#people in this country have always been in bed with rich industrialists

[imwritesometimes]

Very interesting little blurb abt cheetolini's obsession with president mckinley made two things immediately clear

1) this con artist has really never had an original thought before in his life. I mean we knew this but come on!

2) what a strange president to want to emulate given his uhhhhhhhhh ultimate fate 👀

[ecotone99]

[HF] Ambition, Whiskey and a Bar Fight

The Kid

The sun. Inescapable. Not a cloud in the sky on this day. Mother earth thrashing her rays about all her creation. This fucking heat. Relentless and thick. The Kid could taste it, feel it engulf him as he rode through the plain. Sweat trickling down into his eyes, and onto his lips, tasting the salt. Absolute silence except for the sound of the horse huffing and puffing in this fever, and the slight, dull screech of the sun and its heat. The hoofs, continuously smacking dry, crumbly land. The poor beast with an oversized, hairless, sweating humanoid monkey on his back and supplies strapped to his sides.

But the heat was a minor obstacle in the grand scheme of things. The Kid had his reasons. He was on a mission. You could even call it a personal revolution. A mantra. A mantra that never escaped his mind nor his dreams. A mantra that destroyed the traditional career path he had perfectly lined up. A mantra that frayed his personal relationships, including his beautiful girl. Anyone The Kid was with eventually knew they were second to his ambition. Who knows what else kind of damage he may have done for this cause. Taken years off his life, that’s for sure.

Gold Rush.

The entire country has been feening for the shining rock. Stories of grand wealth spread like wildfire through The Kid’s city and eventually he became an addict himself. Usually it was the poor, or stupid who would actually pack their bags and ride West. Not people like The Kid. He had a bright future in front of him and all saw that. Educated, from a middle class, respected family, good looking too. The Kid was the assistant to an industrialist, a railroad man to be exact. The Industrialist was a fierce, focused man himself but he respected The Kid, he valued The Kid’s contributions and frequently he would tell him that there was a future for him here. He had a cookie cutter path envisioned for the young, smart, ambitious protege that perfectly outlined each step and the compensation along the way. It was good money, but it was never enough. And money didn’t mean adventure and it didn’t even necessarily mean glory. The Kid wanted more.

The Industrialist explained to the Kid, “Western Expansion is the future. That is easy to see. That’s why we will be building these tracks. But everyone going out there, into the wild, into the unknown, they are taking on too much risk, too much uncertainty, too many variables. That is not good business. Calculated risks, Kid. Run the books, don’t be beholden to outside forces that determine your fate. Take risks, but try to harness your destiny. You can’t control a hurricane but you’d still build a strong roof, right? Remember that Kid.”

And even frying underneath the sun riding on this fucking plain, The Kid did remember that. The conversation defined him. It was the seed that created the mantra. The Kid wasn’t going to mine the gold, he knew that was a fat failure waiting to happen. Instead he was going to supply the nation. Be it’s enabler. Pickaxes, hammers, chisels, shovels, boots, chewing tobacco, whiskey. He will be the one stop shop all the miners need to do their business properly. Find the right location, build the store and the empire will blossom itself.

Some people dream of becoming President of the United States or leading a political revolution in France, but not The Kid. When he closed his eyes on top of that horse, underneath this fucking heat, he sees the stores with his name, tall and proud, swarming with people. Expansion. Start off with 1, then 5, 10, why not 20. Then one day, he would build a house on a ridge that overlooked his portfolio, his empire and drink whiskey and admire it. That to him seemed prettier than a sunset could ever be. To overlook his own creation that all started from beginnings like this, riding through the heat on this fucking plain.

But even with strap fueled ambition, and purpose, everyone needs a rest, and finally a town emerged in front of The Kid. So he re-directed his companion and went to the town. The thought of a bed with clean sheets sounded heavenly right now and some whiskey wouldn’t be bad of course either.

The Drunkard

Ambition is a double edged sword. You hear about the victories, the riches, the women and the glory. You see the names on the buildings and the statues of great men erected in city centers and even holidays named after these heroes we choose to idolize. Even more glorious are the battles they went through to accomplish those goals and what it took to create the empires they now own. The fruits of ambition are endless and marvelous. But how many men fall for every man that rises? Ambition destroys more than we would like to admit. They don’t teach you that as a kid, but instead you celebrate the heroes and you are told anything is possible and the world is your oyster. But the world is not the story book ending for everyone. Failure comes for many, and its grip once it gets around your neck can be tight, cold, and unrelenting. Those that put forth more effort seem to get their necks choked even harder when they falter.

There at the saloon, sat The Drunkard and he had his neck wrung harder than anyone in this town had seen.

The Drunkard grew up from very little. His dad was a laborer on a pig farm, his mother unknown. She left long ago, in the middle of the night, most likely to seek a better life, a better man but who really knows. His dad was an abusive drunk, ugly as sin and mean as all hell. The Drunkard always figured he was an only child because who else would fuck this poor, dumb man. But Drunkard held onto his hope. The owner of the pig farm, his father’s employer, was a tycoon. Rumor had it he owned 8 farms throughout the county and this one was the smallest. He rode up on his carriage and would get out in his pristine coat, top hat and shiny shoes. The Drunkard knew that one day he wanted to be this man.

Years passed by, his Dad died, and the Pig Tycoon got richer. The Drunkard worked at the pig farm as soon as he could. Every day he would approach the Pig Tycoon and try to curry favor and express his eagerness to be more. To be like him. And every day the Pig Tycoon would spit at him, tell this field rat to get away from him. Eventually The Drunkard realized he didn’t need that pig fucker anyways. Just like the greats in the past he would build his empire from pennies into Rome. So he worked and he saved. He accumulated enough money and then one day he told the Pig Tycoon he had enough of his bullshit and he quit. After giving his notice, he marched out of Pig Tycoon’s big, clean house and went to the market and bought his own pigs. He was going to take his skills and start it himself. This town needed a little competition anyways he reckoned.

Starting a business isn’t easy and The Drunkard found this out just like all other entrepreneurs before him but that didn’t bother him. He loved the daily fight. He could see the growth of his operation physically every day and that made his chest swirl with warmth and fire. His successes, some big and some small, became a drug to him, a drug that fueled him with energy to keep growing and pushing for more. He knew his mission. He wanted to grow larger and larger and then one day spit on the Pig Tycoon himself.

As the town itself grew, so did The Drunkard’s business. More restaurants popped up and they needed more bacon and ham. He distributed fair prices and timely deliveries. His meat was nicely packaged, clean and often generous in their portions. His customers respected him. The Drunkard began to reckon he had a knack for this. He had a couple of Chinese running the butcher shop at cheap labor rates slicing the meat, and some boys cleaning the shit in the styes. He would sit back in the office running the books, lightly sip some whiskey but never too much with things in control. He was often seen in town trying to find new buyers. Known as a tenacious but respectful salesman.

It wasn't anything crazy, but he was proud of what he accomplished and all he built. A rags to riches story. Something his future kids would be proud of. Something the town could look up to and truly believe that with some ambition, gumption, and a fighter’s heart anything truly is possible in this country.

But as we foreshadowed before, The Drunkard was one of those to be sliced by ambitions blunt end and then grasped by failure’s ice cold fingers around the neck for the finishing blow. Failure rode up in the form of Pig Tycoon in his fancy carriage and his perfect attire. Failure placed a laughable offer on his desk and told him congratulations on all he achieved but now it’s time to quit and to be happy with what he’s getting today. Failure in his top hat and white gloves told him he found out about his little operation and had made a deal with all the other buyers in this town. The Pig Tycoon informed him of the new price he was offering his customers and The Drunkard knew it was simply impossible for him to match. No one in their right mind would buy from him again.

It took two months and one week for the Pig Tycoon to stomp on this little fire of competition that was beginning to grow in his jungle. And just like that The Drunkard went from a fearless conqueror to a broken man. Just another limp corpse for Failure to consume. From that day on, little by little Failure nibbled on his prey, getting closer and closer to the bone.

So now there The Drunkard sat at the saloon, drunk once again. Whiskey shot after whiskey shot. Dead inside with nothing to live for except another drink. His soul escaped him and he had given up searching for it long ago.

The Kid entered the saloon, chest out with a halo of energy around him, not making much effort to be quiet or show any lack of confidence. The Drunkard put his soulless, drunk eyes on him and little spurts of anger went through him. That is all he could really feel these days, so he was ready to ride that brief twang of emotion. Let’s see where I can take this, he thought.

Bar Fight

It’s funny how people often think bar fights actually start from anything except pure madness or stupidity. Drunk. Angry. Why not fight? It’s the perfect cocktail of masculine aggression and foolishness. Throw in this heat and anything is possible. So does it really matter how or why The Kid and The Drunkard brawled at the saloon? Really it wasn’t anything eloquent except a drunk, beaten man telling a young, handsome boy that he hated his face and that he talked like a pussy. Do you really expect bar fights to be much more than that? All you have to know is that The Drunkard put his arms behind his back trying to provoke the Kid to hit him. When that didn't work the Drunkard dropped his own pants, put his penis between his legs and pranced around like he had a cooch. The Kid actually found that amusing and claimed it was the best pussy he had seen in weeks, but to be clear, the only pussy too. The other attendees of the bar looked at The Drunkard in dismay and disgust yelling and asking what the fuck was he doing.

The Kid took a shot of whiskey while The Drunkard did his dance but soon enough it was real when the first punch hit The Kid’s face square in the jaw, spraying blood and whiskey across the wooden, dusty bar top.

The Drunkard was a complete disgrace at this point throughout the town, but these seemingly weekly bar tassels were some of the best entertainment the townsfolk would ever get, so for that they appreciated him. Hooting and hollering the bar rats formed a circle around the two. The Kid still perplexed at what the fuck was going on and grabbing his face knew he was in one weird, fucking town. So he grabbed The Drunkards whiskey glass out of his bumbling hands, shot it down and said “well let’s fucking do this” and off the two men went. The crowd erupted and the bartender, seeing an opportunity, immediately started shouting odds and collecting bets. “Who do you all got you boys, is our idiot finally going to win one? I think he just might, this pretty boy looks like a soft ass Yankee to me!” yelled the bartender, as the crowd laughed even more as the two men threw each other across the bar, knocking down tables and chairs.

Both edges of the sword of ambition brought these two souls together and it's hard to imagine what reason other than just sheer amusement. The Drunkard thinking of his once beautiful pigs and the Kid fighting and swinging knowing this is just another obstacle for him to get through to build his gleaming stores. Maybe Failure felt that if he could smash the dead soul he once consumed into this new, young energy it could zap his glowing ambition and then Failure could rub his death into him. Maybe Failure thought if he could bring them together then he could get his fingers around this young, eager, juicy neck. But perhaps Failure and the blunt edge of Ambition couldn’t really control the absurdity of a bar fight as much as they thought. Because after The Kid punched The Drunkard in the nose with a powerful blow. The direct contact of the knuckles onto The Drunkard’s cartilage made a cracking noise that made the crowd give a loud, collective gasp. The blood started gushing down his face and all over his teeth. Enough was enough and he waved his hand in the air in defeat.

Half the crowd rushed The Kid patting him on the back and the other half yelled in disgust at the money they just lost. The Kid huffing and puffing, but smiling a little too hard, also had some blood running down from right above his eye. The Drunkard looked at him and gave a big goofy, red smeared smile, “so what brings you to town?” The Kid erupted with laughter and the entire bar joined him. The bartender jumped over the bar and filled both men’s glasses full of whiskey. They cheers’d, took shots and the bartender raised both their hands. The bar erupted even more. “BITCH! Play the piano!” the bartender yelled and lively music filled the venue. With blood still gushing down his face and into his mouth and down his throat, The Drunkard looked at the kid and suddenly felt something inside him that he hadn’t felt in years. He felt some energy again. He knew the entire bar could feel it too. The energy was pulsating from this Kid, the room seemed brighter and it seemed everyone wanted to be around him. He was going somewhere. It was obvious. The Drunkard could feel Failure sulking back into the corner for the first time in years. He felt a fire brewing in his stomach. He wasn’t sure if it was the whiskey but it reminded him of his very first pig. Something had arrived at this town and he did not want it to go. The Kid was fucking contagious.

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