Once, there was a great NAU president named Fitzgerald Thomas Grant III. He comes from a long line of right-wing Grant conservatives, fascists, imperialists, nationalists, capitalists, and Nazis. Throughout NAU history, they've influenced many, hoarded much, chanted much, and bigoted against weaker, stupider, and stranger folk much. And yet, NAU society, in any given decade, would view it as just good business...and the expected ascension up that political ladder.

Once, Abraham Lincoln was just a boy, growing up on the Ohio River. One of Fitz's ancestors, Thomas, would know a great deal about that time...if not that place.

Welcome to Alto California...still a CAU state. The year is 1827. Farther east, John Quincy Adams is president of the NAU. Missouri was just admitted to the Union six years ago.

Out here, muskets go off. Cannons fire. Out here, a territorial skirmish persists, between natives, CAU troops, and NAU troops. While he can't usually be found, Thomas Grant is among the NAU volunteers.

Among the fire, there are corpses. They wear the uniforms of five different armies.

An Indian male stands over one of the corpses. He falls to his knees, grabs one of the corpses, and bites it on the neck. His mouth drips with blood, as he drinks it. He smiles, messily, as he does...

Behind him, someone fires their musket.

Days pass. A red sun sets over Alto California.

Everywhere, the bodies begin to decay. The plasma in their blood has long been evaporated by the desert/alpine sun.

All five sides just might now be in the mood to negotiate. With that said, Thomas will get some time off.

Across the desert he wanders, on foot. He's unarmed, but burdened. The desert is a living hell, regardless of the time of year. Fellowship knows no surplus out here...unless you're a coyote or a lobo.

Thomas slows down, and stops to look at a mule deer. It's a buck. It's got a ten-point rack.

It's not quite a heffalump... But out here, it'll just have to do. Desert elephants only live in Africa.

The muley wanders off. Young Thomas scoffs, and keeps marching.

Up ahead, a flock of California quail scavenge. Thomas feels like crying. If he were armed, he'd go quail hunting. As weak as law enforcement is out here, he wouldn't likely do time in the pen, CAU or otherwise, for hunting without a license.

Nonetheless, that quail species is in luck. One day, whether it knows it or not, it will become the state bird of a great state...one that'll generate the likes of Buck Owens and Merle Haggard, among many others.

At last, Thomas tops the last hill between himself and home. Below, there's a house. And there are slaves. They're Austronesian; Samoan and Filipino imports, the bulk of them. They all look great in lingerie. Their master doesn't offer them much else to wear.

Thomas begins his descent. Below, all of the slaves go hogwild, and charge Thomas as he approaches. They surround him, and try to hug him all at once.

Just now, Thomas realizes how much he misses this. Damn, the army's got him away from home too much...

At the front door of the house, a man stands. Somehow, he doesn't seem pleased. Thomas tries to smile...but for once, his smile doesn't influence. There are many white people out here who don't take it too well, when they see one of their own getting political with the slaves...

One by one, the slaves take his things. They leave him in briefs, outside, on the front lawn.

At last, the last slave gets her master's male descendant all to herself. She caresses his face in her hands, and kisses him. Ah, how she's missed him. They all have...but SHE'S missed him most...

Another red dusk sets, over the Sierra Nevadas. Soon, the land will be crawling...

Thomas gets to sleep in a real bed tonight. Then again, as often as he's been sleeping on the ground recently, he might prefer a sack outside.

Tonight, however, he might prefer to sleep inside... Little good even that will do him...

Even so, the slaves bathe him. He's as filthy as a javelina, and he turns the bathwater into a hot tub, each time he ejects the remains of last week's beans; still, they giggle, while purging his creases of fleas, ticks, cockleburs, and sandburs...just to name the bulk of it.

He's still bleeding, where they've plucked the ticks. They've bandaged those bites, but... The blood is still there. Before the night is over, Thomas will wish it wasn't.