Taking a Duce (A Benito Mussolini SI)

[wetwipefatass]

HAIL ROMANIA

Click to shrink...

Made me laugh.

the story just goes from strength to strength

 

[Wolffils]

Vivat Imperium!

"Jim Crow is the Devils Law." Never before have I heard such accurate words.

 

[asdweryt]

As a black dude this genuinely makes me happy

 

[Alenco98]

An excerpt from Maya Angelou's 1977 book: We just wanted to be free

Meanwhile, across the Mason-Dixon Line, the Republican Party smelled opportunity amid the ashes of Savannah.

At the center of this political pivot stood Thomas E. Dewey, the reformist Governor of New York and rising star within the Republican establishment. A sharp, clean-cut prosecutor turned politician, Dewey had long been known for his stance against organized crime—but now, his attention shifted to a far greater and more insidious enemy: American apartheid.

The Democratic Party, under the banner of President Franklin Delano Roosevelt, had ruled the White House for an unprecedented three consecutive terms. Almost twelve years of uninterrupted dominance had rendered the Republicans increasingly irrelevant on the national stage. Most political strategists predicted another crushing defeat in 1944. Roosevelt's New Deal was wildly popular. The Allies were gaining ground in the Pacific and had fended off the soviets in Scandinavia after the Karelia crisis ended, and even Mussolini's dramatic repositioning on the world stage—though alarming—had not yet swayed many American voters.

But Savannah changed everything.

The Battle of Savannah was not just a tragedy—it was a revelation. It exposed to the world that racism in the United States was not a regional quirk, nor a relic of the past—it was a living, breathing system of domestic terrorism, protected by governors and state officials, upheld by police, and tolerated by Washington.

Dewey saw what Roosevelt would not say aloud: this was a moral crisis. And it was a political one.

On June 14, 1943, just a day after the smoke finally cleared in Savannah, Dewey took the stage in Albany and delivered what would become one of the most consequential speeches of the decade.

He did not mince words.

"The Ku Klux Klan and segregation are not relics—it is a domestic enemy, a shameful legacy of our nation's failure to fulfill the promises of Reconstruction. Savannah has shown us the truth: Jim Crow is not law, it is terror in a white hood. And it is time we call it what it is—un-American."

The speech landed like a thunderclap across the political landscape. For the first time in modern memory, a major-party figure had publicly and vociferously called out white supremacy by name. Dewey condemned not only the Klan, but also the institutional rot of segregation, calling it "a fascism of the soul, no less dangerous than the jackboots of Italy or the torture chambers of Tokyo."

He pledged that, under his leadership, the Republican Party would become a bulwark for civil rights, and he warned the nation of a terrible irony: that in fighting fascism abroad, America risked nurturing it at home.

"If the United States cannot guarantee liberty for its own citizens, how dare we preach democracy to the world?" Dewey asked. "We are on the brink of losing the new war, just as the old one ended—not to bombs or tanks, but to the poison of hatred, fear, and racism."

True to his word, Dewey wasted no time. He convened an emergency session of the New York State Legislature, where, under his guidance and relentless pressure, the Ives-Quinn Act was drafted and passed in August 1943. It became the first state-level law in the United States to ban employment discrimination based on race, color, creed, or national origin—a legislative sledgehammer aimed directly at the Jim Crow ideology.

To enforce the law, Dewey created the New York State Commission Against Discrimination (SCAD)—an unprecedented move that gave real teeth to civil rights protections at the state level. For the first time, Black workers in New York could bring their grievances to a state agency and expect justice.

But Dewey's ambitions were bigger than New York.

On August 15, 1943, standing before a crowd of thousands in Manhattan, Dewey formally announced his candidacy for the presidency of the United States. Civil rights were not a footnote in his platform—they were the foundation.

"America stands at a crossroads," he declared. "Across the Atlantic, Mussolini courts the world's oppressed with honeyed words and open arms, not for liberty, but for power. He seeks to shame us—and he has succeeded. Savannah was not a foreign plot—it was our shame laid bare. If we want to secure our place in the world, we must first secure it at home. That means civil rights for every American. Not later. Now."

The crowd erupted in cheers, but in the South, the backlash was immediate.

Southern Democrats denounced Dewey as a "race traitor," "New York radical," and "fascist sympathizer"—ironic, given how closely many of them mirrored fascist ideology themselves. Jim Crow defenders went on the offensive, warning that civil rights would bring "Black domination," "white genocide," and "moral collapse." Pamphlets were distributed in Mississippi calling Dewey a "Negro puppet of northern banking interests." Radio shows in Alabama accused him of plotting to "hand America to the Papists and coloreds."

But Dewey didn't flinch.

He doubled down, touring Black neighborhoods in Harlem and Chicago, meeting with labor leaders, war veterans, and pastors. He called for a federal civil rights commission, an anti-lynching law, and the desegregation of the armed forces. He even met with Italian-American leaders to acknowledge the sacrifices made in Savannah, telling them:

"You showed America the mirror. Now we must have the courage to look."

For African Americans, Dewey's rise offered something they had not seen in generations: a sliver of hope from a party that once freed the slaves but had long since abandoned the cause. For segregationists, it was a harbinger of revolution—a challenge to their power and privilege.

For America, it was the beginning of a tragic reckoning.

The National Association for the Advancement of Colored People, once cautiously optimistic about the promises of liberal democracy was stunned by the events of Savannah. The battle had shattered any illusions of progress through traditional, incremental means. Black and Italian blood had stained the cobblestones of Georgia, and the sound of gunfire echoed louder than the voice of any senator, louder than the dithering equivocations of northern liberals too afraid to confront the South's festering cancer. Washington remained paralyzed—paralyzed by fear, by tradition, by the weight of a Constitution that too often served as a shackle rather than a shield. The message was clear: the system was not listening.

And then, Thomas E. Dewey spoke.

He did not stutter. He did not equivocate. He did not hide behind the language of commissions or gradual reform. He condemned segregation, denounced the monstrous hypocrisy of America's "freedom," and called the Jim Crow regime what it was: a grotesque apartheid system born in sin, maintained in violence, and destined for destruction. Dewey's words did not come wrapped in platitudes but in fire. And for the first time in decades, a major white politician spoke not about Black Americans, but to them—and with them.

The NAACP, disillusioned but desperate, took a leap no one had expected. In a historic and thunderous announcement, they formally endorsed Dewey's campaign for president, calling him:

"The only relevant white voice in America that openly stands with us. He does not beg for patience, he demands justice. And he does not ask for our votes—he earns them."

It was a political earthquake.

But the tremors did not stop there.

The Catholic Church, long nominally apolitical in American affairs, began to stir. Conscience and compassion overcame calculation. In the wake of Savannah and the martyrdom of its priests, Pope Pius XII issued a sweeping encyclical, denouncing racial hatred not as a mere social ill, but as a mortal sin. Racism, he declared, was "an affront to the divine image of mankind," and he called upon all Catholics, "to oppose it not only in prayer, but at the ballot box, and with their lives if necessary." He also began the process of canonizing Father Giulio Santini, calling him a, "modern day saint Sebastian."

The Vatican's words were not buried in obscure theological journals—they were printed in newspapers, shouted from pulpits, and echoed in catechism classes. Mussolini, ever watching from afar, endorsed the encyclical with a statement that shocked even his most cynical observers:

"Let it be known that the Church's war on racial injustice has the full blessing of Rome. Those who wear the fasces do not kneel before the lash of Jim Crow. Romans are not slaves."

The message was unambiguous.

Within days, Catholic churches across the United States—from the slums of the Bronx to the vineyards of California—began openly urging their congregants to vote for Dewey. Priests thundered from the pulpit. Nuns distributed voter guides. Bishops reminded their flocks that neutrality in the face of evil was itself a sin. And in pew after pew, hearts began to turn.

Italian, Irish, and Polish Americans—the backbone of the Democratic urban machine—began to defect. Many had suffered their own forms of bigotry, and while few had faced the unrelenting nightmare of Jim Crow, they knew injustice when they saw it.

Black Americans, too, began to notice.

Something was changing—not slowly, not subtly, but with the unmistakable tremor of a tectonic shift. In Black churches across the country, from the red clay hills of Georgia to the brick-row neighborhoods of Chicago, something sacred was unraveling. The old pillars of faith—Methodist, Baptist, and Episcopalian congregations—began to see their pews empty, their member rolls dwindle. Not because the people had lost their faith in God—but because they had lost faith in the institutions that had too often been content to coexist with injustice.

In many corners of the Black religious world, sermons still clung to the language of patience, of long-suffering humility, of awaiting God's justice in the next world rather than demanding it in this one. But the children of sharecroppers and steelworkers had seen too much—too many broken promises, too many polite betrayals. They were no longer willing to bow their heads while their neighbors were beaten for trying to vote, or while their sons returned from war in Europe only to be lynched at home. They sought something different. They needed a new message, one that did not ask them to endure—but to rise.

And that message came—from the most unexpected of places.

Mussolini, the unlikely architect of this new spiritual crusade, had been watching the slow collapse of Southern Protestantism's moral authority among the Black faithful. Perceiving both a spiritual vacuum and a moral opportunity, he convinced Pope Pius XII to act boldly, to send missionaries not to distant colonies but into the heart of America's own fractured soul: the Deep South.

These missionaries were no ordinary priests. They did not come alone.

They arrived in Alabama, Mississippi, and Louisiana under armed escort—accompanied by Italian Blackshirts and Sicilian mafiosi, whose loyalty to Mussolini and the Vatican was matched only by their disdain for American racism. They guarded the missionaries not from Black citizens, but from the mobs and sheriffs and Klansmen who saw their presence as a foreign invasion. In truth, it was an invasion—an invasion of the heart, a campaign not of bullets and banners but of Bibles, baptismal fonts, and fearless conviction.

But it was far from peaceful.

The South—already a cauldron of racial hatred and white supremacist paranoia—erupted into fury the moment it became clear that something irreversible was taking place. The rising tide of African American conversions to Catholicism, the presence of Italian missionaries, the symbolism of armed foreign escorts marching into small Southern towns—it was, for many white Southerners, a nightmare made real.

Local law enforcement, far from being neutral arbiters of order, were often the very instruments of suppression. Sheriffs and police officers—many openly affiliated with the Ku Klux Klan, others quietly sympathetic to its ideology—moved swiftly and violently. Under the pretense of "preserving the peace," they raided church services, dragging priests from altars, hauling them into jail cells on fabricated charges like disturbing the peace, inciting unrest, or practicing a "foreign" religion without proper permits.

In many cases, the mere act of offering Communion to Black citizens alongside white converts was treated as a provocation, a defiance of what white Southerners considered sacred: the racial hierarchy.

White citizens, inflamed by sermons from segregationist pastors and whipped into frenzy by local newspapers warning of "papist invasions" and "Black insurrections," formed mobs. Men with shotguns, baseball bats, and ropes gathered to confront the missionaries, to run them out of town with threats, fire, or bloodshed if necessary. Church buildings were firebombed. Rosaries were torn from elderly Black women's hands. Sacred statues were smashed beneath boot heels.

But something had changed.

This time, the resistance was not unarmed.

What had happened in Savannah—a bitter confrontation between armed fascist protectors and white supremacist militias—began to repeat itself across the South, again and again. From the swamps of Louisiana to the Appalachian foothills of South Carolina, small towns became battlegrounds.

Italian Blackshirts, loyal to Mussolini but also deeply committed to defending the missionaries, stood their ground. Alongside them were Sicilian mafiosi, many of whom saw the fight as both an extension of their code of honor and a brutal way to settle old debts with the forces of American nativism that had long treated Italian immigrants with disdain.

They did not ask for permission. They answered violence with violence.

When sheriffs tried to arrest priests, they were met with gunfire from concealed rooftops and ambushes along country roads. When mobs came with torches, they were confronted by men in trench coats with Thompson submachine guns, men who spoke in Sicilian dialects and recited Hail Marys before pulling the trigger.

But perhaps the most remarkable transformation was not among the foreigners—but among the locals.

African Americans, long conditioned to endure, suddenly began to resist.

Moved by the image of white men willing to fight and die on their behalf, willing to protect their churches and defend their children's right to worship without shame, they found something within themselves that generations of fear had buried but never destroyed: the will to fight back.

They took up arms—some smuggled from sympathetic mafiosi in the North, others handed down from veterans of World War I and II. They barricaded their churches. They trained their young men to shoot, to patrol, to organize.

Side by side with the Blackshirts and the mafiosi, they stood defiant.

In some places, the struggle escalated into all-out warfare.

In Clarksdale, Mississippi, a mob attempted to storm a recently established Catholic mission where over 200 Black residents had gathered for a night vigil. What they found instead were sandbags, barbed wire, and a defensive perimeter guarded by a coalition of Black volunteers and Italian gunmen. The firefight lasted two hours. By dawn, five Klansmen lay dead in the street. The National Guard arrived days later, not to restore peace—but to reclaim the bodies under the watchful eyes of the blackshirts, black Catholics, and the Sicilian mafia.

In Gadsden, Alabama, a Black community that had embraced Catholicism declared its independence from the county government. They expelled the sheriff, burned down the courthouse records, and raised a banner above their church: "Christ is King. Jim Crow is not."

And in dozens of other towns—Marion, Selma, Greenwood, and farther still—the pattern repeated: Black majority communities, newly awakened and newly armed, expelled their white political overlords, often after bloody skirmishes. White landowners fled under cover of night, leaving behind plantations that were promptly seized, their fields collectively farmed under the protection of local defense committees.

These towns became armed, Black-only enclaves—self-sufficient hamlets fortified not just with weapons, but with faith, fury, and unyielding resolve. They welcomed the Blackshirts and mafiosi who had bled beside them, granting them honorary citizenship and spiritual kinship. Together, they built walls—not just physical barricades, but cultural and spiritual sanctuaries, where children learned Latin hymns and Black Madonna statues replaced confederate statues.

White America watched in horror and disbelief.

To segregationists and their political allies, it was nothing short of insurrection—a blasphemous coalition of foreigners and "uppity" Negroes, threatening the foundations of their way of life. To others, especially disillusioned veterans and progressives in the North, it was something closer to prophecy fulfilled—a sign that America's underclass had finally thrown off the chains of both slavery and silence.

The federal government stood paralyzed, unsure whether to crush the movement or court its favor. President Roosevelt, caught between political necessity and personal conviction, issued a statement calling for calm, but refused to denounce the communities outright.

And across the South, the fires continued to burn—not only in buildings, but in hearts long starved of hope, now ignited with the flames of resistance.

What had begun as a spiritual awakening had become something far more powerful: a revolutionary realignment of power, race, and faith in the American soul.

And there would be no going back.

The Catholic Church meanwhile marched on, long an irrelevant force outside the northeastern US, was now at the center of a spiritual and political revolution. Within months, its membership surged by the millions. Entire Black communities, moved by the clarity and courage of the Vatican's stance on racial equality, began to leave their old congregations and embrace a faith that did not treat them as second-class Christians.

In sermons delivered in simple country chapels and grand city cathedrals alike, Catholic priests spoke with moral fire. They denounced Jim Crow from the pulpit, not as unfortunate tradition but as heresy. They invoked scripture not to placate but to inspire rebellion against the forces of hate. And in every sermon, one truth echoed: "There are no segregated pews in Heaven."

In the North itself, the effects were even more dramatic.

It was not a ripple—it was a tidal wave.

From Harlem to Detroit, from South Side Chicago to the immigrant neighborhoods of Boston, Catholic churches threw open their doors to Black Americans. There were no roped-off sections, no signs, no whispers urging "patience." There would be no separate seating for whites or Blacks. No separate sacraments. No divided flock. The message was clear, unyielding, and revolutionary:

"All are equal in the eyes of God—and all shall sit together."

In cities long divided by redlining and resentment, Catholics—Irish, Italian, Polish, and now Black—stood side by side at the altar. They knelt together. They shared communion. They broke bread in the same churches where, only years before, race riots had scarred the streets. It was not always smooth, nor was it without tension. But it was happening.

A new Great Awakening was unfolding across America.

But unlike the revivals of old, which often focused on personal salvation and emotional conversion, this was a collective spiritual uprising—rooted in justice, equality, and the refusal to tolerate oppression cloaked in the language of law or custom. It was not born in revival tents, but in the hard concrete streets and shotgun churches of Black America—and it spread like wildfire.

In towns both north and south, from cotton fields to steel mills, African Americans began converting to Catholicism in droves. Not out of novelty, but out of necessity—out of a yearning for a church that would march with them, that would shelter them, that would fight.

In Chicago, entire Black neighborhoods baptized hundreds at a time. In New Orleans, once ruled by the legacy of Creole caste systems, Black converts sang in Latin and raised crucifixes. In Harlem, Black children now attended parochial schools taught by nuns who did not flinch when they walked into the classroom.

This wasn't just spiritual.

It was political. It was cultural. It was radical.

The Catholic Church, once aloof and European in its distance, had descended into the trenches—and with it, came a renewed sense of solidarity that transcended race, region, and tradition. Black Catholics began forming their own councils, schools, and even publishing houses. They brought with them their traditions—the rhythm of gospel, the cry of the blues, the strength of their prayers—and fused it with the liturgy of Rome.

A new theology was being born—Black, Catholic, and unafraid.

And so, as America teetered between its past and its future, the Spirit moved. Not in whispers, but in roaring winds.

A once silenced people found their voice in the Latin mass, their strength in the sacraments, their dignity restored by a Church that had finally chosen to walk the path of righteousness—even if it was late in doing so.

And for the first time in generations, Black Americans no longer felt like spiritual exiles in their own land.

They were children of God—and now, everyone knew it.

Dewey meanwhile began to make promises—not to dismantle the New Deal but to reform it, to make it leaner, cleaner, more efficient without gutting its core. This calmed the fears of workers and union men. He was no reactionary. He was offering not a return to the past, but a bold leap forward.

And so they came. One by one, family by family, street by street.

In New York, voter rolls began to swell. In Buffalo, Polish dockworkers changed party affiliation en masse. In Pittsburgh, Irish steelworkers who once cursed the GOP as the party of Hoover now whispered that Dewey might be different. In Philadelphia, Catholic precincts buzzed with a new energy. Across Pennsylvania, the Republican Party—long a spent force outside the leafy suburbs—suddenly had life.

And in every conversation, every kitchen table debate, one name loomed like a phantom behind it all: Jim Crow.

The South's twisted system of white terror—its lynch mobs, its poll taxes, its segregated schools and sundown towns—had become too grotesque to ignore. It was not merely immoral. It was obscene. It was the living proof that America's democratic mask was slipping, revealing something far more monstrous underneath. It was the rotting corpse of Reconstruction, animated by hate and ritual violence, now exposed to the light. Every photo of a Black veteran beaten for trying to vote, every newspaper article about a child barred from school because of their skin—they were daggers to the American conscience.

And Dewey, for all his flaws, was the only white politician willing to wield a scalpel against the tumor.

The Republican Party, once thought unelectable in key northern states, now surged with new blood and righteous fury. Registration offices overflowed. Party chapters were inundated with new volunteers. Campaign offices buzzed with Catholics, progressives, disillusioned Roosevelt men, and young Black veterans demanding change. The once laughable notion that New York or Pennsylvania might flip was now whispered as strategy in smoky backrooms.

The dam had cracked.

And behind it surged a tidal wave of rage, hope, desperation, and resolve.

The battle lines were no longer Democrat versus Republican. They were Justice versus Jim Crow. Conscience versus cowardice. The future versus the noose.

And this time, at last, America might actually choose the right side.

Dewey immediately set to work on one of the most crucial tasks of any presidential hopeful: uniting his fractured party.

His primary obstacle was the conservative wing of the Republican Party, led by the formidable Senator Robert A. Taft of Ohio. The two men had a long and bitter rivalry dating back to the 1940 Republican National Convention, where their clashing visions for the party and the country had created deep fissures. Their personal relationship was distant at best, marked by mutual suspicion and ideological contempt.

But Thomas Dewey was, at his core, a pragmatist.

He knew that to mount a serious challenge to Roosevelt's Democratic dominance—and to offer a credible alternative to the American people—he had to bring Taft and his followers into the fold. Without the conservative bloc's support, the Republican Party would remain divided and vulnerable.

The day after announcing his presidential bid, Dewey did something few would have expected: he personally went to Taft's office in Washington, D.C., and requested a private, one-on-one meeting.

Taft, the "Senator from the Senate," known for his unwavering conservatism and mastery of legislative tactics, was cautious but curious. Dewey's visit was unusual—he rarely sought out his rivals so directly.

The two men sat together for hours.

In a measured, firm tone, Dewey laid out his case. He spoke not as a mere politician, but as a man who understood the stakes facing the world and the nation.

He warned Taft of the looming threats abroad—Mussolini's aggressive gambit in Europe and Africa, Stalin's relentless expansionism in Asia, and the terrifying possibility that these totalitarian regimes could divide the globe among themselves, leaving the United States isolated and vulnerable. He painted a dire picture of what might come if America did not act decisively.

Dewey emphasized that this election was the best chance the Republican Party had in years to reclaim the White House and restore American leadership in the world.

He was careful not to alienate Taft's conservative ideals. Dewey offered no grand reduction of the New Deal. Instead, he promised to streamline and reform existing programs, cutting waste and inefficiency while protecting the social safety net.

He pledged tax cuts to stimulate growth, a determined effort to pay down the national debt, and a crackdown on what he called "organized labor's worst excesses", signaling his intent to appeal to business interests and moderate conservatives without alienating working-class voters entirely.

Then, in a bold move, Dewey extended an offer that would both flatter and challenge Taft: the vice-presidential nomination. He promised his full support and endorsement for Taft's own presidential ambitions in 1952, presenting a deal that sought to bridge their differences through political cooperation.

Taft listened carefully but said little in response. His face remained inscrutable throughout the meeting—neither warmth nor outright hostility. When Dewey left that evening, Taft was left with a blank expression, a mask of cautious calculation.

Behind that impassive exterior, the wheels were turning.

And one thing was clear: Dewey had taken the first critical step toward bridging the divide in the Republican Party—and the future of the nation might depend on whether Taft chose to accept it.

For the remainder of August 1943, Thomas Dewey and Robert A. Taft met almost daily. Sometimes it was over formal luncheons in the Senate dining room; other times, in the quiet of Taft's office, shielded from prying eyes and the ever-present whispers of Washington politics. There were dinners at Dewey's hotel suite, walks through the Capitol's marbled corridors, and long conversations that often stretched late into the evening.

What began as strategic negotiations gradually evolved into something more genuine. As the days passed, they discovered they had far more in common than either had previously assumed.

Both were men of the law—trained attorneys forged in the crucible of rigorous education and the high-pressure world of litigation. Over coffee and bourbon, they swapped stories of grueling nights studying for the bar, the anxiety of their first appearances before a judge, and the satisfaction of winning hard-fought cases. It was in these shared experiences that the walls between them began to fall.

They were both men who revered the Constitution—not as an abstract idea, but as the bedrock of American democracy. They were committed institutionalists who believed deeply in the structure of the Republic, the separation of powers, and the sanctity of the rule of law. And while their approaches sometimes differed, both harbored a measured skepticism toward the New Deal's expansive federal bureaucracy, which they viewed as a potential threat to American self-government and individual liberty.

More urgently, they were united by a growing reality: that the world was being carved up by tyrants. Fascism and communism—once rivals—now posed parallel dangers to the democratic order. Mussolini's ruthless expansionism and Stalin's iron-fisted control over Eastern Europe and Asia terrified them. Neither man believed that Roosevelt, burdened by an aging administration and a one-party dominance, would be agile enough to face the coming storm.

Their alliance, once fragile, began to harden into a true political partnership.

Then, on September 1, 1943, a symbolic and strategic milestone was reached.

That morning, Senator Taft stood before the press and issued a statement endorsing Governor Thomas E. Dewey for the presidency of the United States. He praised Dewey's competence, his legal acumen, and his integrity. More importantly, he described him as "a man capable of guiding the nation through war and peace, without abandoning its constitutional moorings."

Later that afternoon, Dewey formally announced that he would select Senator Robert A. Taft as his running mate for the 1944 election. The Republican ticket—once thought to be divided by deep ideological fault lines—now stood united under two of its most capable and principled leaders.

The news electrified the party.

Eastern moderates and Midwestern conservatives alike rallied behind the Dewey-Taft ticket. Newspaper editorials hailed the union as a masterstroke—a fusion of legal brilliance, executive competence, and legislative authority. Even skeptical party bosses began to believe that Roosevelt could be beaten, especially in the wake of the Savannah Massacre and growing unrest in the South.

For the first time in over a decade, the Republican Party was no longer fractured by internal squabbles or ideological purges. It stood as a single, formidable force with a message of constitutional governance, restrained government, and unwavering commitment to defeating tyranny at home and abroad.

Now, the campaign would begin in earnest.

The Democrats were still reeling from the violence in Georgia and the criticism Roosevelt had faced for his silence. The public mood was shifting. The world was on fire, and America's soul was at stake.

The Republicans were united. Now, they had to win.

But victory always comes with a price.

 

[Chaoswind]

Dewey is going to get murdered isn't it?

Anyways awesome chapter

 

[Wolffils]

Absolutely amazing writing here .