Bar talks

The air in the tavern thickened, crackling with the raw, untamed fervor of the old veterans. Each grizzled face, etched with battles long past, twisted into a mask of righteous fury as their radical remarks spewed forth. Some, eyes wide with a terrifying glint, openly declared their intent to personally escort the President of the United States to a permanent retirement, installing Dutch in his place, perhaps by noon.

This sudden, utterly unhinged cascade of revolutionary zeal slapped Dutch square in the face, leaving him utterly flummoxed. Even the battle-hardened members of the Van der Linde Gang exchanged bewildered glances, jaws slack.

"Oh, no no no no no! Gentlemen, simmer down now, please!"

Dutch's hands shot up, palms outward, as if fending off a charging buffalo. His eyes, wide as saucers, darted frantically between the agitated veterans. "It's not that bad! Not nearly that bad, I assure you!" He sounded as if he'd just seen a ghost, or worse, received an unsolicited job offer for supreme global leader. Damn it all to hell, he thought, a cold sweat beading on his brow. If these lunatics keep this up, I'll have to resign as gang leader by sunrise and start drafting my presidential campaign speech!

"Why not, Mr. Van der Linde?!" A burly veteran, his neck veins throbbing, slammed a calloused fist on the table, rattling tankards. His eyes were wild, alight with the fire of a thousand grievances. "Those damned Saint Denis dignitaries! They sit up in their gilded cages, spouting pretty words while we suffer! They're scum, I tell you, scum! Should've been culled generations ago! And now, not only do they come for you, they want to shut down the Veteran Club?! Damn them! They're trying to starve us out!"

"Sh*t!" Another veteran, a wiry man with a twitch in his eye, lunged for the door, hand already reaching for his imaginary phone. "I'll call my old army buddies right now! I bet they'd be thrilled to turn around and carve up those damned beasts! Gladly!"

"Mr. Van der Linde," a third chimed in, leaning forward with an intense, almost worshipful gaze, "don't you fret! We'll iron out all your little wrinkles for you! That scrawny kid McKinley shouldn't be president anyway; he's got no grit, no panache! You're the man for the job, sir!"

Each veteran spoke with such fervent, wide-eyed enthusiasm, their faces flushed crimson, that the twenty-odd men somehow managed to convey the distinct impression that Dutch had already seized control of roughly half the United States and was merely awaiting inauguration.

"No, no no no! Gentlemen, stop!" Dutch's voice rose, a panicked squeak escaping as he waved his hands even more frantically, as if swatting away invisible swarms of political aspirations. He pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling a ragged sigh.

"We don't need to be so radical! And frankly, we don't have the strength to be so radical right now."

He tried to offer a reassuring, though strained, smile. "Oh, you can rest assured, I have a plan for those Saint Denis senators. A magnificent plan! I guarantee I'll make them regret the day they learned to tie their own boots! But you don't have to be so... so explosive! I've made all of New Hanover safe precisely so you can live happily, not so you have to risk your precious lives for my exalted status!"

He paused, gulping. "Gentlemen, gentlemen! In short, it's not time yet! For now, just enjoy your peaceful lives in New Hanover. As long as your lives keep improving, our strength will naturally swell. Then, we won't even need to lift a finger; those damned senators will trip over their own egos and fall! Trust me on this, gentlemen!"

Dutch spoke with earnest desperation, his eyes pleading, praying these veterans would temporarily shelve their revolutionary dreams without harboring any ill will towards him. It wasn't that he didn't want to resist the pompous twits in Saint Denis, or even the grand ole' United States Federal Government. It was simply that their current muscle was... well, insufficient.

Sure, he could probably carve out an independent New Hanover, but then what? He'd have the entire U.S. Army, plus the eager-to-intervene forces of France and Britain, knocking on his door, tea and bayonets in hand. The passion of these individual soldiers, as fiery as it was, was as reliable as a chocolate teapot in a furnace.

After the first real volley of bullets, they'd find reality a rather stark contrast to their tavern fantasies. Or, after suffering a few losses, that blazing passion would cool faster than a forgotten campfire, and their gratitude would curdle into resentment. If he truly got swept away by this revolutionary fever dream and led them into a full-blown rebellion, that would be the grand finale, alright – the one where everyone dies tragically.

Besides, his current method? Slow, steady, like a patiently brewing storm. He'd grow larger, stronger, and then, only then, deliver a crushing blow to the U.S. Government. That was the truly good plan, the truly glorious future! Wasn't that infinitely better than charging forward like a headless chicken?

Dutch had learned from past experiences (and a certain video game's plot) how utterly foolish it was to simply charge headfirst. The Van der Linde Gang had thrived through cunning and intellect, and he wasn't about to saw off the branch he was standing on.

Besides, he truly wasn't afraid of those puffed-up Saint Denis dignitaries now. Afraid? Ha! Not only was he not afraid, but he now had enough tricks up his sleeve to turn their world upside down!

Dutch, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow, offered the veterans a reassuring, almost paternal, pat on the back. He then turned to Charles, his gaze a little too bright.

"Charles," he began, "these gentlemen are truly... enthusiastic. So spirited, even! Oh, my word, I think our factory desperately needs such a vibrant infusion of loyalty and, shall we say, proactive problem-solving." He gestured expansively towards the veterans.

"So, would you be a dear and find Sheriff Soames? Ask him to bring a few men to help arrange employment for these fine, fine gentlemen, alright?" He gave Charles a meaningful look that clearly meant, "Get them out of here before they declare me Emperor of the Wild West."

"Of course, Dutch!" Charles nodded, a small, knowing smirk playing on his lips, then rose and made his graceful exit, leaving Dutch to the lingering, volatile fumes of revolution.

The veterans, under Dutch's persistent, slightly frantic persuasion, grumbled but eventually slumped back into their seats. Their faces remained flushed, a mix of excitement and indignation, as they gnashed their teeth.

"Oh, shit," muttered one, his eyes still smoldering. "Mr. Van der Linde is truly wronged! Damn it, every last one of those Saint Denis dignitaries deserves a one-way trip to perdition!"

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" another spat, shaking his head. "This feeling of powerlessness! It's utterly despairing! A good man, a truly kind, good man, is being threatened by these bastards, and he can't even fight back! Damn it, can't these damned American politicians just spontaneously combust?!"

"Oh, shit!" a third exclaimed, pulling out a crumpled piece of paper and a stubby pencil. "I'm writing a letter back to my unit right now! I want all the soldiers in our company to come and pledge allegiance to Mr. Van der Linde after they retire! Damn it, if these American dignitaries want to target him, then we veterans will stand as his shield!"

"Oh, Mr. Van der Linde is truly too good, too kind!" yet another declared, his voice thick with emotion. "Even now, he worries about our lives, not wanting us to be mere pawns for his rightful rise to power! Damn it, for such a kind, such a noble soul, we should swear to follow him to the death and defend Mr. Van der Linde's glory with every last breath!"

Despite Dutch's utmost efforts to rein them in, he simply couldn't contain the indignant, almost fanatical, reverence these gentlemen held for him. They were simmering volcanoes of devotion.

Seeing that they were finally no longer quite so volatile, Dutch let out a long, shuddering sigh of relief, slumping slightly in his chair. Sometimes, when people's hearts converged, there was this... less-than-ideal aspect. Right now, it was just a few dozen hotheads. But if the workers in his factory got wind of this, a colossal, uncontrollable mess would surely erupt. Public opinion would then drag him, kicking and screaming, into action whether he liked it or not.

However, just as Dutch sighed in relief, Hosea, who had been quietly observing nearby, suddenly piped up, a sly grin playing on his lips, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Dutch," he said, his voice a low, conspiratorial murmur, "the people's hearts are with us, eh? So, why don't we just... make a move? I think even the United States Government wouldn't dare to underestimate the power of New Hanover now, would they?"

Shit! Dutch's eyes nearly bugged out. This old man! His rebellious spirit is even more deranged than mine now!

"No, Hosea, this is not a good plan!" Dutch snapped, sitting bolt upright. "War isn't some Sunday picnic, Hosea. There are simply too many variables to juggle! Let's not even whisper about the backing those European countries give the United States; just logistics and resources alone are a nightmare we can't guarantee!" He leaned in, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "We can find people to 'retire' the Saint Denis dignitaries right now. We can keep developing without a care for their pathetic warnings. But we cannot, cannot, openly rebel!

We cannot encircle the Saint Denis elite like some common cattle rustlers. That would provoke the wrath of capitalists worldwide, Hosea! They are simply too powerful, and our current military strength isn't enough to withstand their inevitable onslaught! Besides," he gestured wildly with a hand, "if we stick to the brilliant plan we've already laid out, we can steadily grow stronger, day by day. Why introduce unstable factors when we have a winning strategy?"

Dutch stared at Hosea, genuinely wondering if the old man had finally lost his marbles. Damn it, they said Hosea was his anchor, always keeping his wilder impulses in check. But now this old warhorse had gone full revolutionary! He actually believed the Van der Linde Gang's current strength was… invincible! Damn it, even I wouldn't dare to entertain such delusions! Lil Moustache man waited more than ten years of methodical development after his little beer hall speech. I can't just conquer the Wild West right after I've finished building a decent saloon, can I?!