One night in the spring of 1847, Henry David Thoreau was sitting in his cabin by the fire, recording his musings and thoughts on living within easy walking distance of a large town and subsisting on one's own abilities except for the food other people cook and bring you. A great storm was battering the house, and the waves on Walden Pond were roaring against the shore, but Thoreau still noticed the sound as his front door was ripped from its hinges and thrown across the room. As he leapt up and turned around, he was greeted with a fist driving through his face, followed by a barrage at near-superhuman speeds of blows from all conceivable limbs and joints of his assailant. When he awoke from his dreamless yet painful unconscious slumber, he saw President James K. Polk leaning back in his best chair next to a fire burning on all of Henry David's most recent writings. Noticing he was awake, the President picked him up in one hand, held him close, spoke six nearly silent words into his ear, and tossed him to the ground. The Napoleon of the Stump then walked out of the great hole where the door once stood. These were not words that mere mortal men may utter. These were words that existed before men, before even Gods, walked the Earth. They were the pure verbal embodiment of the primal forces of creation. Nobody is sure exactly what he said, but when the tax collector came around the next year, Thoreau paid up the exact amount and extra.