Forging America: My Campaign Manager is Roosevelt

Chapter 246 - 127: Counter-attack in the Mud

"Without people like Chad Evans, without someone like him who understands policy, understands the law, and knows how to get around all those bullshit regulations to pull strings for the company..."

Warren jabbed a finger toward the ground beneath his feet.

"This factory would have been shut down for good last June! Those machines would be nothing but rust by now! And all of you would be standing in line at the unemployment office, waiting for a handout!"

"Murphy accuses him of taking money to get things done. That’s right, he did! But what he got done was the crucial business of protecting Pennsylvania’s energy industry!"

"If there’s someone who can save your jobs, who can keep the fires burning here, doesn’t he deserve to be well-paid? Are we supposed to punish him just because he succeeded?"

Warren’s gaze turned incredibly fierce, like an old wolf protecting its food. He stared daggers at the camera, as if locking eyes with Murphy through the screen.

"I won’t abandon Chad Evans, just as I would never abandon a single one of you."

"That’s my rule—Russell Warren’s rule. As long as you can still contribute to this state, as long as you’re on our side, I will always have your back!"

Someone from the press section tried to interject with a rebuttal, attempting to pull the topic back to the moral issue. "But Senator, that still doesn’t change the fact that this is a quid pro quo..."

"Shut up!"

Warren spun around and bellowed, making the young reporter take a half step back in fright.

"A quid pro quo? Murphy calls this a quid pro quo?" Warren turned back to the workers and held out his mud-caked hands. "I call this survival!"

He jumped off the wooden crate and walked directly into the crowd of workers. His bodyguards tensed up, ready to follow, but he waved them away.

He grabbed a middle-aged, stubble-faced worker by the shoulders.

The worker’s uniform was covered in black oil stains, and he was holding a chipped thermos.

"Tell me, friend, what’s your name?"

"Mike," the worker answered, a bit uncomfortable.

"Mike," Warren repeated. "Mike, do you have a wife? Kids?"

"Three kids," Mike replied. "Two in school, one just started walking."

Warren nodded, his gaze sharpening as he stared straight into the camera.

"Did you hear that, Murphy? Three kids. Those three kids need to be fed, clothed, and educated. Mike needs this job. The five hundred other Mikes here need this job!"

Warren let go of Mike’s shoulders and stood in the center of the crowd, spreading his arms wide as if to embrace the muddy ground itself.

"Murphy wants to make you feel ashamed with his moral puritanism. He wants to tell you that the methods used to save this factory were dirty. He wants you to think that Evans helping the company exploit loopholes is a crime."

"Fuck his moral puritanism!"

Warren roared, the veins on his neck bulging.

"When your bills are piling up on the table, can morality pay them for you? When your children’s stomachs are empty, can Murphy’s holier-than-thou attitude conjure up bread?"

"Chad Evans took the money, that’s right. But he was taking a bullet for you!"

"He was on the front lines, using his methods to save your jobs! We’re playing a game with Washington, yes. It’s a dirty, complicated game, but we’re doing it so that Mike can still collect his paycheck next month!"

The atmosphere at the scene was completely ignited.

The anger that had been suppressed for so long—the anger of being marginalized by mainstream society and looked down upon by the elite—found its outlet in that moment.

"He’s right!"

Someone in the crowd shouted.

"Fuck the EPA!"

Another person roared in agreement.

Warren jumped back onto the wooden crate, looking down on everyone from his elevated position.

At that moment, set against his filthy work jacket, he looked less like a politician and more like the leader of a rebellion.

"They say I’m dirty. They say the people around me are dirty."

Warren lifted his foot, showing off his boots, which were caked in mud.

"Look at these boots! In a place like this, if you want to get work done, if you want to move forward, you’re going to get covered in mud! Only the people who do nothing, the ones who just run their mouths, can keep their dress shoes spotless!"

"I want to tell John Murphy this: you can attack me, you can attack Evans, but you can’t take away these people’s livelihoods."

"To save every single job here, I’m willing to make a deal with the Demon. I’m willing to roll around in a mud pit!"

He thrust his fist violently into the air.

"Because this is Pennsylvania! We don’t do bullshit! We only care about whether or not we can survive!"

After a brief pause, a thunderous cheer erupted like a blowout from a natural gas well.

"Warren! Warren! Warren!"

The workers raised their oil-stained hats and waved their fists, their faces, once numb with exhaustion, now flushed red with excitement.

In their eyes, this Chad Evans was no longer a greedy Vampire.

Warren’s words had reshaped reality: Evans was an agent embedded deep in enemy territory, one of their own who was willing to get his hands dirty for the greater good.

And Murphy, the impeccably dressed politician spouting moral platitudes, was the real enemy who wanted to destroy their livelihoods.

The wave of sound was so powerful it made the reporters’ eardrums ache.

They raised their cameras, documenting the frenzied scene.

In their viewfinders, Warren stood amidst the mud, his face covered in sweat, accepting the tide of cheers from the workers.

A young female reporter stood on the periphery, witnessing the incredible scene. The initial shock on her face slowly gave way to a complex expression.