Chapter 31: The Worst of The Worst

Thompson tapped her fingers on her desk with a scowl.

“…nothing?” she asked.

“Nuttin,” Truman replied.

Thompson growled to herself as she picked up her mic from the desk.

“Hello everybody,” she spoke with a fake smile through tightly gritted teeth, “please bear with us for just a little longer while we continue working through our…technical difficulties.”

Thompson switched off her mic, biting into a cigarette as she rubbed her fingers into her forehead.

“Wait a second!” Truman exclaimed, grabbing at his earpiece. “They’ve finally managed to found Johnson!” He continued listening in for a while, his smile dropping with each word he heard. “But it seems like his fighting condition is…questionable, at best.”

“I don’t give a crap about his fighting condition! Tell him he’s going on in five and that’s that!”

She took another drag of her cigarette, then crushed it in a fist.

“And while you’re at it: go and tell Buchanan I’ll do him a favor and give Johnson’s introduction first. But if that punk still hasn’t gotten me his bios before Johnson is out, then I’m just going to go and make something up for him on the spot!”

Truman nodded his head, relaying the messages before leaning back down in his chair. The commentators waited together in silence as the seconds on Truman’s watched ticked by. Then, exactly at the five minute mark, Truman shot a thumbs up.

“Alright…” Thompson muttered as she grabbed at her mic. “Hello everybody! I’m happy to announce that we’re now officially ready to start up the next match!”

The crowd gave a tepid applause to Thompson’s enthusiastic words.

“This fight features two of the most hated Presidents of all time! Our first fighter, coming from the Eastern entrance,” she emphasized with just a hint of disdain, “is the former second in command of the National Union Party! A disagreeable man by nature, he ran away from his Party after committing serving up an unexpected betrayal at the end of the Civil War. Some say he’s been hiding in the Alaskan wilderness ever since, waiting for the chance to strike back at his former enemies! Let’s hear it, for [The Tennessee Tailor], Andre Jackson!”

The crowd booed as Johnson staggered into the arena. His large body was covered in stitches, and he carried a rapier-sized sewing needle in his left hand. However, the only thing the audience took notice of was the bottle of whiskey pressed firmly to his lips.

“Jesus Christ,” Thompson muttered as Johnson stumbled over himself, “I didn’t realize he was that drunk…”

Johnson continued inching forward in the arena, making it about halfway before stopping altogether. He looked around with confusion, then turned to Taft, gesturing to him with an exaggerated wave of his arm. Reluctantly, Taft made his way over.

“What do you—”

Johnson lunged forward, grabbing Taft’s microphone from out of his hands.

“I AM NOT FIT TO BE HERE!” he bellowed into the mic, startling the audience. “I ought not to have left my home, as…as…as I was recovering from an attack of typhoid fever!”

Taft reached his hands for his microphone, but Johnson jerked away as he continued to rant towards the crowd.

“But Mr. Truman phoned me!” he shouted, pointing vaguely in Truman’s direction. “As did other friends saying I must be here! And so, I came!”

Taft grabbed at Johnson’s shoulder, locking him in place long enough for him to snatch back the mic with his free hand. Johnson turned to Taft with a soft smile as he raised his bottle into the air.

“And now, if you don’t mind,” he went on, “I will take some more whiskey; as I need all the strength for the occasion that I can have!”

Johnson gulped the rest of his drink down, then threw his bottle across the arena, shattering it across the ground.

“Well…” Thompson spoke, “that certainly was something…”

Someone walked up behind Thompson. She looked back, spotting a Secret Service agent holding a hastily written note out in front of them.

“Finally,” Thompson muttered, grabbing the letter from their hands. “For his opponent…” she spoke while trying to decipher the scribbles scattered across the note, “we have a man who is…very strong…and very smart…and to all the ladies out there…he’s also very…very single…”

Thompson blinked. She turned the parchment over and over again, looking for anything she might have missed. But no, that was it.

This idiot seriously wasted all of our time just for that…

Thompson shook her head, crumpling the card and tossing it to the ground.

“Anyways,” she grumbled, “he’s [10-cent Jimmy], Jim Buchanan.”

Nothing happened for a moment. Finally, a frustrated Secret Service agent shoved a frail looking man with a dough face out of the entranceway and onto the arena floor.

Jim Buchanan dusted himself off, then nervously looked to the crowd with his beady little eyes as he shuffled on ahead. He bit into the nails on his right hand, his left holding tightly onto a small, metal slingshot.

“Well folks,” Thompson continued, “I don’t think anyone here is going to be happy with whoever ends up winning the match,” she put on a light grin. “But hey; at least we can all a little bit of joy in watching on as the loser gets the crap brutally beaten out of them!”

She flipped off her mic.

“And personally,” she muttered under her breath, “I hope it’s Buchanan!”

Taft eyed the two fighters. Neither of them seemed particularly ready to start, but then again, they probably never would. He took in a deep breath, lifting his gavel into the air.

“Let the match…begin!”

Taft crashed his hammer onto the ground, startling Buchanan at the sudden noise.

“W-wait a second!” Buchanan stuttered, “Could we w-wait just a m-moment t-t-to—”

Johnson let loose a monstrous howl, shutting Buchanan off.

“Let’s dooooo thissss!” he screamed, charging straight at Buchanan, stumbling over himself as he ran.

“B-b-but; but I’m not ready yet!”

“Tooooo baaaad!”

Buchanan gave a high-pitched squeal.

“Ex-ex-ex-ex—!” Buchanan stammered. As he tried to speak, a set of metal chains shot out the ground, wrapping themselves around Johnson’s wrist, jerking him back.

“Huh?” Johnson mumbled as he tried moving himself forward, oblivious to the restraints holding him back. Buchanan let out a great sigh of relief.

“Executive P-power,” he mumbled, “Dred Sc-scott!”

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Johnson’s Drunken Entrance. This is based off of Andrew Johnson’s real display of drunkness at his inauguration as Abraham Lincoln’s VP. In particular, he really did say “I am not fit to be here, and ought not to have left my home, as I was slow recovering from an attack of typhoid fever. But Mr. Lincoln telegraphed me, as did other friends, that I must be here, and I came,” and after pouring himself another glass he said “I will take some more of the whiskey, as I need all the strength for the occasion I can have.”