Dolph

An historian came to my apartment recently. He was doing research on the Battle of Vicksburg, and his research led him here. My great-great grandfather, Cumberland Billingsworth, was a colonel in Grant's Army of the Tennessee, and this historian was told that I had some of his old memoirs. I took him to a bank and the safety deposit box I kept them in, and showed him the diaries he wanted. One entry in particular caught his eye.

May 17, 1863

I believe a Union victory is now only a matter of when, and no longer if. I hope to be back in Boston and away from this infernal South by the end of the summer. We won a decisive battle at Champion Hill yesterday, but "we" is a pronoun I use loosely. More like "he" won a decisive battle. History will probably tell later generations that that bastard Grant was the man responsible for the day's triumph, but my men and I know the truth.

We have been blessed in this horrific war with the services of a Spartan warrior sent forward in time to ensure that we prevail. At least that is the only logical explanation. Our warrior's name is Dolph. He is a man of Swedish descent. I have yet to learn his rank, for he seems to be all ranks and no rank at the same time. He fights in the front lines like a brave, common foot soldier, and he can delegate and strategize like the greatest general ever.

He single handedly destroyed Pemberton's forces, with nary a scratch on him. I managed to find him alone, behind a tree, attempting to shoot himself in the left shoulder with his own rifle. This was the same left shoulder that I had noted previously as having multiple scars upon it. He explained that the wound on the left shoulder was to prevent anyone from thinking he was invincible, but me and my men knew otherwise.

I have read in books on Greek history that when asked for help by neighboring city-states, the Spartans would send only one warrior in aid. Well, if that is true, I can understand, because one was enough.

The historian looked like he was having an orgasm. He asked if he could have the memoirs, and I laughed at him. I pulled out a notebook, a pen, and stopwatch, and told him he had fifteen minutes to start writing before I put them away.