The year is 1868. One day, as you write a letter to a friend, you see Horatio Seymour, the Democratic candidate, walking down the sidewalk. You go to talk to him.

“Hello. God, this is just so horrible. I never even wanted to run! I was nominated against my will, on an explicitly racist platform that I do not approve of! And I’m not even going to defeat Grant anyways! Goddamn…”