[B]Brooklyn, New York
July 14th 1936[/B]

Hunched over a long, smooth counter, Andrew Jackson rested his head on his folded arms as he fought off a slight hangover the only way he knew how.

"Slow down, will ya? My tap's gonna run dry," a bartender laughed as he looked at the former president, who he did not know was formerly a president.

"Slow down? Me? The day I slow down is the day I stay dead!" Andrew shouted as he pounded on the counter before snatching the nearest shot glass of whiskey.

"Hey, hey, hey. I think you've had enough to drink, old-timer."

Andrew scoffed at the man, "The time you stop getting payed is when I've had enough to drink!" He said as he flipped a quarter into the bartender's apron.

But, suddenly, from behind, a man rested his hand on Andrew's shoulder and pulled lightly. The seventh president swiveled on his barstool and looked behind him to see a courier, not a man looking for a hard-earned scar, who was passing him a letter.

The courier quickly said, "Your services are required," before scuttling off.

"Whatcha got there?" The bartender asked.

Old Hickory only grumbled, "A call from destiny," before following the courier out of the bar, and then, he began a walk to the nearest train station.