It is curious time we live in, o Emperor. Not so long ago merchant caravans started coming to our land, and with them news of the Greater Wasteland began to spread. This winter my people have learned of the woes that the Great Wolf has brought upon your nation. But before any tears are shed and any sorrows are expressed, let me tell you something about my life, o Emperor.
I was born free, but I was too young to enjoy the true taste of freedom before my family was slaughtered and my freedom taken by a band of slavers from the Wild West. I was raised and trained to become a pit fighter in blood-soaked arenas of the Wastes. I learned my lessons well and soon after reaching maturity I became the legend of western pits. I knew how to kill swiftly, I knew how to kill slowly, and, most importantly, I knew what sort of kill the audience had paid to see each particular night. People loved me for it, and my owner, fat Jared the Goose, loved the money I was making for him. He wasn’t the worst pit owner in the West, although he wasn’t the best. He treated all of his fighters like dogs: knew how to spoil them with a treat when they were bringing profit to him, and knew how to punish them with a whip when they didn’t live up to the cost of their food and shelter.
One night I pleased Jared especially well. That night, I’d slayed three mercenaries from the northern tribes using nothing but my two tomahawks. After getting his share of caps, the Goose got himself drunk and lost his caution. He decided to award me for my performance with a piece of novelty: a séance of a pre-Great War film called “Spartacus.” That film told a story of a brave pit-fighter who stood against the tyranny of a pre-War nation called Rome. He raised a rebellion in his arena and led his fellow pit-fighters into a mutiny that shook Rome to its foundations.
When the movie was over, I couldn’t move nor speak. I was overwhelmed by the noble simplicity of Spartacus’ act. Several minutes later Jared’s guard came in saying the Goose wants to see me. He led me to Jared’s room, where I found my owner and two of his thugs drinking booze over a large bowl full of white powder. They explained to me it was some chem.
“Wanna sniff it? Some smooth stuff. You’ve earned this , my man,” Jared told me.
His friend passed me a piece of glass. “You line this dope on the table like this,” he said.
“Use your glass shard. Then sniff.” He followed his own instruction and inhaled that strange chem through one nostril and then sat back in his chair, rubbing his nose and coughing slightly. He looked stupefied.
“Come on, man. Go on, sniff it,” Jared repeated. “Be a good puppy.”
The thug that’d brought me there pushed me in the shoulder, and then something deep inside of me snapped. I remembered the bodies of those three mercs I’d slaughtered that night, their heads split open like overripe watermelons, their brains oozing into the dust of the arena through gaping holes in their skulls. I remembered all friends and comrades I’d lost in pit fights, their blood on my hands, their dry lips whispering their final “good bye” before I finish them off.
I clenched my fists so hard, the piece of glass Jared’s friend had given me split in half in my palm. Blood soaking from my hand, I thrust both pieces of glass into the eyes of the guard who stood behind me. As he shrieked, I pulled his gun from his holster and shot at both of Jared’s dumbfounded friends. Jared immediately forgot about his gun that lay on the table, and instead he tried to scream for help. The chem had already hit him hard, it seemed: his scream sounded more like a childish whine that later turned into a fit of laughter.
I didn’t waste a bullet on that scumbag. I hit him hard in his beer belly and, as he bent over the table, gurgling and gasping for air, I grabbed him by the back of his neck and shoved his face into the bowl of white powder. Just like Spartacus from the film he’d shown me, I ended his life the only way he deserved: choking on his own drugs.
That night I raised a mutiny in my pit-fighting school. Many good men died, but some survived, and that little brotherhood of runaways became the first pack of the Running With Wolves.
Many years had passed since then, and up until recently I thought that the story of Rome and General Spartacus was just a legend from the times before the Great War. I thought that it was but a symbol of freeman’s rebellion and eternal fight against oppression.
But then one day merchant caravans started arriving to the newly founded capital of our nation. With them, they brought stories of the Greater Wasteland, of everything horrible and beautiful, ruthless and just that happens in the world. One story shook me. It was a story of the city of Rome that belongs to the nation calling itself the Empire of America. That nation, merchants told us, is a cruel dictatorship, ruled by a heartless power-monger who takes prisoners of conquered towns as his slaves. To my astonishment, everything told in the film I’ve seen turned out to be true. Rome did exist, and its depiction in the movie was true.
But today I learned of the greatest joke of fate. I learned Rome was taken and burned by the tribe of Twentiers who will be remembered among the Transmississippian people as a group of scared, desperate nomads. The weight of your sins against the freedom have brought a punishment up on your head, o Emperor Felix of America, and it’s I, Pack Leader Spartacus of the Transmississippian Confederation, stand between your nation of slave-owners and the numerous hordes of nomads that want nothing but to invade your land and take what you consider yours.
Why, you may wonder, o Emperor Felix of America, is this message being sent to you? Is it a threat? A tease?
I hurry to assure you that teasing and empty threats are not in the culture of our people. Truth be told, all of the above was nothing but a prelude for what you’re about to hear, o Emperor Felix.
Many more tribes are soon to cross the Mississippi River and swarm our land. Some of them we will fight to the last drop of our blood, but most these nomadic peoples are simply displaced refugees, not much different from who we ourselves once used to be. Why would we want to shed our blood fighting them, when all we could do – and all we should do! – is simply give them the right of free pass through our land toward your land, as the tribes of Twentiers has already done recently?
Thus, here is my offer, o Emperor Felix of America. If you free all of your slaves and send us some tools of war, then not only will we help your nation in the midst of food and water crisis this year, but we will also put all donated arms toward holding firm against any invasions from the right bank of Mississippi, thus protecting you from their wrath. However, if you deny this fair offer, then not only will we not provide your people with food and water, but we will also provide free passage through our land to any tribe seeking to travel eastward to ravage your land.
Answer soon, o Emperor Felix of America.
May the Great Wolf merciful to you.