Hi follower.
As I won't be able to update tonight, please enjoy this classic Lincoln story originally written on the 13th February 2011.
Abraham Lincoln was chilling out, maxin’ and relaxin’ in his Log Cabin of Solitude, after an intense birthday party the likes of which shall probably never be seen again (until next year). Dressed in the new presidential dressing gown given to him by his good friend, Elephant Steve, he was watching the DVD of that famous film, The Day Lincoln Was Shot, given to him rather tactlessly by the Fresh Prince, time-travelling offshoot of Will Smith.
“That Wil Wheaton sure does play a convincing version of my son,” Lincoln mused. “But you know, watching a film of my assassination after my 202nd birthday, I can’t help but feel a bit vulnerable. I mean, I’m not exactly a young man anymore. Maybe I should start taking it a bit easier. Spend a bit more time at home, let the other superheroes handle the world-threatening stuff for a while. Maybe I should take a holiday somewhere. I hear Saturn’s rings are beautiful this time of year.”
But before Lincoln could continue to pontificate, there was a call on the Hotline to Police Headquarters.
“What’s the problem, Commissioner?” asked Lincoln.
The phone continued to ring.
“What’s the problem, Commissioner?” asked Lincoln, this time picking up the receiver.
“Trouble in Washington DC again, Lincoln,” answered his old friend and golf caddy, Commissioner Gordon. “We’ve got a crisis of devilish proportions. Need you to get over here right away.”
“Commissioner, when you say ‘get over here’, do you mean get to Washington DC, or get to where you are right now?” queried Abe. “I mean, if it’s the latter, then I’m pretty much already there, considering you’re in the corner of my living room sleeping off all you had to drink last night.”
“I mean Washington DC, Lincoln,” said Commissioner Gordon into his mobile phone. “You better take me with you too. And for goodness’ sake, don’t make so much noise! I have a killer headache.”
“A killer headache?! I’ll be sure to take that killer to prison later on. But for now, it’s off to Washington for us.”
Abe threw off his robe and spun into his immaculate suit, grabbing the hungover police commissioner as he flew off towards Washington DC. It seemed his holiday to Saturn would have to wait.
Lincoln landed outside the White House at Washington DC, where he was surprised and alarmed to find an old friend. And by friend, I of course mean enemy. I did mean to write friend though, that was an intentional word choice, but I didn’t mean that they were friends. That was just a figure of speech. It’s something people do sometimes, where they say friend instead of enemy, which is what they actually mean, but they’re mocking the established relationship between protagonist and…
“Oh be quiet, overactive narrative!” Lincoln hushed this ashamed arranger of words. “We’ve got bigger problems.”
For you see, swatting away the Secret Service as if they were flies with sunglasses on, was that most fiendish of former presidents, that most reviled of Republicans, that most relationship-opening of Chinese-relationship-openers, Richard Milhouse Nixon, alias Werewolf Nixon.
“Arooooooooooooooooooooo!” howled the hated hairy harbinger of hotwired hotels. “You’d better get a snake on the grill, cook, because Nixon’s back, and he’s hungry! Aroooooooooooooo!”
“By the dawn’s early light!” Lincoln gasped. “The return of Werewolf Nixon! But I thought we stopped that lycanthropic louse by burying him in Egypt!”
“Arooooo, for that you have the good revolutionaries of the recent uprising to thank, you bearded buffoon,” Werewolf Nixon explained. “In their quest for democracy and fair treatment, they accidentally broke open the container which sealed me. Now I’m back for revenge, starting with the eating of President Obama. By me! Arooo!”
“But this is impossible! Even believing that you managed to escape without anyone noticing, and straining credibility further by saying that you could make it all the way to America in such a short span of time, the fact remains that you’re a werewolf in broad daylight! The last time I fought you, I only won by the fact you reverted back to normal when the moon was no longer in the sky.”
“Arooooooo, I’m glad you asked me that,” Nixon smiled, showing off his fangs and fillings. “You see, I figure that, since it’s moonlight that turns me from an ugly old man into a mighty warrior wolfman, and since moonlight is just light the moon reflects from the sun, clearly then I should get my powers from sunlight! Once I realised that, I instantly turned into my more powerful self.”
“That strains credulity too far,” Lincoln shook his rail-splitting fist. “Get ready for the pounding of two lifetimes, you hacky hound!”
“Bring it to win it, Lincoln. Arooooooooooooooooo!”
Lincoln charged forward with union-saving speed, only to run straight into the fist of Nixon. Stunned, our hero was caught off-guard by the villain’s claws, which slashed right through his Sunday best.
“My suit! You sharp fiend!” Lincoln cried, hitting the hairy blighter with a haymaker. Nixon tumbled backwards, as the brave basher of badguys continued his assault. A left, a right, a left, another left, a right, a foot just for variety’s sake. But it was no good-Nixon met him blow for blow.
“You won’t stop Tricky Dicky so easily,” he laughed, as he gave our log-cabin-building protagonist an uppercut. Thankfully Lincoln’s beard dampened the blow, and he was able to retaliate with a knee to the solar plexus. Nixon barely seemed to notice.
“Impossible-my attacks are having no effect,” Lincoln pounded Nixon’s face with everything he had. The lying lupus flinched, but seemed otherwise unharmed.
“Aroooooooo, when will you learn, you asinine attorney?” Nixon laughed. “As long as I receive the powers of sunlight, I will never be stopped. Arooooooooooo!”
“The powers of sunlight…that’s it!” Lincoln smiled. Focusing all of his Lincoln powers into his right foot, our stove-pipe-hatted saviour launched an almighty kick into Werewolf Nixon’s groin.
“AROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! My Nixon nuts!” the SALT signer howled in pain, grabbing at his damaged danglers. Lincoln took advantage of this confusion to put Nixon into a wrestling lock, preventing the werewolf from moving.
“Very clever, Lincoln,” Nixon snarled. “But what are you going to do now? As long as the sun shines, I’ll still be in this powerful form.”
“I thought as much, which is why I intend to get by with a little help from my friends. Barry! Initiate plan Solar Surprise!”
“You got it Abe,” said current President and Lincoln fanboy Barack Obama, who had been watching a fight through a hole in the Oval Office wall, as he pressed a button on his desk. All heads turned to the sky as a large spherical object rolled in front of the sun, blocking its rays from reaching the Vietnam-expanding wolfman.
“Aroooooooooo, no fair,” cried Nixon as he returned to his original, withering form. “How did you manage to block out the precious sunlight?”
“You can thank Ronnie Reagan for that one,” Lincoln grinned. “Not many people know that the original STAR WARS program involved recreating the Death Star, to strike at Russia at anytime. It was abandoned after Reagan was told that using it would blow up America as well, but thankfully it’s still up there, able to be moved at a moment’s notice.”
“But that’s outside interference! That’s cheating!” Nixon whined.
“As you said Richard, if the president does something, it’s not illegal.”
“Arooooo! Dramatic irony! The only thing other than silver to hurt a werewolf. I surrender already!”
“Well done, Lincoln!” said Commissioner Gordon, as Nixon was led off to a solar-proof cell underneath the White House. “Woodward and Bernstein themselves couldn’t have destroyed that Dick any better. But tell me something, how did you know a kick in the gentleman’s friend would have such an effect?”
“Obvious in hindsight, old chum,” Lincoln stroked his manly beard. “Nixon made the dubious claim that he was gaining powers from the Sun, and as unlikely as that seemed, I believe the psychological effect was enough to make it happen. Therefore, I had to strike in the one place not covered by the solar rays.”
“Egad, Lincoln, you don’t mean to tell me…”
“That’s right Commissioner. In order to stop a solar-powered werewolf, I had to hit him where the sun doesn’t shine.”
D’oh-ho-ho-ho-ho! Many happy returns, Lincoln!
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