The Granicus. Alesia. Tannenberg. Austerlitz. Caesar's glorious campaigns, Alexander's triumphs and Napoleon's greatest victories; such epics would never be forgotten. Students of strategy still analyse and fret over them to this very day, and will continue to do so for eons to come. The names of the geniuses behind them were etched into history. Immortalised. Of course, those dimwits in Detroit wouldn't have heard of these epic battles. They knew nothing of strategy; their grasp of tactics was equally abysmal. Had anyone ever actually seen them play a game of basketball? As far as Sosabowski knew, all they ever did was brag, bulk, and beat the shit out of each other. Of course, the Romans had practiced decimation, but he'd never seen anyone shoot their own men with such glee and carelessness. How were they ever going to win a match, let alone a real battle or war, with a mentality like that?

Elsewhere the situation was equally woeful. Although Twigs may boast and brag about his chess acumen, it was obvious to anyone who ever sat down to play poker with the man that he was a simpleton. They'd probably erect a statue of him some day, much like they did for that buffoon General Haig. Indeed, they comparable in many ways. Haig spent his time peering at maps and sent countless ment into oblivion; twigs had undoubtedly expended as many poker chips after a brief glance at his cards. Three of a kind was the preferred strategy of this one of a kind man.

No, real greatness could not be found in Las Vegas either. Giorgio-Esposito, once known as the "King", might have stepped up, but in his old age he had become enfeebled and infirm. His heir presumptive, Hobbs, Prince of Summerlin, had felt more dunks than any basketball ring in Detroit had ever experienced. Perhaps, then, this was his hour. His finest. Rumours of his greatness had, of course, been rife after the glorious conquest of Philadelphia. Although his own medal rack was decidedly modest (unlike that of his even more godlike Right Hand), this did not detract from his glory. But how would he prove his worth? How would he claim his rightful position amongst the greats: Alexander, Caesar, Frederick the Great, Eugene of Savoy, Hannibal? A war would be the most straightforward way, but quite messy. Expensive, too. He could show his prowess by shooting allies or their bodyguards, of course, but that was best left up to Detroit. Furthermore, it reminded of the vanquished inhabitants of Philadelphia. He had already positioned himself as one of the greatest poker players of all time. Chess was best left to the Danes. They, of course, had never been good at strategy, battle, or war. And poker, apparently. There was only one option left.

Checkers.

Checkers?

A deceivingly simple game. Much less pretentious than chess, of course. Checkers was a real man's game. A tool by which the wheat could be separated from the chaff. A game of bold moves, ambition, drive and steadfastness. Unlike, say, basketball, this was a pure sport, with no frills or illegal, performance-enhancing drugs. A battle of wits, minds, of strategy and vision. Yes. Checkers.

Sosabowski walked outside, found the nearest empty spot on the wall, and put up a hand-painted poster.

The Great Checkers Challenge

The first five people to challenge me to a game of checkers, and come out on top, will receive the sum of one million dollars, in addition to being immortalised in the history books. Are you interested in gaining ever-lasting renown? For more information, inquire with Sosabowski, Bella Vista, PH. 

Terms and Conditions apply.

Swarles was presumably the first taker of Sosabowski's open challenge to Checkers. He brought only basic knowledge of the childhood game with him and was quickly educated on the new school rules. And by that he means, he got destroyed efficiently and expeditiously. He left the game in a daze, battered and bruised from the beating. 

"Well played, Sosabowski. I appreciate you taking me up on the challenge and I encourage others to do the same. Please take the time to educate yourself on the rules, as they were not the ones I learned growing up. Best of luck to all challengers, but the Sosa is cunning and wise. Thanks for the great game!" 

"Despite the promises of everlasting fame and one million dollars, only the brave Swarles has taken up the glove. His courage is not in dispute, but judging from his performance in both checkers and the wildly popular sport of Mafia golf, he has chosen to emulate Gamelin rather than Napoleon. However, regardless of such unfortunate setbacks, he soars above the meek, cowed crowds that have swarmed around this soapbox since my announcement. Apprehensive after the brutal and swift defeat of bold Swarles, they've elected to get some practice in before taking on the General. Men of great stature and renown have been reduced to a pathetic, sobbing mess, flailing about in a puddle of their own making. Practically swimming Tears, sweat, and God knows whatever else. If this continues, I might need to hire someone to the likes of Grin-22 to bring out their tattered mop. The most fearless of men, legendary boxers accustomed to taking a pummelling and cold-blooded gamblers with nerves of steel alike have been reducing to tilted, lamentable heaps of limp flesh. Will they find a renewed sense of spirit and daring-do, or will they remain as they are? The meek will not inherit the earth; they will not be blessed."

Sosabowski sighs.

"How have we, as a nation, as a community of men and women of honour, come to this sad state of affairs? Has the proliferation of mediocre basketball reduced our spirit and the sharpness of our mental faculties? Has Hobb's ineptitude broken free from the confines of Summerlin and engulfed us all? I do not know, for certain, my friends, what the cause of our present difficulties may be. But I can offer you a cure, a solution, to the ailment that threatens us all. Checkers."

"Dear Sosabowski, unfortunately I still have nightmares from the last few times that I embarked to play a game involving wooden pieces on a board. The first time I did so was against our very own twigs and I got utterly felted. The beating I received on the playing board was comparable to the average mugging at the hands of Iron Mike, but then more mentally and less physically."

"The other time I played ended in tables being flipped and chesspieces being flung at my person because the opposition wasn't pleased with the outcome. Both occasions have mentally scarred me and left me with a phobia for checkered patterns and wooden sculpture in general. I don't think I can take another game without losing what little remains of my sanity."

"I think it would be interesting though if a Detroit athlete tried their hand at this battle of the minds, what happenes when an athlete is forced to use their wits instead of their brawn? Will they enter a state of shock and have a seizure? Will it unleash a slumbering giant? Or will it just be an emberassing loss? A question often speculated on that's for sure, but one that remains yet to be answered."

"Checkers?" She cried out, "Those of us with ancestral links to Great Britian call the game Draughts. Still no matter, same game same rules? I think I can recall how to play. It's been a while since though. It never could hold my attention for long, but I suppose if you were to compare it to leapfrog then it could be seen as a little bit more fun, yes? I suspect that could be more fun entirely. But I am not here to judge you Sosabowski, it's a good initiative and brings those together who get out of breath easy. Those who prefers a mind exercise routine over running around like headless chickens on some court!" She paused for a moment, as she witnessed Void trying not to get involved. "Oh just have a go Void.. you only live once!" she said to him as she tapped her pocket, "I might have a go too!" she smiled as she looked towards Sosabowski again, "I'll be in touch, maybe!"

"So far, three challengers have come forth to face me, and all have faltered in the face of my relentless onslaught. None have managed to claim the considerable sum of one million dollars. 

And we have seen nobody from the cesspit city of Detroit, so widely renowned for their "athletic prowess" and their infamously poor hygiene. Like Void, I cannot help but wonder  what the  — potentially disastrous — consequences of their entry into this competition would be. It could very well propel human- and mafiakind further in ways not seen since humanity has discovered how to split the atom. The nation awaits with bated breath. If even Hobbs, Prince of Summerlin, has indicated his willingness to take on the General, then surely, these dunderhead dribblers cannot remain silent for much longer? Speaking of, where is Hobbs? Face me. I will either see my greatest victory yet, or the worst and most painful humiliation by a pulsating drab of noodles since that time the cap fell of my bottle of turmeric."

Hurriedly, Sosabowski returns to his spot.

"I realise I misspoke. There has, indeed, been a valiant challenger who claims to hail from Detroit. Yet they were unlike anything I've seen, incomparable to everything that has spilled out onto the streets from that direction. They were courteous, well-mannered — civilised. There was no hint of the unmistakable, fetid stink of sweat. Their features were not permanently scarred by steroid-induced acne. Was, this then, a trick? A devious and nefarious strategy to fool me — fool all of us — into believing that Detroit produced anything other dribbling boneheads? I was amazed that my challenger did indeed come from that dump, and perhaps I still don't believe it. I have my eyes on you. Yet, the bounties are still to be claimed. Does Detroit have anything more to offer?"

I resent the accusation that there is someone courteous, well-mannered and civilised hailing from Detroit. Name them or stop spreading these ugly rumours about us. We don't take kindly to folk like that around here. And if there is a person like that, a learned man highbrow'ing it around our gyms, then they need to be given such a beating that they don't ever try to sheep in wolf's clothing ever again. I'll give them a code red, Detroit style -  a shit on their doorstep with their cutlery smushed into it - that's what Mug City is all about.

"I shan't be naming any names. If you look at my admittedly impressive rack of medals (and I'm sure you have) you will see that there is no medal for being a tattletale. If I was one, I'd have the medal. With clasp. But I don't. In any case, I'm surprised they've managed to remain 'undercover' for so long. It takes some skill (and courage) to maintain the pretence in the putrid lockerrooms you call 'home'. The mental fortitude shown is surely impressive. It's surprising that they were unable to translate their adroitness to the game. Maybe it was but another ploy.

You guys have cutlery?"

Of course, how else would we cut up our steak to sustain the 100% carnivore diet we ascribe to? We aren't heathens you know. Now, if you aren't going to tell me who the dork is and permit me to smear their eating utensils in excrement, then you'll have to excuse me. There is an effigy of Hobbs which needs more of those paper things with words written on them throwing onto it. 

"Grin-22 I don't like you and you don't like me, but I'm here today to give you the information you so drastically crave. I sense that you need it more than Coach needs a protein enriched all meat diet and Skidmark needs a new clean pair of pants. I witnessed your very own MikeTyson in the Lounge on Main street sipping his frothy cappuccino and challenging Mr Sosabowski to a game of checkers. 

I don't think I need to remind you that the same Iron Mike has been accused of extreme geekery before. In the same conversation he discussed a lovely game of Sudoku. This man... he is becomming more and more like one of my people, and I should love him for it. But I also hate him for not sharing his winnings with the Mafia Lottery Tyndicate Syndicate. Based on what I witnessed last night you need no help committing acts of arson, but if you do choose to burn him please let me know."

"Whilst it is true that I have stood before the thuthpithiouth activities committee once before friend Hobbs all charges were dropped & you yourself even commented on the motives for my accusation, Jealousy & greed!"

Iron Mike smiles smugly.

"Two motives you would know a hell of a lot about following my recent good fortune! Now whilst General Sosabowski often comments (in private) that I am the crowning jewel of Mug City & often angles for a trade deal to get me to Philadelphia, I can confirm that we are yet to play. When we do play it will be to prove once & for all that Mug City can DOMINATE at any mafia related sport. Not that I acknowledge this checkers geekery as a sport! Until I win then it will be inducted into the official mafia related sports category down at the JFMAST Arena. The mythtery of the Detroit resident who is courteous well-mannered and civilised, is still wide open. I for one can't wait to get this person found & on a trade deal out of our beloved city!"

"Loose lips sink ships, but since there are no ships here (except, perhaps, HeadCoach, and I think his extraordinary layers of fat would give him more than enough buoyancy to make him practically unsinkable regardless), I can spill some beans. The 'geek' in question was, indeed, not MikeTyson, who despite his boasting, hasn't found the courage to face me yet. Perhaps they should be less busy with solving the mystery of the unidentified challenger, and get on with finding their bollocks."

It had been quiet on the western checkers front. And, as those who have seen Illuman Illuminia Illuminatiated's tattoos would know, silence like a cancer grows. No one had yet claimed the grand prize of one million dollars. "I came, I saw, I conquered." Sosabowski muttered to himself. It is said that when Alexander saw the extent of his conquests, he wept, for there were no more worlds for him to conquer. But Caesar had wept when he considered a bust of Alexander, for although he had now reached Alexander's age, he had not yet conquered the world: who would remember him? Would anyone remember him, Sosabowski pondered. Would the echo of his greatest battles resound throughout history? Had he reached the pinnacle? Or would his exploits be remembered in the same vein as the troubled Caligula's absurd war on the sea? These matters greatly troubled him, for he did not know. But just as he was about to reach the heights of despair, a challenger appeared. It was none other than "Iron Mike", parading triumphantly after his great victories at the golf course. Sosabowksi's own performance had been, in the words of Geralt, "aggravatingly inconsistent," and he was painfully aware of this fact. The mental and physical strain of the ordeal had necessitated a brief stay at the hospital — another piercing reminder of mortality and the fleeting nature of victory. Could Iron Mike dominate yet another sportive competition? Was he, perhaps like Alexander, and would Sosabowski be left weeping at his statue? It was with these troubling thoughts on his mind that Sosabowski sat down to play his latest challenger. 

It was a tense affair. Offensives were quickly countered with swift ripostes. Reserves were called into battle; pieces threw themselves at the great walls of defenders. Many were taken in a matter of mere minutes. Whenever an unit was encircled and reduced, others would rush to plug the gap. The feeling of 1914 was strong. This could last for hours; days; weeks; months; years! But suddenly, the stalemate was shattered by an unfortunate move from Iron Mike. It seemed the brain injuries, sustained from many savage beatdowns in the streets of Detroit, had taken their toll. Eager to exploit a gap in the defences of his opponent, he overextended his lines and left his flanks exposed. Quickly, Sosabowski moved his crack divisions forward to drive home the advantage. Swathes of units were encircled, reduced and decimated with dizzying speed. It was all over. Soon, Sosabowski had completely broken through the enemy's rear. His reequipped and resupplied troops circled around. Iron Mike's battered army was now facing annihilation from all sides. With one last desperate attempt, they forced a path through the south-westerly lines, hoping to reach the rear. But with a swift, clever movement, this attack was beaten off. But Iron Mike did not even think about surrender. With a suicidal disregard, nay, contempt for their own lives, his surviving units attacked once again. This, of course, was in vain. Sosabowski's units now reigned supreme on the battlefield. The pitiful remnants of Mike's once-strong front lines were mopped up and removed. Victory!