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Chapter 2: In which Cowboys are immortal, Skipper is a Libertarian, and Denny's is an American institution

-That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, -That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness.

(San Antonio, Texas, five years before The Sorting)

"Why does that sign say 'Trump 2020' on it?"

The question above came from a very confused Harry Potter, as he took in the ramshackle house before him, the abode seeming as if to sink into the ground. A variety of signs and flags hung from everywhere, including that of the United States, and one that had a picture of a snake with the words "Don't tread on me" emblazoned upon it. It was a lot less nice than the mansion they had visited when they first got to Texas, but apparently the person they were looking for wasn't at the mansion, and the gate man wouldn't let them in.

Skipper saluted each of the flags on the decrepit shack as he waddled by, motioning for Harry to keep up as they approached the door. "The great American Donald Trump is destined to be the President of the United States of America, one day, thirty-four years from now. Some of us are ready and prepared for his incredible arrival as our leader."

"Oh! Is he a good man?"

"Well, no, he's actually a really terrible guy… but his foreign policies are going to be a hell of a lot better than his successor's!"

"I'm six. I don't understand a lot of those words."

"He's bad, but the next person is worse."

"So America chooses the less bad person from a bunch of people?"

"Well, technically," said Skipper as he hammered on the door, "but really we really operate on a two-party system that directly contradicts our founding fathers' intentions for this glorious nation, so it's actually all about choosing the least horrible of TWO candidates."

"I still don't understand a lot of those words."

"Eh, you will in a few years. We'll make a wonderful Libertarian out of you yet, little Brit."

Harry was about to foolishly ask what a Libertarian was, like the little non-American MORON he was, but the door swung open and a drunk man stumbled out.

"Vince!" Said Skipper. "Where's Johnny?"

"Who currs?" the man slurred. "M'nah his assiss- assi- heh, *ass*, er- assistant no more. Find 'im yurself."

"Why not?" Skipper didn't sound very concerned. "What happened?"

"Fired me 'most a decade ago," grumbled the man, "For s'posedly havin' a 'drinking problem.' ME! A drinkin' problem!" He took a swig straight out of the bottle of vodka he was holding. "Can yer BELIEVE it!?"

"Yes."

The man kept talking as if he had heard nothing. Granted, odds were that he was so drunk he really had heard nothing, but regardless, Skipper got away with his comment. "If yer really wanna talk ta Johnny, go'n visit Dallas, I think that's where his grave is. No promises he'll talk back ta ya!" With that and a loud guffaw, he closed the door in their faces.

"Is Mister Johnny… dead?" Harry asked, voice quivering a little.

Skipper paused for a second, before laughing so hard he started honking like a goose. "Johnny? Dead? Negative, kid, it's a hoax — the guy's immortal."

— 0 —

Five hours, four restroom stops, and one stolen Honda Accord later, a very sleepy Harry Potter awoke in the backseat as, in a final flurry of gas-and-clutch instructions and flipper flapping, the penguins maneuvered the vehicle into a parking lot leading to a cemetery.

"Are we going to see the dead guy in here?" Asked Harry, rubbing at his eyes tiredly. It had been a long couple weeks, especially for a child his age.

"Negative, we're just looking for the nearest Denny's."

"What's a Denny's?"

"Heaven, kid. Heaven. And most importantly, the most glorious American institution ever established. Better than the checks and balances system of the government, because Denny's actually does it's job."

After Rico oh-so-helpfully coughed up a map, the nearest Denny's appeared to be a five minute walk away. (When Harry asked why it was so close, Skipper replied "Because this is America, dadgummit!", which didn't really answer his question, but the boy knew it was the best he was going to get.)

The doors dinged as they all waddled in (including Harry, had been needing to pee for the last half hour and was finally reaching the end of his rope), and a very nice waitress showed them to a table. "Thanks, doll," said Skipper.

"No problem, handsome," said the waitress, with a wink. "Just remember to tip."

A nonplussed Harry looked at Skipper. "Are her eyes bad-?" He began to ask.

A man in full cowboy gear seemed to appear from thin air. (What had really happened, actually, was that he had appeared from thin air), and Harry suddenly no longer needed to go pee. The man had a weathered but strong face, reminiscent of what were once undoubtedly handsome features. An air of youthfulness surrounded him, as did a tingling sensation of pure, unadulterated power. For some reason, Harry felt as though he recognized the man, though he couldn't quite place where or how…

The man twirled a pair of guns in his hands and pointed them at the intruders. "She don't see," He said, with the thickest southern accent Harry had ever heard, "'cause I don't want her to see. Now tell me who y'all are, and what y'all's business is with me, or I'll fill ya full of lead faster than ya ken say 'bang'."

Harry started as a realization suddenly hit him. He'd seen the man before — in those old movies Dudley loved to watch on the telly, with guns and cowboys and the Wild West! But Dudley had thrown a fit when he had wanted to meet the man for his sixth birthday, and had been told that the man had already died. So how-?

Skipper rolled his eyes. "How many other penguins do you know, Johnny? It's us, Skipper and the crew!"

The man sighed and twirled his pistols back into their holsters. "Fair 'nough. This the kid y'all was talkin' bout?"

Nods indicated this was the case, and he tipped his hat to Harry. "How's it going there, lil' pardner? What's your name?"

"H-Harry?"

"That a question? Or a statement? Come on, son, say it with some gusto!"

Harry pulled himself together. "Harry, sir!"

The man's eyes twinkled. "That's more like it. I'm tickled pink to have you with me! My most recent name was John Wayne, but most of those who're like us might know me by a different name…"

He paused, and Harry got the distinct impression the man wanted him to ask what he was known as. So, being the good little guy he was (even if he was, unfortunately, Br*tish), he did so.

"A different name?"

The man grinned, and stretched his hand out in greeting. "Nicolas Flamel. And I'm here, pardner, to teach ya the magic of American Independence. And also, guns." He paused again, this time considering something within himself. "Primarily guns, actually. The independence part comes after."

Harry nodded. "Okay. But can I change my pants first?"