Chapter 33: Branding

“Oh, Jimmy,” Johnson cooed, waving his giant sewing needle in front of his trapped and trembling opponent. “Jimmy, Jimmy Jimmy…neither of us seem to be very popular these days, huh? Well, I guess the only thing we can do…is work…on our branding!”

Johnson jabbed his needle into Buchanan’s chest, then moved his arm up and down as he began carving out his own name across his skin.

“GAAAAHHH!” Buchanan screamed. “I SURREN—"

Johnson tightened his grip around Buchanan’s neck, cutting him off.

“WHO SAID YOU COULD QUIT?” Johnson screamed “HUH?.

Taft stepped back, holding tightly onto his gavel.

It’s obvious that Buchanan wants out, Taft thought to himself, but the rules clearly say I can’t end the match until I get a full and complete signal of surrender from him…

“You damn, sorry, aristocrats,” Johnson went on, spewing a wad of spit onto Buchanan’s face, “You think you can just stop things whenever you want to, huh?”

He pierced his needle deeper into Buchanan’s skin, inciting further cries from his muffled opponent.

“Well, us plebians don’t have the luxury just get up and leave whenever we please. Noooo sirreeeee! We gotta work…alllll the time.”

Johnson turned from Buchanan to face the audience with an expression of fiery righteous indignation.

“Ain’t I right here folks? AIN’T I RIGHT?”

The crowd met Johnson with total silence, their eyes fixated on the tears streaming down Buchanan’s sorrowful face.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” Thompson muttered, “but I think Johnson’s being too harsh on Buchanan here! Hell, this might end up being the first death of the tournament if Taft doesn’t do something soon!”

“I don’t think things will end up going that far,” Truman said with a shake of his head. “Johnson may be a degenerate man, but even he wouldn’t be so rash as to violate the Law of the Land when it comes to killing fellow Executives.”

Truman watched as Johnson continued carving his name into Buchanan.

“Still, one has to wonder…where does all this hatred of his come from…?”

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

“Daddy!” a young Andre Johnson exclaimed, “Can we go out and skip some stones?”

His dad looked to his old, rusty pocket watch with a glum expression

“Sorry, kiddo, but I have to go to work soon.”

His dad started putting away his watch when he felt a light tug at his leg. He looked down to see his son hugging his leg, his innocent, brown eyes staring straight into his soul. Johnson’s dad bit his lip, opening back his pocket watch as he did the calculations in his head.

“Alright…two minutes of skipping stones!” he smiled, ruffling his son’s hair. “Then I really have to go!”

The two rushed outside, tossing a handful of stones into the river and laughing themselves silly as they failed to bounce even a single rock across its turbulent current.

“Guess the water’s too rough for skipping today,” Johnson’s dad remarked, looking back to his watch. “Anyways, I really need to—”

“Daddy!”

His dad looked over, nearly dropping his watch in shock as he gazed at the sight in front of him.

“Dear God…” he mumbled as a luxurious kayak surged down the raging river, a group of young riders dangling desperately onto its side.

Johnson’s dad stared for a moment longer, then gave a violent shake of his head as he tossed his watch to the ground.

“Hold on!” he screamed as he leapt into the river and swam out with all the force he could muster.

He reached the toppled boat within a few seconds of heavy swimming. He grabbed onto the boat’s rim, took a deep breath, then started dragging the kayak back against the stormy current and onto the sandy banks of the shore.

The young riders dropped their hands from the boat, plopping to the ground with a mixture of deep breaths and infuriated groans.

“Dammit!” one of them shouted while wringing out his shirt, “All my limited-edition designer brands are totally ruined now!”

“You’re telling me!” another said, patting down his pockets, “I lost my favorite ring out there!”

The third survivor raised their eyebrow.

“How could you lose your ring if you were holding tightly onto the boat the whole time?”

The survivors scanned the ground around them before looking over to Johnson and his father, taking in their second-hand clothing and dirt covered faces.

“Oh, now I get it…” he spoke with a disgusted snarl. “So that’s why you were so eager to `save’ us out there, huh?” he spat on the ground. “Damn plebians…you’re all just a bunch of cowards and thieves!”

“Nuh uh!” Johnson squealed, jumping in between the boys and his dad. “My Daddy’s no thief!”

The survivor looked to his dad with a mixture of fury and disgust.

“…whatever,” one of the boys grumbled, looking to his smart watch with a frown. “We’ve wasted enough time in this hick town anyways; let’s get the hell out of here already.”

The boys got up and marched off without bothering to give the Johnsons another glance.

“Daddy,” Johnson asked quietly, “what’s a ple…ple…plebian?”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, that’s for sure,” he muttered, watching the boys trail away as he knelt down to pick up his discarded pocket watch, “especially when compared to its potential alternative…”

His dad gave a heavy cough, then looked down to check the time.

“Shoot, I’m super late now!”

He sprinted off down the road, his soggy wet clothes slowing him down as he ran.

“Go and head home without me, Andre!” he shouted back to his son, “We can play some more after I get back!”

“Promise?”

“Promise!”

Johnson smiled to himself, putting a soft skip into his step as he headed back home. He played by the front door the rest of the day, patiently waiting for his father’s return. It was only later on that Johnson would learn that his father was never coming back…

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Rules clearly say. William Taft had a habit of following the law to the letter, a trait which annoyed many people, most notably his predecessor and former friend Theodore Roosevelt.