For this one: You must persuade a rising General to join your clan of sorcerers.
WASHINGTON (any gender, mid teens through late life)
So you are a general now? Well, congratulations... "General"...
I suppose you're leaving us? Drive the British off with your strength? Your talents? Your leadership?
Don't you know how useful those could be if you joined my little clan. There are merely six of us as of yet but with your help? The rewards, General, the rewards. I know you, General. You're passion isn't for war, it's for the land. My clan... we know land. We can make things happen with crops. How would you like to be the owner of the most successful tobacco plantation in the country? No more failure? No more debt?
My clan... we also know the body and how do heal it. I know you are losing your teeth. Just as we can make crops take root, we can make your gums give new root to your teeth. We can even cast away the yellow... how would you like to smile again? Smile with a healed mouth? Smile over your healed land?
We are really healers, General. If you go off to war, you will not heal. You will win eventually, you will get the credit, but behind that victory is years and years of suffering... countless men, knee deep in freezing mud, naked from lack of provisions-- make no mistake, congress will not come to your aid when you most need it-- eating soups of boiled shoe leather...
When you become president but will enter office with only one working tooth. You'll be immortalized as the Man Who Never Smiled. And of course, within your first year, half your adoring public will turn on you. You will die in pain and frustration.
Come live amongst us. We need YOU for OUR survival. We can thrive together. You can have a new family here. It could start with me. I know you, General. You know that whenever I look into your eyes, I still see a beautiful spirit merely named "George".
Copyright 2016 by Matt Haynes.
If you would like to use this piece, please credit: "Courtesy of Matt Haynes and The Pulp Stage"