Martin Van Buren, Part II

The bullion repository at Fort Knox was soon to be
Van Buren's final resting place.

I began the plotting late one night in the cellar. I had determined that in order to eliminate Van Buren, I would have to be both cunning and secretive. I hired a local inventor for the creation of the steam-driven components, but when he found the blue-prints, he had to die. Afterwards, it took many more months to get the valves right, but I was making progress. I had become quited pleased with my work. At last, it was finished! At the time, I was exstatic, and my excitement gained the upper hand. In my haste to procure the map, I left the cellar-doors open to the outside world. Twas a great mistake, for the constable had become quite curious in my abscence. It was unfortunate that he should have entered, but I was glad to say the contraption worked satisfactoraily. The day approched. April 28th was the day Van Buren was touring the federal reserve, I knew the building well. I bundled the machine into a large wooden crate and had it mailed to the bullion repository. No complications occored due to the cunning label I placed upon the box. No one could know that the contents of the box weren't really "gold," as the label on the box suggested. In another box, I hid. I almost died right before the postal service arrived due to a fatal error. I exited the box and remedied the issue with a few air-holes. I jumped once more into the box right as the postal service arrived. Ha ha ha, it had worked! I was noow in the bullion chamber! I exited my wooden-chamber and proceeded to assemble the vile contraption. When it was finished, I entered the box and awaited Van Burens arival.

Martin Van Buren, Scourge of The Earth!

Look at the way he glares at me,
the wicked smile on his lips!
I was right to hate him!

And now it's time for another story, and not one of those stupid children's stories about good samaritans or dead cats. This one's a real story, so you'd be smart if you got these damned kiddies away from me! Anyway, the year was 1836, or something like that. Brave Sir Jackson had just died and I was in mourning. The country was in mourning; all but one man. The bastard, I should've known! It was the sideburns that gave him away! That and the fiery glow of evil that often eminated from his tiny satan-eyes. Martin Van Buren was my arch rival, more dastardly in his cunning even more than the arch-bishop of Cantebury! It all started out simply enough. I was at a dinner at the white-house and I was at the head of the table, opposite Van Buren. Twas a long table, and often food items had to be passed. Well, I was well into my dinner when the bastard spoke. "Please, if you'd be so kind good sir, may you pass down to me the gravy-tourrine?" I was infuriated! It was then I rose to my feet and prepared for battle. Grasping my table-mates scimitar, I rose my arms into the air and mounted the table. I ran along the table towards the cur, eyes wide with fear and terror, and almost detatched the head from the body, but the unfortunate placement of the secretary of state's soup bowl left me entangled and I had to flee. It was then our bitter rivalry began.

A Tale of Friends & Lovers Past; An Essay on the Fruit Juice Selection at the Local Elderly Home

It has been done, alas, poor Winston, I knew him well. I must find a new, more obedient man-servant, but that will not be the end. My grand-daughter Isabella has been returned to the nunnery and all is well at the Nartholomewl Estate.

Another Tiring Day

Alas, that is enough for one day children. Suffice to say, the tale of how Mr. Van Buren came to die is a very long story, although I am proud to say that it was by my hand. More tomorrow, for I fear my manservant Mr. Winston is eloping with my grand-daughter behind the wood-shed. I must attend to this at once. Where did I leave my dueling-pistols?

The Heroic Mr. Jackson

Old Hickory himself could not have killed

enough foreigners to prevent his own fiery demise.

Compared with the other sinful presidents, Mr. Jackson was very agreeable with. He was somewhat of a hero to my youthful self. Apart from his daily pleasure-time with the local hoores, he was a staunch xenophobe. A young man such as myself could not refrain from merriment in his company. While in the Oval Office, if a servant were to attempt to bring to him his daily medicine, Andrew could often be found behind an upturned desk, waving his musket whilst shouting racial slurs. "I'll be damned if I let your filthy injun hands touch my scalp!" was a favorite of his. One day, a large amount of deceased mailmen were found dead in the presidential gardens. Think them Spaniards sent by his rival, King Phillip, sent to reclaim Florida, he killed them dead on the spot. Three days later, Mr. Jackson perished in the blast after taking up arms against a group of children from the local convent. Setting the nunnery on fire a few moments too early, Jackson was unable to escape. He will be missed.

The Sad Mr. Quincy Adams

Poor Mr. Quincy, he still has
that confused look upon his face.

Back when his father was in charge, Mr. Quincy, much like myself, was also exposed to his fathers various ideas of "entertainment." When he grew too old for his fathers vices o be performed upon him, he was promptly castrated like all the other children. Fortunately, I was spared this fate. In his elderly age, Mr. Quincy took to the liquor. One day, late at night in an inebriated state, he was caught inside the local hospital, his cloak full of newborn babes. You see, Mr. Quincy, unable to make children of his own, took to stealing infants for his own pleasure. When confronted by the local deputy, Mr. Quincy threw upon his robe, revealing that 'neath his overcoat and stolen babes, he was in the nude. He was quickly put down.

The Ill-Tempered Monroe

You can see the evil in his grim expression,

can't you?

After the lynching, Mr. Monroe took control of the White-House. Actually, he got a wooden shack, due to fact that the mob had burnt down the White-House. Anyways, Mr. Monroe arrived early one morning in a drunken stupor. He proceeded to stumble round, mostly naked and completely drunken. People questioned his motives until it all became clear when a local shoemaker, arriving with new footwear for Mr. Monroe, he bore witness to a horrible scene. Inside the basement of the West Wing, Mr. Monroe was caught, bottle in one hand, whip in the other. The vastness of the textile mill was said to be amazing. Monroe stood atop a table, laughing maniacally. He turned to face the shoemaker, and realizing that his secret factory had been found and his child labour revealed, he laughed again. Pulling the lever 'neath his throne, Mr. Monroe ascended through the hidden stairs behind his bookshelf and fled the ruins.

A New Day, A New Tale of Lust and Intrigue!

Poor, poor Mr. Madison.
If only he had been more clever.

I remember, back in my day when George Washington was president. But I've already told you that story! Now you need to hear about the dear, dear Mr. James Madison. We all had to be very nice to Mr. Madison, because he was retarded. Like his patronizing friend Mr. Jefferson, the children would throw rocks at his head. Unable to stop them from within the confines of his cage, all he could do was grab the bars and shake back and forth while violently groaning and screaming. Mr. Monroe would often leap in front of the cage and scare off the children. Alas, one day an urchin got too close and Mr. Madison ended his life. Shortly thereafter, the lynch mob took Mr. Madison away and we never saw him again.

A Long Day

At last the day is over, and now I may relax in my bath robe in front of the fire. This recollection of my childhood has been tiring, and now I will take a slumber until it is time for the medicine-bottle to receive me a plethora of heath-tonics!

The Sinful Mr. Jefferson!

The Bastard himself.

And they say he wrote the Declaration of Independence! Back in my day, you had to do more than accost your servant to achieve such lofty titles! Bah! I remember that man, he was evil! He liked the French, and that was ample grounds for assaulting him in the streets! I remember the street urchins who would throw stones at his oddly shaped head. One day he snapped and the urchins were never seen again. I presume they went to Mr. Adams and his bedchamber.

John Adams, My Demi-Saviour!

You can still see the lustful glint in his beady little eyes.

After my run in with Mr. Washington, I was quick to befriend the elderly Mr. Adams. He became a grandfatherly figure to me. Little did I know the evil vices he had tucked away in his dirty little head! It all happened one day when I burst in on him in his dressing room. As I gave him my everyday greeting, as per his request "Hello Mr. Adams, please, do not remove my trousers this time", he proceeded to attempt to do just that.

The Great Rulers of Our Great Nation!

George Washington at the time
of my first encounter.

George Washington. I remember him well. I was but a wee lad, but once I got too close to his mouth and then Mr. Adams warned me away! "Back, child, see not the foam at this mans mouth?!" And then Mr. Washington tried to bite me with his dentures, but I was too quick for his wooden feet to catch me and put me in the cage!

Em Peu De Foreign!

Back in the French Foreign Legion, I was forced to learn a bit of language skills. Let me demonstrate my proficiency at talking like a foreigner! Ah, Socrates! Il est ton mere, mais il a un mal a tete! Zut alors! Les poisson sont en leur tete! Les canards aime Socrates, mais elles sont engage a les poissons! Socrates est tres malhereuse! Il va au bibliotheque parce que il a un besoin d'un billet doux! Pauvre Socrates!