable hands!”

Helmick gave a slight bow, then scurried into the crowd as fast as his legs could carry him.

“Thanks, Conner,” Eisenhower sighed, “you really saved my hide this time!”

“Saved you?” Conner asked with an innocent smile, “Why, I’ve just been told that I’m to be in charge of punishing you.”

“That’s…true…” Eisenhower replied with a nervous laughter, “but it’ll be a light punishment…right?”

“Far from it, I’m afraid.” 

Conner pointed to Eisenhower with a sly grin. 

“As your commanding officer, I hereby order you to take part in a hellish training camp with me down in Panama.”

Eisenhower blinked.

“I…” Eisenhower stammered  “I don’t believe it.  Th-thank you sir!  But…but why go out of your way and do all this for me?”

“Because you’ve got talent, kid, and it’d be a real shame to let it go to waste just like that!”

He placed a hand on her shoulder, giving a solemn grin.

“People here are going around acting like we’ve just finished the war to end all wars…but personally, I’m not so sure.  I fear that one day, this country will be faced with another war even larger than the one we just fought.  When that time comes; when the fate of the entire country…no…when the fate of the entire world rests on its outcome…” he gave a squeeze to Eisenhower’s shoulder, “I’ll be counting on you to lead us through to victory.”

Eisenhower gave a soft smile, then rose up into a salute.

“I won’t let you down, sir!”

On the drive back home, Eisenhower daydreamed about her upcoming sessions with Conner.  She continued looking towards the future, only to crash back to reality as her car dipped into a ditch and stalled out.

“Son of a…”

Eisenhower got out, then started pushing her vehicle along.

“I swear,” she mumbled to herself, “if there’s one danger this country faces…it’s the lack of good, quality roads!”

*             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *               *

“…that’s right,” Eisenhower muttered in the present as she slid herself along one of her cracked highways, narrowly dodging a cannonball fired off from Grant.  “Yes, that’s right…”

She lifted up her head, shooting a bloody smile towards his opponent as sweat continued pouring down her face.

“The only thing I need…is a good, quality road!”

As she spoke, huge chunks of Eisenhower’s roads broke off and lifted into the air.  However, the chunks did not dissolve like they did before, but instead flew directly over towards Eisenhower. 

Grant looked up, watching in awe as the giant asphalt slabs stacked on top of each other.  The cracks between the blocks sealed shut, merging themselves into a new road extending up into the open skies above.

“Executive Power!” Eisenhower screeched, “Interstate Highway System; Space Race!”

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Eisenhower’s Flashback II.  Dwight Eisenhower was saved from a court martial after Fox Conner stepped in and saved him, with Dwight later working with Fox in Panama before going on to serve under some of the most famous generals of all time including John Pershing, Douglas MacArthur, and George Marshall.

The scene with Deedee Eisenhower’s car getting stuck is a reference to Dwight taking part in the army’s Transcontinental Motor Convoy, which demonstrated to Dwight how bad the nation’s roads were.  This event would later inspire him to push for construction of the Interstate Highway System during his Presidency.

Chapter Text

Grant furrowed his brow as he looked at the vertical road extending into the sky above.

“What in blazes…?” Grant muttered as Eisenhower shot him a wicked grin.

“Get ready, old timer…”

Eisenhower turned around as she ran straight towards her vertical road.  She pressed a foot against the asphalt wall, inciting a large gasp from the crowd as she shifted herself up along her road, raising herself into the air.

“…for a modern-day lesson…”

Eisenhower continued sliding upwards until she reached the road’s zenith.  She looked down with a smirk, then kicked off the wall, shooting herself towards Grant with the force of a burning comet.

“…in three-dimensional warfare!”

Grant gave a sharp snort.

“We’ll see about that!”

Grant instinctively moved his horse back slightly, braced himself for what seemed to be Eisenhower’s final, desperate attack. 

Then, as his horse’s iron hoof hit the ground, Grant’s eyes went wide.  He looked behind him, his mouth agape.

“Thunder and lightning…” he growled, looking at the sight before him.

Despite his careful and meticulous calculations, the back feet of Grant’s horse had somehow landed themselves on the very edge of Eisenhower’s road. 

Before Grant could react further, his horse’s legs started sliding down the road with torrential speed.

“These roads,” Grant mumbled, his eyes continuing to scan across the highway as his horse began toppling to the ground, “they’re…larger than before.” 

He took another look around, furrowing his brow as the pieces came together in his mind.

“I see…” he grumbled.  “When your roads broke apart earlier…you went and acted like it was from you running out of steam…but that was all just a ruse!  In reality, you were purposefully conserving your energy so that you could widen the road directly behind me!”

“Correct!” Eisenhower screamed as she continued hurtling towards him.  “And despite your extreme gullibility, know that you were, without a doubt, one of the strongest opponents I’ve ever had the privilege to face!”

Grant tilted his head down, giving a solemn nod.

“You too.”

Then, Grant gave a sharp pull on his reigns.

“What…?” Eisenhower spoke as Grant sent his horse flying even faster down her roads.

Before she could process things further, the horse kicked its back feet off the ground.  At this, the combined momentum from Eisenhower’s EP and Grant’s sudden pull flung the horse’s backside up, rotating it around in a tight circle with frightening speed.

“Ready!” Grant screamed as his horse’s airborne legs reached out for Eisenhower’s falling body.

Eisenhower tried shifting her position as she hurtled towards Grant, but the horse’s hind legs latched onto her before she could move; the force of the horse’s spin shifting Eisenhower off-course as she crashed hard onto the ground.

“Gahh!” Eisenhower screamed as her face collided with the floor.

“Aim!”

Eisenhower looked up, locking eyes with Grant as his horse’s cannon nose turned towards her, its smoking nostrils mere inches from her face.

“Fire!” Grant screamed.

Eisenhower gritted her teeth.

“Not so fast!” she bellowed, grabbing her weapon and swinging it forth just as a cannonball fired from the horse’s nose.  The shell detonated against Eisenhower’s attack, covering the fighters in a cloud of thick smoke.

The crowd let out a vibrant murmur as Taft jogged to the arena’s center.

“Time out!” he screamed as the smoke started to clear around the two Presidents.  He reached their location and gave each of them a brief inspection.  He nodded his head, then lifted his war hammer into the air.

“The match is over!” Taft declared, slamming his gavel to the ground.  “The winner,” he went on as Grant got off the ground and lit a cigar next to his unconscious opponent, “is [The Hero of Appomattox], Odysseus S. Grant!”

*             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *               *

Eisenhower gave a quiet groan as she opened up her eyes. 

“What the hell…?” she moaned, looking around, finding herself lying on some sort of hospital bed.

“Well, isn’t this just stupendous,” a soft voice cooed besides her, “it seems you’ve finally returned back to the land of the living.”

Eisenhower tilted her head, spotting a slender woman in an orange dress shirt and black suspenders seated next to her.

“…Willow Wilson…?” Eisenhower asked.  “Why…?” she squinted, the memories coming back to her.  “That’s right…I lost…and in the very first round no less…”

“That you did,” Willson spoke matter-of-factly.  “But don’t worry darling; such a lackluster performance was to be expected from the head of a second-rate school like Columbia.”

Eisenhower gave a light chuckle.

“I know you’re just trying to turn my grief into anger here, Wilson; but there’s really nothing to worry about.  I’m plenty accustomed to the harsh realities of battle, after all.”

“Are you quite certain?” Wilson asked with feigned disappointment, “Because I was genuinely looking forward to discussing your failures at greater length.”

“There’s not much to say, I’m afraid,” Eisenhower remarked with an overly forced smile.  “I had concentrated my last few attacks towards ending the fight…I felt that I was making big progress…but then that stupid Space Race mess ruined all my efforts…” 

She sighed, then put up a solemn grin on her face. 

“But my decision to attack in the end was based upon the best information I had at the time…any blame or fault in the matter is mine alone to bare.”

“Righttttt,” Wilson interjected with an exaggerated roll of her eyes, “you deffffinitely sound like someone who doesn’t need any cheering up right now.”

“Oh, shut up!” Eisenhower snarked, regaining some of the warmth back into her face.  

A chorus of music started to play, cutting them off.  Eisenhower looked over, spotting a television screen setup across the room.  The screen was displaying Thompson seated in the commentary box as she started making her announcements for the forthcoming match. 

“Shouldn’t you be upstairs watching this from the stands?  The winner could very well be your opponent in round 3 depending on how things shake out.”

“Oh please!  There’s absolutely nothing to be gleaned from this deplorable farce of a match.”

“Fair enough,” Eisenhower replied, turning her attention back to the screen.  “It’s going to be a fixed fight after all…”

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Space Race.  During the Cold War, the US and the USSR raced against each other to make further advances in space travel.  This “Space Race” largely began under the Presidency of Dwight Eisenhower, with him in particular creating NASA after the USSR launched the first satellite into space (Sputnik).  Despite this, Dwight would eventually look down on the space race, with him in particular saying “Anyone who would spend $40 billion in a race to the moon for national prestige is nuts.”

Eisenhower and Wilson.  The fictional rivalry between Deedee Eisenhower and Willow Wilson in the novel is loosely based on the fact that Dwight Eisenhower and Woodrow Wilson were both heads of universities (Columbia and Princeton, respectively) and the fact that both played an excessive amount of golf.

Chapter Text

“Hello everybody!” Thompson screamed into her mic.  “We’re ready to get into things with a match featuring two Presidents from the legendary Democratic Republican Party!”

She gestured to the arena.

“First up, we have the calm, no-nonsense, second in command of the Democratic Republicans!  She’s standoffish to strangers and slow to take her ground, but when the storm of battle rises, this woman stands more firmly than any other!  Yes, despite how frail she might look on the outside, this fighter boasts one of the greatest constitutions the world has ever seen!  Give it up for [The Sage of Montpelier], Jamie Madison!”

Madison entered wearing a pitch-black pinstripe blazar, a trident held in her hands, and a sharp glare spread across her face.

“Her opponent,” Thompson continued, “is the tall sharpshooter of the Democratic Republicans!  She has a friendly personality and a scrupulous sense of honor that can turn even her most bitter critics into loyal allies!  More than anything, she’s a diligent patriot; one who’s willing to take on any role and travel any distance for the sake of the country she loves!  She’s [The Heir of Good Feelings], Jeanne Monroe!”

Monroe swaggered in wearing a tie dye shirt, baggy pants, and a tri-pointed hat.  She shot a peace sign to the crowd with one hand, her other holding onto an old-fashioned rifle.

“So, Truman,” Thompson spoke up, “what do you think about this upcoming match?”

“Well, it’s pretty clear Madison holds a real advantage in this match given that Monroe specializing in long-range combat and our arena being entirely enclosed…” he shook his head. “Or at least, that would be the case, if the fight actually took place.”

“But it might not!” Thompson added on, “Because Madison and Monroe come from the same Party, meaning there’s no reason for them to really go against each other!”

“Yup.  It’s pretty boring, but one of them will probably just give up as soon as the match begins.  The only question left…” he said, looking over the fighters, “…is who’s backing down?”

*             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *               *

Half an hour earlier, Madison and Monroe stood in front of a tall, slender woman wearing a joyous grin.

“I had the most wonderful idea last night,” Tanya Jefferson spoke with genuine excitement.  “We shall settle your match…through a democratic vote of the people!”

Madison and Monroe exchanged worried glances with each other.

“…let me get this straight, baby,” Monroe spoke up, “you want us to go out there and ask all those cats in the audience whether they dig me or Madison more to decide who should win?”

“Exactly!  After all, it’s only fitting that we, the Party of the people, should leave this critical choice up to the wise wisdom of the masses.”

Madison bit her lip.

“This idea of yours is certainly…ambitious,” she spoke carefully.  “But I believe there are some practical considerations which must be addressed first.  For example, how are we to conduct such a vote?  Orally?  This certainly wouldn’t work if the voting is close, or if one side happened to be louder than the other.  Would we instead use paper ballots?  Such a process could take hours, if not days, to go through with a sufficient level of care.”

Jefferson brought a hand to her chin, pondering Madison’s words.

“Yes…perhaps this plan is a tad too grand to be implemented with such little notice.”  She gave a quiet nod.  “Well then, why don’t the two of you decide for yourselves who shall win?”

“No can do, baby,” Monroe interjected.  “We’re each convinced we ought to be the one going forward in the match.  You’re the only one who can make this decision for us.”

Jefferson lowered her head.

“I was afraid it would come down to this…”

Jefferson looked over the hopeful faces of her two best friends before her.

“…given the nature of Grant’s Executive Power,” she finally spoke, “it would seem that Monroe has the better chance of defeating him in the second round…”

Monroe gave a quiet smirk.

“…that being said,” Jefferson continued, “I have ultimately decided that Madison shall be the one going forward.”

Monroe blinked, looking to Jefferson with quivering lips.

“But…but ma’am!  You just said I was the more suitable fighter!”

“Against Grant, you are,” Jefferson corrected.  “But Grant is not our primary concern here: it is Roosevelt and Lincoln in the later matches for whom we must plan around…and for opponents of their caliber…well, I’m afraid to say that only Madison stands a significant chance at victory.”

Monroe lowered her head, fighting back the tears forming in her eyes. 

“So…when you told us you’d make your decision after watching how things went in round one…” she clenched her fists, “…that was just an outright lie, wasn’t it!  You were always going to pick Madison, regardless of the outcome!”

“No!” Jefferson insisted, “That’s not true at all!  If the winner of the first fight possessed an EP which Madison stood little chance against, then I would have gladly declared you to be our champion!”

“But outside of that one in a million chance,” Monroe grumbled, “it was always going to be her, wasn’t it?”

Jefferson averted her eyes from Monroe’s burning expression.

“…I’m sorry, Monroe…it pains me to do this, it truly does…but it’s the best course of action for the Party to take.”

Monroe snarled, huffing and puffing to herself before gradually taking back her previous sense of poise.

“…don’t worry, baby,” Monroe said, putting up a half-hearted smile and peace sign.  “I completely understand your decision…now, if you’ll excuse me,” she said, walking off before the others could respond, “I’ve got a defeat I need to prepare for…”

Jefferson gave a soft moan as she watched Monroe walk away.

“Oh, what a horrid mess this is,” Jefferson remarked to Madison, “You know, I had initially been elated when you first secured a match featuring two of our members.  But as things stand now…I feel I would rather face all of Rushmore on my own if it meant restoring our Party’s former sense of unity.”

“It’s okay, ma’am,” Madison said patting her back.  “Monroe may be hotheaded, but she’s no fool.  She’ll come around eventually.”

“Eventually, yes; but there’s no telling when that time shall come.”  Jefferson stared into Madison eyes.  “You know that I have complete and utter faith in Monroe’s loyalty to our Party…but she can be impulsive at times, especially if she feels she’s been slighted.”  Jefferson rested a hand on Madison’s arm.  “I sincerely pray that nothing should come to pass during your match…but just in case…please, be careful out there…”

Farther down the hall, Monroe stormed forth with impassioned steps.

“Trying to take me out of the fight, huh?” she hissed to herself.  “I won’t stand for it…not again I won’t!”

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Democratic Republicans.  The first major political party of the United States was Jefferson’s “Republican Party,” which confusingly is the precursor to the modern-day Democratic Party, not the modern-day Republican Party.  To avoid potential confusion, this party of Jefferson’s is now typically referred to by historians as the “Democratic Republican Party.”

Monroe’s Epitaph.  Jeanne Monroe’s epitaph, [The Heir of Good Feelings], is a slight mutation of James Monroe’s most common nickname “The Era of Good Feelings President” which refers to the fact that he was President during a time when there was (at least on the surface) little political disagreement due to a momentary one-party system.  It is because of this epitaph that Jeanne Monroe was given her hippie aesthetic in the novel (which is historically inaccurate to say the least!).

Monroe’s Shooting.  James Monroe genuinely was a capable frontier marksman who would often shoot at squirrels and pigeons for family meals when he was a teenager.

Jefferson and Madison.  James Madison was constantly tempering Thomas Jefferson’s more radical ideas (which to be fair, were sometimes made hyperbolically).  For example, Thomas once declared that “every law naturally expires at the end of 19 years,” which James eventually convinced him was not a great foundation for forming a stable government.

Chapter Text

During the War of Independence, a middle-aged General looked to the enemy’s encampment on the opposite bank of the Delaware river.

“They’ve got two cannons aimed right for us,” he remarked.  “Our only option now is to row a small crew across and seize their artillery before our main forces can move in for an attack.”

The soldiers exchanged worried glances amongst themselves.

“Sir…you’re asking us to paddle in the dead of night through a raging snowstorm for over eight hours straight.”

“Correct,” future President, Jordan Washington replied curtly.  “Now, who’s coming with me?”

No one moved.  Then, a small hand rose up in the back.

“Name and age?” Washington asked as he made his way over to the young volunteer.

“Jeanne Monroe,” the volunteer spoke, “18 years young, baby.”

Washington nodded, then turned back to the rest of his army. 

“Now then, will anybody else be joining me tonight?  Or is this young’un the only one here with some backbone?”

A few of the older soldiers raised up their hands, followed by a couple dozen more.

“Good,” Washington remarked.  “Ready your boats; we move in five.”

Monroe started headings to shore, but Washington stepped in front of her, blocking her path.

“You’re coming with me,” he said, lifting up a nearby flag, “and you’ll be the one to carry our banner.”

On the boat, Monroe watched on with agitation as her crewmates rowed through the frigid evening waves.

“Sir,” she spoke up, “I really feel like I ought to do my share of the rowing.”

“Keep holding the flag,” he replied without shifting his gaze from the horizon.

“Why are we even bringing this piece of cloth anyways?  It’s just going to slow us down!”

Washington gave her a sharp glare, then turned over to the flag. 

“This flag,” he spoke quietly, running his hand along its stripes, “is a symbol of freedom.  A symbol, which possesses greater strength than a thousand weapons.”  He gestured to the boats around them.  “As these soldiers row through the night; as they put their very lives on the line,” he pointed back to the flag, “they can look to this banner and remember what it is that they’re fighting for.”

Monroe gave a quiet nod.  She didn’t exactly comprehend what he was saying, but she could tell it was fruitless to press him any further.  So, Monroe looked on, watching the waves until their boats landed on shore.

“Boats one through three!” Washington bellowed as his soldiers disembarked.  “You’ll be coming back with me to pick up the remainder of our crew.  The rest of you are to guard the neighboring roads with your lives.  None of you are to leave your stations for an instant; understood?”

“Yes sir!” the troops replied in unison.

Monroe marched off to her post with a swagger in her step, eager to finally be doing something of merit for.  Her mood quickly soured, however, as she found herself standing alone on an empty road, waiting for hours on end as the weather around her shifted from snow, to rain, to hail. 

“Maaan,” she yawned, checking her phone for messages, “what’s taking everyone so long?”

She started stretching her arms behind her, then snapped right back to attention at the sound of footsteps coming from behind.  She whirled around, pointing her rifle into the winter mist before her. 

“Who’s there?” Monroe screamed.

She stared into the fog, her sharp eyes barely making out the hazy image of a pistol aimed towards her.

“Leave this place!” a gruff voice shouted from behind the gun.

“Sorry, baby,” Monroe replied, tightening the grip around her weapon, “but I’m under direct orders from General Washington to stay put.”

“…wait…did you say General Washington?”

The gunman stepped forward, lowering his pistol as he noticed the American flag planted besides her.

“Ah, shucks!” the man chuckled, “I didn’t realize you were a fellow American!” he pointed to a house over by the road.  “Please, come in and join me for some food and warmth.  It’s the least I can do after startling you like that.”

Monroe looked to the house, licking her frozen lips before shaking her head.

“I appreciate the hospitality baby, but I’m afraid I can’t accept your offer…I was given strict orders not to leave this post.”

The man scratched his chin.

“That is unfortunate…”  He stared for a moment, then put on a smile.  “Give me a second.” 

The man rushed back into his house, coming out a few minutes later carrying a large leather bag and a toasty sandwich.

“I hope your ‘strict orders’ didn’t say anything about not eating on the job!”

“They most certainly did not!” Monroe exclaimed before grabbing the sandwich and devouring it whole.  As she finished her meal, Monroe took a closer look at the man’s bag.  “What’s that you got there?”

“It’s a medical bag!” he said with pride.  “I’m a doctor, you see, and I thought I may be able to help some poor fellow in your troupe.”  The man gave a bashful scratch of his ears.  “Assuming General Washington would have me, of course.”

Monroe gave a tip of her hat.

“I’m sure he’d be more than happy to have a patriot like yourself joining in our ranks.”

“Indeed I would.”

The two turned to see Washington marching towards them, the rest of his battalion trailing shortly behind.  Monroe gave a quick salute, then fell in line behind Washington as he brought the doctor up to speed on their mission.

“The Hessians are an elite band of warriors,” Washington explained, “one which our haphazard group wouldn’t stand a chance against in a direct fight.  However, they won’t be expecting us coming from behind like this, and most of them should be out cold after a night of heavy drinking.  All in all, things ought to go pretty smoothly for us, unless of course…”

Washington froze still, his eyes locking with those of a Hessian soldier coming out of the neighboring woods.

“We’re spotted!”

Washington lunged ahead, striking the scout down with a slash of his blade, but not before the soldier lifted up his arm, launching a flare into the sky.

“Oh God!” an American exclaimed as the enemy encampment started to stir.  “They know we’re coming now!  We need to turn back!”

“No!” Washington shouted.  “We press on!”

Washington charged ahead without a moment’s hesitation, swinging forth his sword and cutting down a dozen Hessians before any of them even had the chance to draw their weapons.

“Far out, baby,” Monroe mumbled as she stood with the rest of the troops, watching Washington’s advancement with awe.  “He really is something else…”

“Oye, Monroe!” the doctor grabbed her arm, pointing to a giant cannon turning towards them.  “That’s—”

The cannon fired, cutting off the doctor as its massive shell hurtling towards the stunned band of soldiers.  Washington stopped his onslaught at the sound of the cannon.  He turned back around and sprinted towards his troops, his sword pointed behind him as he ran.

“Artifact,” Washington screamed, “Lexington!”

A burst of flames shot out of Washington’s enchanted blade, propelling him forward and landing him just in front of the cannonball’s path.  He had just enough time to swing his flaming blade at the projectile, detonating its shell directly in front of him.

The Americans watched on in shock as the smoke cleared out in front of them, revealing Washington’s charred figure standing tall.  He managed to take another two steps forward, then collapsed down into the snow.

“What…what do we do now?” a soldier mumbled as he bit into his nails, “What do we do now!”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

A lone American ran past the stunned soldiers and onto the battlefield, planting her flag directly besides Washington’s body.

“We press on, baby!” Monroe screamed.

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Monroe’s Flashback I.  James Monroe did indeed volunteer to cross the Delaware, but he wasn’t the first to do so as depicted in the novel.  James Monroe also didn’t ride in the same boat as George Washington, nor did he carry the flag.  These last two points were done solely to reference the famous painting “Washington Crossing the Delaware” where James Monroe is depicted (ahistorically) doing both of these things.

Chapter Text

Monroe planted her flag in the snow and raised her rifle, shooting down a squad of Hessian soldiers charging towards her.

“…the kid’s right!” one of the Americans on the sidelines exclaimed as he grabbed his sword, “Let’s show these Hessian’s who’s boss!”

The American troops gave a valiant yell as they stormed full-force into the enemy camp.  A Hessian officers growled at their approach, shifting his eyes to the wounded body of Washington lying on the ground besides Monroe’s flag.

“Go for their General!” the officer screamed, “They’ll lose their morale once we cut off his head!”

“Not happening, baby!” Monroe shouted, shooting down another group of soldiers as they ran at her from the side.  She gave a smirk, dropping it as she heard groans from Washington.

“Be…” he mumbled.  “Behi…”

“Sir?” Monroe asked.

“Behind you!”

Monroe widened her eyes, turning around just as a Hessian soldier fired at her from behind.  She tried shifting away, but the bullet rushed through the air, piercing through her chest and shooting up into the middle of her left shoulder before she could move.

Monroe stumbled back, looking out as the Hessian marksman cackled in front of her.

“That’s what you get,” the Hessian spat, “for waving around such a gaudy piece of cloth!”

Monroe clenched her teeth.

“This piece of cloth…”  She muttered, grabbing hold of the flagpole, stopping her fall.  “…is a symbol of freedom!”

She raised her rifle and fired, striking the Hessian down.  Monroe smirked silently to herself as her body slid down the flagpole and collapsed to the ground, the snow around her turning a dark red as blood poured from her.

“Hang in there, kid!” the doctor screamed, rushing to her side.  He turned her body over, examining the wound as he took out a handful instruments from his medical bad.  “You’re going to be alright…but just barely…”

“…Washington…” Monroe spoke wearily, “…save…Washington…”

“I’m alright, lad,” Washington spoke besides her, “just got the wind knocked out of me, that’s all.  You just focus on getting better, alright?  Do that, and I promise you…the next time you step onto the battlefield, you’ll be a captain!”

“…a…captain…huh?”

Monroe smiled to herself as she drifted off to sleep, her head brimming with dreams of the day she’d command her own platoon of warriors into battle.

But that day would never come; at least, not in this war.  Time after time, Monroe would try getting back onto the battlefield, only to be turned down at each attempt.  Monroe did her best to put up a cheerful disposition at each of these setbacks, but on the inside, she raged at the injustice of it all.

“Never again,” Monroe grumbled as she found herself missing out on yet another battle, “never again shall I allow someone take me out of combat without putting up a fight!” 

She wrapped her fingers around her rifle. 

“This, above all else…will be my sacred doctrine…”

*             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *               *

“…that’s what I told myself anyways,” Monroe mumbled as she paced about just before her match.  “And I meant it too…but things are different now…” she looked to an electronic display of the tournament bracket before her.  “After all, it’s not just my position on the line here…but the entire Democratic Republican Party’s…”

She closed her eyes, bringing her head into her chest.

“In the end,” she muttered, “I’m stuck between choosing to be loyal to my Party…or to be loyal to myself…”

She opened up her eyes, her gaze inadvertently drawn to the American flag mounted on the wall above her.  She stared a moment longer, then gave a nod.

“…I suppose there’s only one thing for me to do…”

*             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *               *

Back in the present, Taft darted his eyes between Madison and Monroe.

There seems to be a genuine tension between them, Taft thought to himself, far more than I would have expected from two members of the same Party…

Taft studied them a little longer, then shrugged his shoulders as he raised his gavel into the air.

“Let the match…begin!”

The gavel slammed down, but neither fighter moved at its crash.  Madison waited for half a minute, then gave a furrow of her brow.

“Well?” she asked with a tap of her fingers across her trident.  “Isn’t there something you’d like to say to everyone?”

“Hmmmm?” Monroe replied with a look of feigned confusion.  “Oh, yes, I suppose that there is.”

Monroe nonchalantly raised both her arms into the air.

“I, Jeanne Monroe of the Democratic Republicans, have decided that I shall yield this match…”

Monroe lowered her arms, aiming her rifle directly for Madison’s head.

“…to no one!”

Monroe fired her gun, the bullet grazing the side of Madison’s face.

“Holy cow!” Thompson exclaimed, “Monroe has actually launched an attack against fellow Party member Jamie Madison!  It looks like we might have a real fight on our hands here, folks!”

Madison rubbed a hand across her cheek, feeling the blood trickle down her face.

“So that’s how it’s going to be, is it?”

Madison shifted her gaze, darting her eyes between Monroe, Jefferson, and Grant.  She paused for a moment, nodding her head as she pointed her trident towards Monroe across the arena.  

“Executive Power…”

As she spoke, the tips of her tridents started wavering around like leaves rustling in the wind.

“…Ratification; Three Branches!”

The trident’s tips suddenly extended out in length, the elongated prongs shooting straight for Monroe.

“Don’t play with fire, baby!” Monroe shouted, nimbly twisting her body around the incoming prongs. “Else you’re gonna get burned!”

The crowd gasped as blood splattered across the ground.

Madison glanced down, noticing three fresh cuts carved along her arm.

“Whaaa?” Thompson screamed.  “It looks like Madison took some serious damage just now despite being the one dishing out the attacks!  What in the world is going on here?”

“It’s obviously a result of Monroe’s EP,” Truman mumbled, rubbing at his chin, “but I’ve got no idea how it works.”

Monroe smiled to herself as she shot up a peace sign. 

“Executive Power: Monroe Doctrine, baby!”

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Monroe’s Flashback II.  Monroe’s interaction with the doctor in the novel is almost entirely true:  although he didn’t have a gun pointed at his head, James Monroe was indeed harassed by a passing doctor who mistook him to be a British soldier, after which James Monroe denied his offer to go into his house.  The doctor then joined Washington’s march, and during their battle this doctor narrowly saved James Monroe’s life after receiving a near fatal wound.

The incident with Washington going down during the attack is half true: it really is the case that during this battle, James Monroe’s commander took an injury and went down, after which James Monroe heroically stepped in to lead the troops before chaos erupted, only to go down himself afterwards.  However, this commander was not George Washington (as depicted in the novel), but rather William Washington (a distant cousin of George).

Three Branches.  Jamie Madison’s trident “Three Branches” is inspired by the three branches of government provided by the United States constitution: the legislative branch, the executive branch, and the judiciary branch.

Chapter Text

“Executive Power,” Madison shouted, the tips of her trident extending forward as its prongs thrashed out across the battlefield, “Ratification; Three Branches!”

“Chill out, baby!” Monroe chuckled, jumping over a prong and leaning back to dodge another.  She landed on one hand, pushing off the ground and leaping away from a third attack.  With each artful dodge that she made, a new, fresh wound appeared across Madison’s body.

In the stands, Jefferson gave a shallow moan.

“Oh, what a disaster this is turning into!  And to think that I had been so hopeful at the start of things too…”

“Alas,” a young goth standing beside her lamented, “it is an all too human folly to expect things to work out in a world as cruel as our own; especially when it comes to Monroe acting according to plan.”

“You aren’t wrong there, Quincy,” Jefferson remarked.  “Monroe certainly does have a tendency of acting freely and independently.  Then again,” she spoke with a small, somber smile, “I suspect she would be a tad more docile if it weren’t for that ludicrous EP you helped her obtain.”

“Ridiculous,” Quincy Adams said with an overly dramatic sigh, “why, I’ve never accomplished anything nearly as significant as that in my entire, pitiful life!”

He looked down to the arena as cuts continued appearing across Madison’s body with each attack she made.

“…but you’re entirely right about Executive Power: Monroe Doctrine…the fact that it gives Monroe the ability to automatically land a counter blow in response to any hostile action against her is devastating enough on its own…but it becomes all but invincible when combined with Monroe’s talent for dodging any attack that comes her way.”

“It certainly would be a difficult EP for Madison to overcome…” Jefferson admitted, “…if it weren’t for the past experiences that she’s had...”

*             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *               *

Shortly after the War of Independence, a group of prominent Virginians gathered in a local town hall and stood circled around a single, dominating figure.

“Well?” Pat Henry spat, “Are we doing this or what?”

“Give us a minute,” Eddy Randolph replied, turning his attention back to a sickly Madison.  “Are you sure about this?  You really aren’t looking good right now.”

“I have to,” Madison replied, suppressing a heavy cough, “nobody else can take Henry in my place.”

Randolph lowered his head, clenching up his fists.

“Don’t worry,” Madison insisted as she made her way forward, “I shall not let this land fall into ruin.”

Henry gave a snort.

“You most certainly will not!” he screamed, raising up his arms, “Because I’m going to stop you before you ever get the chance to destroy it!”

Henry suddenly charged forward without waiting for the referee to start the match, stopping in front of Madison and throwing out a masterful punch.

“You’re too focused on perfection,” Madison remarked, dodging his overly prepared swing, “you need to be practical!”

Henry lifted his guard as Madison unleashed a series of rapid thrusts, perfectly absorbing each of her blows at the cost of blocking off his vision.  Madison then ducked down, sweeping Henry’s legs out from under him, knocking him to the ground.  Henry started to rise, but stopped as he felt Madison’s trident pricking at his neck.

“…I surrender,” he muttered with a solemn click of his tongue.

Madison’s supporters roared with approval, only for their voices to be drowned out by the howls coming from the Anti-Federalists.

“Screw this!” Joe Mason screamed from the sidelines, “I don’t care what we agreed to!  I’m going to put a stop to this hogwash here and now!”

The Anti-Federalists gathered around Mason, giving rallying cries as they raised their weapons into the air.  They started marching forward, but stopped as Henry stepped out in front of them.

“All of you!  Stand down!” 

The soldiers lowered their weapons, grumbling to themselves as they backed away.  Henry shook his head, turning his attention back to Madison.

“I swear on my honor as a gentleman: our forces in Virginia shall not oppose your plan to unite the States into a single nation.”

With that, Henry turned around and headed out behind the rest of his men.

“What are you thinking!” Mason hissed besides him, “You’re giving up way too easily here!”

Henry looked to his partner with a stern glare, then twisted his mouth into a chilling grin.

“Who ever said anything about giving up?”

The next day, Randolph slammed a heavy stack of papers onto Madison’s desk.

“We’ve been had!” he scowled.  “While we were focused on getting Virginia’s approval for the national convention, Henry’s been sneaking clause after clause into our original agreement!”

Madison skimmed over the papers in front of her.

“And it appears that almost all of his amendments are centered around blocking me from attending the convention.”

“Exactly,” Randolph said with a nod.  “And if you, the chief architect of this entire plan, doesn’t show up, then the whole project is all but doomed to fail!”

Madison furrowed her brow.

“How troublesome…”

“You know what I say?”  Randolph exclaimed, grabbing hold of the papers.  “I say we take this piece of garbage back to Henry and tell him right where he can shove it!”

“We can’t,” Madison replied, calmly removing the papers from Randolph’s hands.  “He beat us fair and square; challenging him on these amendments would only serve to undermine our own movement.  No, the only option we have now is to fight him according to his own rules.”

Madison flipped through the papers, then pointed down to a single line of text.  Randolph looked over the words and gave a soft glare.

“…I don’t like our odds.”

“Neither do I,” Madison replied, “but it’s the only option we have.”

The next week, Henry met up with Madison and Randolph, a warm smile painted across his face.

“Hello, friends!”

“Shut it!” Randolph shot back.

“Anyways,” Henry went on, ignoring Randolph’s words, “regarding the details of today’s match for deciding Virginia’s final delegate to send to the convention…us Anti-Federalists have ultimately selected this to be our location for the fight.”

Madison and Randolph looked out, their eyes taking in the sight of an abandoned city with towering buildings separated by wide, open spaces.

“Seriously?” Randolph asked with a scratch of his head.  “I never thought someone as pretentious as you would want to duke it out in a dump like this.”

“Oh?” Henry replied with feigned surprise.  “Why, I think there’s a slight misunderstanding between us.”

“…how so?” Madison asked with a growl.

“You see,” Henry continued with a mischievous shine in his eyes, “I never said that I would be the one taking part in the match…only that I would be the one responsible for selecting Madison’s opponent.”

Randolph and Madison exchanged a set of worried glances.

“But if you aren’t the one representing the Anti-Federalists…” Randolph began.

“…then who is?” Madison finished.

“I am,” a voice called from behind.

Madison turned around, her jaw nearly dropping to the ground.

“M…Monroe!” she exclaimed with shock.

“In the flesh and blood, baby!” her former ally, Jeanne Monroe replied with a grin.

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Monroe Doctrine.  This EP is based off the doctrine introduced by James Monroe, which essentially declares that the United States will fight back against any interference from the Old-World taking place in the New World.

Madison’s Flashback I.  Few of the events in this flashback literally happened, though most of the events are based around James Madison’s very real struggle to ratify the Constitution despite the many roadblocks Patrick Henry put in front of him.

Notably, it is not true that Patrick Henry literally added secret clauses to their agreements, but he did genuinely do a lot of maneuvering to make it so that James Madison didn’t appear at the national convention to ratify the constitution.  In particular, he forced James Madison to run in an election in a heavily gerrymandered district against James Monroe, the outcome for which…

Chapter Text

A young Madison stared at Monroe with disbelief.

“Wha…what are you doing here!”

“You see,” Monroe explained, “I was pretty bummed after finding out you stole my seat at the Virginia conference last week.  So…” she twirled her rifle around and pointed it at Madison.  “…I decided it would only be fair to take your national convention seat in return.”

“Stole your seat?” Madison furrowed her brow.  “I did no such thing!”  She looked to Henry, then leaned closer to Monroe.  “Listen!  Henry is obviously just using you to get what he wants here!”

“Oh please, baby,” she remarked as she made her way past Madison, “I’m the one using him.”

Randolph bit his nails as Monroe made her way towards the abandoned city below.

“This battlefield they’ve picked is a sniper’s paradise…it’d be tricky to beat Monroe here even if you were in peak condition…but with that illness of yours still going on…”

“…it’ll be fine,” Madison replied, gathering her composure before walking into the ruined city, “I will not fail.”

Randolph and Henry stayed back on the hills just outside the city, listening in as the fighting raged on below.

“Oh my,” Henry spoke as the sounds of gunfire came to a sudden and abrupt stop below, “it seems your fruitless little struggles are finally over now.”

Randolph slumped his shoulders, staring out into the open horizon with a glum expression across his face.  He continued staring for some time, then suddenly lifted himself back up.

“Oh, it’s over alright!” he exclaimed, “‘cause we’re finally done dealing with all your nonsense!”

Henry raised an eyebrow.

“What on earth…?”

Henry stopped talking as he spotted Madison walking towards them.  Her body was covered in heavy scars and the tip of her nose was partially shot off, but she strode on with firm determination while carrying an unconscious Monroe atop her back.

“I win,” she declared, dropping Monroe in front of Henry’s feet.

Henry stared at his vanquished champion, then back to Madison, tightening up his fists.

“You’re making a huge mistake here,” he hissed.  “Uniting the States into a single country…giving greater powers to the Executives…it will bring nothing but disaster to our land!”

Madison stared silently at Henry.

“…it’s entirely possible that our experiment will end in failure,” she admitted, looking Henry straight in the eyes.  “But if we do nothing, we are certain to perish.”

Henry gave a sharp snort.

“I swear…I’ll never stop fighting with you!  Not until you either give me liberty…or give me death!”

“And I swear in return,” Madison responded, raising her hand, showing its freshly formed Presidential Seal, “I’ll stop anyone who tries to destroy my country.”

*             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *               *

Back in the present, Madison retracted her trident’s elongated prongs and charged for her opponent. Monroe gave a sharp smirk as she readied up her rifle.

“Trying to get closer to me, baby?  How sweet of you!”

She fired off a pair of shots, but Madison effortlessly deflected the bullets away.

“No funnnn,” Monroe moaned as Madison stepped in front of her.  “But even if I can’t hit you directly…”

Monroe stepped away as Madison thrusted her weapon down at Monroe’s feet.

“…I can still finish you off with my EP!” Monroe cackled, her smile intensifying as she awaited the activation of Monroe Doctrine against her opponent.

“…the thing about your EP…” Madison spoke as her trident continued downwards before digging itself in the ground, “…is that it only works if I’m actually trying to hurt you!”

Monroe’s eyes widened as Madison pole-vaulted off her trident, wrapping her legs around Monroe’s torso, her body unharmed by Monroe’s EP.

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Madison’s Flashback II.  …James Madison would go on to narrowly defeat his old friend James Monroe during their election for a seat at the Constitutional Convention, at which James Madison would (after many harrowing struggles) ultimately succeed in pushing for the States to come together and form the United States of America.

Also: James Madison really did have his nose damaged when fighting James Monroe in this election, namely by getting frostbite while campaigning out in the cold.

Chapter Text

“Really now,” Madison grumbled as she tightened her legs around Monroe’s waist, “did you actually think I wouldn’t exploit your EP’s biggest weakness of only activating against attacks aimed directly at you?”

Monroe clenched her teeth in frustration, then gave a soft grin.

“And did you actually think,” Monroe replied in turn, “that you could hold me down with such stubby little legs?”

Monroe twisted her body around and ducked down, slipping out of Madison’s hold.  Madison hit the floor and lunged ahead, leaving her trident behind as she flung her arms at Monroe.  Monroe stepped back, her long strides easily outpacing Madison’s shorter reach. 

Back in the stands, Quincy put his hands over his face.

“Oh, I just can’t bear to watch this!  These dazzling moves by Monroe are all but guaranteed to make my own fighting abilities seem lifeless in comparison.”

“It is rather impressive, isn’t it?” Jefferson remarked.  “Despite specializing in long-range combat, Monroe is more than capable of handling herself in close-quarter skirmishes.  On the other hand,” she glanced to Madison’s abandoned trident left planted in the ground, “Madison has almost no experience fighting without Three Branches in hand.”

“So you believe that Monroe to be the most likely victor of this match, then?”

“Not necessarily…after all,” she looked back to the two fighters “…there’s something more lurking underneath the surface of this match…”

Monroe smirked as she continued dodging another grab from Madison.

“Stay still…” Madison muttered as she lunged at Monroe.

“Sorry, baby!  But you’re never going to catch me…”

Monroe suddenly stepped forward, sweeping her leg and knocking Madison’s feet off the floor in a singular, fluid motion.

“…especially not with your face planted straight in the ground!”

The crowd drew a collective gasp as Monroe readied her rifle for a point-blank shot against the defenseless Madison as she continued to fall.

“You’ve slighted me for the last time, baby!” Monroe screeched.  “From now it’s goodbye `Jefferson and Madison’…” her fingers pressed against the trigger of her gun, “…and hello `Jefferson and Monroe’!”

Madison closed her eyes, letting out a disinterested sigh as she fell.

“You should stop focusing so much on getting back at me…and start focusing on the fight at hand.”

“What—?”

Monroe stopped talking as three prongs shot out of the ground, tearing across her legs.

“Executive Power,” Madison spoke cooly as she hit the floor, “Ratification: Three Branches!”

“Gahhh!”  Monroe screamed, stumbling back, tripping over herself as she dropped her rifle from her hands.

As she fell, Monroe looked to Madison’s trident planted in the ground, her eyes twisting into a vengeful glare.

“You left your weapon behind on purpose…” she hissed, “…all so you could secretly extend its tips beneath my feet!”

Monroe hit the ground with a sharp wince.  She started moving towards her rifle, but Madison leapt onto her arm, locking it in place.

“I’ve been waiting to do this,” Madison spoke as she brought back her fist, readying a heavy punch, “for a very…very long time.”

“Wait, wait, wait!” Monroe spoke frantically, “I surrender!  I surrender!  For real this time!”

“Jeanne Monroe has surrendered!” Taft declared with a swift slam of his gavel to the ground.  “The match is over.  The winner, is [The Sage of Montpelier], Jamie Madison!”

Madison shook her head, dismounting off Monroe without giving her a second glance.

“Y-yeah, you better run!” Monroe quipped as she started to rise.  “Why, if I had just five more seconds in the ring, I swear, I’d—"

Monroe winced as she placed down her injured leg, her knees buckling as her body started falling back to the floor.

A hand suddenly reached out for her, grabbing hold of Monroe and keeping her upright just before her body collided with the ground.

“Are you alright?” Madison asked as she lifted Monroe back to her feet.

“…I am,” Monroe mumbled, “…th…thanks…”

Madison gave a silent nod, leaning Monroe against her as the two walked out of the arena side by side to the roar of the crowd around them.

Chapter Text

“Well,” Eisenhower remarked from her infirmary bed as the television screen shifted away from Madison and Monroe walking out the arena, “what did you end up thinking about the match?”

“Oh, it was truly an awful affair,” Wilson replied with a snide.  “There was absolutely no point in Madison attacking with her trident if she knew what Monroe’s EP could do, nor was there any reason for Monroe to fall for such an obvious trap from Madison at the end.” 

“Agreed…there really is no benefit in watching a fixed fight...”

Back on the ground, Monroe slipped Madison a subtle glance.

“So…when did you figure it all out?”

Madison continued walking without looking to Monroe.

“…I had my suspicions from your very first shot,” Madison explained, rubbing the wound along her cheek, “it was a weak attack,” she pointed to her chipped nose, “and I know that you can shoot better than that.” 

Madison looked down to the scars running along her arm. 

“But I only became certain of things after you used Monroe Doctrine against me…all of the slashes you gave me looked painful from the outside, but none of them actually inflicted any real damage.”

“And I appreciate you doing the same for me,” Monroe replied, wiggling out her supposedly injured leg.  “Though of course,” she said with a smirk, “I let you land that last attack.”

“In any event,” Madison continued, ignoring Monroe’s quip, “could you please explain to me why in the world you made us go through this ridiculous farce in the first place?”

“Isn’t it obvious, baby?”

“It is not,” Madison replied with a slight growl, “which is why I asked you to explain yourself.”

“Oh Maddie,” Monroe said with a shake of her head, “If you went through this fight on a bye, then every cat here would be jeering our Party’s name until the end of time.  Even if we won the tournament and forced all the other Presidents to pledge their allegiance to our Party in the end, none of their soldiers would willingly join with us.  But now,” she gestured to the cheering crowd around them, “I don’t think we’ll have any problems gaining new recruits.”

“…I suppose that’s true…” Madison mumbled.  “But why not tell me all this beforehand?”

“Because you’re a terrible actor!” Monroe replied before softening her smile.  “That, and I thought that maybe…just maybe…there might be an itty-bitty chance you’d blunder so badly that I could take the win myself.”

Madison stomped on Monroe’s injured foot, inciting a quiet yelp.

“Honestly,” Madison remarked, shaking her head with the faintest of smiles across her face, “you never cease to amaze me.”

Monroe grinned back.

“You too, pal!”

*             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *               *

Elsewhere in the stadium, a giant cowboy paced up and down the halls mumbling to himself.

“You got this,” LBJ muttered, “you got this!”

“Feeling nervous there, big guy?”

LBJ looked to see JFK approaching with a handsome smile painted over his face.

“N-nervous?” LBJ replied loudly, puffing out his chest.  “N-nope!  Not at all!  Why, I’m calmer than a turkey the day after Thanksgiving!”

“You know,” JFK chuckled, resting his hand on LBJ’s broad shoulders.  “It’s perfectly alright if you’re feeling a little uncomfortable.  These are extraordinary times we’re living in, and you face an extraordinary challenge!  That being said…if you’re thinking about reducing your sights in the face of difficulty…” he shook his head.  “Well…perhaps it would be better for you not to go at all.”

“Not go…?” LBJ spoke wearily, then let out a heavy snort.  “Not go!” 

He threw JFK’s hand off his back, marching onwards as JFK playfully shook his head from behind. 

“Like hell I won’t go!”

LBJ continued onwards, stopping just in front of the final gate to the arena.  He stared at the heavy iron door; at the sole barrier separating him from the match that would make or break his entire career.  He swallowed hard, licked his lips…then turned back around.

“I should eat something,” he muttered before shuffling down the hall. 

He started to round a corner, but stopped as he heard a familiar voice speaking from the other side.

“Jesus Christ!” JFK screamed.  “I swear, I can’t stand Johnson's long face!  He’s always standing around looking sad, waiting for someone to stroke his damn ego!"  He shook his head.  “Honestly, I think we ought to reevaluate whether he’s even worth keeping in the Party.”

LBJ dropped his jaw, his lips quivering as a woman in a wheelchair replied with softened tones.

“I understand your frustrations, Jay,” FDR spoke out, “but we ought to at least see the outcome of Landon’s fight before making rash decisions such as this.”

“Oh please,” JFK said, rolling out his eyes, “LBJ’s up against the Will McKinley; a veteran fighter known for his impeccable technique and ruthless tenacity!  LBJ, on the other hand, is known only for his signature move, the `Johnson City Windmill’…”

At that, JFK got on his back and started kicking his legs around in a windmill motion.

“If you hit me I’ll kick you!” he squealed in a mock imitation of LBJ’s voice, “If you hit me I’ll kick you!”

“Oh, stop that, Jay,” FDR insisted, doing her best to suppress a laugh.

From around the corner, LBJ ceased quivering, his muscles stiffening as his fingers curled into a pair of meaty fists.

“But seriously now,” FDR continued, “I will readily admit that Landon does turn into a real scaredy cat whenever he comes face to face with even the mildest of dangers…”

LBJ continued tightening up his fists; his fingers digging so deep into his palms that they cut into his skin.

“You damn Harvards…” he whispered to himself.  “You think you can look down on me, huh?  Well, I’ll show you…I’ll show all of you!”

LBJ ran down the hall, not bothering to listen into the rest of the conversation.

“…but,” FDR went on with a wide smile, “when his back is up against the wall…that’s when Landon shines best!”

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JFK and LBJ.  Lyndon B. Johnson and Jack F. Kennedy have a somewhat complex relationship.  They competed against each other for the 1960 democratic nomination, after which Jack invited Lyndon to be his Vice President, largely to help him win states in the south.  It’s been theorized that Jack would have dropped Lyndon from their ticket in 1964, both because it seemed they were unlikely they’d be able to win any states in the south even with Lyndon’s help, and also because Jack had been known to complain about Lyndon’s “damn long face.”  Ultimately though, Jack was assassinated before he ever had the chance to officially declare whether he would keep Lyndon in 1964.

Johnson City Windmill.  Lyndon Johnson attracted crowds during his campaigns by flying around in a helicopter (nicknamed the Johnson City Windmill), which was a piece of technology that was practically unheard of in many parts of rural Texas at the time. 

As a kid, Lyndon was known to be quite the coward.  In particular, whenever someone threatened to fight him, Lyndon would get on his back and start kicking his legs out chanting “if you hit me I’ll kick you!”

Chapter Text

“Hello everybody!” Thompson screamed.  “We’re ready for the next match to begin!” 

She gestured to the arena.

“First up, we’ve got a major Major from the Civil War!  He’s a famed warrior known for training Theo Roosevelt, as well as for defeating the notorious Free Silver Gang twice over!  He’s a man of rare capacity, whose kindly nature and lovable traits knows no bounds!  Let’s hear it, for [The Napolean of Protection], Will McKinley!”

McKinley walked in wearing a suit of tin armor carrying a pair of hatchets: one made of silver, the other gold.  His fans greeted him with waves from their tin banners and signs while beating their hands against tin buckets and cans.

“For his opponent!” Thompson continued, “We have the big cowboy of the New Dealers!  He’s crude, he’s crass; he’s a real-life son of a gun!  But whatever may be said about him, one thing remains certain: this man understands power!  He knows where to find it and he knows how to use it.  And Lord; this man means to use it!  Give it up, for [Landslide Landon], Landon B. Johnson!”

A helicopter flew over the stadium.  The crowd looked up, cheering as LBJ popped out its door waving to the spectators below.  He wore his usual cowboy outfit together with a golden watch, golden belt buckle, and golden cufflinks cut in the shape of Texas; each piece of his audacious outfit proudly bearing the letters “LBJ.”

LBJ stepped out of the copter as it landed to the ground, shooting a cold sneer as he walked to his opponent.

“Why ain’t this a bigger shock than tits on a bull!”  LBJ exclaimed.  “How come you, the man known for never wanting to see another war in his life, went and entered this tournament with so much gusto, huh?”

“Well, you see—”

“Personally!” LBJ interjected, stepping in front of McKinley, “I’m guessing your decision went a little like this!”

LBJ snatched McKinley’s helmet off his head and placed it atop his own large noggin.

“Heavens me!” LBJ exclaimed in a perfect imitation of McKinley’s voice.  “What ever shall I, Will McKinley, do regarding this upcoming Revolutionary War?  I swore to myself I’d never go into another battle unless God approved, but alas, he does not answer my prayers!”

LBJ rubbed his chin, then gave an exaggerated snap of his fingers.

“I know!” he exclaimed, “I’ll do what I always do: put my ear to the ground and blindly follow the will of the people!”

At that, LBJ plopped his ear onto the dirt floor, inciting a wave of laughs from the stands.  LBJ instantly stood up, taking off the helmet and puffing out his chest.

“Bully!” he exclaimed in Theo Roosevelt’s characteristic high-pitched voice, “What a fool I, Theo Roosevelt, was for having a straddlebug like McKinley take command of a star like me!  Why, McKinley has no more backbone than a chocolate éclair!” he pointed to his own ear covered in dirt, “And his ear’s so close to the ground, it’s filled with grasshoppers!”

The audience erupted in laughs at LBJ’s unexpected performance, giving a surge of applause as LBJ met them with a bow.  LBJ straightened his back, turning eagerly towards McKinley as he awaited his response.  McKinley stood still for a moment, then gave a light snort.

“Oh, heck!” he said with a chuckle.  “How can I not laugh at something as funny as that?”  He gave a light applause with genuine cheer.  “Bravo; bravo my good man!  It’s truly an honor to have been made the subject of a mimic as talented as yourself!”

LBJ scrunched up his nose as he forced a smile onto his face.

“Of course…” he mumbled, tossing the helmet back to him.

Taft eyed the fighters as McKinley put his helmet on, covering the last of his body in shining tin armor.

“It appears that both fighters are ready to go,” Taft exclaimed as he raised his gavel into the air, “so let the match…begin!”

As Taft’s hammer crashed onto the floor, LBJ stuck his hand straight down his pants

“Hey McKinley!” he shouted, “Let me show you something that’ll really knock you off your feet!”

“By the love of Heaven!” McKinley squealed, casting his gaze from LBJ, “Please do not!”

“Oh, get your head out of the gutter!” LBJ quipped, pulling out a handkerchief covering up his hand.  “There’s women and children here for Pete’s sake!”

“I’m glad you’re aware of that much at least…” McKinley replied, turning back to examine LBJ’s cloth.  “What’s that?”

“An experiment,” LBJ said with a smirk.  “You’ve already shown everyone here that you can handle my character assassinations no problem…” he drew back the cloth, revealing a shining revolver in his hand.  “Now let’s see how you handle yourself against a real assassination!”

LBJ fired two shots from his gun.  The bullets struck McKinley’s armor, only to plop harmlessly to the ground with a shallow clang.  LBJ looked to McKinley, down to his undented bullets, then back over to McKinley.

“Ah heck,” LBJ remarked, tossing his weapon to the ground, “my cousin Iver swore this gun of his would be enough to take you down…”

LBJ studied McKinley as the crowd burst into laughs around them.

I wasn’t really expecting those bullets to do much against [The Napoleon of Protection], LBJ thought, but I had hoped they’d at leave a smudge on that ugly armor of his…

“Are you just about finished now?” McKinley asked with a raise of his axe.  “If so, I’d like to go and have my turn.”

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LBJ Imitating McKinley.  Lyndon Johnson was very good at imitating people in real-life.  In the novel, Landon Johnson uses this talent to reference several insults that were made against the real-life William McKinley, notably that he blindly followed the orders of his benefactor Marcus Hanna and that he caved in easily to public opinion.  This latter insult led people to say William McKinley “kept his ear so close to the ground that it was full of grasshoppers,” and Theodore Roosevelt in particular to say “McKinley has no more backbone than a chocolate éclair.”

Assassination.  Landon Johnson shooting Will McKinley is a rough approximation of what happened with the real assassination of William McKinley by Leon Czolgosz (though in real-life the shots landed successfully).  The weapon Czolgosz used was an Iver Johnson revolver, hence Landon’s comment about his “cousin Iver.”

Chapter Text

LBJ jumped back as McKinley swung out one of his axes, its blade grazing against LBJ hand.

“OUCH!” LBJ screamed dramatically as he shook his lightly injured arm. 

McKinely charged ahead as LBJ took a hasty step back, his foot slipping out from underneath him, causing LBJ to tumble to the ground.  McKinley jerked himself back, stepping away as LBJ hit the floor.

“Are you alright there?” McKinley asked.  “Do you want me to give you a minute to get yourself back up?”

“…no…” LBJ snarled, throwing up his hand, tossing a pile of dirt into McKinley’s face.  “I wanted you to get closer!”

“Heavens!” McKinley coughed loudly as clumps of dirt passed through his helmet. 

“Take this!” LBJ screamed, leaping off the ground and smashing his fist into McKinley’s helmet.

However, McKinley did not so much as flinch from the impact of LBJ’s titanic punch.

“That wasn’t very nice,” McKinley remarked, swinging his axe, landing a small cut against LBJ’s chest.

“YEOWCH!” LBJ screamed, jumping back and blowing on his microscopic wound.

“Come now!” McKinley exclaimed with cheer.  “Stop whining every time you get yourself a little scratch.”

“Easy for you to say!” LBJ snarled.  “After all, your EP makes it so that anything hitting your tacky suit of armor loses all its momentum!”

“…oh?” McKinley replied with a soft smile.  “And what makes you say that?”

LBJ pointed to the bullets he fired lying on the ground. 

“It’s pretty clear you want everyone to think your EP just boosts your defenses like crazy,” he explained, “but if that really were the case, then my bullets wouldn’t have just plopped down after hitting your ugly armor, and my hand would still be aching from the heavy punch I just gave you!  No, the only way any of this makes sense is if you’re somehow eliminating the force from my attacks the moment they touch your crummy metal armor.  Moreover, I’m certain your EP has to work only for that specific suit of armor you’re wearing!”

McKinely raised an eyebrow.

“And what makes you think that?”

“Because,” he replied with a sinister smile, “no one with a working pair of eyes would ever go out wearing such a hideous outfit made from a worthless metal like tin if they didn’t have to!”

“…interesting,” McKinely spoke with a faint growl underneath his smiling face, “that is certainly a very interesting conclusion for you to come to…but I’m afraid you’re just a tad off in your analysis there, friend.”

“How’s that?”

“You see,” McKinley went on, “my Executive Power: Protective Tariff severely weakens the force of any incoming attacks directed towards me or anything that I’m wearing,” he explained, emphasizing his final words.  “In particular, my choice of armor has no bearing whatsoever on my EP!”  He slammed his hand proudly against his metal chest.  “No, I wear this masterpiece of Ohio craftsmanship solely from the love and pride I feel for my glorious State!”

McKinley’s fans burst into a roar of cheers from the stands as LBJ shook his head.

“Oh yeah?”  LBJ snided.  “Well, if you’re so in love with tin, then why are you wearing that funky thing on your head?”

“…on my head?”

McKinley placed a hand atop his helmet, feeling something strange wrapped along its edges.  Curious, McKinley took off his helmet, noticing something odd digging into its rim.

“Oh my,” McKinley remarked as he examined the object further, “is this some sort of…golden crown of thorns?”

McKinley continued staring at the crown, stopping as LBJ started charging towards him.  Hastily, McKinley put back on his helmet and swung out his axe, only for LBJ to easily dodge the impromptu attack.

“Executive Power!” LBJ bellowed as he revved up a punch, “War on Poverty!”

LBJ smashed his fist into McKinley’s neck, but McKinely remained unmoved.

“Really now,” McKinely remarked as he readied up his axe, “you know you can’t hurt me with such feeble attacks.”

“We’ll see about that!” LBJ snarled, jumping back from McKinley’s counter.

As LBJ spoke, a shining, golden cross instantly materialized around McKinley’s neck.

“What the…?” McKinley asked, taking a step back as he ran his fingers along the golden object.  “How in Heaven’s…?”

“I hope you like that necklace there, `friend’…” LBJ sneered as he slammed his fists together. 

LBJ pulled his hands apart, and as he did so, a pair of diamond encrusted brass knuckles engraved with the letters “LBJ” formed around his fingers.

“…’cause before you know it,” LBJ barked, “you’re going to be crucified upon that cross of gold!”

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Crown of Thorns and Cross of Gold.  The golden items placed on Will McKinley are a reference to the famous “Cross of Gold” speech made by William McKinley’s political rival William Jennings Bryan, with the ending of this speech concluding with the lines “You shall not press down upon the brow of labor this crown of thorns; you shall not crucify mankind upon a cross of gold.”  These words referenced how William McKinley was pressing for keeping the United States on a monetary system based entirely on gold, as opposed to a system based on both gold and silver advocated by William Jennings Bryan.

Chapter Text

McKinley continued studying the golden necklace around his neck with care.

“I see,” he remarked, “so your EP lets you create little trinkets when you hit someone, huh?”  He gave a light shrug.  “I guess an ability like that probably has a use or two.”

LBJ snarled.

“Don’t patronize me, punk!” he screamed, swinging forth his fist.

McKinley thrusted his axe forward, meeting and stopping the momentum of LBJ’s punch mid-swing.

“That’s a dirty play,” LBJ grumbled, “but I can play dirtier!”

LBJ twisted up his mouth, grinning as he spat a wad of saliva through the gaps of McKinley’s helmet.

“Heavens!” McKinley exclaimed, shaking out his head.  “Why must you keep throwing such disgusting things down my helmet?”

“You think that’s bad?” LBJ cackled, delivering a sidewinder to McKinley’s right arm, forming a golden bracelet around his wrist.  “Just wait ‘till I stick Jumbo down there!”

“I’d rather not…” McKinley replied, blindly swinging his axe in front of him.

LBJ stepped back, taking a light cut to his chest as he smashed down onto McKinley’s outstretched arm, forming a golden watch.

JFK gave a soft whistle in the stands.

“Color me surprised,” he remarked.  “LBJ’s actually landing a few decent hits!”

“It is impressive,” Ruth Hayes admitted with a sly grin, “but it doesn’t really matter.  After all, LBJ can’t harm McKinley as long as Protective Tarriff is active.  As such, it’s only a matter of time before LBJ falls victim to the damage he’s gradually accumulating here.”

FDR gave a light snort besides them.

“Hmm?” Hayes asked, “What’s that you’re laughing at?”

“Oh, nothing really,” FDR replied, “just your choice of words.”

“My words?”

“Precisely,” FDR went on, “it is true, of course, that LBJ is accumulating a fair amount of damage as this fight goes on…but it’s equally true that McKinley is accumulating a debt of his own…one who’s magnitude he seems entirely unaware of…”

On the ground, LBJ juked to McKinley’s right.  McKinley raised his arm in response, but he moved noticeably slower than before, giving LBJ ample time to step away while delivering a jab to McKinley’s outstretched hand, creating another golden bracelet along his wrist.  McKinley brought his arm back, finding it harder to move than it had been just a moment before.

“This feeling…” McKinley muttered, staring at the array of golden ornaments strung along his arm.  “These accessories…are they…weighing down my arm?”

LBJ let out a violent laugh.

“You’re right on the money!” LBJ quipped, stepping ahead and smashing McKinley’s into side, creating a golden shoulder pad across his armor.  “And money,” he continued, evading McKinley’s sluggish swing, “is always right!”

*             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *               *

Years ago, FDR looked over the reports across her desk with awe.

“I knew you’d be getting us some gains from our most recent campaign,” she spoke to LBJ, “but I never imagined the numbers would be this good!”

“Thanks boss,” LBJ replied sternly.  “Now, regarding my reward…”

“Yes of course!” FDR exclaimed with a smile.  “Let me know what you’d like and I’ll be sure to get it for you!”

“Good,” he continued, “because I want another shot at joining your inner circle.”

FDR instantly cooled her friendly smile.

“…you know what that requires, Landon: you have to defeat your state’s champion in a one-on-one match, no exceptions.  You’ve already failed to do this once already…and if you fail a second time…”

“I can do it!” LBJ insisted.  “I know I lost to Patty O’Daniel last time, but I’d have won the match if I just hadn’t gotten so cocky at the end!”

“I wholeheartedly agree,” FDR remarked with a sigh, “and if O’Daniel were still your opponent, then I would gladly give you my blessing to take her on.”

“Hold on a second.” LBJ muttered.  “Are you saying O’Daniel ain’t the champion no more?”

FDR shook her head.

“You were probably too busy dealing with the campaign to notice,” she said, sliding a newspaper clipping to LBJ, “but that man has come out of retirement.”

“That man…?”

LBJ picked up the clipping, furrowing his brow as he looked at the image of a slim man with a pipe in his mouth sprawled across the page.

“[Mr. Texas],” LBJ grumbled, “Cole Stevenson.”

“The greatest fighter your state has ever known,” FDR continued.  “Needless to say, he managed to defeat O’Daniel without breaking a sweat…and with a man like that as your opponent…” FDR looked back at the picture.  “Well…needless to say, your best bet now is to wait a few years until he goes back into retirement.”

LBJ continued staring at Stevenson’s image.

“I might not have a few more years,” he muttered, crumpling the picture and holding it close to his heart.  “I don’t care how bad my odds are…I’m taking the match!”

FDR tightened her gaze.

“You say this,” she confirmed, “knowing that failure means losing your one and only shot at advancing in our Party?”

“That’s right!  And if I can’t move forward in the Party…then I swear…” LBJ gulped.  “…I swear…I’ll retire from fighting altogether!”

FDR leaned back into her chair.

“Well, well,” she remarked, “that’s quite some resolve you’ve got there.”  

FDR looked to the ceiling, closed her eyes, then gave a silent nod. 

“It shall be done.”

And so, a match between LBJ and Stevenson was hastily arranged.  LBJ entered the arena accompanied by a grand marching band playing along with a tremendous fireworks show shooting off across the night sky.  Stevenson, in contrast, walked in without any fanfare whatsoever; a look of complete disinterest spread across his face.

The two fighters reached the center of the ring, silently staring each other down as the referee raised his hand into the air.

“Let the match…begin!”

“Take this!” LBJ shouted as he threw out a quick punch.

Stevenson shifted aside, dodging the attack.  LBJ followed up with another strike, only for Stevenson to dodge once more.  Stevenson shook his head as he easily dodged yet another strike.

“What a waste of my time.”

Stevenson suddenly turned himself around, walking out of the arena as LBJ stood back, staring blankly at him with a look of total disbelief on his face.

“You…” LBJ spoke softly, curling his lips with rage.  “You cowardly old piece of crap!  Come back here and face me like a man!  Or is dodging the only thing you know how to do?”

Stevenson stopped walking.

“Such crude, baseless remarks,” he muttered, “don’t deserve the dignity of a response.”

LBJ looked to Stevenson for a moment, then twisted his frustrated scowl into a delighted grin.

“So, you won’t answer, eh?” he said with a chuckle.  “Well now; that certainly sounds like something a dodger would say!”

“I already told you,” Stevenson replied, deepening his frown, “I refuse to answer your questions out of princip—!”

“Say it with me everybody!” LBJ shouted to the crowd with a rhythmic chant.  “Dodger, dodger!  Stevenson’s a dodge—"

Stevenson slammed into LBJ’s side, his singular strike carrying enough to force to rupture one of LBJ’s kidney’s.  LBJ wheezed hard, collapsing to the ground as Stevenson stood tall before him; a tiny, vindictive smirk hanging across Stevenson’s stoic lips.

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McKinley’s Debt.  The “debt” that Will McKinley occurs in this fight  references the very real financial troubles William McKinley stumbled into by accident: at some point, William McKinley cosigned loans for an old friend Robert Walker, and after the recession of 1893 William was called upon to pay these loans.  William thought the amount was around $10,000, but the amount was actually ten times that amount!  William nearly dropped out of politics in order to pay back the loans, but several of his wealthy supporters raised enough money to pay off the loans for him.

LBJ Flashback I.  This flashback is centered on Lyndon Johnson’s battle for a senate seat against Coke Stevenson.  Coke was one of the most popular figures in Texas and had won every previous contest he had entered by huge margins with virtually zero campaigning on his part.  Moreover, Lyndon entered the race with the conviction that if he lost, he would leave politics for good.

Lyndon faced a number of setbacks during this critical election of his.  In particular, he developed a terrible kidney stone during the campaign.  He fought through the pain, going about and smiling as if he was full of energy, all while feeling the terrible pains of kidney colic.  Doctors insisted he undergo surgery to remove the stone, but Lyndon refused to do this since the operation would leave him bedridden during the last crucial weeks of the election.

Lyndon was eventually persuaded to be admitted to a hospital where his conditioned worsened further.  Moreover, once the press found out about his ailment, Lyndon decided that he should retire from the race, insisting that his aide send out his withdrawal immediately, after which…

Chapter Text

“D-down!” the referee screamed as LBJ crashed onto the floor, drool pouring out his mouth.  “We…we will now give the fighter a few minutes to see if they can keep fighting!”

“Give him the whole damn day if you want,” Stevenson snorted, turning to walk out the arena, “even a real cowboy wouldn’t come back after taking a hit like that.”

Stevenson took a step forward, then froze still.

“…I’ll be,” he muttered, turning to see LBJ inching himself off the ground, “guess I’ve gotten soft with age.”

LBJ panted heavily, forcing a smile across his sweating face.

“Dodger…” he gasped through spats of air.  “Stevenson’s a dodger!”

Stevenson shook his head as LBJ came at him hurling a desperate punch.  Stevenson stepped aside, dodging the fist before delivering a sidewinder to LBJ’s stomach.

“Dodger!” LBJ screamed through the pain and swung his other fist, “Stevenson’s a dodger!”

Stevenson ducked underneath the attack and started a counter…only to stop himself as the crowd began chanting in unison around him.

“Dodger, dodger!” the audience squealed with delight, “Stevenson’s a dodger!”

Stevenson stepped back, taking in their screams as LBJ curled into himself, trying to catch his breath.

“Dodger, dodger!” the group continued on, “Stevenson’s a dodger!”

Stevenson gritted his teeth.

“…fine…” he muttered, turning to LBJ, bringing his arms out to his sides; his eyes begging LBJ to try and strike him down.  “I’ll prove I ain’t no dodger.”

LBJ slowly stood up straight, the faded smile on his face tightening into a wide grin.

“Now we’re talking…” LBJ replied, drawing back both his arms as far as he could take them.  “Eat…THIS!”

LBJ let loose the biggest attack of his entire life; pouring every ounce of his strength into the pair of punches landing squarely against the rugged shoulders of Cole Stevenson.

But once again, [Mr. Texas] remained unmoved.

“Ha!” Stevenson screeched with uncharacteristic delight, looking to the crowd with a snide grin.  “Are you all happy n—?”

Stevenson stopped talking as LBJ wrapped his hands around Stevenson’s shoulders and threw his arms out to the side, tossing Stevenson across the arena.  Stevenson landed safely on the ground, his expression unchanged. 

“Still got some fight left in ya?” Stevenson asked. 

He stepped forward, then halted his advance.

“What…” he glanced down, noticing a strange, metallic box sticking out of the dirt just below his feet.  “What in tarna—?”

In an instant, the earth beneath Stevenson burst open in a fiery explosion, slamming him to the ground.  The crowd watched in disbelief as Stevenson coughed on the floor, his body singed by flames.  Even the referee couldn’t help but turn his gaze to stare out at the remnants the explosion, with him coming back to his senses only after someone started loudly clearing their throat besides him.

“Ehem,” LBJ went on, twirling his finger in the air.  The referee shook his head and raised their hand into the air.

“We find Stevenson unable to continue the match!” he spoke hastily, “The winner, is Landon B. Johnson!”

“What?” Stevenson exclaimed, shooting his burning body off the ground.  “You can’t be serious here!”  Stevenson pointed to the metal bomb fragment scattered across the floor.  “I don’t know what all happened, but it’s obviously foul play on LBJ’s part!  More than that,” he stared down his opponent, “I’m plenty ready to keep up the fight!”

“Sorry,” the referee said with a frantic wave of his arms, “but the results have already been sent along!  I couldn’t change the outcome now even if I wanted to.”

As the referee raised their arms, a sleeve fell down his wrist, revealing a gold-plated watch with the letters “LBJ” etched into its side.  The referee retracted his arm, pulling up his sleeve as Stevenson let out a terrible growl.

“…so that’s how it’s going to be, huh?” Stevenson spat, looking to LBJ.  “I’d ask how you could sleep at night, knowing all the crimes you’ve committed to obtain this `landslide’ victory of yours…” he shook his head.  “…but the answer’s obvious, ain’t it?”

LBJ gave a malicious grin.

“Indeed it is!  I’m going to sleep…” he continued, blatantly flaunting the detonator in his hands for all to see, “…like a goddamn baby!”

*             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *               *

In the present, McKinley gave a scowl as LBJ continued dodging his swings while adding even more golden items to his glistening right arm.

“Very well!” McKinley exclaimed as he stomped his foot down and started spinning his body around.  “If you insist on only targeting my right, then I shall simply meet you with my left!”

McKinley gave a sly smile as he spun, only to drop it as he spotted the vicious grin spread over LBJ’s lips.

“Wrong move, punk!”

Before McKinley could finish the spin, LBJ slammed his body forward, smashing into McKinley and forcing his unbalanced legs to stagger back.

“Got ya!” LBJ shouted, striking McKinley’s chest and enlarging the golden cross around his neck even further.

McKinley stepped away from his opponent, panting heavily as he struggled to keep his right arm afloat.  He looked to his arm, back to LBJ, then let out a sigh.

“You’ve put up a good fight…now, only one option lays before me…”

McKinley tightened his grip and took a bold step forward.  He raised his heavily weighted right arm high into the air, then swung down his silver axe to LBJ.

“Come on!” LBJ chuckled while evading the slowed strike.  “It’s like you’re not even trying to—”

“Rather than listen to you blab on for a second longer,” McKinley shouted as he lifted his golden axe into the air, “I would happily suffer the loss of my good right arm!”

McKinley swung his glistening weapon down, slicing straight through his outstretched arm.  LBJ stood stunned, silently watching as McKinley’s arm dropped to the ground.

“Jesus—” LBJ started to speak, but McKinley rotated his golden axe around, slashing it across LBJ’s exposed chest before he had the chance to move.

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LBJ Flashback II.  …after deciding to retire from the race, Lyndon was eventually convinced to hold off on his decision until his wife flew in to meet him.  By the time she got there Lyndon had calmed down enough to stick with the race.  He still refused to undergo an operation, and instead insisted on undergoing a highly risky procedure to remove the stone, which just barely worked out in the end.

From there Lyndon would fight a fierce campaign with nearly every odd stacked against him, eventually winning against Coke Stevenson after pouring an unprecedented amount of money into the campaign and utilizing a number of dirty tactics (such as pressing Coke to take a stand on the Taft-Hartley Act, knowing that Coke would refuse to answer his attacks out of pride, and thereby making it look like he was dodging the question). 

Most damning of all, Lyndon very blatantly bought the election in the end, as was made evident by a set of 200 new votes (written in alphabetical order and with identical handwriting) suddenly appearing after the votes had previously been announced, conveniently giving Lyndon a narrow win.  This clear display of corruption would later become the source of his nickname “Landslide Lyndon,” a name which Lyndon himself initially went out of his way to brag about.

There are many, many more details to this crazy story, and I strongly recommend looking at Robert Caro’s amazing book “Means of Ascent” which tells this story in far greater detail and which is perhaps my favorite biography of all time.

Chapter Text

“GAHHHH!” LBJ howled as McKinley cut into his chest with his axe.

LBJ gritted his teeth through the roaring pain as he gave a hard shove to McKinley’s shoulders, separating the two of them before leaping away even further.  LBJ slowed his breathing, shifting his gaze back to McKinley’s severed arm on the floor.

“No blood?” he murmured, studying the situation with greater care as his face twisted into a scowl, “…is that…an artificial limb?”

Hayes broke into a hearty belly laugh from the stands.

“Right you are!” she cooed, “He gave up his real one a long time ago…”

*             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *               *

“Our soldiers are starving out there!” a young McKinley shouted to his superior officer.  “We need to go and get them some food right now!”

“Sorry kid,” the officer replied with a shake of his head, “it’s just too risky to try.”

McKinley clenched his fists, nodding as he slumped back into camp.

“…they didn’t bite,” McKinley lamented to the large, hairy man standing beside him.  “I asked two officers for permission to go, and both of them shut me down.”

Marcus Hanna scratched his chin with a frown.

“So, you’re giving up then?”

McKinley looked to the battle raging on just outside their camp; the horrendous screams of both cannons and men audible even from here.

“…no,” he finally spoke, “I know it’s reckless of me…but I have to go…I just can’t stay back and wait while our comrades go on and suffer!”

“You truly are a simple man, McKinley…” Hanna said before thumping a fist into his chest, “but I suppose that makes me one as well!  For wherever you decide to go, I shall be with you every step of the way!”

“Thanks, Hanna,” McKinley smiled.  “Now, let’s get our stuff together; we don’t have a single moment to lose!”

“Way ahead of you: the two of us have been loading supplies the whole time you’ve been out seeking approval.”

“The two of us?” McKinley asked.  “Who do you mean by that?  Why, I can’t think of anyone besides you who would be crazy enough to take part in a scheme like this.”

“You aren’t thinking very hard, then” Hanna chuckled, pointing to a woman loading up a crate of food onto a wagon before them.

“…you’ve got to be kidding,” McKinley muttered, walking to the woman with a look of concern.

“Hello, dear,” Iris McKinley spoke as her husband approached, “would you be a peach and throw that last box of supplies into our carriage?”

“Darling,” McKinley spoke carefully, “surely…surely you’re not actually planning on coming with us, right?  We’re heading into enemy fire, and—”

“And nothing!” she said, bopping at McKinley’s nose.  “If you can handle it honey, then so can I!  Moreover,” she said, gesturing to the ruby red slippers on her feet, “you’ll be needing my Artifact to get back home if things go south.”

McKinley looked at his wife, then back to Hanna.  He shook his head, rubbing his fingers into his forehead.

“…alright you knuckleheads…” he said with a smile, “…let’s do this!”

The group finished loading the last of their crates, then charged through camp with their wagon.

“Hey!” one of the officers shouted as the group road past, “Stop!”

McKinley gave a slight smile as he struck at the reigns, propelling his horses to even greater speeds as they burst through camp and onto the open battlefield.

The trio rode on with great daring, traveling at breakneck speeds through a terrific fire of musketry and artillery.  After much turmoil and turbulation, the group finally made it past the enemy’s bombardment and onto a quiet, yellow brick road.

“Phew,” Iris spoke from inside the wagon, “looks like we made it through the worst of things!”

“I sincerely hope so,” Hanna remarked from the front seat as he looked to his pocket watch.  “We’ll need to pick up the pace if we want to—"

McKinley suddenly shoved Hanna off of the wagon.  As he did, a silver spike shot out from the neighboring forest and into the carriage where Hanna had just been seated.  McKinley stared into the nearby trees, groaning as a familiar figured stepped out of the brush.

“Oh Lord,” McKinley groaned, “it’s [The Wicked Will of the West]…”

“[The Silver Knight of the West]!” Will Bryan corrected as he walked towards them.  “You ought to at least remember the epitaph of your greatest rival!”

“We aren’t rivals,” McKinley grumbled, “and we don’t have time to waste on your petty antics right now!”

“Oh yeah?” Bryan said with a snarl, “Well, too bad!”

Bryan pulled out a silver whistle from his pocket and blew into its mouthpiece.  At its signal, a group of several dozen soldiers rose out of the surrounding woodwork and stepped onto the yellow brick road. 

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McKinley Flashback I.  William McKinley made a daring supply run during the Civil War to a group of soldiers cut off from supplies.  Two of William’s superior officers insisted that William abandon his plans due to the fact that his route was across a field controlled under Confederate fire.  William went on anyways, miraculously making it through with only part of his wagon blown off from a stray cannonball.

None of the characters depicted here (i.e. his wife Ida McKinley, Marcus Hanna, nor William Jennings Bryan) were involved with this supply run.  These extra characters were added so that this flashback could better parallel the novel “The Wizard of Oz,” which itself was written as an allegory about the gold standard crisis, which was a big topic issue between William McKinley and Williams Jennings Bryan during the election of 1896.

Chapter Text

McKinley scanned their surroundings as Bryan’s men surrounded their caravan.

“We seem to be outnumbered 16 to 1.”

Hanna clicked his tongue.

“It’s too dangerous to keep on going…” he turned to the wagon.  “Iris!  Get us out of here!”

Hanna waited, but the only response he got was a soft, hissing sound coming from inside the carriage.

“Dear God!” Hanna shouted, “Is Iris having another one of her episodes?”

“I’ll handle it,” McKinley insisted, dashing into the body of the carriage, “just keep them busy for me!”

“Easier said than done,” Hanna grumbled, pointing his claws to the bandits.

Inside the carriage, McKinley spotted Iris’s body sprawled across the floor, her muscles contorting in a terrible epileptic fit.

“There, there,” he spoke softly, covering his wife’s face with a silk handkerchief, “everything’s going to be alright now.”

McKinley stroked Iris’ hand, and as he did so, a figure leapt out at him from behind.

“…if you won’t come out to fight me…” Bryan screamed, “then I’ll just have to bring the fight to you!”  He raised his hand into the air.  “Power: Free Silver!”

A sharp, silver spike materialized behind Bryan, then hurtled towards his opponent at breakneck speed.  Without turning around, McKinley lifted up his right arm, causing the projectile to pierce through his elbow, slowing it to a stop just before meeting his head.

“It’s okay, darling,” McKinley continued, his tender eyes focused solely on his wife as blood poured from his arm, “that was just the sound of leaves rustling in the wind.”

Bryan furrowed his brow.

“If there’s one thing I hate more than losing…” he muttered as a dozen silver spikes materialized behind him. “…it’s being ignored!”

McKinley took a glance behind as the sea of spikes shot at him, then quietly wrapped his remaining arm around his quivering wife.

“Don’t worry, darling,” he spoke softly, “no matter what the world throws at us…I’ll always be there to protect you…”

“Cheap words!” Bryan screamed as the spikes rocketed towards him.

McKinley gave a somber chuckle.

“You’re not wrong, Bryan…after all, protection cheapens everything…”

A dazzling ray of light suddenly burst out McKinley’s body, the silver spikes freezing in place upon striking against his glistening armor.

“…everything,” McKinely continued, “but men!”

“Wh…what?”

Bryan stood still, his eyes transfixed on the glowing light from McKinley’s Election.  However, it didn’t take long for Bryan to come back to his senses.

“Seriously?” he squealed.  “You’ve been Elected?!?  BEFORE MEEEEEEE?!?!?!?!”

“Bryan.”

Bryan stopped talking as McKinley turned back to face him. 

“If you aren’t able to lower your voice around my wife,” he continued, “then I’m afraid I’ll have to shut you up myself…”

Around this same time, Ruth Hayes sat slumped on a tree stump, her feet tapping with agitation as she looked over her starving soldiers across the camp.

These poor lads, she lamented to herself, Oh how I wish I could teleport them all home to safety!  But with my haggard body as it is… she thought, looking to the Presidential Seal on her right hand, its shriveled appearance nearly matching that of her severed left arm, …I’m afraid I don’t even have enough Executive Energy to get myself out of this mess, let alone all of them.  She brought her hand to her face, closing her eyes in prayer.  Please, God; send us some help!

“We’ve got company!” a scout screamed from the outskirts of camp.

Hayes looked up, her eyes shining with tears as McKinley’s caravan rode up towards her.

“God bless you all!” she shouted, getting up and slapping Hanna on his back as he disembarked off the wagon.

Hayes turned to McKinley, her eyes focused on his severed arm and freshly formed Presidential Seal. 

“…I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done for us…” she whispered, “you’re one of the bravest and finest officers I’ve ever seen.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” McKinley replied, looking down to his injured shoulder.  “My only regret now is that I’ll have to drop out of this war before the battle has been won.”

“What?” Hayes exclaimed.  “Dropping out?  Over one measly arm?”  She waved her own stubbed arm to him with a grin.  “Lad, you’ll be moving faster than ever with all that extra weight off your shoulders!  And I assure you, once I teach you a few one-armed techniques I’ve been developing, why, you’ll see that you’ve still got plenty of fight left in you!”

McKinley smiled softly, throwing a proud salute to Hayes with his remaining arm.

“Yes ma’am!”

*             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *               *

LBJ clicked his tongue as he stared out at McKinley’s severed arm lying on the floor.

“I thought you were just a passive fool,” he snarled, “but cutting off a fake arm in order to shake up your opponent?  That’s some high-level manipulation if I’ve ever seen it.”

“Thank you!” McKinley replied sincerely.  “To tell the truth, it was rather difficult for me to keep up the act, what with me needing to purposefully slow my left arm down to match the speed of my sluggish prosthetic.”  He kicked one of the golden ornaments on his severed arm.  “In fact, I’d wager my inability to completely close this gap was what unconsciously led you to target my slower right side with all your attacks.”

“Close the gap…” LBJ widened his eyes, “you don’t mean…!”

McKinley nodded his head.

“Now that I’ve shown you my hand,” he said crouching down, “I’m done with slowing myself down!”

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McKinley Flashback II.  Rutheford Hayes was not actually one of the troops that William McKinley supplied during the Civil War, but he was one of William’s commanding officers and greatly respected what William did for his fellow troops.  The two would remain relatively close after Civil War, with Rutheford going so far as to say “I came to know [William McKinley] like a book, and love him like a brother.”

William Mckinley did not Lose an Arm.  This happening in the book is mostly just a metaphor for him ultimately choosing to embrace the gold standard rather than a gold+silver standard after straddling this issue against Bryan, and is very loosely inspired by a quote of his saying "Rather than [be nominated], I would suffer the loss of [my] good right arm.” 

Protection.  William McKinely was a strong advocate for a protective a tariff aimed at giving fledging American industries the chance to grow, with one particular industry of interest to him being tin.  William would once go so far as to say “Protection cheapens everything but men.”

Chapter Text

McKinley swung down his axe with lighting speed, slicing across LBJ’s arm before twirling his hatchet around and swinging it upwards, landing another clean hit along his opponent’s chest.  LBJ gritted his teeth at the blow and grabbed onto McKinley’s outstretched arm, locking it in place.

“You had your moment to shine with your axes already,” LBJ snarled, bringing back his fist.  “Now it’s time for my boxer rebellion!”

LBJ pummeled into McKinley’s chest with his free arm, causing his golden cross to grow ever larger.

“Even if you stop one of my limbs,” McKinley remarked as he jumped into the air, “I’ve still got two more to work with!”

McKinley thrusted out his legs, smashing LBJ’s gut and forcing him to release his arm.  LBJ snarled loudly, then thrusted out his arms, shoving McKinley’s airborne body down and pushing him to the floor.  McKinley rolled himself away, rising up before LBJ could follow up with another barrage.

“Not bad!” McKinley smirked.  “Now try this!”

McKinley placed his axe into the hole where his artificial right arm had been, locking it in place.  As he did, LBJ stepped to McKinley’s left side, throwing out a punch.  McKinley grabbed hold of LBJ’s right hand with his left and pulled it aside, diverting the attack.  McKinley then rotated himself around, cutting LBJ’s shoulder with his axe. 

“SHOOOTTT!” LBJ screamed as he readied a punch with his left. 

McKinley slid his left hand up along LBJ’s arm to his elbow, then yanked it to the side, pulling LBJ away and causing his strike to miss.  McKinley then rotated around again, landing a moderate cut to LBJ’s defenseless side.

“There it is!” Hayes grinned, “The McKinley Grip!  McKinley’s signature fighting style allowing him to land continuous attacks while destroying his opponent’s mobility!  LBJ is done for now!”

“Are you quite certain of that?” FDR asked.

“Of course I am!” Hayes replied with pride.  “I’ll admit that LBJ might be able to pull off another hit or two here if he really pushes for it, but he’d be taking some serious damage in exchange.  Even then, his attacks wouldn’t end up doing much because of McKinley’s Protective Tarriff.  In short, there’s nothing LBJ can really do now but wait for his inevitable demise!”

“Perhaps,” FDR said pressing her fingers together, “but then again, perhaps not…”

On the ground, LBJ continued spinning around as McKinley cut into him with his axe.  Finally, LBJ gritted his teeth.

“Screw this!” he exclaimed, pounding at his chest and planting himself where he stood.  “Stop all this turning around and face me head on already!”

“With pleasure!” McKinley remarked, raising up his axe before slashing it down, cutting deep across LBJ chest. 

At the same time, LBJ punched his fist into the large, golden cross flailing about McKinley’s rotating body.  His fist instantly lost its momentum upon making contact with the ornament, then continued onwards, smashing the cross directly into McKinley’s chest.

For a moment, neither fighter moved. 

Then, McKinley coughed blood.

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The McKinley Grip.  This was a special handshake developed by William McKinley to shake as many hands as possible without tiring himself out or injuring his hand.  Roughly speaking, he would pull someone’s hand to him, give a quick shake, then grab their elbow and yank them away in order to greet the next person.

Chapter Text

“…what?” McKinley asked between gasps of air as blood trickled down his lips.  “How…?”

LBJ suddenly grabbed hold of the golden cross hanging around McKinley’s neck.  He grinned, throwing it up into the air before slamming his fist down onto the necklace.

As before, his attack stopped after hitting the cross before continuing onwards, crashing into McKinley’s armor, denting it inwards.  McKinley coughed hard, shoving LBJ away as he jumped back from his opponent.

“These attacks of yours,” McKinley muttered, taking the golden cross into his quivering hand, “could it be…?”

“You said it yourself,” LBJ replied with a smirk.  “Protective Tarriff stops the momentum of any `incoming’ attacks that strike something you’re wearing.  On the other hand,” he said pressing a fist into his open palm, “if I continue with my attack while touching something you’re wearing, then it no longer counts as an `incoming’ attack, does it?”

McKinley stepped back.

“That’s…”

“That’s ridiculous!” LBJ exclaimed in a perfect imitation of McKinley’s voice.  “You had no way of knowing my EP would work that way!”

LBJ pushed his hands out in front of him.

“That’s why I shoved you earlier,” he continued in his usual voice, “and why I slammed into you when you tried spinning around; I was confirming that pushes maintained their force as long as I made them while touching your armor.”

McKinley stood still, his mouth agape.

“Does…does that…”

“Does that mean,” LBJ repeated in McKinley’s voice, “you started plotting all this the moment I carelessly told you the details of my EP!”

LBJ shook out his head.

“My planning started before the match even began.”

He pointed to a group of McKinley supporters desperately waving their tin paraphernalia in the stands.

“The moment I entered the arena and saw how much your fans loved tin,” he went on, “I decided to throw in a couple of insults at your beloved metal armor when I told you all my haphazard guesses about how your EP worked in detail.  And as I suspected,” he said with an evil grin, “that little provocation was all you needed to eagerly correct all the errors I made in my explanation!”

McKinley tried to speak, but no words came from his mouth.

“You thought you were invincible!” LBJ shouted, taking a step forward, “So you got relaxed, dropped your guard; allowing me to get in all the hits that I needed at the start of the fight!  On the other hand,” LBJ spoke, pulling back his shirt and revealing a glistening gold plate with a deep cut across its center, “I always come prepared for a fight!”

“That plate…” McKinley murmured, “…when did you?” he widened his eyes.  “When you thumped at your chest…just before our final exchange of blows…that’s when…”

McKinley stopped talking as LBJ stood directly in front of him, his enormous frame covering McKinley’s body in shadow.

“Now I reckon those attacks you just took were the first real hits you’ve felt since getting your EP, putting your entire body in a state of shock; right?” 

McKinley tried to respond, but not before LBJ snatched the necklace dangling from McKinley’s neck.

“That means you’re a man without your senses,” he continued as he tossed the cross up into the air, “and regardless of how defensive your EP might be…a man without his senses…is a man without protection…”

He shot a vile grin as he raised his arms overhead.

“…virtually helpless!” he screamed, slamming his fists down onto the floating cross.

His hands froze upon impact with the necklace, then plummeted down, smashing the cross directly into the crown of thorns atop McKinley’s helmet. 

McKinley’s body crashed onto the floor, his helmet rolling off to the side as Taft rushed to his side.  Taft gave a quick scan of his body, then raised his arm up into the air.

“The fight is over!” he exclaimed.  “The winner, is [Landslide Landon], Landon B. Johnson!”

In the stands, Hayes stared out in disbelief.

“…to set up so many traps so far in advance…” she whispered quietly, “…LBJ is truly a monster!”

“McKinley was the all-around better fighter,” FDR spoke up.  “Even at the end, he could have still turned things around if he kept his cool.”  She gave a slight smirk.  “But then he went and fell for LBJ’s final trick.” 

Hayes clicked her tongue.

“By purposefully pointing out every place McKinely went wrong, LBJ managed to take control of McKinely’s damaged psyche.  Those psychological attacks, together with his unexpected physical ones, left McKinley unable to even consider going against LBJ’s actions.”

JFK stared at McKinley’s unconscious body, then gave a light smirk.

“…way to go LBJ,” he mumbled under his breath, then ran out to the stadium halls.  “Hold my seat; I’m going to go out and congratulate LBJ on the fight!”

JFK jogged through the coliseum, spotting his ally shuffling down a neighboring hall.

“Congrats on the big win, big guy!” he shouted with glee.  “Though of course, I always knew my trusted partner was going to pull through!”

JFK walked towards LBJ, but slowed down his approach as he noticed a look of rage spread across his face.

“I saw it,” LBJ mumbled, “I saw it!” 

JFK furrowed his brow, his mind racing to the conversation he had with FDR just before the match.

“What…what all did you see, big guy?”

LBJ glared at JFK.

“Somebody was waving around a McKinley sign after I won!” he screamed, “And on my side of the arena no less!”

JFK blinked softly.

“…okay?” he replied with confusion.  “But who cares about one measly sign anyhow?  Almost everyone was cheering your name after that awesome final hit you gave!”

“Almost everyone,” LBJ snarled, “but not everyone!” 

He walked on, barely taking notice of JFK’s presence. 

“I swear…I won’t stop; not until every man, woman, and child out there is screaming my name!”

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SCHEDULE UPDATE.  From now on I’m going to shift to a schedule of posting only on Fridays in order to minimize the chances of having a hiatus.  However, if anyone who’s reading this far feels like the pacing is off with this new schedule, then I can go back to bi-weekly at the cost of needing a hiatus around the end of fight 8.

Look at that Sign!  The final scene in this chapter is a reference to a campaign trip Lyndon Johnson made on behalf of John Kennedy’s Presidential campaign.  As one colleague wrote, Johnson "jumped like was shot and told a companion `Look at that son of a bitch ! Look at that sign there!’ There was one [unfavorable] sign! It wasn't a foot high. There were thousands of signs, and that was the one he picked out.  `Goddammit look at that sign’...but that was typical Johnson...it had to be unaninmous as far as he was concerned."

Chapter Text

A woman in a steampunk outfit examined McKinley’s artificial arm with a sour expression.

“I thought I configured this piece of junk perfectly!” Hera Hoover snarled, “But you’re saying it was still giving you some lag?”

“Just a little,” McKinley replied.  “Honestly though, I’m astounded you were able to calibrate it as well as you did with hardly a day’s notice.”

Hoover gave a sharp snort.

“One sleepless night is a helluva cheap price to pay for giving one of FDR’s goons a tough time!”

McKinley shook his head.

“I really wish you’d end that petty grudge of yours…today’s enemy could be tomorrow’s friend if you give them the chance.”

“Well I’m not giving that wench any more chances!” she hissed.  “Besides, you’re not seriously planning on just forgiving LBJ after how he treated you during that match, are you?”

“I don’t see why I shouldn’t.  There’s no benefit in doing otherwise, especially if LBJ ends up winning the tournament.”

Hoover gave a scowl.

“You seriously think that brute has a shot at winning this whole thing?”

McKinley scratched his chin.

“…no…I suppose not.  After all,” he looked to the bracket, “that would require him defeating Roosevelt in the second round…”

“You seem pretty confident Roosevelt’s making it through his first match, but he’s up against Willow Wilson you know!  She’s a woman who’s reached a zenith of martial arts never known in history.  And of course, everyone here knows she’s already managed to beat Roosevelt once before.”

“I’m perfectly aware of Wilson’s abilities, as well as her previous victory over Roosevelt.  However…”

*             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *               *

“…when you defeated him,” Eisenhower spoke to Wilson, “Roosevelt was heavily injured from his fight with Taft, and you were still in the middle of your Honeymoon Period.”

“Yes, yes,” Wilson said with a dismissive wave of her hand, “I am entirely aware of the circumstances regarding my prior brawl with Roosevelt; and it is precisely these lingering critiques made by lowlife simpletons that make this fight truly worthwhile!”

She clenched her hand into a fist.

“I have an unyielding devotion to the study of martial arts…to the belief that anyone, no matter their circumstances, may grow stronger through its practice.  By defeating that savage brute Roosevelt here today with my peerless technique…I’ll show the entire world the true strength of martial arts.  In doing so, I shall usher in a new era of peace as warriors across the globe drop their respective weapons in order to harness the true strength lying within us all!”

Eisenhower shook her head.

“That’s a bold vision, Wilson; but honestly, I don’t see any way you end up coming out the winner of this match.  That being said…” she extended out her hand, “I’ll be up there rooting for you with everything I’ve got!”

“Why, what a delightful pessimist you are!” Wilson exclaimed, playfully slapping Eisenhower’s hand away as she made her way forward.  “But I have no need of such tepid encouragements to obtain victory in this match…God helping me, I can do no other!”

*             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *               *

“Welcome back everybody!” Thompson shouted, “Since the dawn of humankind, one question has remained unanswered: what matters more in a fight, power or technique?  Our next match aims to answer just this by pitting the President with the greatest martial arts up against the President with the greatest raw strength!”

She gestured to the arena.

“Our first fighter comes to us by the very hand of God!  Although she abhors war, she will not turn back on her path to victory!  She can only go forward, looking on with lifted eyes and with freshened spirit!  Some like to dismiss her as a naive idealist, but to her, that’s just proof she’s an American!  Give it up for the head of Princeton University, [The Professor], Willow Wilson!”

Wilson entered wearing black suspenders over an orange dress shirt and black tie.  Her appearance would have been indistinguishable from any other college professor, were it not for the set of lean muscles bulging from underneath her shirt.

“Our second fighter…”

The crowd erupted into screams before Thompson could finish her sentence.

“Is a man known by many names!” Thompson shouted over the sound of the raging crowd.  “He’s been called the Trust Buster!  The Driving Force!  The Dynamo of Power!  The Rough Rider!  The Hero of San Juan Hill!  The Bull Moose!  And of course, he’s known as a mighty member of Rushmore!  Give it up, for [The Man in the Arena], Theo Roosevelt!”

A thunderous roar came from the Eastern entrance as a giant black bear walked out carrying a bare-chested Roosevelt atop his back.  Roosevelt flexed his toned body to the audience as he waved to them with his left hand, his other arm wrapped tightly around a large tree trunk that rested on his shoulder.

“Before we get started,” Thompson went on, “we’d like to briefly clarify a few of the points about how our bracket was made.”

Truman gave a short nod.

“Designing the bracket was a real challenge for us.  We knew that no matter what system we used, somebody would complain if they ended up getting a lousy spot at the start.  To get around this…”  Truman pressed a button, shifting the screens in the arena to display an empty bracket.  “…we gave our fighters some freedom with how they ended up in the tournament.”

The brackets on the screens filled in with the Rushmores placed in fights 4, 8, 12, and 16, then randomly populated the rest with the remaining fighters.

“To start,” Thompson continued, “we put all the Rushmores in the spots where they are now, then filled in the rest of the slots at random.  Crucially,” she spoke as the names started moving across the screen, “we let the non-Rushmore Presidents freely trade their positions amongst themselves!”

“That way,” Truman said with a grin, “no one could say we weren’t giving them a fair deal!  And while we assumed most people would use our system to avoid facing off against the Rushmores, in actuality, each member of Rushmore was actively targeted by at least one fighter!”

“That’s right!” Thompson exclaimed.  “Willow Wilson, Ronda Reagan, Jorge Bush, and Quincy Adams all purposefully chose to face off against a Rushmore in round 1!  What do you have to say to that, Truman?”

“I suspect most of them will live to regret making such bold decisions.  The only possible exception…” he said looking down to Willow Wilson, “…might be the one fighter who’s actually beaten a Rushmore in combat before.”

Roosevelt dismounted off his bear, looking at Wilson with a grin.

“Bully!  It’s been quite some time now, hasn’t it!”

“Indeed it has,” Wilson spoke, scanning the grooves of Roosevelt’s body.  “And it appears you haven’t wasted a single second since we last met…why, the amount of muscle given to you by your EP seems to have increased by 5…maybe even 10 percent since we faced each other back then.  Truly, I didn’t think you could get any stronger than you already were.”

Roosevelt flexed his biceps with a toothy grin. 

“Almost anything is possible with enough self-discipline!”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Wilson replied, stepping back as she walked to the side.  “Executive Power: League of Nations.”

The crowd gasped as an exact duplicate of Wilson appeared directly behind her as she moved.  The original Wilson continued walking around, with additional Wilsons materializing behind her every 13 steps that she took.  By the time she circled back around, a total of 14 Wilson’s stood tall, surrounding Roosevelt in a tight loop.

“Astounding!” Roosevelt exclaimed as he looked over the crowd of Wilson’s surrounding him.  “So you can generate a full 13 clones now, can you?”

“That I can,” one of the Wilsons replied.  “And while some might say that having 13 clones is rather unlucky…”

“…in our experience,” another remarked, “we’ve always found the number 13 to bring good fortune.”

“Moreover,” a third Wilson added as the clones took their respective stances, “I doubt even a man of your strength will manage to handle a full fourteen points of attack!”

Roosevelt shook his body with visible excitement.

“Delightful, delightful, deeeeeeeelightful!”

Roosevelt turned to Taft with stars glistening in his eyes.

“Say old chap, why don’t you join us in our bout over here?  It’ll be just like old times!”

“Hard pass,” Taft snarled, slamming his gavel to the ground.

“Fine, fine,” Roosevelt remarked, lifting his tree trunk up as the Wilson’s leaned forward.  “More fun for me then!”

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Martial Arts.  Woodrow Wilson did not practice any martial arts.  Willow Wilson’s devotion to the practice is meant to be an analog of Woodrow Wilson’s devotion to education, with him in particular being the only President to ever hold a PhD.

Numerology.  The number 13 was Woodrow Wilson’s lucky number: his name had a total of 13 letters, he became Princeton’s 13^th President in his 13^th year there, and he became President of the United States in the year 1913.  The 14 clones (in addition to their connection to the number 13) are based off of Woodrow’s 14 points he made regarding terms of peace at the end of World War I.