Founding Fighters by Patty Mazzurco Battle of the Presidents #2 writing prompt entry |
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Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of violence. Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of language. 
In a deserted stretch of D.C., under a bruised and threatening sky, the greatest names in American history clashed in a brutal showdown. It was not an era for rhetoric or diplomacy; this was blood and bone, the final testament to a country weathered and torn by centuries. Amid a chaotic scene of clanging weapons and furious cries, many of the former Presidents had already fallen, leaving only a few towering figures on the battlefield. Lincoln gripped his axe, his tall frame casting a shadow over Andrew Johnson, whose eyes were wide, his hands clutching a jagged knife. Lincoln’s expression was stern, almost sorrowful. “You always were a man of stubborn pride, Andrew,” he said, lunging forward. Johnson dodged, slashing with his knife, but Lincoln caught him by the arm and delivered a swift blow, the axe biting deep into Johnson’s shoulder. He screamed, collapsing to the ground, blood pooling around him. Nearby, Theodore Roosevelt wiped the blood from his brow, his knuckles raw from his bare-handed assault on Chester Arthur. Arthur, whose once-sophisticated attire was now torn and stained, staggered back, clutching his side, coughing with a grimace. Roosevelt’s eyes burned with a primal fury. “The people never knew what they wanted, Teddy!” Arthur spat, desperation fueling his words. “Then it’s a good thing we’re here to decide for them!” Roosevelt snarled. With a primal roar, he lunged at Arthur, delivering a barrage of brutal punches that left Arthur gasping for breath, crumpling to the ground as Roosevelt stood over him, adrenaline coursing through his veins. James Garfield surveyed the carnage, holding his revolver, his sharp eyes scanning for movement. But as he turned, William McKinley, battered yet unyielding, aimed his own weapon at Garfield. There was a tense moment between them, a silent acknowledgment of their own tragic fates—both men, felled by assassins in life, now caught in a twisted battle for legacy. “Didn’t think we’d meet again like this, did you, James?” McKinley murmured, his voice laced with irony. Garfield nodded, a bitter smile on his face. “Maybe we’ve always been doomed to die for the sake of this country, William.” They both fired, shots ringing out in unison, but only Garfield rose from the smoke, clutching his side, staggering toward the others. As the battlefield churned with conflict, Lincoln stepped back, surveying the scene. He knew this was not merely a fight for survival but a reckoning for all their pasts. Amid the chaos, Trump, the only living president in this grotesque spectacle, swaggered around the field, grinning with unsettling bravado. “Look at all you ghosts! You should’ve just left the country to me!” he jeered, his voice echoing through the chaos. Lincoln’s eyes narrowed at the man who had so carelessly toyed with his legacy. “You really should have kept my name out of your mouth, Donald.” With that, he charged, axe raised high. In a swift and brutal moment, Lincoln swung low, knocking the weapon from Trump’s hand before delivering a powerful strike that sent him sprawling to the ground. The laughter faded from Trump’s face, replaced with shock. “Was it something I said?” Trump gasped, grasping at his side where the axe had caught him. Lincoln stood over him, the weight of history in his eyes. “It’s what you’ve done,” Lincoln replied, stepping back as Trump crumpled, defeated. Lincoln turned his back, but Trump’s hand shot out, grasping a hidden dagger. He lunged, but Lincoln was quicker, catching Trump’s wrist and twisting. The blade fell, clattering against the ground. “Your time is over,” Lincoln said coldly, delivering a final blow with the flat of his axe that sent Trump crashing to the ground, blood splattering the dirt beneath them. “You’ve set this nation on a path of chaos, and I can’t deny that Biden’s presidency has made things worse.” Trump grinned through clenched teeth, a hint of desperation in his voice. “You’re right, Lincoln! Biden has ruined this country. He shouldn’t have become president in the first place! Look at the inflation, the division!” Lincoln crossed his arms, his voice firm. “Yes, you were strong. But you wielded that strength like a weapon, driving wedges between us all. Your failure to unite the country, to respect the office and its history, created a vacuum that allowed Biden to take the helm with his false promises. You opened the door for him.” As the battlefield around them churned with conflict, the remaining presidents began to draw closer, their expressions ranging from determination to disbelief. Lincoln’s words hung heavy in the air. Lyndon B. Johnson, breathless from his earlier skirmishes, stepped forward, glancing between Lincoln and Trump. “We’re all to blame, aren’t we? It’s easy to point fingers while the country burns.” “Not all of us,” Roosevelt interjected, standing tall. “Lincoln tried to unify. He fought against the divisions and won, but you, Donald, you could have changed the course but chose to incite the flames.” Johnson nodded. “Biden has his faults, no doubt, but you, Donald, fueled the fire. It’s like we’re stuck in a cycle of blame and chaos.” “Let’s stop bickering and fight,” Garfield urged, raising his weapon. “We’re still here, and we should fight for what’s left of this nation.” The air grew tense as the men took their stances. Garfield, weakened but resolute, raised his revolver once more. He aimed it at Johnson, but before he could fire, Roosevelt tackled him, wrestling the gun away and ending their brutal struggle with a swift, final blow. The crack of Garfield’s skull meeting the ground echoed through the air as Roosevelt delivered a relentless barrage of punches, his own rage spilling over into a brutal frenzy. As Johnson and Roosevelt fought, the battlefield erupted into chaos again. Roosevelt finally caught Garfield off guard, delivering a crushing blow that sent him reeling. With a primal roar, Roosevelt stood over him, ready to strike again. “Enough!” Lincoln’s voice boomed, silencing the chaos. “We are better than this! We were meant to lead, not destroy each other!” But it was too late; the violence had taken hold. Garfield, weakened, was easy prey for Roosevelt. The ex-president swung his fists wildly, blood and sweat mixing as he fought for dominance. He struck Garfield repeatedly until he lay still, lifeless on the ground. The horror of the battle washed over Lincoln as he saw another of his fellow leaders fall. With only Lincoln, Roosevelt, and Johnson left standing, they faced off, their breath heavy with exertion. Johnson, bruised and battered, glanced between the two. “Is this the legacy we leave behind?” Roosevelt, wiping blood from his brow, nodded. “We’ve fought to survive. It’s time to decide who will lead this nation.” As the air grew tense with anticipation, the three men charged at each other in a final, desperate clash, each blow echoing the weight of their pasts and the future of the nation hanging in the balance. Lincoln, through sheer determination, managed to fend off Roosevelt’s wild strikes and, with a powerful swing of his axe, knocked Johnson to the ground, blood spraying as the blade cut deep into his torso. Johnson gasped, choking on his own blood, the life draining from his eyes as he fell to the dirt, clutching his chest in disbelief. Lincoln turned his attention to Roosevelt, who, in a final act of defiance, lunged forward, fists swinging with desperation. But Lincoln had seen too much bloodshed. He met Roosevelt’s rage with calm resolve, sidestepping a wild punch and swinging his axe once more. The blade found its mark, cleaving through Roosevelt’s shoulder and sending him crashing to the ground. Lincoln stood alone, bloodied, his axe hanging by his side. He looked over the field of his fallen predecessors, the weight of history pressing upon him. In that moment, he realized victory wasn’t about survival but about building a future from the ashes of their past mistakes. He turned to the horizon, where a figure emerged—a woman, resolute and fierce. Kamala Harris stepped forward, the first woman of color poised to lead, her eyes filled with determination. “Ladies first,” he said softly, his voice filled with a weary but genuine respect. She raised an eyebrow, uncertain. “Mr. President?” Lincoln smiled, a warmth creeping into his tired demeanor. “Mr. Vice President, you mean… Madam President.” A moment of silence hung in the air, the weight of history swirling around them. Kamala’s lips curled into a genuine smile, and a flicker of hope ignited in her eyes. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” she asked, stepping closer. “I’ve fought my battles,” Lincoln replied, his voice low but resolute. “And in this tumultuous world, I believe it is time for a new perspective—a new voice to lead this nation. I choose to stand beside you, not as a contender, but as your Vice President.” Kamala looked at him, a mix of disbelief and gratitude etched on her face. “You would really do that?” “Indeed,” he said, nodding solemnly. “Together, we can work toward healing this fractured land. The soul of our country deserves another chance.” With a nod of understanding, Kamala stepped closer. “Then let’s get to work, Mr. Lincoln. Together, we’ll lead this nation into a new era.” As they walked side by side away from the field of violence, the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the ground. Lincoln, the victor of this brutal contest, chose a path of partnership instead of solitary rule. In a world desperate for change, he found purpose in supporting a leader who could usher in a new dawn. The two figures moved away from the violence, embodying a new hope, ready to tackle the challenges ahead. Together, they would confront the damage of the past and build a future where democracy thrived, united by a shared vision of what America could become.
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Copyright 2024.
Patty Mazzurco
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