The Awesome Adventure of Abraham Lincoln-Chapter 1.3

“Good to see you up and about again, Mr. President,” the Commissioner held out his hand.

“Good to meet you, sir,” Lincoln took the hand and shook it. “Although you may need to fill me in on a few details. I got a feeling I’ve missed out on a century or two.”

“Well, I’ll get them to give you a full debriefing later. But to sum it up, you’ve been resurrected by super science to battle the forces of evil that threaten to destroy the United States of America. Also the world.”

“That seems reasonable,” Lincoln nodded. “And who might you be?”

“I’m the Commissioner, in charge of WIPE, the World Institute for Protection in Emergencies. A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Lincoln.”

“The pleasure’s all mine. Though, if I may be so bold sir, I would suggest your organisation take a more…pleasant-sounding name.”

The Commissioner winced. “You’re not the first person to say that, Mr. President. But I’m afraid all the good acronyms have already been taken. It was either this or the Society for Help Involving Terrorism. But I think you can see the problem with that.”

“Indeed,” Lincoln rubbed his bearded chin. “It’s somewhat confusing. People might think you were helping them with terrorism. And I assume you do more than just fight terrorists?”

“We do indeed, so we went for a more general name. I think it’s for the best.”

“Quite right. Reminds me of the time we set up a secret establishment of coloured fellas to infiltrate and rescue slaves from southern colonies. We didn’t want people to get confused between them and regular folk we were trying to save, so we called them ‘Black Ops’. But I’m sure I’m boring you.”

“Oh no, not at all. It’s always interesting to hear dubious and slightly racist facts about history.”

“Mr Lincoln, sir!” Dynamite, after much internal debate and consideration on what was the most appropriate thing to do to a former corpse of a former president, snapped his legs together and gave a salute, in what he hoped was a respectful manner.

The Commissioner sighed. “Mr Lincoln, allow me to introduce Blake Dynamite, agent of WIPE. Jeeze, Dynamite, way to be slow to salute. And you call that a respectful manner?”
“I’m sorry, I’m…sorry,” Dynamite felt more embarrassed than a man in a nunnery who had been caught by the mother superior with his belt around his ankles.

“Quite alright, Mr. Dynamite,” Lincoln smiled, extending his hand. “More respect than a good old boy from Kentucky like me deserves.”

“Gosh,” said Dynamite, who was the sort of person who said things like that. “You gotta be kidding me, right? I mean, you’re freakin’ Abraham Lincoln…sir,” he saluted again, a little worried that he’d been disrespectful. “Freer of slaves and democracy and Mom’s apple pie.”

Lincoln gave an embarrassed grin. “I’m not sure I can claim credit for any of those things, young man. Though I do like to think I did everything I could to help my country when she needed me.”

“And it’s exactly that attitude that led to us resurrecting you,” the Commissioner explained. “Well, either you or Teddy Roosevelt. But you’ll be happy to know you won the coin toss.”

“It was a penny,” Dynamite smiled.

“Oh, that’s…good to know,” Lincoln smiled back pleasantly, trying not to upset the clearly soft-headed lad. The Commissioner merely rolled his eyes.

“Dynamite, let’s not hold up the President with foolish remarks and idiocy. I’m sure he wants to know more about why he was brought here.”

“I have to admit, I am a little curious,” Lincoln nodded.

“Naturally. Follow me, Mr. President. Dynamite, you stay here and…erm…check for bugs or something. Make sure our enemies aren’t spying on us.”

“Yes sir!” Dynamite saluted, as he began to comb for any electronic spying devices. Or non electronic spying devices. He wasn’t picky.

“Do you really have enemies that can listen in through walls that thick?” Lincoln asked, as he and the Commissioner walked up the dark corridor.

“Not really, I just wanted to get away from him. Oh, excuse me a second.”

The Commissioner turned to the robot sentry, as he passed it by.

“Listen up robot, from now on the password is ‘I’m a stupid farm boy with a bad haircut’. And it’s compulsory to say the password coming this way. Got it?”

“Affirmative,” the robot sentry gave an almost joy-like expression.

“What does that mean?” Lincoln asked, as they continued onwards.

“It means that our friend Dynamite is going to have to endure a little public humiliation. Or lasers to the face. Either way, I’ll sleep well tonight.”

“Lasers, you say,” Lincoln mused. “Fascinating.”