It was early in the 1800s and the American Frontier was steadily creeping across the Midwest. Towns would seem to appear out of thin air along the trail to the west and each had to accommodate the weary travelers that passed through them in droves.
Each town came standard with a saloon and a hostel. In the early days of saloons, the stock of beer that the bartender kept was difficult to refrigerate and so often times there was no choice but to serve lukewarm or hot beer. This as you can imagine was not good for business and so the bartenders of america had to come up with innovative ways to keep their businesses afloat.
Luckily, and strangely, many bartenders came from a lineage of well educated scholars and were well established scientists. They soon began to form societies of bartenders and those societies joined together to form even larger societies, and so on until every bartender in America was a member of the Society Of Scholarly Shopkeepers or S.S.S. (they also had an affinity for rattlesnakes and rattlesnake themed acronyms).
This society was kept secret from the rest of the world and it encouraged its members to play the role of a lowly, uneducated, pioneer who haphazardly ran a dingy old saloon. Of course being a member didn't just grant you access to the Annual Show of Publicians (A.S.P.); it also encouraged you to weigh in on the solution to the worst epidemic in saloon keeping history: warm beer.
Many would come from far and wide to the headquarters of the S.S.S. to present their inventions and solutions. Working tirelessly, they tried idea after idea until finally they came up with their masterpiece: a cutting edge insulated synthetic cooling machine (now known as a refrigerator).
The year is 1963. Several major powers have fallen into dejected slums of countries and almost the rest have experienced worse fates. The only major industry still standing (albeit scant and barely subsistent) is livestock farming. Roman, a cow farmer, and his assistant Cyrus struggle to keep afloat amongst other farming corporations such as the maligned AgriCorp.
"This is just not fair, we barely have enough cows to yield a sufficient amount of meat and the cops, who are definitely being paid off by the way, don't even bat an eye when AgriCorp raid our barns!" cried Cyrus. "It's ok Cyrus we will find a way to stay relevant in this trash heap." Cyrus reflected for a moment before vehemently declaring: "You know what we need to do?? We need to show them that we aren't afraid of them, you know, send them a message!" "We mustn't disturb the status quo, there is a better way of proving ourselves." "You'll come around to it Roman, we need to show those corrupt bastards what we are capable of."
Many months passed and the brutality and hegemony of the large corporations pushed even the strongest willed to their breaking points. Included in those people was Roman.
"I never imagined that a contingency such as this would happen in my lifetime, but now I see that you were right from the beginning, Cyrus." Roman sighed, defeated. "They have taken you down to this point and I won't let it go any further, I need to show them just how furious I am!!" Cyrus stormed out of the dimly lit, dusty room, ran across what once was a field to their last standing cow barn. He took a bucket of cow blood and threw it at the barn, staining it red. "Look at us Agribastards, we will fight you till the end!! We don't fear you and ultimately it will be us that takes you down."
The painting of barns went unnoticed at first but soon became a symbol of rebellion. several small farms followed suit and spoke out against large corporations. The whole uprising peaked after 2 years of deliberation and conspiring. The disenfranchised majority overthrew the farms of the large corporations and equally distributed the livestock, crop, and wealth amongst all of the oppressed.
"I didn' do it, I swear on me own mum's life!" "Then it be yer mum who is unwittingly sending ye to the bottom o' the sea... Make him walk the plank!"
This conversation was the result of many tiresome weeks at sea that proliferated paranoia and distrust. The man pleading for his life was Jeremiah Lake, a 17 year old deckhand who was accused of stealing from the captains personal store of rum. The condemner was none other than Captain Winthrop 'the cutthroat' Beckett, a maligned soulless shell of a man who had only his own best interests in mind.
The captain spoke again, now to his second in command, Mr. Cobb, "Tie the flea ridden boy's hands behind his back and carry out his rightfully apropos sentence." The crowd of rowdy mariners whooped and jeered. "Absolutely Mr Captain cutthroat sir!... Erm but if you wouldn' mind indulging my unfortunately vivid curiosity for a moment, sir..." The captain sighed, "yes Cobb what'll it be" "well, see, why must we make them walk the plank n' not jus' instead throw them o'erboard? would it not be more efficient to get it o'er with n' spare the time taken away from maintaining the ship n' course?" The whole of the crew screwed up their faces in contemplation. After a minute of thinking the captain broke the silence "Well how am I supposed to know that, Cobb! You've singlehandedly ruined the mood and now you've made me doubt my previously blatantly clear conviction! I suppose you have to bring the boy back in."
And so young Jeremiah was spared... at least for a few days until the paranoia of the rough voyage kicked in again and he was thrown overboard (not made to walk the plank).