Chapter 1: Two Star Generals

“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.