Abraham Lincoln was enjoying a tasty meal at a 5 star restaurant when he got a call over the Signal Watch. He sighed deeply. "What's the emergency, Commissioner?"
"I'm sorry to have to do this to you, Lincoln. I realise it's your day off and everything. But we've got a bit of an emergency on our hands. It seems some crazy fool calling himself the Ball Master is threatening the town of Squaresville with his sinister sphereoids. Local police are powerless to stop him. You're our only hope!"
"But Commissioner, really? The Ball Master? That doesn't sound like a threat worthy of Abraham Lincoln. That sounds more like a reject talent act from a bawdyhouse review. And besides, do you know how long it took me to get reservations to this restaurant?"
"But...but Lincoln!" the Commissioner spluttered. "You'd really value your image and restaurant reservations over the safety of Squaresville?"
"I don't think you understand Commissioner. This is a really exclusive restaurant. I mean, the waiters won't even look at you when they take your order! And when the food comes out, they actually give it to someone else who they consider more worthy of it. You don't just get to visit restaurants like this everyday!"
"Lincoln, I implore you. I realise how fancy pants that restaurant is. In fact, it sounds like the fance-pantsiest restaurant I've ever heard of. But dash it all man, Squaresville needs you!"
Lincoln mulled over the situation. On the one hand, it was his duty to see that nobody suffer at the hands of injustice and tyranny. On the other...he'd waited over a month for a reservation! He'd hardly been able to have any adventures because of the waiting, for fear that he miss his chance to dine. Kinda like now, in fact.
"Oh very well Commissioner, I'll get going. But Squaresville had better be cool, that's all I'm saying."
"Thank you Lincoln. I knew you wouldn't let us down!"
"Yes, yes, " Lincoln turned off the signal watch, and tried to grab a passing waiter's attention. He knew it was a long shot, but he had to preserve this table for his return no matter what. "Excuse me...pardon me...I say..." he tried, but no one would even give him a slight glance. Giving a great sigh, he took out a pen and scribbled onto his napkin.
'Please do not let anyone take my seat. I will be back as soon as possible. Signed, A.L.'
Leaving the napkin spread on the table in what he hoped was an obvious position, Abe tiptoed to the exit, trying not to let anyone realise that a table had just opened up. With a very unenthused cry of "Lincoln Powers, Away", he reluctantly made his way towards Squaresville.
Squaresville sadly lived up to its name-nothing but cubes and cuboids as far as the eye could see. Lincoln had secretly hoped the town had been named ironically, and it would be all spheres and cylinders and futuristic-looking buildings. But no, square buildings, square roads, even square trees. Don't get too excited though-these were merely trees that had been pruned into a square shape, and thus still pretty dull and uninteresting.
So when Abe landed in the central square and saw a rounded fellow in a gaudy costume using a raygun to turn everything into balls, he didn't know whether to clap the man in the proverbial irons or applaud him for his efforts to fix a stagnating town. Morally speaking though, he was obliged to do the former.
"Alright sir, stand down," he cried, holding out a hand in an authoritative manner. "I take it you must be the Ball Master. Well, rest assured all balls are fine round here, so why don't you just go on home and leave these poor people in peace?"
The man spun round on the spot. "Ah, if it isn't Abraham Lincoln! My archnemesis and constant foe!"
"Constant foe?" Abe raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "Pardon me sir, but I don't believe I've had the displeasure."
"Oh but you have, you bearded buffoon! For I, the Ball Master, have been plaguing you for weeks now! Or have you forgotten the pool ball menaces of River City?"
As a matter of fact, Lincoln had forgotten that particular adventure. Which is fair enough really. It had been quite a while. But he didn't want to lose face.
"So that was you, was it?" he clenched his fists, hoping he sounded halfway convincing.
"You'd better ball-lieve it!" the Ball Master cackled. "And that bowling ball that threatened Skyscraper City? Moi! And that large game of bowls that held up traffic throughout New York City? Hail to the ball king, baby!"
Lincoln vaguely remembered these past instances, although the bowls thing had been such a non-event he hadn't even classified it as an adventure. Truth be told, this villain was...not particularly exciting.
"Yes, well, you may have tried to defeat me before," he pointed a finger at the Ball Master, "But I beat you then and I'll beat you today."
"Wrong, you pusillanimous president! This time, my legions of balls will see you meet your doom! Observe!"
The Ball Master spun round and fired his Ball-Transforming raygun at some nearby cars, which were instantly transmogrified (and can you believe that's a real word?) into a large pair of footballs. Whether you take that to mean American footballs or actual footballs, I leave to your imagination.
"Now then Lincoln, prepare to be stricken from the record!"
Abe shielded himself, then stopped. "Wait, what?"
"I said, prepare to be stricken from the record, you hard-of-hearing harridan!" the Ball Master smirked.
"OK, first of all, I'm fairly sure you have to be a woman to be a harridan. Secondly, I'm afraid I don't get your supervillainous banter. Stricken from the record? I thought you dealt with balls, not law courts."
"I think it's pretty obvious. In football, you have these players called strikers. So if you got attacked by one, you could say you were struck down, or strickened. And then I think the logic leap is pretty obvious."
"That seems unnecessarily complicated. Couldn't you have turned them into bowling balls and said 'Prepare to be bowled out', or maybe even said something like 'You'll have a ball with this one'. That one seems pretty straightforward, and would apply to all your balls."
The Ball Master gaped for a while, which gave enough time for Lincoln to realise something.
"Wait...you mean you never thought of saying that phrase before I suggested it?"
"Um, well...no..." the Ball Master whispered sheepishly.
"Oh come on, man! That's probably the most obvious ball-based pun there is! What kind of supervillain are you?"
"Sh...shut up!" the silly sphere-based simpleton stuttered. "I'll show you what kind of villain I am! These balls ought to take care of you once and for ball!"
With a simple gesture, the two ex-cars hurled themselves towards Lincoln, smacking him right in the torso. The impact was so great, so large, that it caused him to have a slight bruise.
"Ow," said Abe, without much enthusiasm. "I do believe I've met my match."
"Are you not quaking in your shoes?" the Ball Master sneered. "Have you not suffered enough damage at the hands of my balls?"
"Alright, that's enough," Lincoln turned away, preparing for flight.
"Wait...what are you doing?" asked the spherical scoundrel, puzzled.
"Look, it's clearly obvious you're not really worth my time. I mean, your name's a joke, your weapons are minuscule and your gimmick just conjures up sordid images. It seems to me the police are perfectly suited to handling you. Frankly, I'm embarrassed to be seen with you."
"But you can't leave!" the Ball Master wobbled forward. Abe tried not to chuckle at the sight. "If you go, I'll never be able to join the League."
"The league?" Abe raised an eyebrow (it may please you to learn it was not the eyebrow that had previously been raised. Abe Lincoln's an equal opportunity eyebrow raiser).
"This is the initiation! They said if I could destroy Abe Lincoln then I could join their ranks. And if I join their ranks, then I'll finally be a respectable supervillain!"
"Not to sound pompous son, but you defeat me? When your raygun doesn't even make things turn into balls permanently?"
It was true. The footballs had turned back into cars while they had been talking.
"I mean, at least the pool balls fought back, and the bowling ball was really big. How did you go from that to this?"
The Ball Master pouted. "I had some help with those."
"From this league you mentioned?"
"Yes. But I don't need their help now! I'll stop you once and for ball!"
"You already made that pun. Look, why don't you make yourself useful and tell me about this so-called league?"
"No, I don't think he'll be doing that," said a mysterious (and yet strangely familiar) voice. Before Lincoln could investigate its source though, he was distracted by the sight of the Ball Master exploding! Well, not exploding exactly. But there was a loud bang, so it was kind of like an explosion. An explosion of sound, I guess you'd say.
"What the devil?" exclaimed Lincoln, as the Ball Master fell to the floor, unconscious. As anyone would be if they'd been deflated as he had. For where once there had been a portly, spherical figure of semi-fun, there now lay only a shell of his former self.
"What happened, Lincoln?" asked a member of the local constabulary, who had finally emerged from their cowardly hiding places behind an ornate bush.
"I'm not sure," said Abe, examining the body. "I guess he just...popped."
"Preposterous! People popping? Pah!" said a rather alliterative policeman.
"I realise how it sounds, but that's what happened. Luckily he seems to be only unconscious, not dead, but then I haven't done a thorough examination, because that would require touching him. I'm sure you men can take over from here. I have a restaurant to return to."
"But Lincoln, aren't you going to stay and help?"
"No, I think I'd rather return to my restaurant. If I hurry, I might be able to get my coat back! I have my presidential wallet in there, and they don't give those out to just anyone you know. Lincoln awaaaaaaaay!"
As Lincoln hurried back to the restaurant (where it may delight you to learn that, though he had lost his table, he did find his coat in the bins round the back. If that does delight you, please seek help, as that's rather an odd thing to be delighted by), and the police took to removing the rather pathetic supervillain from the street, the mysterious figure mentioned earlier slunk back into the shadows, camcorder by his side.
"Yes...everything's going according to plan."
What could this mysterious figure be talking about? What plan is this? And will it lead into an exciting new multi-part adventure? Maybe it will! I mean, there's always hope, right?
