His temper had once again reached its maximum capacity. “Are these the men which I am to defend America!?” Battle after battle, Washington had begun to lose. He continuously kept falling for the decoy the British were successfully able to do, allowing the main British forces to attack them from behind.

His eyes trailed on the map, which laid on his desk. Washington sighed in frustration, massaging the bridge of his nose. “Are you going to be any use of help?” He couldn’t help but ask as he glanced at the God of Wine and Theater. His eye twitched at the sight of Dionysus drinking a cup of Sam Adams.

He fell back in his chair, scanning through the letters he had received from Congress. “I’m in need of a right-hand man.” He muttered; the weight of everyone’s burden on his shoulders was unbearable. The fire danced around, providing warmth and light to the general. “Why bother being here if you aren’t going to help out?” questioned Washington.

It was always the same excuse he had heard coming out of the God’s mouth. Dionysus had claimed that Zeus forced him to help out the Americans, yet here he was drinking beer and silently eyeing the bottle of Madeira Washington had on his desk.