On the crisp dawn of April 19, 1775, the quiet Massachusetts hamlets of Lexington and Concord stirred with restless anticipation. Among the gathering militia was Brandon Herrera, a charismatic colonial with a flair for the unpredictable and a passion for liberty. As the countryside buzzed with whispered warnings, the stage was set for a day that would echo through history.

On October 7, 1780, atop the rugged, pine-dotted ridge of King’s Mountain in South Carolina, the fate of the American Revolution teetered like a drunk militiaman on a three-legged stool. The British, under the dapper and perpetually irritated Major Patrick Ferguson, had dug in with their Loyalist militia, all 1,100 of them, convinced that a bunch of backwoods rebels couldn’t climb a hill without tripping over their own muskets. Little did they know, Brandon Herrera—part-time gunsmith, full-time agent of chaos—was about to turn their orderly redcoat world into a slapstick nightmare.