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whatever he thinks he was set to prove and his union will be busted, me machines are the future of labor, aye, and sure now I can visit me mam’s grave and tell her, You were right all along, dear — can’t no coon whip me, Ma .

Seamus O’Reily, 54,
    Catholic & Union Representative for the Railway Employees’ Department of the AFL, June 18, 1922
     
    S ure now, I seen him do it, lads, and with me own two blasted eyes when I was but a baby boy—he beat that engine and then he beat that fat cat West Brit too, just as they’re doing back in the old country now, aye, and he stood tall as any two of yous and his chest was big around as a Jameson barrel and he had two hammers for fists and a black hound what would follow him ’round both day and night but was nowheres to be found on that day yer man Henry left us—I was but a boy, as I’ve said, but, by Jeanie Mac, he was swinging those fists so furious that a whirl of wind whipped up and spun from the ground and the earth shook and the sweat rained off him like yer cow pissin on a flat rock but then that rainbow bloomed above his broad shoulders and haloed his head as he beat that machine, which moaned and wheezed about—and when yer man cried out for his dear ma-ma, I swear to the Virgin Herself, that engine whined ma-ma as well—but afore he left us, Mr Henry hisself reached over and took that hard-driving boss man Protestant piece of shit what he was, the kind who scuttles about doing the bidding of the Big Boss—the same man who’d stake claims to half yer wages but keep ya blistered in the sun all day a-dyin—Mr Henry took that same bastard by his ankles, turned him half over and up’ards and drove him as a spike right clean through the line and the skies parted and Mr Henry rose through the clouds, unbeaten even by death, and I seen it I swear with me own two eyes—Mr Henry, he was a deadly sharp man, much more than any single man among us,but if we all band together, brothers, band as one, we could walk off this job and picket this Wheeling Way Line, and even with their strike busters and their Pinkertons, we could shut her down the same as Mr Henry shut down that damn machine and we can hold out till we get what’s right and ours, aye—so I stand afore you now, lads, one machinist among many, so you may see with your own two eyes, me, the man you’ve elected to represent ya, use my very own voice, like Mr Henry’s hammers, to bring down the call for a strike!

Into the Greasy Grass: Custer v. Ska
    During the Battle of Little Big Horn on the Crow Reservation, the Montana Territory,
    June 25, 1876



George Armstrong Custer, 36,
    Lieutenant Colonel of the US Seventh Cavalry
     
    A s I drive Victory through the river and urge my men to follow, a whole horde of the heathen rise from the brush of the banks and train their rifles and arrows on us, so I fire my carbine till the barrel tip glows red and my cheek burns and my ear becomes a ringing hollowed bell—one shot hits my trunk and carries me off my mount, and when I hit the water, my breath quits me and all I can see is the face of Grant—his general stars taken out and polished by his black manservant; his swollen fingers wrapped ’round the stem of the champagne flute he hoists, muttering a toast to our nation’s centennial; his yellowed eyes steadfast upon the bottle—I rise from the water, rivulets streaming behind my ears, my twin English Bulldog pistols barking in my hands—I unleash handfuls of shot and I am enshrouded in hot white smoke, thick as the bouquet of Queen Anne’s lace I gave Libbie on our wedding day—I should be the one standing before the assembled Congress, entreating our Lord to protect our nation, my adoring Libbie by my side, silk spilling over her bustle, as an artist makes our portrait for the White House walls—Grant sent me here because of the kickback scandal and to avenge his foolish brother Orville and Secretary Belknap for the truths I spoke of them before