The Sons of Immigrants: The Hilliard Administration

[Cabbage]

...ADAM HILLIARD!

[Cabbage]

November 9, 1932
Columbia, South Carolina

Adam Hilliard waved to the crowd of adoring supporters as he made his way to the podium. Steele had proven to be a far greater challenge to overcome that had been initially anticipated, but, in the end, the American people had decided that they wanted a nation where, while capitalism wasn't allowed to run hog wild, it wasn't going to get trampled under socialist jackboots, either.

They also wanted a country where every honest white man could find a job, without worrying about others undercutting them by offering themselves up for pennies a day.

On both counts, Hilliard meant to provide.

"My fellow Americans, I'd like to thank you not only on my behalf, but on yours. You chose not to hand the keys of the Executive Mansion over to a delusional borderline-Communist who believes that the answer to a slow economy is to slow it down further! You chose not to elect a despot who would rule like a king, as he already does in St. Paul, but a man firmly committed to American ideals at any cost! You chose to make our country thrive again, as it once did. I promise you, you will not be disappointed on that front!

"Our nation was founded and built up by great men: George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Andrew Jackson; men who fought for what they knew was right, and everyone else's thoughts be damned! I shall continue to fight their good fight as your President for these next four years! Thank you!"

As he walked back away from the podium, Evelyn took his arm. "Adam, you were wonderful. I could see those reporters simply gushing over your every word!"

Ignoring the fact that all of them are from around here, and so would have loved to have stuck their ballots in the mouth of Steele's severed head, Hilliard thought to himself. Outwardly, he smiled at his wife, and kissed her for the cameras.

The press ate up every second.

November 10, 1932
Berlin, Germany

Heinrich Himmler barely suppressed a laugh at Goebbels's girlish squeal of delight when he heard that Hilliard had won the American presidential election. For months, the Naso (never "Nazi" around Goebbels) leader had been parroting the Senator from South Carolina, hoping and praying that America would have the good sense to reinforce him by putting Hilliard in the White House. It had been a risky plan (particularly after Hilliard had foolishly attacked his premier opponent, Joseph Steele, at one of his rallies), but it had paid off, and the Nasos had jumped far ahead in the polls for the upcoming March elections.

"A majority, Heinrich! We'll have a majority, and a big one, too! Just you wait!" The little politician was practically jumping on his chair in pure ecstasy. Which, of course, didn't mean he was wrong. Projections ranged anywhere from 400 to 500 seats for the Nasos in the Reichstag, with the Communists being left in the cold. Yes, 1933 was looking to be a very good year for Josef Goebbels.

And am I not just the luckiest boy in the world to be joining him for it?

December 16, 1932
The White House, Washington, D.C.

Herbert Hoover was not fond at all of the man the American people had chosen to succeed him.

Oh, Hilliard had more economic sense than Joe Steele by a country mile, but the things he said about minorities...even Hoover, who'd basically slammed Catholics in 1928 to win a few Southern states, didn't think Hilliard was quite screwed together right. Furthermore, the man seemed entirely too eager to be taking control of a country so thoroughly battered. I wasn't this happy when Cal and I did this back in '28, he thought to himself, and the economy was showing no signs of weakness back then.

Regardless of his opinions on Hilliard's exclusionary views or the man's entirely too effervescent demeanor, however, Hoover knew he had to be courteous for as long as his successor was here, especially given Hilliard's sparkling reputation with the press (even his attempts to use the Klan to sabotage the election hadn't done him that much damage).

"So, Senator, have you decided on a Cabinet?"

"Mm?" Hilliard muttered. He was staring at a portrait of Andrew Jackson, the iconic one by Ralph E. W. Earl from 1835. "Oh, yes. All fine men, I assure you. And hopefully more attentive ones, to notice if the economy's going to take another lick."

Hoover reddened. Hilliard was quite the sore winner, and with Steele having retreated with his tail between his legs, the bearer of the brunt of Hilliard's arrogant quips was apparently going to be his predecessor. "I suppose I did, Senator. A shame my Cabinet was fool enough to believe everything would right itself."

"It certainly is, Mr. President. Now, regarding the Oval Office...might we see inside? I'd love to get a good idea of how I want to decorate it."

Hoover normally would have thought that sounded a bit...fastidious, but he remembered that Hilliard was a failed applicant to the New York Academy of Art, and that'd he'd painted houses in nearby Newark until the Great War broke out. "As you wish, Senator."

Hoover was surprised when Hilliard spread his arms upon entering the Oval Office, as if in supplication. He was downright startled when Hilliard began to laugh. "Mine, finally mine," the Senator muttered to himself. "Not bad for an upjumped housepainter, eh? Not bad at all!"

Hoover smiled at that, if for no other reason than to ease the discomfort his companion was inspiring in him. "This, my dear Senator, is where you will sit and be blamed for the Depression for four years."

Hilliard smirked at that, then moved across the room. Before Hoover could stop him, the man had sat himself quite comfortably behind the President's desk. Does this man know no humility? Hoover bristled to himself as Hilliard grinned at him.

"No, Mr. President. This is where, in the next four years, I'm going to end the Depression, and do so much more besides."

[Cabbage]

March 4, 1933
Capitol Hill, Washington, D.C.

Adam Hilliard was in heaven.

The crowd roared if he even so much as approached the stage upon which, in mere moments, he would take the oath of office. He waved energetically to the crowd, simultaneously letting the photographers from the papers get a photo of the youngest man ever elected President. All publicity was good publicity, positive, negative, or trivial.

Tens of thousands had turned out for this momentous occasion, including, Hilliard noted, a number of men in white, pointed hats. They went unmasked, as he had ordered them to, to show they no longer needed fear government interference with their quest.

Hilliard's running mate, Senator Lewis from Illinois (a godsend from a state with 29 electoral votes), looked somewhat nervously at these additions, clearly fearing that some sort of pandemonium was about to break out. Hilliard didn't blame him; he'd made sure that the Klan was most fervent in its support. However, today was a day of celebration, not of confrontation.

Hoover, meanwhile, looked as though he'd been sucking lemons all morning. Your party's dead, old boy, Hilliard thought to himself. It's my country now. He sent the soon-to-be former President a smug look, which Hoover responded to with a look of contempt. Sadly, however, a well-placed cameraman happened to snap a photo of the moment. It never hurt to cover your hind end.

Seeing that the President had perceived the slight (and not wanting a scene to break out), Chief Justice Charles Evans Hughes called everyone's attention to himself. "It is time for the swearing in!"

Vice President Charles Curtis and Senator Lewis walked up onto the stage together, and faced each other. Both men raised their right hands, and Lewis repeated after Curtis.

"I, James Hamilton Lewis, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter. So help me God."

The crowd roared as the two shook hands and descended. Curtis's expression was one of relief, while Lewis's was one of pride mixed with the concern he had shown earlier. Hilliard gave him a comforting expression (he'd gotten good at them over the past year), and prepared for his own turn on the stage.

Hughes's expression was not so different from Lewis's, as he, too, had noticed the significant number of Klansmen in the crowd. Hilliard leaned over to him, whispering "They'll behave, or it'll be their asses, I assure you." Hughes gave a small sigh of relief at that, and had put on a forced smile as they reached the front of the stage. Hilliard raised his right hand, and repeated after Hughes:

"I, Adam Hilliard, do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States, and will, to the best of my ability, protect, preserve, and defend the Constitution of the United States, so help me God."

Uproarious cheers shook the National Mall below. A few Rebel yells joined the chaos, as well, but Hilliard made no move to silence them. Nearly all of these men had listened to the grandpappies' stories of fighting the Yanks, he had no doubt; let them have their fun, so long as no trouble came of it.

As Hughes returned to his seat, however, even the most jovial crowd members silenced themselves, eager to hear the words of their chosen leader.

"My fellow Americans, our country is in tatters. For three and a half years now, our economy has been in the toilet, all thanks to lax regulations on the stock market, as set up by the Republican regime that has dominated this country since the end of the Great War."

At this, Hilliard puffed out his chest, showing off the three medals he'd won in that war: two Purple Hearts flanking a Medal of Honor.

"I only served for a year, but my friends always said I fought like a man possessed. And I was possessed, by a love of country and a determination to protect it from the grip of the tyranny experienced in Germany, Austria, Turkey, and Bulgaria. My father was from Austria, ironically, so I spoke enough German to know that the Kaiser was starving his people to win the war. I gave a couple of chunks of flesh to stop that horror from claiming the world as its own, but so many of my brethren gave more.

They gave their lives so America could be free of tyranny, so she could prosper, as is only her right as the greatest country on Earth!"

The people roared their approval of this statement; undoubtedly, many had brothers, sons, fathers, or husbands who'd given their lives "over there" themselves.

"However, our greed became too great, and like Icarus before us, we fell. However, unlike Icarus, we can rise again. We will rise again! This Depression is not what our country is; we are stronger! We have millions of men with strong backs, and I had millions of jobs to give them! Highways, power plants, scientific advancement, all need strong men with strong views who built a strong nation, and are they going to get them?"

The crowd hollered affirmation.

"Our country will return to its former glory, and, by electing me your President, you have shown that you want it to do so now, rather than later! So, that's what you're getting!"

As the crowd sent up raucous cheers, Hilliard stepped down from the stage. The police cordon held the crowd back (narrowly) as it surged forward. Hughes, Hoover, and Lewis were sweating like pigs despite the March chill, but Hilliard didn't mind. Let the people come. They were his countrymen, his constituents, his people.

And he intended to make them the greatest people on Earth.

[Cabbage]

March 5, 1933
Berlin, Germany

Josef Goebbels had invited the entirety of the NSDAP leadership to his apartment to listen to the election results as they came in. The Nasos were incredibly close to an outright majority, and the night was promising, as the American President had eagerly endorsed the Nasos in an interview the week before. As results began to come in, Heinrich Himmler produced a rare smile. By the looks of it, the Nasos were set to win in a rout. They were polling more than 50% nationwide (an astonishing feat in a country with so many parties), and had already won half the territory-based seats, with more almost assuredly on the way.

***

They called the election almost before anyone could get drunk (and not for lack of effort on the parts of some). Goebbels himself had wisely chosen to abstain tonight, in case any radio channels called in to interview him. A few years ago, that would have seemed foolhardy, but times had changed dramatically since the Great War.

As it was, Goebbels dinged a spoon against his wine glass; that failing to quiet the now quite raucous room, the newly-minted Chancellor proceeded to bang his fist on the table (a fine mahogany piece, from a Hilliard supporter in Tennessee).

"Gentlemen, may I propose a toast?"

"Please do!" shouted some of the more inebriated members of the party leadership.

Smiling through the laughter, Goebbels raised his glass. "To a new Germany, one in which no pure German can be reduced to poverty and crime, one in which all of Europe accedes to our superiority, one in which the Treaty of Versailles is destroyed, as the mistake it truly was!"

People, regardless of level of sobriety, cheered at this. Goebbels downed his glass in a single pull, sparking laughter from several Bavarian Members-elect. There was laughter and merriment, and why not? Germany was finally going to be great again.

April 1, 1933
The White House, Washington, D.C.

"Those little sons of-"

Vice President Lewis tugged nervously at his collar. President Hilliard was in one of his trademark fits of rage, the ones that had earned him the reputation as a great emotional speaker. They also earned him the reputation of being an absolute terror in private life.

"They think that they can hide behind the separation of powers clause forever? Ha! Their time will come, all right, just wait for it, Hamilton. I'll rip them to shreds! I'll go on a speaking tour denouncing them as far-right wingnuts! I'll make the people see the error of those old goats' ways! I'll...I'll..."

Seeing that the President had finally worn himself down, Lewis finally deemed it time to speak his mind. "Mr. President, the people already see quite clearly the obstrucionism rife within the Supreme Court. From New York to San Francisco, they're demanding the decision be reversed. You'd be wasting your time firing them up."

Hilliard snorted. "You can never waste your time firing up your base, Hamilton. Because once they're fired up, they'll do anything you say, and you and I both know that, here in America, anything means anything."

Lewis couldn't say he liked the look in the President's eyes just then: a look that seemed to suggest he was seeing not the Oval Office and his second-in-command, but a throne room, in which he sat the throne, while the Supreme Court groveled before him in chains, men in white robes and pointed hats pointing shotguns at them, awaiting the order. It was a look of pure insanity.

Then it passed, and Lewis breathed easier. "We can win this, Hamilton. For the sake of America, we have to win this. If those old b------s win, we're sunk, and so is the country. This Depression cannot be broken out of without government intervention!" He slammed his fist on the table, and sank into his chair, his hair a mess.

"This is all those d--n k---s' fault," he muttered. "If they hadn't ruined the economy, we'd still be living in happy days, and I'd still be in the Senate, without a care in the world. Why did they have to f--k us with their own greed, why?"

Lewis, personally, believed that it was far more than a few Jews who had sunk the economy by speculating on the stock market, but he'd learned over the past few months that to try to argue with Hilliard on the subject of race was a good way to get oneself fired on the spot. Harry Truman had been one of those; a good man from Missouri, and a fine judge, in Lewis's opinion. Then he'd gotten into it with Hilliard on race, and his odds of being reconfirmed to the county court weren't pretty. And that hadn't even been a big argument: all Truman had suggested was for Hilliard to tone down the rhetoric a little, so as to prevent black folks from across the nation from rioting out of fear for their lives.

Lewis suddenly realized the President had been talking while he was thinking, but it fortunately turned out that he'd been going on another one of his race rants, and so had been mostly talking to himself. The Vice President, seeing that he was no longer needed, asked to be excused, and was granted the opportunity.

As he walked out, he saw a small, unassuming man walk into the President's office after him. He did a double take to confirm what he was seeing.

What the hell is Bill Simmons doing seeing President Hilliard?

[MASHED POTATOES. VOTE!]

"Nasos"

I'm dead.

[Cabbage]

April 1, 1933
The White House, Washington, D.C.

William J. Simmons was grinning from ear to ear as he walked into the Oval Office. Those d--n n----r-lovers always said I wouldn't amount to snuff. Shows them!

President Hilliard smiled pleasantly at the founder of the current incarnation of the Ku Klux Klan, and why shouldn't he? As a personal adviser, Simmons felt he deserved a little dignity.

"Bill, sit down. It's great to see you, old boy. How've you been?"

"Fine, thanks, Mr. President. I'd be better for a little liquid courage, though."

Hilliard made a face. At first Simmons was confused, so the President elaborated. "Mr. Simmons, alcohol is illegal in this country, and I have no intention of repealing that law."

Simmons smiled and nodded quickly, while internally cursing his luck. Why'd the reasonable guy have to be such a stick in the mud? Taking the hint, however, Simmons seized upon the first opportunity to change the subject. "So, why did you want to see me again, sir?"

"Mr. President, if you please." Yes, Simmons had pushed a button there, all right.

"Yes, sorry, Mr. President. Why did you want to see me, Mr. President?"

"To discuss one of my campaign promises. The one involving certain...necessary removals of persons."

Simmons's grin returned at that. "Oh, I and my associates have been quite eager to discuss that with you, Mr. President. Quite eager, indeed."

Hilliard smiled at that, but it was the smile of a father who'd just told his son he could buy a candy stick at the drugstore: it was not the smile of a man regarding his equal, but a man bemused by another's excitement. Simmons hid his flustering well, however, and merely waited for the President's verbal response.

"As you know, I cannot possibly expand the government sufficiently to cover the needs an effort such as this will require, so I'll need some...volunteers for the effort."

Whereas previously Simmons would have been bouncing up and down with gleeful offers of assistance, he now saw that the President looked down on such sycophancy. And so he merely nodded and said, "I believe that can be arranged, Mr. President."

Hilliard didn't react strongly, either. "Excellent. Now, who did you have in mind to lead the effort?"

Simmons might have been offended, had he not known this was coming. The President wanted to cover his ass, and so it was paramount that his advisers do the same. As a result, until it could be made government policy, collecting and exterminating minorities would be a strictly private endeavor with no more government backing than a suspiciously low prosecution rate.

"Oh, he's a fine man, Mr. President. Served as a pilot in the War; ace and everything. Harry, get in here! The President wants to meet you!"



Simmons had always known Harry Gore was a man for first impressions, but was the dagger really necessary? Hilliard eyed it nervously. "All right, Mr. Big Man. Put the knife on the chest over there."

Gore, who'd hoped to enter with some level of bearing, sagged with the realization that the President was unimpressed, and his boss annoyed. As he went to do as the President asked, Simmons whispered to Hilliard, "I promise he's a lot better than this, usually. Probably just wanted to make himself look important enough to qualify for the job."

"If you say he's qualified, Bill, I trust you, but Mother of God."

Harry Gore, admonished, joined the other two men at the President's desk. Seeing no free chair, he stood (a sign of obedience in a man of his girth; it was doubtful he still fit in his plane these days). The President greeted him, and the two began discussions of the plans as they were to unfold. As the details began to come out, however, Hilliard turned to Simmons. "Thank you for bringing Harry here, Bill; you're free to go."

Simmons nodded and smiled as he walked out, annoyed though he was on the inside. I can't be trusted with the glorious retaking of the United States for its rightful white masters? What the hell kind of operation does this Hilliard joker think he's running? And so, as he took a cab back home, Bill Simmons began to wonder just how he could weasel his way back into the President's good graces.

April 21, 1933
New York City, New York

"The Klan did what?"

Ed Sullivan could barely believe his ears. The reports had been coming in for several minutes now, but they were simply too astonishing to read. Klan Runs Amok in South Carolina, Drags Blacks from Their Homes; Klan Attack in Southwestern Georgia Kills 100; Klan Strikes Hard in Alabama. The list went on and on in a seemingly endless wave of racist carnage.

Now this.

"Yes, sir. They've launched attacks north of the Mason-Dixon, as well. We're getting reports of attacks in Indiana and Ohio, too. Some places, like Cincinatti, they chased them off. Others..." The rest didn't need to be said.

Sullivan sighed. He knew he'd been right to support Joe Steele for the Presidency, and this was why. The idea of a powerful Bill Simmons was not an image Ed liked, no indeed. When he said as much to his assistant, he was surprised again.

"Well, that's the thing, sir. Simmons isn't running this thing. It's one of his lieutenants, Gore."

"Gore?" Sullivan tried to think, Gore, Gore, "The fat one?"

"Yes, sir."

Sullivan sat back in his chair. "So, you mean to tell me that the Klan is leading the most violent series of raids it's ever done, and the head of the whole shebang isn't even running the show?"

"No, sir, it would seem not."

Sullivan sat in his chair, completely and utterly puzzled. There was no way Simmons would ever allow any such maneuver to take place under any authority save his own...

Or perhaps one other...

Ed looked at his assistant. Clancy was a fine young lad, blond hair, blue eyes, a bit on the skinny side, but then, generally a boy wasn't an assistant at a radio station if he was strapping. And Ed knew for a fact that he'd been a hard sell for Steele, even as the city went for the Governor of Minnesota by a lopsided margin. So he thought his conclusion, rather than speaking it.

Could the President be behind this?

[MASHED POTATOES. VOTE!]

I wonder if Mr. Gore suffered similar injury TTL, which would made him a junkie.

[Cabbage]

I wonder if Mr. Gore suffered similar injury TTL, which would made him a junkie.

I'm undecided at this point; the only opportunity would be the KKK-Mob battles back in '32 and the raids that have just begun, so I might be able to create an arc where Gore is actively falling into morphine addiction (no guarantees, though).

[Cabbage]

May 12, 1933
St. Paul, Minnesota

"No."

"But, Governor, it's the law now!"

"And Prohibition's the law now, and has been since the end of the Great War! Does that make it a good idea?" Steele snarled.

The secretary's voice grew cold. "Regardless of what some drunken sots may think of Prohibition, it is still the law and all government officials are expected to abide by it. As they are expected to abide by all laws. And they will, or there will be dire consequences." The man hung up.

Governor Steele fumed as he sat back in his chair. The President had just signed a new law ordering all state governors to create a roll of African-Americans in their states, and assist the Klan in whatever ways necessary to assure their "safe and punctual capture." Furthermore, they were not to speak a word to the press about the President's involvement in these crimes (for crimes they were, regardless of what Hilliard said), on penalty of treason charges.

Hank Arens walked through the door at that point, only to pause in consideration, as if he were walking into a tiger's cage. "Well, come on in, Hank. The beast won't bite you; it's too busy questioning who else it wants to maul."

Arens, visibly relieved, quickly seated himself across from his boss.

"Have you heard the news about the President's new law?"

Arens's expression suggested he hadn't.

Steele looked around. "What I'm about to tell you cannot be traced back to this room, or we're both f----d, you got me?"

Arens nodded, now more curious than afraid.

"President Hilliard has just ordered me to round up every black man, woman, and child in this state, and prepare them for the slaughter."

Arens looked aghast. "But...that's monstrous, sir! I don't like d-----s any more than the next guy, but to sponsor their destruction...what are we, the Ottomans?"

"Adam Pasha apparently thinks so."

Rather than laugh, Arens sat in astonished silence. It was a hard thing to contemplate, genocide. The idea of destroying a race simply because you had convinced yourself they were nothing but trouble was one many had hoped civilized society had forgotten. Evidently, such was not the case.

"So, sir, what do we do?"

The Governor smiled.

"Easy, Hank. We give dear Ed in New York the scoop of the year."

May 31, 1933
The White House, Washington, D.C.

Charles Coughlin had initially been honored to have been named President Hilliard's chief press correspondent, seeing that his views had finally gotten through to someone on Capitol Hill (and now in the White House).

Then he actually started working.

Day in and day out, Hilliard was demanding he try to throttle any and all dissenting voices with so much as a classified ad in the local rag of Nowhere, Wyoming. Naturally, the First Amendment prevented him from doing as much, but the President didn't seem to care. People said there was no such thing as bad press, but evidently said people had never told Adam Hilliard this news.

And so Father Coughlin worked tirelessly to try to bring the various borderline-Red papers to heel across the country, with extremely limited success. If anything, the attempts at "censorship," as the papers blasted it, only resolved the Steelists further (the term was his own creation, and the President had liked it so much, he'd begun using it in speeches).

Now this.

No evidence could be found to trace back exactly how Ed Sullivan had gotten his hands on the private memo ordering the various states' governors to round up their African-Americans. Oh, the President had drawn up his own list of suspects, chief among them his rival from the previous year, Joseph Steele, but any trial at this point would be mocked as a kangaroo court.

Fortunately, that investigation had fallen on Federal Bureau of Investigation chief J. Edgar Hoover, allowing Coughlin to focus on damage control. The President had expressly told him not to deny the allegations, leaving him struggling to find a good excuse for killing twelve million people. He couldn't claim they were behind the financial crash, the way he'd done with the Jews: how could they be, when they had no money to begin with? He couldn't claim they were stealing whites' jobs (Jim Crow made adamantly sure of that), he couldn't claim they were getting excessive government benefits (they weren't).

So what could he say? Play with the latest guesswork over racial differences, and try to find some danger, some...innate aggression! That was it! African-Americans had always been attacking whites, so it was clear their nature was ruthlessly violent (the idea that this might have been due to a combination of vengeance for centuries of oppression and economic desperation never crossed the holy man's mind)! His planned story in hand, Coughlin jumped up and raced into the President's office. He'd really done it this time...

[Cabbage]

July 13, 1933
Moscow, Russia

Nikita Khruschev was not a man to be trifled with. As General Secretary of the Soviet Union, he'd made that perfectly clear since Trotsky had appointed him to the position in 1926. He'd become one of the key pillars keeping Trotsky above water, quietly quashing a dozen revolts by Rykov, Beria (mayhaps putting a man with damning secrets in the position of Chief of Police for Moscow hadn't been his smartest move), and other, less prominent figures.

Now this.

Josef Goebbels and Adam Hilliard had just signed an anti-Comintern pact, proclaiming mutual support against "the Red menace." It was the first alliance the Americans had agreed to since the Great War ended, and it had sent shockwaves across the world. Khruschev wasn't alone in his distaste, either; Daladier and Baldwin had announced their belief that such a treaty would "encourage German jingoism across Europe," while Trotsky had denounced it as a "reactionary bid to devolve humanity by centuries, back to the days of feudalism."

Mussolini, however, had eagerly announced his support, and stated his intentions to negotiate Italy's entry into the pact. The Spanish military had also made ominous rumblings in favor of the pact, and Khruschev was just thankful that, at this point, Japan had announced its intentions to remain neutral toward the pact, as they, by all appearances, didn't trust Hilliard any more than they trusted Trotsky.

The sheer gall of it was probably what infuriated Khruschev the most. Hilliard had been President of the United States for less than a year, Goebbels Chancellor of Germany for an even shorter period, yet both presumed to completely reroute their entire nations against the glorious Union of Soviet Social Republics, and to exterminate entire races within their countries. How did these barbarians come to power? Khruschev thought to himself. He laughed when he realized the answer: Capitalism! Beautiful, wretched capitalism!

July 31, 1933
Columbia, South Carolina

Josef Goebbels had never been to America before the formation of the Anti-Comintern Pact. He liked it well enough, aside from the fact it was ungodly hot. President Hilliard had said it was often more than 100 degrees in South Carolina in summer; even measuring in Centigrade, Goebbels was disinclined to disagree. Air conditioning, a relatively new invention, had quickly become all the rage in upscale Southern homes, and the Chancellor was elated by this advancement every time he walked into the Brown estate.

The goodwill tour had been the President's idea: as America's first great peacetime alliance with Europe, it was critical that the American people support it, or else the Farmer-Labor Party (a minority in both chambers of Congress, but a vocal one) could run roughshod over it in the midterm elections next year. And that would be a disaster for all involved (Goebbels had no doubt the left-wing radicals across Europe would rise up and attack the great nation of Germany the second its guard was down; such was something he could not risk).

So, Chancellor Goebbels smiled and spoke with the American people, sometimes receiving rave reviews, sometimes being thrashed by what Hilliard referred to as "Governor Steele's rags." To hear the President go on, one would be convinced that Joseph Steele had written every piece of left-wing propaganda since the October Revolution, and then a few pamphlets before that. Goebbels had a few doubts about certain bits of Hilliard's narrative, but he suspected that, from what he'd heard of Joseph Steele from other sources, the idea of an anti-government propaganda campaign would be only the beginning for the man.

August 7, 1933
Berlin, Germany

Heinrich Himmler, meanwhile, was enjoying a pleasant German summer. As acting Chancellor while Goebbels was on his precious tour of America, he'd quickly found he enjoyed being in charge: with Hindenburg nearly over the hill, he enjoyed near total control of the German state, and he was making good use of it: illicit Panzer divisions, training exercises for civilian pilots, quiet military forays into the Rhineland, all the things that would have brought Baldwin and Daladier down on his head...six months ago. With Hilliard in charge in America, the Western democracies were terrified of openly calling out any reported Versailles violations that could not be independently verified.

"Like taking candy from a baby," Himmler laughed. His adjutant looked at him, confused, before Himmler gestured for him to continue working. He had people to welcome in a few moments, anyway.

***

Erwin Rommel, Heinz Guderian, and Reinhard Heydrich walked shoulder to shoulder into Himmler's office. The Acting Chancellor grinned as he saw them. These were his best men in the Party, and some of his closest friends (Goebbels could believe what he wanted about his relationship with his lieutenant, but Himmler personally thought him a blustering oaf, who would have done well to be born a phonograph). As they sat down in three chairs which had been specially set up across the desk from Himmler, he glanced and smiled at each of them, in turn.

"Gentlemen, we've done it. We've subverted democracy by democratic means!" All four laughed at the fact; some still couldn't believe that people had actually agreed to it, nationalistic principles or no. "Now, however, we need to secure our holdings, else the Communists and other left-wing radicals might go after power." Heydrich, in particular, grumbled at the possibility; Guderian and Rommel both simply looked stern.

"We need to assure that we are led by a man who cannot be hoodwinked by his own arrogance into holding another election; you all know Goebbels is stupid enough to do it. We need a leader who will stand true to fascist principles, no matter what. We need a leader who will have the guts to seize total power when Hindenburg finally keels over, who will truly attempt to make Germany great again, who will-"

"Just tell us you want to be in charge, Heinrich!" Guderian drew a laugh from his comrades.

Himmler fidgeted. "Well, then, are you in?"

After a moment, all three men nodded. "Ja, mein Fuehrer!"

[Cabbage]

September 16, 1933
United States Supreme Court, Washington, D.C.

The suit United States v. Steele had been raging for most of Chancellor Goebbels's visit, but he had chosen to leave before it concluded. If only I could get out of this mess so easily, the President thought to himself.

Hilliard had attempted to charge Steele with the leakage of the memo, only for the governor to protest his innocence. With no evidence other than the fact it had leaked to known Steele backer Ed Sullivan, Hilliard had nothing to go on, and both he and Steele knew it. So he had done the next best thing: he'd hit Steele for his refusal to obey the order, leaked or not.

Steele, however, was a craftier man than he looked: in every court in Minnesota, he'd won by a unanimous vote. Hilliard simply kept appealing; he knew where this would end up, in time.

And so, on a blustery September day in 1933, Joseph Victor Steele, Governor of Minnesota, came before the Supreme Court to argue his case for disobeying a direct order from the President of the United States. He looked confident as he walked into the courtroom, almost as though he were still awaiting an obvious "not guilty" verdict from a jury of his peers.

Hilliard meant to give him no such satisfaction. He'd quietly pulled aside a number of the justices before the trial, and reminded them that he had many friends who would look most unkindly on another "not guilty" verdict, as they had already had their fill of them. The judges, by all appearances, had taken the hint.

"The court will now hear the case of United States v. Steele. Gentlemen, your opening arguments." Chief Justice Hughes stared down from his seat with somewhat ill ease. That didn't surprise Hilliard; Hughes had been the first justice he'd gone after before this case, and the one he'd hammered the hardest. He hadn't quite threatened the Chief Justice's life, but it had been implied that it would go worse for him should he declare Steele not guilty than if any of his associates did so.

Steele was quick to the punch, using an argument that had been tried and tested (albeit unimpressively) in Minnesota: "Your Honor, it has come to my attention that the extermination of an entire race is far more than a statement of utterly despicable motivations and ruthless, murderous demeanor; it is a casus beli, a declaration of war against that race which, most often wrongly, has been accused of damaging the country that seeks to destroy them. If these people had their own country, would such not be obvious?"

The press chattered madly. They'd heard this before, but they were all eager to see if it would hold up outside Steele's personal kangaroo courts. By the expression on Hughes's face, it actually would (although Hilliard would have been quicker to believe it was show; Hughes had run for President himself, after all).

"And, furthermore, is it not illegal, according to the Constitution itself, as laid down by the Founders, that the President must ask Congressional approval for a declaration of war, which both House Leaders and both Senate Leaders can confirm never occurred?" Steele's smile was enormous. He was convinced he had Hilliard on the ropes, but the President had a few arguments of his own:

"Your Honor, as it please you, I object to the Governor's statement. Should the nation be forced to slog through a Congressional declaration of war when firm action must be taken immediately, as can now be the case, with advancements in both long-range weaponry and transportation? Must we sit on our thumbs while Alaska is invaded and conquered by the Soviets, simply because Congress couldn't be recalled in time? I believe such a proposition to be patently absurd. Furthermore, this is not a foreign power with an established government; it is a people who have been a burden on American society since the day they were freed from bondage. It is my firm belief that their time has come, and that it is within my rights as President to issue such an order!"

"Execution for what crime, Mr. President? Existence? In that case, I would call for your impeachment on such charges right now, and let the House and Senate deny them!"

The press had gone from chattering to rowdy to borderline riotous, and arguments had to be temporarily dispensed with while the Chief Justice restored order. By the time any semblance of such had returned, several press members had been thrown out (all Steele supporters, Hilliard didn't fail to note), and a few heads had even been knocked (also mostly Steele supporters).

The trial proceeded until the Chief Justice called it to a halt: "Clearly, we have reached an impasse: does the President's executive order consist of a declaration of war, or does it not? The justices shall now retire, and return with a decision in the near future."

***

"The near future" turned out to be two hours later (long enough for actual debate to be believable, Hilliard thought). When he saw the look on the Chief Justice's face, and on the faces of several other judges he'd cornered, however, he began to have doubts: they looked resigned, as if they had come to a decision that pained them deeply, but that they could no more avoid than deny the sky was blue or the grass green.

"The Court, by vote of 6-3, finds the defendant, Joseph Victor Steele, Governor of Minnesota, not guilty of all charges. Furthermore, the President's executive order requiring the gathering and deportation of N---os into circumstances such as those specified within the order constitute a declaration of war, and so said order is null and void unless Congress approves it. Dissent written by Pierce Butler, and supported by George Sutherland and Willis Van Devanter. This case is hereby settled."

Steele beamed from ear to ear as his supporters crowded around him, cheering him and his victory over the "Washington machine." Hilliard looked to Hughes, who sat on the bench, looking defeated. As soon as their eyes met, the President mouthed three words.

"I warned you."

[Cabbage]

September 23, 1933
The White House, Washington, D.C.

"But, Mr. President, it's illegal! We could get in a h--l of a lot of trouble for this."

"I don't give a d--n if it's legal! I said do it, so you'll do it!"

Henry "Harry" Gore swallowed nervously. Any man who claimed to be unafraid of Adam Hilliard had clearly been in his presence for too short a time. In his less than a year working for the President, Gore had been berated for a number of things, and ordered to do even more, but this...this took the cake by a country mile, and no ifs, ands, buts, or two ways about it.

"Sir, with all due respect, what you're suggesting could set a dangerous precedent, and one that'll blow up in your face like a son-of-a-b---h if some Farmer-Labor nutcase ever takes power after you're gone. I really don't think starting another war with Steele's a good idea."

"And I do, and I'm the President, which means you do it, or you're fired. Got that, Harry?"

Gore sighed. "Yes, sir." As he turned and left the office, he was already thinking about what he could possibly do that would keep half the country from rising up in response to President Hilliard's latest bright idea.

***

Gore's deputy (self-appointed; he was convinced Hilliard would only use such power to spy on him), Bill Frick, was waiting for him outside the White House. Frick had been born in Minnesota, but his ma had run off with a black man, and he and his pa'd never trusted n----rs since. Frick was a solid logistics man, and so Gore had made sure he would be in charge of planning most operations. When he gave Frick the specifics on this one, though, the man did nothing but whistle.

"Does the dumb b-----d want you to fail?" he asked when Gore finished.

Gore hushed him. "Not so loud! I don't trust the President not to have eyes and ears on me at all times of the day and night, and especially so when I've got a weapon less than a mile from his own house! You want to get us both executed for treason?" President Hilliard had never done such a thing, but one thing Harry Gore had learned very quickly was that minor things like morality and pragmatism mattered very little to Hilliard unless they got him what he wanted. And he knew how to change strategies.

"So, how are we going to go about this?"

Frick thought for a moment, then snapped his fingers.

"Can you get a meeting set up with J. Edgar Hoover?"

***

The Federal Bureau of Investigation (which Frick often called the FBI for short; it had a nice ring to it) was housed in the Department of Justice Building (which Governor Steele had taken to calling the Department of Injustice Building; that was a clever joke, to be sure, but a poor one to tell around the President). As Frick and Gore took the elevator up to Hoover's office, both men looked nervously at each other. Neither had much experience with the FBI chief, and both had heard the rumors that he had certain, inexplicable ill will toward the President's administration (no one knew why; he was plenty conservative).

They were shown into a small office with little in the way of furnishings. Down to business man. Gore thought. A shame. Probably'll have a similar reaction to the President with regards to my knife. That was the only time he'd ever seen the President coldly, mercilessly angry, and he was loathe to repeat the experience. Hence why he was taking no chances with this assignment.

"Yes? What is it?" Hoover's voice dripped with scorn. He was sitting behind his desk, looking as though he'd been interrupted from saving the world by a pair of impudent children searching for a lost kitten. In his mind, he might have been. In Gore's mind..."Listen here, Hoover. We've got an assignment for you to do, and if you screw it up, you a-- is grass alongside ours. Got it?"

Hoover looked at Gore as though he was sizing him up, and finding him ever more lacking. "Now, you listen here, Gore. If the President assigned this to you, then my a-- is going nowhere in relation to your a--es, and I intend to keep it that way. Now, unless you've got anything else to say, get the flying f--k out of my office before I tell the President you were here, begging for help because you couldn't perform a simple task on your own. Got it?"

Gore fumed. He now saw why the President didn't like Hoover, at least. "And when we tell the President that we were simply ordering a subordinate to prepare agents and supplies for an attack on his foremost political antagonist, and said subordinate refused us?"

"Who in h--l said I was your subordinate, you arrogant c--------r?"

"You dare call me that, you little-"

Both men were interrupted by the phone ringing. Hoover gave Gore a murderous look, then picked up. "Yes? Yes, Mr. President. Yes. Mm-hmm. Oh, yes, we'll have it done in a jiffy. All right, Mr. President, goodbye."

He slammed the phone down into its cradle. "You sons of b----es got lucky this time, but just remember, the President's not always going to hold your hands like this."

Gore looked at Frick in silent awe. Either Hilliard had had men tailing them all the way from the White House, or he'd correctly predicted what they would do, and when they would do it.

Gore wasn't sure which prospect frightened him more.

[Cabbage]

October 11, 1933
Chicago, Illinois

John Dillinger had discovered throughout the course of his life that almost any situation could be made to turn a profit if acted upon properly. Including this one.

For the past five months, the Underground Railroad had been reopened for business.

From every part of the country, black folks came to Chicago, Detroit, Buffalo, and so on, in the hopes of escaping to Canada, where the President couldn't get his claws on them. Dillinger, never one to risk missing a quick buck, had quickly discovered that travelling with all one's most valuable possessions made extorting one all the easier: cough up, old man, or I yell for the Kooks.

Dillinger didn't know who'd made up the name for the Klansmen (probably someone who would frown on his current line of work), but he liked it, and used it often. And if a Kook happened to hear him, well, a little bit of knowledge about when the next unscheduled boat to Canada left always put him back in their good graces. Dead informants tended to make the President angry.

As he walked down the streets of the less reputable part of Chicago, Dillinger noticed movement ahead. He immediately knew it was one of his targets: no one with any business (legal or illegal) in Chicago moved that quickly. He hurried to keep pace with the group (only a couple). The man had to have been about forty, but he was running on as if his life depended on it (which it probably did). The mother was hanging back, constantly scanning for trouble.

She never even noticed him until he stepped into the glare of a streetlight. He raised it at the woman, her eyes going wide with horror.

"Hold it right, there, Mac!"

The man froze, whirled, gasped. He clearly had believed that the worst was over, that his wife and he would make it to Canada unmolested by man or beast.

But what about that grey area between the two, Mac? Dillinger thought to himself as he approached, keeping the gun trained on the young woman.

"Look, sir, we don't want no trouble now. We just want to get away from that b-----d Hilliard, and his Kooks. Surely you can understand that, Mr. Dillinger. Johnny Law's been on your a-- a time or two, too."

Dillinger was surprised at the man's boldness. Most of his victims groveled on the pavement, promising to let him take anything, anything, just to let them get on north to freedom. This one was fairly well-spoken, too: he had the Southern accent most descendants of slaves bore like old whipping scars, but he'd said "sir" instead of "suh," and had actually used an adverb. Clearly, Dillinger had hit the jackpot.

"What are you, S---o? A lawyer? A butler? Where in h---'d you learn to talk like you were just out of Princeton?"

"No, sir, I was a composer, before Hilliard tossed that in the wastebin. Now, if you'll excuse us..." He began to walk away, possibly convinced he'd left the dumb thug before him completely dumbfounded.

His wife found out the hard way that no such thing had occurred.

It was the composer's turn to look horrified now. Instinct drove him to run to wife (or rather, her mortal remains; Dillinger didn't waste bullets, not in this economy), to caress her, to beg her to come back to him. Dillinger advanced on him, and it was only his daughter's scream that prevented him from getting pistol whipped to the back of the head.

Composer dodged back, then screamed in rage as the gun tore a hole in his wife's already defaced chest. He tackled Dillinger, grabbing at the gun, desperate to save what little he had left. Dillinger snarled and fought like a cornered dog, and the two men rolled into the street. The gun spun away in the chaos.

Composer had clearly had some fighting experience, too, since they must have fought for at least thirty seconds before the gun rang out again. Dillinger gasped in sudden agony. What the f--k, who the f--k, how the f--k! However, it didn't matter now. Whoever'd done the deed didn't fire a second bullet, and Composer seized his chance and took off.

The last thing John Dillinger saw as he lay bleeding out on the streets of Chicago that brisk October night were at least half a dozen armed men, all in white robes and hoods, chasing after him.

October 12, 1933
Chicago, Illinois

William Grant Still doubted he would ever know who it was that shot John Dillinger in the cold of an October night in Chicago. All he knew was, the man ought to have gotten a medal for his actions. Instead, he was liable to be hunted down and killed by the Klan, the same as they were trying to do to Still right now.

Fortunately, Kooks weren't exactly the brightest bulbs in the fixture.

He believed he'd lost them, but he kept running, just to put more distance between him and the scene of the crime. He hadn't known the woman he'd been traveling with before he'd fled (Judith Williams; a fine woman, one he'd connected with well enough that he'd tried to save her, which had inadvertently saved him), so he didn't mourn long, in spite of his earlier actions. What had been quickly been established as the first rule of the New Underground Railroad was to never get caught up in who you lose. Keep moving, or you'll be joining them.

Still continued eastward toward the lakeshore. While the Kooks had a fairly tight grip on international maritime traffic into and out of Chicago, they were forced to employ some of the local police to aid in the effort, and some of those either sympathized with the African-Americans' plight, or could be bought off for what little most of them had (assuming they didn't get jumped by men like Dillinger).

It wasn't long before he spotted one of the boats that left for Canada. They were first come, first serve (only way to ensure what of their safety remained), and Still saw that this one was almost full. He broke into a sprint, and leapt onto the boat, nearly slamming into another man who'd done the same (fortunately, there were two seats left, so no quarrel broke out). The boat set out posthaste, not wanting to be around long enough for the Kooks to come snooping around.

Still wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand (a handkerchief had struck him as a markedly bad idea as a traveling companion), and sat back in his seat. He was free at last.

[Cabbage]

October 23, 1933
United States Supreme Court, Washington, D.C.

Some would say that a President who had twice sent personal opponents to the Supreme Court in as many months was a tyrant and a fool. Adam Hilliard would have informed such people that they lacked the necessary creativity to run a country.

This time, however, it was not Governor Steele who was before the justices (that plan was one he would need to wait to complete, lest it appear suspicious). It was, in fact, several of the justices themselves.

Butler, Sutherland, and Van Devanter were the only ones not charged with treason, and so sat alone on the bench, waiting for colleagues to fill the empty seats. Their current colleagues were arguing their cases, each one in a different way...and each exactly as Hilliard had figured they would.

Hughes, as was only fitting of his rank, gave the most ironclad testimony: that no evidence could be found of his having anything to do with treasonous plots against the President of the United States. Any and all testimony given against him (of which there had been an abundance) was misheard at best and blatantly fabricated at worst.

Butler, Sutherland, and Van Devanter knew not to believe a word of it.

They took less than an hour to decide the case (Hilliard wanted no chance for backtracking this time: they were in, or they were next), and, as they walked out, the President saw expressions he liked better: looks of relaxed confidence, which indicated that they had voted without hesitation to save their own necks.

"This Court, by a unanimous vote, finds all six defendants guilty of treason against the government and nation of the United States of America, and, as per all pre-established penalties, sentences them to death by firing squad. Execution date will be November 1, 1933. This case is hereby settled."

As the justices were led from the room (indignant to a man), Hughes caught Hilliard's eye. He gave the President a look of pure, unbridled rage, to which the President shrugged and smiled. He mouthed another phrase to Hughes:

"That's how the cookie crumbles."

October 28, 1933
St. Paul, Minnesota

Governor Steele looked up from the resignation letter, clearly enraged by its contents.

"You're turning tail now?! After all we've been through, the memo leak, the Supreme Court battle, the victory at the end of it, you're cutting out just because the going's finally gotten tough?"

Lieutenant Governor Henry Arens hung his head in shame. He truly had no innate desire to leave the most powerful machine yet combating the President's merciless attempts at persecuting the blacks. If he had been a man without wife or children, he most likely would have stuck it out with Steele until the bitter end. However, every day his wife grew more and more hysterical about the possibility of the President packing the Supreme Court, then coming down on them again like a ton of bricks. He hadn't believed her until Hilliard had ordered every single justice who'd voted against him carted off for treason.

"With all due respect, sir, I believe that this a war the President will never allow us to win, and one that we cannot win against him unless we gain allies. Foreign allies. The Brits, the French, maybe even the Reds, but we need outside help if we're going to out this b-----d. Especially now, our life expectancy is well below the three years we need, so it's Canada or death, and my wife won't let me do death."

The governor thought of saying something (most likely a comment on Arens's wife being weak), then stopped. He lowered his head for a moment, and when he raised it again there was only a resigned look in his eyes. "Go on, then, Hank. Get out of here while you still can. Find us these allies who can bring Hilliard down, and set us up as a puppet regime until we can manage on our own. I wish you all the best." With that, he rose and shook his now-former lieutenant's hand.

As he walked out, Arens knew every eye was on him: either a Steele supporter, who thought of him as a traitor for fleeing like this; or a Hilliard rat (Arens had no illusions about security breaches), who would report this straightaway. And so I pray that the Kooks are truly as incompetent as everyone says.

October 31, 1933
Kabetogama, Minnesota

And so it was that Henry Arens found himself less than twenty miles from the Canadian border (as the crow flies) when he heard the one noise he'd been fearing since he set out. Loud ululations came up on the southern wind like the wails of the d---ed. As far as Arens was concerned, they were most assuredly d---ed, but that was neither here nor there.

Must've sneaked in from Wisconsin, he thought to himself as he put his automobile into first gear, as he knew Governor Steele hanged any Kooks he found in Minnesota as war criminals. Regardless of their origins, however, they were going to do unto him and then some if they caught him. Which was why he'd used his telephone (his last call before leaving) to tell the Mounties to be ready.

His wife was jolted awake by the sudden motion, and looked at her husband with wide eyes. "What's going on, Henry? Did they find us?"

Arens nodded without emotion, and tore off, only easing back to change gears. By the time he was out of town, he was flat out, driving overland, figuring that the car was no longer a priority this close to the border. If it broke, they'd run, plain and simple.

Despite the best efforts of Arens's vehicle, however, the wild cries grew louder and louder behind them. As they neared the border patrol station by Fort Frances, headlights finally appeared in the rearview mirror, and Arens recognized the military build of the machines. Pretty as a picture, you dumb sons of b----es. It was only three more miles now, and the car seemed like it would hold.

That didn't mean that it could remain ahead of the Kooks for that period of time. The car was only going about twenty on what passed for roads around here, and the Kooks were doing twice that, at least. Their armored beasts were made for conditions like this, and it showed.

"Oh, Henry, what will we do?" His wife hung on his arm in terror. Arens wished he knew. The Kooks were now close enough to recognize individually, and the border was still two miles, at least. There were at least twenty of them, in four separate cars. Hilliard wasn't screwing around with this operation: he knew that if this went south, he was doomed.

"I don't know, darling. But I'll tell you this: they're not taking me alive." He pulled a pistol from his jacket. He'd bought it the day President Hilliard was elected, but he hadn't imagined then that he would have to use it under these circumstances. Life's full of d--n surprises.

The Kooks finally caught up about a mile and a half from the border. They began bashing against both sides of the car, but didn't fire weapons or try to block the road. Idiots. The Canadians'll be be able to see your a--es in a minute. However, in this case, stupid enemies were a blessing in disguise.

Unfortunately, one of them apparently did possess a functioning brain.

The car that had, until recently, been following well behind, roared up in front of Arens, and slammed on the brakes. His cohorts, however, continued on, allowing Arens to escape to the other car's side (albeit significantly slowed down). As the other three enemy vehicles came roaring back to cut him off, he threaded the needle between two of them, now desperate to just get out of this madness.

The third T-boned him, but Arens narrowly managed to keep control and keep moving. The Mounties had turned on spotlights, and were shining them in the Kooks' eyes, causing them to lose their target. It was now less than a mile to the border, and Arens could almost see the individual Mounties waiting there, ready to kill any Kook stupid enough to set foot on their soil.

Two cars had broken off, deciding they were only congesting the chase, while the command car (the one that had brake checked Arens) and the T-boner drove on. Someone had finally had the bright idea to shoot at the escaping charges, and Arens heard two tires go out. As he limped closer to the border, the Kooks attempted the brake check maneuver, but Arens easily swerved around the side now left uncovered. As they came within 100 feet of the border, the Kooks finally broke off the chase. Arens rolled across the border, laughing like a loon.

His laughter died in his throat when he saw the bullet holes in his wife's corpse.

[Cabbage]

November 2, 1933
The White House, Washington, D.C.

Harry Gore knew he was in trouble the second he walked through the White House doors. The help never treated anyone with anything but the utmost respect unless he found himself on the President's bad side.

They were downright looking down their noses at Gore.

The President was silent as Gore entered the Oval Office (sans knife this time around), his back turned to the entrance, looking out the window. This unnerved Gore more than shouting would have, more than firing would have, more than a firing squad would have. The President was never silent when a subordinate came into his office, even when the subordinate was only there to receive orders.

"I received word from the Canadian Ambassador today that Mr. Arens has been saying an awful lot about his experience with your men, Henry. And that they have been firmly convinced that such behavior could easily be considered a crime against humanity."

Gore stood there, stonefaced. He figured his best option was to weather the President's rage with grace, and continue on in whatever lowly bureaucratic office he was placed in until such time as he could rise again (if he ever could).

"They demanded your immediate removal, and your trial in the Hague. They've gotten the British calling for your head, and the French aren't disinclined to start, either."

Gore gulped at this. The President's rage was one thing; the Hague was quite another.

"I've told them, in somewhat more political terms, to go shove it up their a--es."

Gore blinked. He must have misheard the President; he could have sworn Hilliard had just said that he was defying the British and the French to come and claim Gore, if they wanted him so badly.

"S-sir?"

Hilliard finally turned. "Harry, you f---ed up. The Canadians know, the British know, the world knows, but what does it know? That we prosecute those engaged in conspiracy against the nation to the fullest extent of the law, and then some? That we reject the wild nonsense that men like Steele and Trotsky have been selling on street corners ever since that dopey k---t Marx cooked it up when he might have been baked himself?" Gore had never heard that theory on the origins of Communism, but he liked it. "I'm not thrilled that everyone knows about this s--t, but it would have to come out eventually. You're staying in your position, Harry."

Gore felt light as air as he shook the President's hand. The servants must have been mistaken, or something. "That doesn't mean, however, that you're getting off with just a slap on the wrist." Gore sagged as soon as he heard that. "Until such time as you can get your operations off without a hitch, you're going to have a strategic adviser, and you will do as he says. Do you understand me?"

Gore nodded. "Yes, sir."

The President smiled. "Good. Let me introduce you to him." He shouted to his secretary, "Milly, darling, send in General MacArthur."

November 7, 1933
Berlin, Germany

Chancellor Joseph Goebbels was pacing the floor nervously, as he often did when stressed. He'd chosen to back Hilliard on the question of Henry Arens's flight and pursuit, and the French had been screaming "warmonger" at him ever since. He had said, constantly and with some heat, that he had no intention of going to unprovoked war with any foreign power, and yet the French continued to press the title upon him (no doubt to further their own jingoistic and oppressive ambitions, Goebbels thought to himself).

Hilliard had assured him via telephone on multiple occasions that it would not come to war, but Daladier and MacDonald seemed not to have gotten the memo. They had blustered most belligerently for much of the past five days, and showed no signs of stopping. Mussolini had also announced his support for Hilliard, but Goebbels had his doubts about the strength of the Duce's commitment, having watched the man cowardly step back from a number of confrontations with the Western European powers over the past ten years.

Heinrich Himmler strode into the room at that moment, seemingly in far higher spirits than he had any right to be. "What are you grinning about, Heinrich? I could use a laugh."

Himmler chuckled. It was almost frightening to hear him, but Goebbels had seen worse (not often, but he had). "Haven't you heard, Joseph? President Hilliard has just released documents confirming Arens to be guilty of treason against the United States of America! Canada has been in the wrong all this time!"

For a moment, Goebbels found himself utterly lost for words. Could it actually be possible that the Canadians had offered asylum to a wanted man on unjustified grounds? What a relief that would be, Goebbels thought. The British and French would be forced to slink back to their lairs with their tails between their legs, and Hilliard and Goebbels would appear to be in the right.

Himmler brought the Chancellor back to reality. "Kanzler, I should warn you that, due to the time required to procure these documents, the British and French may doubt their authenticity."

To the man's horror, Goebbels began to laugh. "But don't you see, Heinrich? That's exactly what Hilliard wants them to do: claim the documents to be fakes without evidence, and watch as nations already distrustful of Britain and France rub their chins and question whether liberalism is truly a reasonable ideology, after all."

Himmler, seeming to understand, saluted and took his leave. Goebbels, however, had not been finished with his train of thought. Walking over to a shelf in his office, he took down a map of the world, and laid it out on his desk. As he looked to the Far East, he laughed almost maniacally. "Oh, and what nations there are in that category!"

[Cabbage]

Due to unfortunate circumstances, I don't think I'll be able to post an update to this timeline today. Sorry, all; I promise I'll have one up tomorrow!

[Cabbage]

November 11, 1933
Shanghai, China

Chiang Kai Shek reread the missive from the Hilliard administration with something like unto awe.

Upon your assurance of Chinese support for our noble cause, that being the destruction of all traitors within our lands, as is only right and just for a nation to do, we will give your cause in Manchuria similar support. No one shall ever know of this letter should you refuse, and the first supplies shall arrive on 1 January 1934.

The decision is yours, President Chiang.

PS: Due to our firm belief that the Marxists are to blame for this sudden and vile outbreak of left-wing betrayers within our country, we will also aid you against the Communist vermin under Zedong when the campaign in Manchuria is sufficiently throttled.

Chiang truly had no idea how to respond to such a declaration. To antagonize Britain and France in this way was extremely dangerous, but neither of them had offered aid to counterbalance Hilliard, and befriending the Americans would help with the previous qualm. And Chiang had never been a man to hide behind safety and security if it meant leaving his nation to the Communists (or, more recently, the hated Japanese).

Still, however, to take sides in what was quickly becoming a global affair, in which neither side seemed likely to budge even an inch on their stances, seemed unwise. There would be no glory in dooming his people to destruction for the sake of supplies that might do him no good in the end.

And so Chiang puzzled away at the problem for hours, knowing that Hilliard would take a delayed response as a sign of hesitation, and, from there, a willingness to abscond from the deal at leisure. The supreme leader of China would never personally have taken up such an ally, and he doubted Hilliard was any different.

Yesterday, November the 12th, early in the morning, word was intercepted that the Americans and Nationalist Chinese had brokered a deal regarding Chinese support for American interests abroad, in exchange for more domestic assistance. The British and French have decried this as a betrayal of honor itself, and the Japanese have thrown their lot in with the "Arens Powers," as they've come to be known, following this revelation.

November 19, 1933
St. Paul, Minnesota

Governor Steele, meanwhile, was enjoying every minute of the crisis. While Hilliard was under the watchful eyes of the British and French, he could do nothing to attack his political enemies still within his borders, Steele most assuredly included.

And, as if to ice the cake, Hank Arens had given Steele the world's ear, though the world was completely oblivious to this fact. Wherever he went in Canada, Arens denounced Hilliard's policies as "little better than the fascist tyrannies of Germany and Italy," and that "Governor Steele would never have been such a merciless dictator to the American people," had he been elected. MacDonald and Daladier, being politicians themselves, most likely understood what was going on, but chose not to intervene, for principles both of honor and of the people's rights.

Ed Sullivan, one of Steele's most trusted confidants now that Arens was in Canada, had begun raising his voice once more against the Hilliard administration, and often on AM frequencies, so foreign folks could listen, too. Steele sometimes wondered how the man managed to make every atrocity fresh in the listener's mind, when so many others would have begun to sound like a broken record.

Furthermore, Hilliard's outreach to the Chinese had brought the Japanese in on Steele's side, which the governor found particularly heartening: unlike the other powers, who had apparently convinced themselves that, because the Great War was so terrible, armed conflict would cease from here on, and they would live happily ever after oppressing their colonial subjects with what little military they had left. Japan knew better: they knew the facet of human nature that was bloodlust incredibly well (and, as they'd proven two years prior, they possessed a healthy amount of it, as well). They knew that to assume human beings could coexist peacefully without a significant catalyst was absurd, and so acted accordingly: military downsizing as minimal as possible for as short as possible a timeframe, then return to business as usual.

However, regardless of his international allies and the temporary respite they had earned him, Steele knew that all preparations for a potential conflict with the White House must continue. He'd spoken quietly to more than a dozen Senators, all of whom agreed to aid in an insurrection (and half of whom believed they would become President when it was over; how naive could a Senator get?), while the governors of nearly every state he'd won last year (save the Democrats, who knew better than to defy Hilliard at so critical a time) had come to him, offering assistance.

It was all coming together with alarming speed; Steele walked over to map of the United States he'd laid out across a table in his office. Much of the country had already been marked off in green and blue, with the Canadians in red. Steele looked at the map, smiled, and left for home.

As he walked out of the office building and toward home (he refused to use an automobile in times like these), he was surrounded by several armed men. None had any identifying insignia (the better not to be associated with the President, my pretty), but all had guns, and all leveled them at Steele.

"Governor, we regret to inform you that you have been convicted of treason against the nation and government of the United States of America. You know the penalty."

Steele smirked. "And how am I committing treason against both those institutions, when the latter is committing treason against the former?"

His only response was the sudden agony of hot lead ripping through his body.

[Cabbage]

So my Internet is getting pretty rough right now, so it's doubtful I'll be able to get an update posted today. Thanks for understanding, all!

[Cabbage]

November 21, 1933
The White House, Washington, D.C.

The backlash to the sudden assassination of Governor Steele (and his immediate replacement by ardent Hilliard supporter William Frick, whose tenure was to last "until Minnesota can be confirmed to have no violent intentions toward the United States as a whole, or toward its federal government") was instantaneous and violent. MacDonald and Daladier decried it as an act of wanton political murder by a corrupt dictator, and threatened sanctions against the U.S. Trotsky, who had previously made no major comments on American politics, declared Hilliard a fascist and his supporters "committers of atrocities of the worst variety."

Hilliard might have cared more had he actually taken these criticisms and veiled threats seriously. Britain and France, mighty though they had been, were demilitarized to the nth degree, while the American military had begun a slow, quiet buildup in preparation for an inevitable conflict. Russia, meanwhile, was still mostly an agrarian backwater, with constant unrest in the Ukraine and parts of Siberia. Hardly a power to be feared.

State Secretary Coleman Blease (the very man Hilliard had primaried to win his Senate seat) clearly thought differently on the matter. While the two men saw eye to eye on a number of matter (chiefly in relation to race), it appeared that the removal of traitors (or, rather, the anger with which foreigners reacted to the removal of traitors) was too much for the man to stand.

"Mr. President, with all due respect, you can't honestly expect the American economy to continue its return to glory under an embargo, can you?"

"Why not? We've been exporting to these b-----ds since the end of the War. What's to make you believe we'll be harmed, and not them?"

"Because if they stop paying their reparations, we're out the money, and that's an awful lot to be out, sir!"

"I'm aware of that, Coleman, but that doesn't mean we're screwed. Look at all we've accomplished in the past eight and a half months!" He gestured to the economic reports on his desk, which revealed a 10% unemployment rate, and an 85% drop in the number of Hoovervilles in the country (never mind that some of said Hoovervilles had been quietly disbanded by means of the Klan).

Blease looked uncomfortable at that. Hilliard knew why: America, for the period during which it had come out of its shell, had always been closely aligned with Britain and France. To change sides now seemed tantamount to betrayal in Blease's opinion, and if there was one thing it was nearly impossible to change about a man, it was his opinion.

"Besides, Coleman, we have new allies, stronger allies if and when the time comes when we must make war. Germany, Italy, China!" Blease scoffed at the last two (Hilliard could hardly blame him), but Hilliard simply looked at his Secretary of State with reassurance in his eyes.

"Give it time, Coleman."

December 12, 1933
Montreal, Canada

William Grant Still, if he had any complaints about his new life in Canada, would have only cited the cold. All else was better than Hilliard's America (not that such was a very high hurdle to clear, at the moment).

He had been taken in, fed, and given significant respect, due to his musical talents. He wasn't exactly conducting symphony orchestras, but the time would come for that. Right now, the fact that he was surviving was more than enough for him.

The behavior of the President of the United States in the meantime wasn't exactly losing Still friends, either. The assassination of Steele (and the botched attempt on Arens's life) had drawn the contemptible actions of the President into full view, and now Canada had stopped all trade with the Americans. It would have been beautiful to watch the "Black Heart of the White House" (Still hadn't come up with the name, but he liked it) get his grand comeuppance in this way, but Still had no delusions as to who truly suffered from these actions. If Hilliard demanded payment on those loans...

"Earth to Mr. Still!"

Still sat bolt upright, suddenly remembering the official taking his statement on the atrocities committed by the Hilliard regime. The British and French knew they needed every shred of evidence they could get to assure their people that, come what may, they were very clearly in the right.

"Yes?"

The orderly sighed. "And this Mr. Dillinger. You say you're unsure whether or not he was working with the President and the Ku Klux Klan?"

"I have my doubts in that regard, sir. I believe Dillinger was very much working on his own, as he bore a reputation of only ratting on or killing those who refused to pay his toll. It would hardly be a reasonable association, and I'd leave none of this to luck, if I were you."

The orderly harrumphed slightly at being patronized like this (racism was weaker in Canada, not absent), before going on to ask about whether or not Still had seen any actual Klan members.

"Fortunately, I didn't, but I came ashore with several men who had: George Mason, Andrew Wilson, Philip Andrews, and John B. T. W. Morris."

"B. T. W.?"

"Booker T. Washington."

"Ah. So, if we were to contact these men, they would be better able to detail the horrors committed by these 'Kooks,' as you refer to them?"

"Indeed you would, sir."

"Very well. Keep in touch, Mr. Still."

"I most certainly will."

As Still exited the government building, he considered the fact that, a year ago, none of this would have seemed possible to him: African-Americans had long been downtrodden, but this "rounding up" reminded him all too well of the Armenian Genocide the Ottomans had brought about during the Great War.

God of Heaven, please, not that!

[Cabbage]

So, with my 2020 game finally hitting the primaries, I've been busier recently on other sections of this forum. As a result, my updates from here on will be much more concise, and cover longer spans of time. When the game is over, I might revert back to the style in which I've been composing this narrative so far, but until then, I must regrettably summarize somewhat.

[Cabbage]

December 29, 1933: President Hilliard orders the immediate return of "the traitor Henry Arens" to United States custody, or else he will take the case to the Hague, on charges of harboring fugitives.

January 2, 1934: The British, Canadians, and French refuse Hilliard's demands.

January 17, 1934: The Germans, Italians, and Chinese announce their backing of Hilliard in the ongoing battle for control of Arens.

January 24, 1934: Ed Sullivan, ardent Steele supporter and Hilliard critic, is found dead, supposedly by suicide, in his apartment in New York.

February 15, 1934: Harry Gore orders the first execution of African-Americans perpetrated by the Hilliard regime, killing twenty who supposedly escaped custody and "endangered several whites in the process."

March 2, 1934: The case of Hilliard v. United Kingdom reaches the Hague, where it is decided in favor of the United Kingdom, as no outside sources could be brought in to confirm Arens's
alleged treason.

March 8, 1934: The British Ambassador to the United States is dismissed.

March 11, 1934: The United States announces it will no longer attempt to enforce the provision of the Treaty of Versailles which entails limits on German armaments.

March 16, 1934: The British and French begin seeking audience with Trotsky, sensing the need for additional allies in a coming conflict.

March 20, 1934: Trotsky denounces the British and French as "reactionary liars" and refuses to treat with them.

March 25, 1934: Germany quietly begins rearming.

March 31, 1934: The League of Nations meets to discuss the possibility of an embargo against the United States. Several nations threaten to exit the League if such a resolution is passed, and so the matter is dropped.

[MASHED POTATOES. VOTE!]

You guys may find this of some interest, but this thread had been reported today by some nasos.