Zenobiyl

My vote is for Peter Sonski, but if it was necessary I would vote Biden to keep Trump out of the White House.

Event One: Beach Pneumatic Transit Snow fell across New York City, drifting in white flecks towards the gray, sodden ground. From the third floor of the Cooper Union, Ed could see people pacing along the sidewalks, staring jealously at the street sweepers and knocker-uppers going about their daily routine. They’re the lucky ones, the bespectacled man mused, those few got to keep their jobs. “Ed?” Abram Hewitt’s exasperated voice snapped the man out of his thoughts, and turning he saw concern in his friend’s expression. Abram had grown up with Ed, and the two had become lifelong friends after nearly dying in a shipwreck decades ago. The man was a brother in spirit, and after marrying Ed’s sister, in blood too. “I told you Abe, I don’t know how.” Ed hadn’t heard the question, but he knew it all the same. It was the only thing anyone outside Tammany Hall had been asking for the last few months. “It should be impossible,” Abram crumpled the sheaf of papers in his hand, “every respectable business and lawmaker in the city is withholding their tax money from Tammany. Not to mention the judicial restrictions on borrowing and financial charters.” He slammed the papers onto a bedside desk, “So how the hell is Tweed paying Tammany men? With a pat on the back and a ‘job well done’?” Abram chuckled mirthfully. Ed’s brow furrowed. Tilden had warned us that Tweed might use his own fortune to keep Tammany running, he remembered, but could he truly have enough to pay his troops for months on end? Or perhaps he is making money some other way… The man shook his head. No, he thought, even Tweed wouldn’t stoop that low. “It doesn’t matter how he’s paying them,” Ed replied softly, “our mission is still the same. Win over the reformers, rebuild Tammany Hall as an upright organization, and renew New York City.” The man glanced at the hand-drawn sketches crumpled on the desk, spotting a grainy photo of a metal cylinder with the label ‘Beach Pneumatic Transit’ on it. Another one of Abe’s pie-in-the-sky ideas, Ed mused. “What’s that?” He pointed at the photograph. “This?” Abram’s face lit up with passion. “I call it the ‘Pneumatic Subterraway’. Just you wait, Ed, with this underground marvel the whole city will be connected. You can go anywhere you want, and you won't have to worry about carriages or foot traffic on the streets!” “It sounds exciting,” Ed replied cautiously. Abram had a dozen new ideas every day, though few of them lived up to expectations. “Yes,” Abram suddenly appeared crestfallen, “it would’ve been, had Tweed not cut the funding. That bloated dolt can stomach $35 million for his cronies, but revolutionizing the city’s transit for a hundredth of that is too costly?” Abram harrumphed and balled a fist. “Tweed must go.” Ed put a hand to the window as he spoke the words, clearing years of grime and soot in an instant. He saw the workers below clearly now: hungry, haggard, desperate. “But not his supporters. We need them come November,” he spotted a disheveled boy sleeping on the sidewalk with newspapers for bedsheets, “and they need us.” “You’re kidding, right?” Abram replied incredulously, “You want to win the Tammany rank-and-file? Those people would walk over broken glass to vote for Tweed, even if he ended his campaign in a cell!” “Because they have no other choice,” Ed’s brow furrowed, “all they want is someone to help them survive. To keep them fed. To keep them safe. To give them-” Ed stopped, turning to look outside the window once more. ‘Husband Dead: Will Work For Food’ a gaunt woman held the sign at waist-level. His eyes widened. “Look, I know you want to help the poor and downtrodden folk, but we’re running a campaign here. Not a charity. You can’t afford to house and feed every bum who’s down on their luck, and even if you did it wouldn’t stop them from going back to work Tammany jobs right after.” Abram sighed. “You can’t help them all.” “No,” Ed agreed, “but we can.” Abram raised an eyebrow as Ed continued, “Cooper Works has enough space and money to take on thousands of employees, not to mention the dozens of swallowtail companies supporting my candidacy. Together, we can bring more jobs to New York City than all of Tammany combined.” Ed beamed. “We won’t just save the people of this city; we’ll put ‘em to work.” Abram scratched his head, “Doing what?” “You said it yourself,” Ed’s smile only grew, “the city’s first underground transit system. ‘Pneumatic Subterraway.’” Abram blinked with shock, then chuckled. Laughed. “You brainiac son of a bitch,” he slapped Ed on the back, “how can I say no to that?” “We’ll give our workers eight-hour days, fair conditions, injury compensation, the whole nine yards.” Ed smirked, “Tweed might have found a way to pay his troops for now, but there’s no way he can match that.” “Nor would he, even if he had the money.” Abram remarked. The two embraced, smiling and laughing as old friends do. After several hours (and drinks) spent hashing out a plan, Abram prepared to head home. “Wait,” Ed spoke to him with sudden urgency, “There’s one more thing.” “What is it?” Abram asked. “Call it ‘The Subway’.” Ed continued as he turned and walked out the door. “It’s cleaner.” Abram grinned, and put pen to paper once more. Event Two: The Wizard of Menlo Park Ed entered the coffin-sized cylinder with an assured smile, while the young man beside him concealed his nervousness at the machine’s soft whirring. The two stepped inside, waited as the heavy metal doors slid shut, and began to ascend. “Quite a contraption,” Thomas began as the machine climbed upward. “You like my elevator?” Ed asked. “It wasn’t easy developing it for a cylindrical frame, but I had good help.” He glanced at the young inventor beside him. “As will you, Edison.” “The machine beeped, and its doors slid open with a groan. Ed guided his young guest towards a sunlit room with tables and chairs already set. Abram was moving to and fro arranging paperwork, so busy he hardly noticed when Ed cleared his throat. Twice. “Oh!” Abram turned at last. “Forgive my incourtesy!” Thomas hardly had time to stutter out an apology before Abram was shaking his hand, eyes bright and face aglow. “It’s so good to meet a fellow innovator!” He patted the young man on the shoulder, “I knew you had promise when you graduated from Cooper Union with flying colors, yet you still surpassed my expectations. That vote counting machine you built up in Kentucky? Brilliant!” “Yes, well, the profits have been less than ideal.” Thomas confessed. “Turns out most politicians don’t like having their votes recorded.” A thin smile graced the young man’s face, “who could have guessed?” Abram guffawed, and even Ed laughed in spite of himself. He’s a bit young, Ed thought, but there’s no man better to build the campaign of the future. “About the telegraph project,” the bespectacled man spoke, “how fast do you think we could have them set up across the city?” “And how cheap?” Abram butted in, before Ed shot him a disapproving glance. We’re not penny-pinchers, his eyes said, we pay this young man what he is due, and not a haggled cent less. “To get telegraph lines for every swallowtail business, newspaper, and ward-heeler? Weeks, normally,” Thomas replied, “but I’ve been working on a new prototype that might speed things up considerably. I’ll need a workshop to finish development, but once it's ready you’ll have everyone connected in five days at the most.” Ed nodded, “That’s great to hear. We’ll get a contract drawn up for you first thing tomorrow, and you can get started on the new lines as soon as the ink is dry.” “No,” Thomas stuttered, “I’ll start now. My wife can ill afford to wait for my next opportunity, and I mislike sitting on my hands.” “Alright, then.” Ed replied. “If you’ll give me a moment with Abram, please. I’ll escort you to the worksite as soon as we’re finished.” Thomas nodded, and briskly walked out of the meeting room. Ed turned to Abram, waiting for his thoughts. He didn’t have to wait long. “It's brilliant,” Abram said, “I’ve scarcely seen such promise since I met your father, or you for that matter.” “Get a list of every reformist democrat and newspaper in the city,” Ed replied, “we’ll have them plugged into Cooper Union with brand new telegraphs by month's end. Every one of them will have a direct line to my office as candidate, and as mayor.” “That will be costly,” Abram cautioned, but Ed showed no signs of worry. Times are changing, he thought of Edison while staring at the rising sun beyond the window, and I’ll not leave a rotten city for his generation when I’m gone. “I’ll draw up the papers.” Abram sighed. He knew how impossible it was to persuade Ed when his mind was set. The man nodded, and the two shook hands. A moment later Ed left the room, and returned to the hallway to see Thomas pacing with fidgeting fingers. They entered the elevator, which made its way down twice as quickly as it had going up. “Have you made your decision?” The young man’s voice betrayed anxiety. “Yes,” Ed replied with an easy smile, “Come. I think you’ll like the worksite I have prepared for you, Tom.” “You think so?” Thomas replied hopefully. The doors to the elevator opened, and the two headed out onto the streets of New York City. “Indeed I do,” Ed's smile grew as he turned to his carriage driver, “Take us to Menlo Park.” Event Three: Old Smoke “You want to go where?” The carriage driver’s eyes bulged as Ed said the words. He said them again, “Five Points, sir. There is someone I would like to visit.” “Your funeral,” the driver muttered, and turned the carriage down an alleyway. With each passing block the roads grew more cracked and faded, the houses more dilapidated, and the air more rancid. How could anyone live like this, Ed wondered with horror, and who could allow such squalor? As he saw the dirt-covered faces of a dozen bare-footed waifs through his carriage window, the man shook his head with disgust. Ten thousand for a pair of desks, he fumed, while Tweed’s poorest supporters can’t even afford a pair of shoes. The Five Point slums were known for many things, including being the beating heart of Tammany’s support base (for all the good it did them). More than half of Tammany had grown up in the slums or right beside them, including the big man himself. And, Ed noted, the man I’m here to meet. Ed motioned to the carriage driver, who stopped abruptly by the side of Bowery street. He stepped out gingerly, making his way towards the rotting door. Ed’s face was buried in his jacket, a futile attempt to keep out the foul backstreet stench, but he still had a clear view of the placard bolted over the door: 'Old Smoke.' The room inside was small, and Ed spotted several wall-mounted awards between pieces of old furniture. A pair of boxing gloves swayed gently from their spot hanging over a boarded-up window, and footsteps echoed from a nearby room. “Edward,” a voice rasped, “wasn’t sure you’d actually show up.” “I needed to speak with you.” Ed said matter-of-factly, but John Morrisey only laughed in reply. A decade spent among Tammany politicians hadn’t dulled John’s sense of humor, or tempered the ferocity that made him into New York’s most famous boxer. “I’d imagine so,” he went on, “seeing as you came all the way to this-here shithole.” Ed scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, examining the scruffy boxer standing before him. He’s older than I recall, Ed noted, but the fire in his eyes is still there. “Take a seat,” John waved towards a pair of wobbly chairs beside the window. Ed sat on one, carefully avoiding the splinters and bent nails. “What'd ya need?” “As you know, I’m running for mayor of New York City.” John’s eyes glazed over as Ed began his practiced lines. He paused partway through, struggling to remember the next sentence, and adjusted his glasses nervously. John stared expectantly, but Ed could only conjure up the mental image of the haggard workers, the soot-covered children, the starving widows. Forget it, Ed decided, I’ll speak from the heart. “Look,” Ed began again, “I know I’m not from around here. I came from money, and whatever else they may be, the lion’s share of Tammany men didn’t. I won’t pretend to understand half of what you went through growing up, or what anyone goes through living in the slums.” Ed felt his face growing warm, but as he glanced at John he saw something shocking. Interest. The man’s eyes were eagle-sharp, and he had raised a single eyebrow fractionally. Ed continued, “but understand or not, I can see the rot in these places. I can see the poverty. I can see the pain.” Ed glared with determination. “And most of all, I can see that the people in charge, whether they claim to be from or with or of places like these, are doing nothing about it.” The burly boxer leaned forward ever so slightly, and Ed thought he could see a new glint in his eyes. Recognition, Ed thought, but he wasn’t sure. “And what’re you gonna do about it?” John replied slowly. “I’ll rebuild everything, top to bottom.” Ed was stunned by how quickly his reply came, and how firm his voice sounded. “The streets will be fixed, the sewer system repaired, and there will be a mission house on every other block offering food, clothes, and coals.” “Sounds pricey.” John’s demeanor was stolid, but his eyes betrayed interest. “How're you gonna pay for it all?” “The money's already here,” Ed scowled as he continued, “but for Tweed’s cronies, we would’ve had all I just mentioned and more. I’ll send him packing come November, and issue warrants to seize all the wealth his people stole from the city.” John walked forward ponderously, shaking dust from his clothes with both hands. “All you politicians love to talk a biiig talk,” the boxer remarked, “how’m I supposed to know you’ll make good on that promise?” Ed blinked at the man now inches away from him, then rose until they were face-to-face. “Because I turned down millions in patent revenues to let everyone use my inventions. Because I poured my own wealth into a campaign against the most powerful and dangerous man in New York City.” Ed leaned closer, pointing at the entrance to John’s home. “Because I’m the only upperten in the city who’s walked through that door.” John backed away, and Ed thought he could see the flicker of a smile upon his face. Was that enough? Ed wondered, but the old boxer said nothing for several moments. Finally, he gave a raspy reply. “It’s true. You’re the first of your kind to visit this neighborhood since before I was born.” John said. “Guess that makes you braver than most. Or dumber.” Ed returned to his seat, and the scruffy boxer sat down with him this time. “So, whaddya want from me?” “I need a soldier, someone who knows these people. Someone who can share my message with them, and share their needs with me. Someone who will fight for them, come hell or high water.” Ed stared directly at John. “I believe that person is you.” The old man paused, before speaking again. “I’ll need to think about it. I’ve been retired since last year, I don’t know if ya heard.” He chuckled. “Politics ain’t exactly my preferred hobby.” “Of course,” Ed replied, “take as much time as you need.” The man rose from his seat, paused, then added one more thing. “And just so you know, I’ll do whatever it takes to uplift the poorest among us. With you, or without.” “I hope you’re tellin the truth about that.” John spoke as Ed walked out the door. He returned to his carriage, and directed the driver back to Cooper Union. As the horses plodded away from the Five Points, Ed saw a little girl shivering on the side of the road. “Stop,” he told the driver, and stepped out into the filthy air once more. As Ed walked towards the girl, he saw her hollow cheeks and cloudy eyes. She’s more bone than flesh, he realized with horror. “Where’s your mama?” Ed asked the girl, but she only shook her head. Dead, he understood, and tried to blink the tears from his eyes. He reached into his pockets, pulling out old paperwork, receipts, blueprints, letters. Useless, he chided, what good is a check going to do for a girl who can’t read? “What’s your name?” Ed asked. She muttered a soft reply, “Molly.” Ed continued, “and who’s taking care of you, Molly?” “Nobody,” the girl sniffled, “the rabbits got mam and dad.” Ed put a hand to his mouth, fighting to keep the tears and bile down. Leave, he thought, you can’t get involved. The girl looked up at the man standing above her, tortured and at war with himself. “Are you gonna take care of me?” She asked, rubbing one eye with a dirtied fist. It was silly, and perhaps unprecedented, but in that moment there was nothing else Edward Cooper could say. “Yes.”

Recently found an archive of newspapers from NYC in the 1870s and decided to double-check this. It appears Tweed was arrested in October of 1871 and made bail on January 6th, 1872. Assuming that we start on January 1st, Tweed will still be in jail, but he'll get out in less than a week unless you want to roll for it or something. FYI: If you're good with paying for NYTimes you can access the whole archive here: https://www.nytimes.com/sitemap/1872/

I'm loving the effortposting @WVProgressive@Blockmon

NYC BUCKLES UNDER DEMOCRAT FRAUD (September 4th, 1871 - Cooper Union) Edward Cooper scowled as he read the paper, much as he had been doing for the past few months. First the riots, then the front-page embezzlement scandal, and now New York City might even default on its debts. We’re going under next year, the man thought as he looked up from his copy of the Times, unless we fix this today. It was mid-afternoon, which meant the doors of the Cooper Union were normally open to all socialites and scholars. Today, they were barred shut. The paltry dozen who remained inside were the last hope for saving the Democratic Party in New York, and perhaps even the city itself. If the Reformer gets here we'll have every democrat who matters in one room, Ed thought before chuckling to himself, except for Tweed, that is. “Bunch of horseshit, let me tell ya,” a squat Irishman spoke between huffs of his pipe, “There ain’t a damn thing Tweed did that Grant didn’t do tenfold, but do the journalists print that?” John Kelly wasn’t wrong, of course, but neither was he helping things. ‘Honest’ John, Ed mused, always says the truth when you don’t need to hear it. “At least Grant had something going for him,” an impeccably-dressed lawyer replied with cynicism, “what does Tweed have to offer now? He couldn't control his troops on Orange Day, for Christ's sake." Abraham Lawrence was a rising star in sheriff O’Brien’s anti-Tammany group and a reformist democrat, emphasis on the 'democrat’. "Every second that man remains head of Tammany our party's reputation slides further into the muck.” "T'was the damn Protestants who started those riots," John piped up, "and half the democrats in this city are working Tammany jobs now. That's what he had to offer, Abraham!" Ed grimaced at the mention of jobs, a third of which had been on strike since July over demands for better conditions. The men in the room hadn't met the workers face-to-face like Ed, and even if they had it likely wouldn't change their position. They won't be getting an eight hour work day, he lamented, not from these politicians, at least. “It doesn’t matter what he has or had to offer,” former mayor and anti-corruption stalwart William Havemeyer snapped from the far end of the table. “Tweed is a robber baron and a thief, and I say good riddance to him.” “It seemed to matter when he got you elected!” John shot back, “how about we stop slandering a man for doing his job, and get to work fighting the Republicans.” “His job?” William spluttered, “was it his job to embezzle public money? "Everybody does it, Will," Abraham replied nonchalantly to both of them, "but Tweed was caught, John, so we must flush him out for appearances." For the first time in their lives, William and John were in agreement on one thing: disagreeing with Abraham. "What about loyalty?" John shouted at Abraham, "Tweed ran this city for decades, and now you'll throw him to the wolves to win an election?" "If every politician in this city is a crook," William shook his head as he replied, "then maybe we need new politicians." "What's that supposed to mean?" Abraham raised an eyebrow, "By Jove, Will, you're starting to sound like a Republican." "Is it Republican to oppose corruption?" William slammed a fist onto the table. "If a Democrat mayor can't put a nail in the coffin of machine politics, then maybe that's what we need." John laughed, “there ain’t a nail big enough to keep that coffin shut, Will. Even if the idiots in this city drag it down, there'll be a new Tammany before the decade is out.” He glared at the former mayor from across the table, blowing a ring of smoke from his pipe, “and a new Boss, too.” “You’re missing the bigger picture,” Ed put his newspaper down. “It doesn’t matter what happens to Tammany if New York City goes bankrupt. First things first, we need to save the city.” “And how’re we supposed to do that?” John raised a bushy eyebrow while reclining in his chair. Abraham and William looked similarly confused. “I don’t know,” Ed confessed, “but my father didn’t invite you here so we could bicker about Tweed while the city collapsed.” “Your father,” Abraham spoke cautiously, “he’s worth a pretty penny, no? Why not have him loan the city some money?” “His money is for charity, not bailing out corrupt politicians.” Ed scowled. “Besides, what good is more money going to do for New York while they’re still under Tweed's cronies?” “A lot of good, actually.” John spoke up, “they’ve opened catholic schools, funded fire brigades, even public works and rail lines. We just need the right people in charge, and Tammany can fix all our problems.” “We’re not working with those damned thieves!” William erupted. “I don’t care if they spend every fifth cent on school books; the whole lot of them need to be cast out root to stem!” “It won’t look good to bail out Tammany without reforms first,” Abraham replied, “but how are we supposed to change things in time for the next election? Even if we vote out Tweed’s men, we’ll be crushed by the GOP at the same time.” “Maybe it’s for the best,” William quipped, “give the machine democrats a good scare, and I bet they won’t think of embezzling anytime soon.” “We’re not waiting until next November,” a voice spoke from the shadows near the doorway. The man sounded familiar, regal. “We topple Tweed now, or we all go down with him.” He stepped into the light, and each person seated in the Cooper Union blinked with shock. This scandal was bad, sure, but nobody had expected him to arrive. Tilden. “Each of you is right, in your own way.” Samuel Tilden, one of the top democratic power-brokers in the nation, looked at the men seated across the table. “We must harness the power of Tammany for good, and we must cleanse the corrupt elements from the city. Most of all, we must preserve our party and our city no matter the cost.” “But how?” Abraham looked pleadingly at Tilden. The man paused before he replied. “I’ve fought Tammany for many years. It cost me jobs, money, status, and so much more.” Tilden's gaze turned steely. “It’s a hydra; cut off one head, and three more take its place. Even now Tweed’s agents are keeping the cash flowing, helping their friends behind bars maintain control over the city. We won’t win this fight by throwing them in jail, much as it might please the papers.” “So what then?” Ed couldn’t resist asking. Tilden only chuckled, then continued. “There’s only one way to kill a Hydra: starve it. You meet with every businessman, landowner, and bank in the city, ordering them to withhold their taxes starting immediately. While you take care of that, I’ll get my friends in the judiciary to block public officials from taking out more loans or bonds.” A slight smile grew on Tilden’s face, “It doesn’t matter how many agents Tweed has working for him; when the paychecks stop rolling in, they’ll fold.” The meeting continued into the wee hours of the night, and one by one each member of New York City’s elite left the Cooper Union to return to their homes. There was a new feeling among the group, divided as they were by myriad issues: hope. Ed remained, and soon it was just him and Tilden sitting by the table together. “Do you really think we can survive this?” Ed asked Tilden, cautious even in spite of their extensive planning. “Who’s we?” Tilden chuckled at the man’s question. “The New York Democrats. I mean, we could have a Republican mayor next year; aren’t you worried?” “We’ll take a beating, alright, but the party will survive. It always does." The man's gaze drifted towards the newspaper on the table, where animated caricatures of Boss Tweed grinned back at him. "The more things change, the more they stay the same.” Tilden laughed. It wasn’t a happy laugh. “What if it doesn’t have to be that way?” Ed replied hesitantly. “What if we could change the party for good?” “Change it how?” Tilden asked, though it didn’t sound like an open question. “I don’t know.” Ed whispered. Both sat there, silent, before Tilden finally got up and they said their goodbyes. The two men wouldn’t meet again for several years, and it would be under very different circumstances. As Ed watched Tilden’s silhouette fade into the shadowy night, a sudden thought gripped him. He tore through the drawers of his room, fishing through paperwork before finding the one document he had been looking for. CANDIDATE DECLARATION FORM Edward smiled. Now he knew.

Update: Since Horatio Seymour has a myriad of potentially disqualifying or damaging issues, I'm gonna change my pick. I wish to play as Edward Cooper, son of 1876 Greenback Nominee & millionaire industrialist Peter Cooper. He was appointed to an anti-corruption commission by governor Samuel Tilden in the 1870s, and became IRL mayor in the 1880s. He is currently an anti-Tammany democrat active in politics since the civil war. He is reformist, aligned with prominent businessmen as a member of the unofficial "swallowtail" faction of the New York Democrats, and is co-owner of both Cooper Iron Works (a major metallurgical company) and the Cooper Union (a progressive educational institution mostly run by his dad, kinda like a library). Edward hopes to topple the Tammany political machine by using his family fortune and connections among Swallowtail democrats, while also moving the city forward with governmental, labor, and social reforms. He'll have to choose between embracing the philanthropy and progressivism of his father, or supporting business interests from the Swallowtail faction of the NYC dems. Or maybe he can do both? Let's find out!

Most Right Wing: Unconditionally Anti-Abortion Most Left Wing: Supportive of M4A (or maybe supporting worker coops idk)

8 on average, with 9-10 occasionally

John Paul II, but Benedict is a close second

Funny enough it looks like this map gerrymandered blue states for the GOP and red states for the Dems.

Good. Long time coming after they screwed up so badly last time.

Her whole shtick depended on democrats seeing her as the only ‘electable’ candidate. That argument doesn’t work well when Kelly is winning by nearly 5 points despite being on board with Biden’s agenda. Agree that this was her only play, but I don’t see a path to Sinema getting another term.

NH party control is TBD

Wins in 2016 by about 8% Wins by 15% two years later in a blue wave as a GOP governor Two years after that he wins by 41% while Biden landslides in the state. Now, another two years later, he wins by 47%!!! [71%-24%] Phil Scott has won the biggest landslide for a Vermont governor since the 90s, and that’s as a Republican. His democratic opponent this year got less than a quarter of the vote. At this point Vermont’s governor position is Phil Scott’s for as long as he wants it, and his performance this year is on par with Republicans in Wyoming and Idaho (lmao). How is Phil Scott such an electoral GOD?

Well, I was right about one thing: how badly I would regret half of these predictions lol.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1JJQTGBbdPQA_EDDimCu9D9dSUN1xQgj1of4aKAHEPJI/edit Senate, Gov, House, and Hot Takes

Obama by far.

Voted for Fetterman. It’s really him or AOC, and between them I see Fetterman as the next stage of Bernie’s movement. 1. If he wins, he will have shown that the ideas of Bernie Sanders can win statewide elections in swing states. That’s something even AOC could never prove, and it is key to Bernie’s movement (winning right wing states was key to his 2016 primary strategy, and he tried to appeal to the WWC with economic populism too). 2. Fetterman shares Bernie’s idiosyncratic and sometimes maverick tendencies. Both differ from the national party on a few issues. Both also have unusual bases of support (the youth vote supported Bernie? / Trump voters are backing Fetterman?) and vibes (an old yet energetic guy with new ideas, and a leftist who looks and dresses like a trump-voting steel worker) 3. Ultimately, AOC and the other Squad members will all be fighting to keep their lane in the house (and most would struggle to make the case for electability in a primary), but as a senator Fetterman will have a much clearer space to profess his ideas and be the mouthpiece of progressivism.

Hard agree on Tim Scott. He’s probably the strongest republican I could feasibly see getting past a primary.

President Cheney: President Cheney:

I’ve decided to split the 2nd archive into 5 parts 1. 1968 primaries & convention 2. 1968 Election 3. 1969-1970 Governing Period 4. 1970 Midterms 5. 1970-1971 governing period Parts 1 & 2 of that archive are complete and in the drive folder for reading.

Awesome! I’ll add those in too.

It turns out I get nearly the whole week off of school, so I took a crack at recovering the remnants from the archive. The oldest archive had text still, but I couldn’t salvage any images. Nevertheless, I got the whole RP from the 270soft forum and put it into one readable document. Come take a gander! https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1iHMuRUdQ6nrgdqIi5kkKpU8Q9GI2QOFm The Dakota Hale Forum is easier to recover, but much larger, so compiling it will take longer. Edit: Not only is the 2nd forum archive far larger, but it is far denser too. I’m going to split it up into many parts so the documents can load and function without unbearable lag. The first part of the 2nd forum archive is in the drive folder as of right now.