"Woo-woo-wooo!" The mournful cry of steam engines echoed across the plains, each iron beast hurtling toward Blackwater Town, a human tide of rough-hewn coats and worn boots spilling from its carriages. Following Mr. Van der Linde's bold proclamation of a Grand American Ceremony on September 7, 1904, a pilgrimage had begun. A steady, unceasing flow of humanity—from the newly empowered working class to the handful of once-mighty aristocrats whose power had been forcefully clipped—converged on the burgeoning town.
While Mr. Van der Linde had nationalized the behemoth factories and enterprises, he'd shrewdly left the smaller businesses intact, fostering a dual system of state and private enterprise. This delicate balance, while stimulating the economy, meant that some of the old money remained, their fortunes diminished but not destroyed, their power and influence a shadow of its former glory. Dutch Van der Linde's legitimate victory had been signed in ink, and even the haughty Easterners had no choice but to bend the knee.
Some stubborn old mules surely bristled at his rule, but this world never lacked for opportunists. Once Dutch's legitimacy was sealed, they had swiftly begun to unfurl their carefully crafted plans. Yet, the vast majority of those who came were the heart and soul of the nation: the American working class.
"Oh, son," a man in plain, sturdy clothes sighed, his eyes distant. "You're gonna be a happy fella. When I was your age, I couldn't even afford a square meal. I remember nearly starvin' to death, forced to steal vegetables from a farmer's patch. Got caught, too. The farmer beat me so bad I thought I was a goner, and the constable still wanted to throw me in the pokey. Blast it all, at least I could've had some gruel in prison..."
The woman beside him gently placed a hand on his arm, her eyes filled with quiet, loving compassion. The child, no older than three, didn't understand his father's words, but he reached out with a small hand and took hold of a calloused finger. The simple gesture broke the man's melancholic reverie. A broad, joyful grin split his face.
"But now it's good, my son," he said, patting the boy's head with his free hand. "Mr. Van der Linde is our President. From now on, you'll never have to live a goddamn life like mine!"
The man's story rippled through the train car. The passenger directly behind him let out a booming laugh. "That's the truth, sir! Mr. Van der Linde is the greatest man alive! Hell, five years ago I was a lumberjack who couldn't keep warm or feed myself. Now look at me!" He gestured proudly to his thick flannel shirt and clean trousers. "I can eat my fill and sleep warm. I even have coin to bring my whole family by train to see Mr. Van der Linde's Grand American Ceremony. Goddamn, I feel like I'm livin' in a dream. No, I wouldn't have even dared to dream of this life before!"
Another voice, from the front of the carriage, joined the chorus. This man wore a distinctive industrial uniform, the mark of a Van der Linde worker. And as one of Dutch's workers, he had, of course, received Dutch's "ideological education."
"Ho ho ho, gentlemen," the worker said, wagging a finger with an air of authority. "I reckon it's high time you boys started studyin' Mr. Van der Linde's quotations… You must understand, he's buildin' a nation the likes of which history has never seen! The reason your lives are so much better now is because he forced down the prices of food and daily necessities. In those damned capitalist countries, those things are just tools for making money, and that's why you couldn't eat before. But from now on, the days of an empty stomach are dead and buried. Mr. Van der Linde even uses the nation's coffers to subsidize food prices, keeping 'em low so you can eat your fill! No blasted capitalist or imperialist country can say that, at least not yet. Even rich places like Europe are built on the bones and sinew of their own workers…"
It was a testament to the success of Dutch's indoctrination that a simple worker from Hope Happiness Ranch could articulate such a complex comparison, effortlessly weaving in praise for Dutch and building national pride among his fellow citizens. A lesson on Dutch Van der Linde's ideology had begun on the train, and amidst its strong aroma, the locomotive rumbled toward Blackwater Town.
The town itself was a maelstrom of activity. The deluge of people meant the streets, hotels, and even the surrounding wilderness were packed tight with countless tents. To ensure the safety of the event, the Van der Linde SS patrolled every street, their uniforms crisp, their faces grim. Following their brutal, efficient performance during the war with the Eastern American government, they had earned the fiercely affectionate title of "the American people's Soldiers." The capitalists may have hated and feared them, but the common people only had respect and trust.
As the hour of the ceremony drew near, the crowds swelled. A special train, an armored beast of steel and rivets, slowly clanked its way into the Blackwater station. It was still useful today; as the President's personal transport, it was a fortress on wheels.
Inside sat the newly inaugurated President of the United States, Dutch Van der Linde.
"Arthur, oh, Arthur, my boy, my dear boy, come on, hurry now, come and have a drink with me!"
Dutch, his face flushed and his movements sloppy, sloshed a half-full glass of whiskey as he weaved his way towards the bar. Arthur, who was talking with Mary, had to get up from his stool to brace for impact.
"Goddamn it, Dutch, how can you drink like this? Devil take it, you're the President of the United States, what a disgrace to be so damned drunk!" Arthur grumbled, catching Dutch before he stumbled.
"Enough, Arthur," Dutch slurred, a drunken smile plastered on his face. He patted Arthur's shoulder, swaying precariously. "Today is the happiest day, my child. For Christ's sake, why don't you and Mary have a child yet? Damn it, we've got a throne to inherit now!" He then clumsily pointed a finger at Abigail and John, who sat nearby. "And you, boy bitten by a wolf in the head, John Marston, why haven't you made another child, huh? Damn it, the wolf bit your head, not your organs!"
John's face turned a shade of crimson, but he bit his tongue, daring not to talk back. Arthur just sighed, massaging his temples. He looked up, spotting Molly, who had joined the other women and was drunkenly singing lewd songs.
"Miss O'Shea!" Arthur bellowed, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "Would you be a dear and help Dutch to his room? Devil take him, he's acting like a rat in the trash and annoying everyone!"
"Please, Arthur," Molly slurred, not even turning her head. "Can't you see I'm drinking?"
"Oh, for heaven's sake!" Arthur groaned, just as he felt a hand slap his backside.
"Hahaha, Arthur, your posterior's like a goddamn antelope that can leap off a cliff!" Hosea, equally drunk, boomed with laughter as he leaned against Arthur from behind.
"Oh, my God," Arthur muttered, his face a mask of weary defeat.