The Siege of Chicago

nsacpi

nsacpi

Expects Yuge Games
My Dearest Eleanor,


I write to you from the smoldering edge of a city I once thought would yield easily to order, only to find that Chicago is more obstinate than any garrison I have known. The men, weary from endless patrols and fruitless attempts to corral the so-called insurgents, have discovered a haven of comfort — a pizzeria in the West Loop, reputed for its deep-dish.


At first, discipline held. I instructed them to take only sustenance, and they complied… for two nights. Now I fear the walls of our regimented conduct are crumbling faster than the crust of a forgotten calzone. Some have pilfered extra slices. Others, in whispers, plan raids upon neighboring bakeries. I do not know whether to admonish them or to join in their revelry.


And yet, in this chaos, there is a strange camaraderie. Even Sergeant O’Hara, who once threatened to court-martial a man for chewing gum too loudly, was observed last night dancing a jig outside the pizzeria, humming a tune I did not recognize but suspect to be from a TikTok video.


Eleanor, I fear that the siege may be less a military operation and more a festival of indulgence. Pray for me, for I do not know whether to march my men into action or to protect the last remaining slices of mozzarella.


Yours, precariously,
Captain Harold Whitmore
 
Captain Whitmore,


I have read your letter with mounting dismay. Deep-dish pizza is not pizza. I will say it plainly, so that no one — least of all you, my husband, and your errant soldiers — is left in doubt. Pizza is a thin, yeasty creation, crisp at the edges, fragrant with the honest aroma of tomatoes, basil, and cheese. What you describe is a casserole masquerading as a pie, a dough-laden monstrosity that has no right to bear the name of that noble Italian invention.


And yet, you let the men indulge in it? You allow them to plunder pizzerias and cavort in the streets while claiming “camaraderie” and “morale”? Captain, your failure is not merely military; it is moral, cultural, and gastronomic. I tremble to think what other culinary atrocities they will commit if left unchecked. Will they next worship the Chicago-style hot dog? Will they crown the “Italian beef” sandwich as the new standard of heroism?


I demand — no, I command — that order be restored. The men are soldiers, not gluttons. Discipline must be reinstated before the siege descends fully into farce. And for Heaven’s sake, spare me any further descriptions of that so-called pizza.


By my reckoning, Captain, the very name of Chicago is imperiled if its defenders are reduced to gluttonous fools.


Yours in horror and indignation,
Eleanor Whitmore
 
Dearest Eleanor,


I have received your most passionate letter, and I tremble before the force of your culinary convictions. Yet, I must confess, the men — God help me — have grown bold in their appetites. The siege is no longer about strategy or even insurgents. It has become, in equal measure, a festival of Chicago’s greatest gustatory sins.


Yesterday, after securing what I still insist was a strategic reconnaissance of the West Loop, the men discovered the hallowed halls of Portillo’s. Italian beef sandwiches. Hot dogs with every conceivable topping. And Garrett’s popcorn — caramel and cheese, mingling like some unholy duet. Discipline was abandoned within minutes. I tried to rally them with orders and appeals to decorum, but I swear, Eleanor, they danced in the streets with sandwiches in one hand and popcorn in the other.


I argued that such indulgences could not bolster morale, that the true measure of a soldier was restraint. They replied only with bites, crumbs, and shouts of, “If we are to fight, we must fuel the body, sir!” Even Sergeant O’Hara, that grim enforcer of chewing-gum law, led a parade of men through the streets, chanting what sounded like a jingle from a Garrett’s commercial.


I do not know how this will end. The siege, once a disciplined endeavor, has become a rolling carnival of carbs, meats, and cheese. If Chicago falls under the weight of its own street food, I fear it will be my fault entirely.


Yours, half-sick with worry and half-full with hot dog,
Captain Harold Whitmore
 
Captain Whitmore,


I write to you now with the gravest concern. Your letters paint a portrait not of a siege, but of a battalion enfeebled by gluttony. It is not merely indulgence I fear — it is deliberate design. Chicago, I have come to understand, fashions its foods to ensnare the unwary: colossal deep-dish pizzas, sandwiches stacked to the heavens, popcorn dripping in caramel and cheese. These portions are weapons, Captain, and your men consume them as though they were manna.


Do you not see the strategy of it? The city seeks to disable your soldiers before the battle has even begun. You report dancing, chanting, and open revelry in the streets. That is not morale; it is surrender. Every bite, every morsel, is a subtle form of defeat — a slow erosion of strength, focus, and discipline. The men grow sluggish, distracted, and fattened on illusion rather than sustenance. By my reckoning, continued consumption will render them incapable of any serious action, leaving your command in ruin.


I implore you, Captain, enforce discipline. Confiscate the sandwiches, ration the deep-dish, and keep the popcorn from their grasp. A soldier cannot fight for honor or country if his body has been claimed by the city’s confectionary snares.


Chicago’s foods are insidious, Captain. Treat them as you would a minefield. Resist, restrain, or be undone.


Yours in urgent warning,
Eleanor Whitmore
 
Encampment near the Magnificent Mile, Chicago
October 16th, 2025


To the Quartermaster,


I write to you in a state of growing alarm. The men’s uniforms are straining at every seam, buttons threatening mutiny, and trousers dangerously tight at the waist. The siege has become less a campaign and more a full-scale festival of indulgence, and Chicago’s provisions — deep-dish, Italian beef, hot dogs, and caramel popcorn — have wrought havoc on the physiques of the battalion.


I urgently request immediate shipment of larger uniforms — coats, trousers, and belts — sufficient to accommodate the expanding girth of every man under my command. I fear that if these provisions do not arrive promptly, discipline will be further compromised. Already, Sergeant O’Hara has been observed cutting holes in his own jacket rather than admit defeat, and several privates have resorted to tying rope belts around their waists with alarming creativity.


Time is of the essence. If larger uniforms do not arrive, I am convinced the men will be physically unable to continue patrols, let alone confront the insurgents. We are at a precipice, Quartermaster. I ask you to act with the utmost urgency and discretion.


Your obedient servant,
Captain Harold Whitmore
Siege of Chicago, West Loop Encampment
 
Quartermaster’s Office, Chicago
October 17th, 2025


Captain Whitmore,


Your request for larger uniforms has been received and logged. Please note that the standard procedure for uniform adjustments requires a formal requisition form (Form QM-42B), signed in triplicate, with measurements certified by both the company tailor and the regimental dietician. Given the unusual nature of your circumstances — namely, the siege, alleged “gorging” on local foods, and the reported strain of buttons and belts — the forms will need to be submitted to Headquarters for review.


In the interim, it may be advisable to consider the following:


  1. Encourage rationing, portion control, or strategic redistribution of deep-dish pizza, Italian beef, and other caloric provisions.
  2. Employ temporary uniform modifications, such as adjustable drawstrings, suspenders, or fabric expansion panels (available in the Quartermaster’s surplus stores).
  3. Consider improvisational measures: tunics may be worn unbuttoned during marches; belts may be loosened; private trousers may be layered with leggings to accommodate further expansion.

Be advised, Captain, that continued non-compliance with uniform standards could result in both administrative reprimand and loss of eligibility for the upcoming “Siege of Magnificent Mile Parade.”


Respectfully,
Major Archibald Thorne
Quartermaster, Chicago Garrison


P.S. I have also noted your mention of dancing in the streets. While unorthodox, I cannot currently rule out its necessity for morale, provided the men maintain coverage of private areas.
 
My Dear Sister Margaret,


I trust this letter finds you and Father in good health, and that the first frost has not yet laid its hand too heavy upon the pumpkins. I would give a month’s pay to smell again the wood smoke off the Merrimack and the cool air of home. Chicago, though brave and grand in its own way, is a strange and perilous theater of war — not least for a man’s constitution.


We have been besieging the city these three weeks, yet it is we who are undone, not by musket nor mortar, but by the local provender. Their breadstuffs are baked deep as artillery emplacements, and their pizzas — a species of pie — are of such girth and density that a single slice could sink a skiff. The locals take pride in this, calling it their “deep dish,” though I hold it to be an engine of slow ruin.


Everywhere we march, the citizens press upon us trays of beef sandwiches swimming in their own juices, and popcorn glazed half with cheese, half with caramel — a compound both sweet and salty, devised, I think, to unman the spirit and expand the waist. I find my uniform grown tight about the middle, so that the buttons strain like cannon under siege. The Quartermaster has promised larger issue, but his wagons are delayed by sausage wagons and the general confusion of the markets.


I cannot but think the people of this city intend to disable us by kindness. Even our officers have grown sluggish, and our once-sprightly drummer boy is round as a cider barrel. Should this siege continue another fortnight, I fear we shall all be too stout to climb the parapets.


Write soon, dear Sister, and tell Father that though I have survived powder and shot, I may yet fall to the buttery crusts of Chicago.


Your affectionate brother,
Private Nathaniel Pike
Company C, 12th New Hampshire Volunteers
 
Left is nervous blacks will permanently turn away after Trump makes their streets safe.
 
thethe said:
Left is nervous blacks will permanently turn away after Trump makes their streets safe.
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