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?
Wednesday, 23 May 2012
Friday, 16 March 2012
Classic Awesome Adventures of Abraham Lincoln-Werewolfgate
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!
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!
Wednesday, 14 March 2012
The Awesome Adventures of Abraham Lincoln-A Strike of Misfortune!
Abraham Lincoln was helping a family of hedgehogs cross the road when he got a call on the Signal Watch.
"What's the emergency, Commissioner?"
"Trouble in Skyscraper City, Lincoln," said the Commissioner.
"Skyscraper City?" Lincoln was surprised. He'd never heard of such a place.
"Yes, I'm not surprised you're surprised," the Commissioner continued, surprising Lincoln even more. "It's a new development they're trying out. You see, the problem with modern cities is that there's no good balance between residential and business areas. Businesses want more room to expand, and people want more property to own. So they decided they'd move all the business into its own city, where it could thrive and develop however it wanted."
"Sounds like a plan doomed from the start," Lincoln shrugged. "Is that the trouble? That it was a terrible idea? Because I don't think even my mighty powers could help out there."
"No Lincoln, while it is a terrible idea, that's not the emergency. No, the trouble is that there's a giant bowling ball heading right towards it."
"Now that is a trouble," Abe whistled, impressed. "And also something I could help with. But should I though? It seems to me we'd be better off just letting the bowling ball take its course and stop this whole foolish project before it takes off."
"But Lincoln, there are people in those buildings! Businessmen I know, but people none the less! You can't just let them get smooshed to death by a giant bowling ball. For one thing, think of how that would look on their gravestones. 'Here lies Businessman McGee, smooshed to death by a bowling ball because Abe Lincoln didn't like the town he was in.' Wouldn't look good for anyone."
"I highly doubt they'd get all that on one stone, old chum, but I take your point. I'll make sure that terrible town doesn't get squashed. Well, not totally squashed anyway. We'll see."
Lincoln switched off his watch and turned to the hedgehogs. "I'm sorry to do this to you Mrs. Hog, but I'm afraid I'm needed elsewhere."
"Ah, t'is no bother, me boy, we all be done here anyway" said Mrs. Hog, as the last of her children crossed the road. "You go give that bowling ball a decent kick up the backside for me, ok?"
"I certainly will, Mrs. Hog. And I hope to see you soon for tea and scones. Now if you'll excuse me...Lincoln awaaaaaaaaaaay!"
Only an eyeless mole in space would have missed he sight of the giant bowling ball as it made its way towards Skyscraper City. Our eagle-eyed egalitarian found it easy enough, as he swooped down to fly alongside it. Sturdy, round, wooden...this was definitely a bowling ball all right. But how best to get rid of it?
Simple-slow it down. Though by no means slow, the ball wasn't particularly speedy either. Abe shot forward and positioned himself in the bowling ball's path. He readied himself to get a grip on the ball, planting himself firmly into the ground. The ball came closer...closer...closer still...
BAM!
The ball smacked into Lincoln, squashing him firmly beneath its immense weight as it continued on its journey. This had not been a particularly well thought out move on Abe's part. He reflected on this as he rose up to the top of the ball, high above the streets and houses, and then when he'd gone up as high as he could, he entered the inevitable downward phase of the journey. It was not a good phase.
Thinking back on it, this had been a pretty stupid plan. And now he was stuck. The pressure of being crushed had left him feeling pretty weak, and with each rotation he lost more and more strength. And at the back of his mind, he knew that eventually he would crash into Skyscraper City, where he would end it all in a really stupid way.
Well, no use crying over the situation. Better to face the end with dignity. And besides, there were worse ways to die. At least he was getting a good view from up here. A panoramic view, even. Admittedly about 90 degrees of it were dark and painful, but the other 270 were pretty neat. He got to see trees, and birds, and fields. It was rather pleasant. He especially liked the trail of mud that the bowling ball was leaving behind it, as the earth was upturned by the spinning. It reminded him of when he was a boy, helping his father plough the fields.
Wait a second...that was it! A flash of inspiration hit Lincoln more firmly than a speeding train crashing into a brick wall. I'm sorry, that was slightly insensitive. I thoroughly apologise if that offended you in any way. Summoning all of his Lincoln powers, Abe tapped into his last reserves of strength and tore away from the spherical menace. Free once more, he turned to face the bowling ball, and was met with a ghastly sight. Skyscraper City was only a few miles away, the sight of skyscrapers arranged in a triangular fashion filling our hero with a sense of dread and disbelief. Why would they do that? That's just asking for a giant bowling ball to crash into it.
Zooming faster than a duck with a jetpack, Lincoln plunged into the ground afore the ball, scraping and shovelling as fast as he could to create a wide trench, which the bowling ball rolled into. He tore at the ground ahead, chucking aside earth and mud like some kind of super digging machine, the ball closely following behind. Lincoln dug a trench all the way around Skyscraper City, giving it a wide berth from the touch of the bowling ball, and finished his digging on a nearby beach. Abe flew away as the bowling ball went safely into the drink, where it would sink to the ocean floor and bother no one, except maybe those fish people from a previous adventure, but that seemed unlikely.
"All clear here, Commissioner," said Lincoln into his Signal Watch. "Luckily for us, whoever threw that thing didn't count on getting a gutterball."
"But dang it Lincoln, who could have thrown it in the first place?" asked the Commissioner. "Some kind of giant bowler? Could we be dealing with a mutated Walter Ray Williams?"
"I'm not even sure who that is, old chum, but I think we can rule him out. I'm not sure what sent that ball off on its merry way, but I certainly intend to find out!"
More ball shenanigans! Coincidence, or conspiracy? I hope its the latter. If it's the former it means that we're just on some kind of ball love rampage this week. Tune in next time and maybe you'll get a decent conclusion!
"What's the emergency, Commissioner?"
"Trouble in Skyscraper City, Lincoln," said the Commissioner.
"Skyscraper City?" Lincoln was surprised. He'd never heard of such a place.
"Yes, I'm not surprised you're surprised," the Commissioner continued, surprising Lincoln even more. "It's a new development they're trying out. You see, the problem with modern cities is that there's no good balance between residential and business areas. Businesses want more room to expand, and people want more property to own. So they decided they'd move all the business into its own city, where it could thrive and develop however it wanted."
"Sounds like a plan doomed from the start," Lincoln shrugged. "Is that the trouble? That it was a terrible idea? Because I don't think even my mighty powers could help out there."
"No Lincoln, while it is a terrible idea, that's not the emergency. No, the trouble is that there's a giant bowling ball heading right towards it."
"Now that is a trouble," Abe whistled, impressed. "And also something I could help with. But should I though? It seems to me we'd be better off just letting the bowling ball take its course and stop this whole foolish project before it takes off."
"But Lincoln, there are people in those buildings! Businessmen I know, but people none the less! You can't just let them get smooshed to death by a giant bowling ball. For one thing, think of how that would look on their gravestones. 'Here lies Businessman McGee, smooshed to death by a bowling ball because Abe Lincoln didn't like the town he was in.' Wouldn't look good for anyone."
"I highly doubt they'd get all that on one stone, old chum, but I take your point. I'll make sure that terrible town doesn't get squashed. Well, not totally squashed anyway. We'll see."
Lincoln switched off his watch and turned to the hedgehogs. "I'm sorry to do this to you Mrs. Hog, but I'm afraid I'm needed elsewhere."
"Ah, t'is no bother, me boy, we all be done here anyway" said Mrs. Hog, as the last of her children crossed the road. "You go give that bowling ball a decent kick up the backside for me, ok?"
"I certainly will, Mrs. Hog. And I hope to see you soon for tea and scones. Now if you'll excuse me...Lincoln awaaaaaaaaaaay!"
Only an eyeless mole in space would have missed he sight of the giant bowling ball as it made its way towards Skyscraper City. Our eagle-eyed egalitarian found it easy enough, as he swooped down to fly alongside it. Sturdy, round, wooden...this was definitely a bowling ball all right. But how best to get rid of it?
Simple-slow it down. Though by no means slow, the ball wasn't particularly speedy either. Abe shot forward and positioned himself in the bowling ball's path. He readied himself to get a grip on the ball, planting himself firmly into the ground. The ball came closer...closer...closer still...
BAM!
The ball smacked into Lincoln, squashing him firmly beneath its immense weight as it continued on its journey. This had not been a particularly well thought out move on Abe's part. He reflected on this as he rose up to the top of the ball, high above the streets and houses, and then when he'd gone up as high as he could, he entered the inevitable downward phase of the journey. It was not a good phase.
Thinking back on it, this had been a pretty stupid plan. And now he was stuck. The pressure of being crushed had left him feeling pretty weak, and with each rotation he lost more and more strength. And at the back of his mind, he knew that eventually he would crash into Skyscraper City, where he would end it all in a really stupid way.
Well, no use crying over the situation. Better to face the end with dignity. And besides, there were worse ways to die. At least he was getting a good view from up here. A panoramic view, even. Admittedly about 90 degrees of it were dark and painful, but the other 270 were pretty neat. He got to see trees, and birds, and fields. It was rather pleasant. He especially liked the trail of mud that the bowling ball was leaving behind it, as the earth was upturned by the spinning. It reminded him of when he was a boy, helping his father plough the fields.
Wait a second...that was it! A flash of inspiration hit Lincoln more firmly than a speeding train crashing into a brick wall. I'm sorry, that was slightly insensitive. I thoroughly apologise if that offended you in any way. Summoning all of his Lincoln powers, Abe tapped into his last reserves of strength and tore away from the spherical menace. Free once more, he turned to face the bowling ball, and was met with a ghastly sight. Skyscraper City was only a few miles away, the sight of skyscrapers arranged in a triangular fashion filling our hero with a sense of dread and disbelief. Why would they do that? That's just asking for a giant bowling ball to crash into it.
Zooming faster than a duck with a jetpack, Lincoln plunged into the ground afore the ball, scraping and shovelling as fast as he could to create a wide trench, which the bowling ball rolled into. He tore at the ground ahead, chucking aside earth and mud like some kind of super digging machine, the ball closely following behind. Lincoln dug a trench all the way around Skyscraper City, giving it a wide berth from the touch of the bowling ball, and finished his digging on a nearby beach. Abe flew away as the bowling ball went safely into the drink, where it would sink to the ocean floor and bother no one, except maybe those fish people from a previous adventure, but that seemed unlikely.
"All clear here, Commissioner," said Lincoln into his Signal Watch. "Luckily for us, whoever threw that thing didn't count on getting a gutterball."
"But dang it Lincoln, who could have thrown it in the first place?" asked the Commissioner. "Some kind of giant bowler? Could we be dealing with a mutated Walter Ray Williams?"
"I'm not even sure who that is, old chum, but I think we can rule him out. I'm not sure what sent that ball off on its merry way, but I certainly intend to find out!"
More ball shenanigans! Coincidence, or conspiracy? I hope its the latter. If it's the former it means that we're just on some kind of ball love rampage this week. Tune in next time and maybe you'll get a decent conclusion!
Monday, 12 March 2012
The Awesome Adventures of Abraham Lincoln-An A-pool-ing Pun!
Abraham Lincoln was educating history students at Oxford University on how life was during the American Civil War, when he received a call on his signal watch.
"What's the emergency, Commissioner?" he asked.
"You may very well ask what the emergency is, Lincoln," replied the Commissioner. "I mean, this emergency is so bizarre, so off the wall, so incredibly offbeat that I barely know how to describe it."
"Well do try Commissioner, there's a good man," said Lincoln, picking up on how the locals spoke. And they do speak like that at Oxford. Don't even try to deny it, I won't listen.
"Well let me start by saying that I'm in River City, and we're experiencing something so incredibly unbelievable that I can't even believe it myself, despite the fact that I'm right here looking at it. To put it simply, we've got trouble."
"Trouble?"
"Yes, right here in River City. With a capital T, and that rhymes with P, and that stands for pool. Specifically, it stands for the dreaded pool creatures that are plaguing this fair town."
"Pool creatures? You mean like when you find an opossum in your swimming pool?"
"No Lincoln, I'm talking about balls!"
"Commissioner!"
"Well it's true! Pool balls! Running around like they own the place. And if that weren't bad enough, there's gang warfare breaking out! The full colour balls are attacking the striped balls. They're knocking into each other and smacking themselves around town. The property damage is immense! You've got to do something, Lincoln!"
"And do something I shall. I'll be there momentarily. Lincoln out," Lincoln turned to the students. "Sorry young friends, but I'm afraid I'll have to finish my amusing cholera story another time. Duty calls. Lincoln away!"
Lincoln shot off into the sky, taking out most of the roof with him. The Professor of History tutted. "One of these days we'll have a guest speaker who doesn't cause large holes in the ceiling," he said, though little did he know he was very, very wrong.
Lincoln flew all the way to River City, where from the sky he surveyed the situation. It was just as the Commissioner had described. Coloured ball fought against striped ball for supremacy, with neither side caring who got caught in their wrath. Lampposts, smashed windows, litter bins...the entire town was in disarray, with people fleeing in terror from the rounded menaces. It was time to put an end to this game of pool.
Abe swooped down into the middle of the fracas. "Alright, listen up ball boys!" he shouted, grabbing the attention of the warring spheres. "This is your first and last warning. Get back to wherever it is you came from, and leave this town in peace."
"Or what?" asked the number 2 ball.
"Or I'll be forced to really knock you around the table," Lincoln cracked his knuckles.
The 13 ball laughed. "Get a load of the us on this guy!"
"Yeah, you bearded bigshot," sneered the 4 ball, as well as an object without a mouth can sneer. "You really think you can take us all on?"
"Come on, boys," said the 11 ball. "What do you say we team up and do to this guy what we did to Cue."
"Cue?" Lincoln raised an eyebrow.
"Yeah, good old Cue Ball," the 7 ball nodded, which just made it look like it was rolling up and down. "We got tired of him always smacking us around. So we 86'd him."
"We did?" asked the 8 and 6 balls.
"It's a figure of speech," 7 explained.
"Oh, good one," said 6 sycophantically, as he had always been afraid of 7.
"Well I say we do it again to this guy," ball 1 rolled from side to side in anger. "Bring it on, you top-hatted tool!"
"It's...a...stovepipe!" Lincoln exclaimed, angrily getting vengeance on the one who dared mock Stovey. He smacked the 1 ball right into the road, causing tarmac to fly into the air. Hmmm. It seemed he'd have to be more careful here. If he went round smacking these balls too hard, then he's be just as bad as the balls he was trying to stop. And if there's one thing Abe Lincoln stood for, it was not being a hypocrite.
Yet, as he was rammed in the back by the 3 and 11 balls, how was he to defend himself? The balls were designed to be knocked about, and there were no safe places to hit them into. He tried pulling punches, which seemed to work out. The balls only went back a little bit, minimising the damage caused. But it was going to take a long time to wear these boys down, and they had the numerical advantage.
"Lincoln, just keep them distracted a little longer," said the Commissioner from the signal watch. "We're setting up some nets around your immediate area. If you hit the balls into the nets, it should stop them from continuing."
"Alright Commissioner, whatever you say," Abe said, secretly doubting the wisdom of his friend's words.
"Hey, at least try to make it interesting, beardy," laughed the 15 ball, as Lincoln allowed himself to be beaten up. "Cue was harder to take out than you, and he was a pushover."
"Just keep laughing, ball," Abe frowned, giving him a light tap that was still enough to send him flying. "We'll see who laughs last."
"Nets are in position, Lincoln," said the Commissioner. Abe turned and noticed that 6 nets had been placed around the fighting balls, evenly spaced out in a nice rectangular formation. "Try smacking them into them!"
"Ok, old chum," Lincoln shrugged, and launched his Fist of Justice into the nearby 4 ball. Not expecting such a mighty attack, the ball was taken by surprise and flew at full speed into the net, where it shrunk back into an ordinary sized ball.
"Hey, we'd better step up our game!" said the 2 ball, as they now realised they no longer had the advantage. As one, they rushed Lincoln, hoping to smother him. It was fruitless though-our bearded crusader spun a mighty blow that blasted balls 3, 7 and 13 back into the nets, shrinking down to size. He was winning, but slowly. And the remaining balls were still getting in their punches.
"Lincoln, listen to me!" said the Commissioner. "Take on the 8 ball next!"
"Roger, Commissioner," said Lincoln, now having a lot more faith in his old friend's ideas. He charged straight into the 8 ball and carried him into the nearest net, causing it to return to its usual side.
"Oh...he got the 8 ball," said the 11 ball dejectedly.
The balls all looked at each other, then slowly walked towards the nets.
"Hey, what's wrong, balls?" asked Lincoln, confused. "Don't you want to fight any more?"
"What's the point, man?" replied the 14 ball. "You knocked out the 8 ball. Game over."
"Huh," said Lincoln, as the balls returned to their usual size. It made sense, in a way-if the 8 ball went in before the other balls, it was generally recognised as the end of the game, with the offending party losing. So in a way he'd actually lost just now, but in a way that helped him win. To lose was to win, and he who wins shall lose. It was too confusing to think about, so he stopped thinking about it.
"Nice work, Lincoln," said the Commissioner, catching up to Abe.
"I should be saying that to you old chum, only with your name instead of mine. How did you know about the nets and the 8 ball?"
"Well, I have to admit, I had a little help. Say hello to our informer, Cue Ball."
"Cue Ball?!" Lincoln gasped, as the large white ball presented himself. "But I thought you had been...you know..."
"Taken care of?" Cue Ball chuckled. "Any pool player knows that if you take the cue ball out, it reappears at the other end of the table. I bided my time, noticed your friend here and offered my assistance. Although I think I'd better join my brothers. They're not bad balls, really. They just like a good knockabout, that's all."
"Thank you again, Mr. Ball," Lincoln smiled, as Cue Ball jumped into a nearby net.
"Well Lincoln, another job well done," said the Commissioner, after ordering a WIPE agent to pick up the pieces of the pool game. "But what do you think turned these ordinary pool balls into large sentient ones?"
"I don't know, Commissioner. But I hope to find out."
Will Lincoln find out? Will this mystery be solved? I'm not saying! The only way you'll know for sure is to keep reading the Awesome Adventures of Abraham Lincoln. That, my friends, is how you build up a readership. Keep them guessing. Leave them wanting more. Hopefully don't leave them wanting a better story to follow, because otherwise you'd had it. I've not had it, have I? Stay tuned to find out!
"What's the emergency, Commissioner?" he asked.
"You may very well ask what the emergency is, Lincoln," replied the Commissioner. "I mean, this emergency is so bizarre, so off the wall, so incredibly offbeat that I barely know how to describe it."
"Well do try Commissioner, there's a good man," said Lincoln, picking up on how the locals spoke. And they do speak like that at Oxford. Don't even try to deny it, I won't listen.
"Well let me start by saying that I'm in River City, and we're experiencing something so incredibly unbelievable that I can't even believe it myself, despite the fact that I'm right here looking at it. To put it simply, we've got trouble."
"Trouble?"
"Yes, right here in River City. With a capital T, and that rhymes with P, and that stands for pool. Specifically, it stands for the dreaded pool creatures that are plaguing this fair town."
"Pool creatures? You mean like when you find an opossum in your swimming pool?"
"No Lincoln, I'm talking about balls!"
"Commissioner!"
"Well it's true! Pool balls! Running around like they own the place. And if that weren't bad enough, there's gang warfare breaking out! The full colour balls are attacking the striped balls. They're knocking into each other and smacking themselves around town. The property damage is immense! You've got to do something, Lincoln!"
"And do something I shall. I'll be there momentarily. Lincoln out," Lincoln turned to the students. "Sorry young friends, but I'm afraid I'll have to finish my amusing cholera story another time. Duty calls. Lincoln away!"
Lincoln shot off into the sky, taking out most of the roof with him. The Professor of History tutted. "One of these days we'll have a guest speaker who doesn't cause large holes in the ceiling," he said, though little did he know he was very, very wrong.
Lincoln flew all the way to River City, where from the sky he surveyed the situation. It was just as the Commissioner had described. Coloured ball fought against striped ball for supremacy, with neither side caring who got caught in their wrath. Lampposts, smashed windows, litter bins...the entire town was in disarray, with people fleeing in terror from the rounded menaces. It was time to put an end to this game of pool.
Abe swooped down into the middle of the fracas. "Alright, listen up ball boys!" he shouted, grabbing the attention of the warring spheres. "This is your first and last warning. Get back to wherever it is you came from, and leave this town in peace."
"Or what?" asked the number 2 ball.
"Or I'll be forced to really knock you around the table," Lincoln cracked his knuckles.
The 13 ball laughed. "Get a load of the us on this guy!"
"Yeah, you bearded bigshot," sneered the 4 ball, as well as an object without a mouth can sneer. "You really think you can take us all on?"
"Come on, boys," said the 11 ball. "What do you say we team up and do to this guy what we did to Cue."
"Cue?" Lincoln raised an eyebrow.
"Yeah, good old Cue Ball," the 7 ball nodded, which just made it look like it was rolling up and down. "We got tired of him always smacking us around. So we 86'd him."
"We did?" asked the 8 and 6 balls.
"It's a figure of speech," 7 explained.
"Oh, good one," said 6 sycophantically, as he had always been afraid of 7.
"Well I say we do it again to this guy," ball 1 rolled from side to side in anger. "Bring it on, you top-hatted tool!"
"It's...a...stovepipe!" Lincoln exclaimed, angrily getting vengeance on the one who dared mock Stovey. He smacked the 1 ball right into the road, causing tarmac to fly into the air. Hmmm. It seemed he'd have to be more careful here. If he went round smacking these balls too hard, then he's be just as bad as the balls he was trying to stop. And if there's one thing Abe Lincoln stood for, it was not being a hypocrite.
Yet, as he was rammed in the back by the 3 and 11 balls, how was he to defend himself? The balls were designed to be knocked about, and there were no safe places to hit them into. He tried pulling punches, which seemed to work out. The balls only went back a little bit, minimising the damage caused. But it was going to take a long time to wear these boys down, and they had the numerical advantage.
"Lincoln, just keep them distracted a little longer," said the Commissioner from the signal watch. "We're setting up some nets around your immediate area. If you hit the balls into the nets, it should stop them from continuing."
"Alright Commissioner, whatever you say," Abe said, secretly doubting the wisdom of his friend's words.
"Hey, at least try to make it interesting, beardy," laughed the 15 ball, as Lincoln allowed himself to be beaten up. "Cue was harder to take out than you, and he was a pushover."
"Just keep laughing, ball," Abe frowned, giving him a light tap that was still enough to send him flying. "We'll see who laughs last."
"Nets are in position, Lincoln," said the Commissioner. Abe turned and noticed that 6 nets had been placed around the fighting balls, evenly spaced out in a nice rectangular formation. "Try smacking them into them!"
"Ok, old chum," Lincoln shrugged, and launched his Fist of Justice into the nearby 4 ball. Not expecting such a mighty attack, the ball was taken by surprise and flew at full speed into the net, where it shrunk back into an ordinary sized ball.
"Hey, we'd better step up our game!" said the 2 ball, as they now realised they no longer had the advantage. As one, they rushed Lincoln, hoping to smother him. It was fruitless though-our bearded crusader spun a mighty blow that blasted balls 3, 7 and 13 back into the nets, shrinking down to size. He was winning, but slowly. And the remaining balls were still getting in their punches.
"Lincoln, listen to me!" said the Commissioner. "Take on the 8 ball next!"
"Roger, Commissioner," said Lincoln, now having a lot more faith in his old friend's ideas. He charged straight into the 8 ball and carried him into the nearest net, causing it to return to its usual side.
"Oh...he got the 8 ball," said the 11 ball dejectedly.
The balls all looked at each other, then slowly walked towards the nets.
"Hey, what's wrong, balls?" asked Lincoln, confused. "Don't you want to fight any more?"
"What's the point, man?" replied the 14 ball. "You knocked out the 8 ball. Game over."
"Huh," said Lincoln, as the balls returned to their usual size. It made sense, in a way-if the 8 ball went in before the other balls, it was generally recognised as the end of the game, with the offending party losing. So in a way he'd actually lost just now, but in a way that helped him win. To lose was to win, and he who wins shall lose. It was too confusing to think about, so he stopped thinking about it.
"Nice work, Lincoln," said the Commissioner, catching up to Abe.
"I should be saying that to you old chum, only with your name instead of mine. How did you know about the nets and the 8 ball?"
"Well, I have to admit, I had a little help. Say hello to our informer, Cue Ball."
"Cue Ball?!" Lincoln gasped, as the large white ball presented himself. "But I thought you had been...you know..."
"Taken care of?" Cue Ball chuckled. "Any pool player knows that if you take the cue ball out, it reappears at the other end of the table. I bided my time, noticed your friend here and offered my assistance. Although I think I'd better join my brothers. They're not bad balls, really. They just like a good knockabout, that's all."
"Thank you again, Mr. Ball," Lincoln smiled, as Cue Ball jumped into a nearby net.
"Well Lincoln, another job well done," said the Commissioner, after ordering a WIPE agent to pick up the pieces of the pool game. "But what do you think turned these ordinary pool balls into large sentient ones?"
"I don't know, Commissioner. But I hope to find out."
Will Lincoln find out? Will this mystery be solved? I'm not saying! The only way you'll know for sure is to keep reading the Awesome Adventures of Abraham Lincoln. That, my friends, is how you build up a readership. Keep them guessing. Leave them wanting more. Hopefully don't leave them wanting a better story to follow, because otherwise you'd had it. I've not had it, have I? Stay tuned to find out!
Friday, 9 March 2012
The Awesome Adventures of Abraham Lincoln-Outlaws of the Ocean, Part 7
Lincoln dived at the mechanical crab, placing his Fist of Justice right into its mandibles. I used to know a girl called Mandy Bulls. Perhaps they're related. The punch seemed to have little effect though-the crab smacked Lincoln aside with a swipe of its claw. Abe crashed into the seabed, rose, and went in for a second attack. This time the crab grabbed him between its claw, clamping down and squeezing our railsplitting protagonist. Lincoln struggled against it with all his might, but the claws were just too powerful.
"Can't debate your way outta dis one, eh Lincoln?" Aqua Pone sneered. "My buddy here's gonna make ya like chopped sardines!"
It was no use-Lincoln had been underwater a long time, and the pressures of the sea were taking effect on his body. The effort needed just to wade around in such depths was sapping his last reserves of strength. If he couldn't escape the robo-crab's grip soon, he would be split in twain. Wait...twain! That was it! He'd been reading up on American literature since his resurrection, and there might just be a valuable lesson from Tom Sawyer that he could use in this situation.
"Go ahead, Aqua Pone," Lincoln smiled. "Keep squeezing away. This is great fun!"
"Huh?" the crime boss was so confused that his cigarette fell from his mouth and floated upwards to the surface. "Whatta ya talking about, ya palooka? How's dat meant to be fun?"
"Well I tell you, it's powerful fun. This claw's perfectly aligned with the layout of my spine. I'm getting quite the chiropractic treatment. It's fantastic!"
"Is dat so?" Aqua Pone considered the situation. "Well den, maybe I'll just let ya go!"
"Oh no, I insist. Keep squeezing!" Lincoln tried not to show the abject pain running down his back.
"Oh no, I ain't gonna help ya out!" Aqua Pone pressed the button to release the crab's hold. Lincoln took this opportunity to lunge at the crime boss, tossing him away from the control panel. The mechanical crab flumped sadly to the ground as Aqua Pone landed face first into a nearby bank.
"Attempting a bank robbery at a time like this?" Lincoln quipped, grabbing the prone Pone by the legs. "Looks like 30 years in the slammer should cool you off."
Spinning the incapacitated gangster around by the legs, Lincoln waited until he was quite dizzy before letting go, tossing the crime boss into a conveniently located nearby prison. The fish police's handcuffs were slapped on Aqua Pone's wrist before he even had time to snarl.
"You win dis round, Lincoln!" shouted the fishy fiend as he was herded off to a cell. "But ya ain't heard da last a' me, ya hear? I still got my sub out dere somewhere, and you're gonna hear from me, you just wait and seeeeee!"
"Speaking of sea," said the judge, in a nifty segue. "The entire ocean has you to thank, Mr. Lincoln, for finally putting an end to that maritime menace."
"Happy to do my part, your honour," Lincoln nodded. "The authorities can take it from here. Now if you'll excuse me, I haven't actually taken in any oxygen in hours. I'd better get to surface before oxygen deprivation makes my giraffes pedal to the pamplemousse! Blinking subwaaaaaaaaay!"
Thankfully our hero managed to make it back to the surface before he suffered any real brain damage. It seemed that for Mama Lincoln's boy, it was better to be above water than below it. And even though he was fairly sure Aqua Pone would make some massive jailbreak and come back to haunt him with that deadly submarine plot that went nowhere, he would find Abraham Lincoln waiting for him with a steaming bowl of tartar sauce. And a nice red wine. Or white. Whichever went with fish.
"Can't debate your way outta dis one, eh Lincoln?" Aqua Pone sneered. "My buddy here's gonna make ya like chopped sardines!"
It was no use-Lincoln had been underwater a long time, and the pressures of the sea were taking effect on his body. The effort needed just to wade around in such depths was sapping his last reserves of strength. If he couldn't escape the robo-crab's grip soon, he would be split in twain. Wait...twain! That was it! He'd been reading up on American literature since his resurrection, and there might just be a valuable lesson from Tom Sawyer that he could use in this situation.
"Go ahead, Aqua Pone," Lincoln smiled. "Keep squeezing away. This is great fun!"
"Huh?" the crime boss was so confused that his cigarette fell from his mouth and floated upwards to the surface. "Whatta ya talking about, ya palooka? How's dat meant to be fun?"
"Well I tell you, it's powerful fun. This claw's perfectly aligned with the layout of my spine. I'm getting quite the chiropractic treatment. It's fantastic!"
"Is dat so?" Aqua Pone considered the situation. "Well den, maybe I'll just let ya go!"
"Oh no, I insist. Keep squeezing!" Lincoln tried not to show the abject pain running down his back.
"Oh no, I ain't gonna help ya out!" Aqua Pone pressed the button to release the crab's hold. Lincoln took this opportunity to lunge at the crime boss, tossing him away from the control panel. The mechanical crab flumped sadly to the ground as Aqua Pone landed face first into a nearby bank.
"Attempting a bank robbery at a time like this?" Lincoln quipped, grabbing the prone Pone by the legs. "Looks like 30 years in the slammer should cool you off."
Spinning the incapacitated gangster around by the legs, Lincoln waited until he was quite dizzy before letting go, tossing the crime boss into a conveniently located nearby prison. The fish police's handcuffs were slapped on Aqua Pone's wrist before he even had time to snarl.
"You win dis round, Lincoln!" shouted the fishy fiend as he was herded off to a cell. "But ya ain't heard da last a' me, ya hear? I still got my sub out dere somewhere, and you're gonna hear from me, you just wait and seeeeee!"
"Speaking of sea," said the judge, in a nifty segue. "The entire ocean has you to thank, Mr. Lincoln, for finally putting an end to that maritime menace."
"Happy to do my part, your honour," Lincoln nodded. "The authorities can take it from here. Now if you'll excuse me, I haven't actually taken in any oxygen in hours. I'd better get to surface before oxygen deprivation makes my giraffes pedal to the pamplemousse! Blinking subwaaaaaaaaay!"
Thankfully our hero managed to make it back to the surface before he suffered any real brain damage. It seemed that for Mama Lincoln's boy, it was better to be above water than below it. And even though he was fairly sure Aqua Pone would make some massive jailbreak and come back to haunt him with that deadly submarine plot that went nowhere, he would find Abraham Lincoln waiting for him with a steaming bowl of tartar sauce. And a nice red wine. Or white. Whichever went with fish.
Wednesday, 7 March 2012
The Awesome Adventures of Abraham Lincoln-Outlaws of the Ocean, Part 6
One of the many differences between the world under the sea and the world on dry land is that it's remarkably easy to set up a trial. And so it was only a few hours before the underwater trial of the century began. Quite honestly, Lincoln was a little upset by the quickness. He'd expected time to be able to put a case together, but since leaving Aqua Pone's office, he'd only been able to find a few documents that had been at the bottom of the bins outside the speakeasy. Not much to go on at the best of times, especially when he was up against a jury that he had a nasty feeling had been bribed. Something about 12 people all wearing fancy new diamond watches and necklaces always made him suspect foul play.
Still, judge and jury were sat ready and waiting, so all that remained was to make his opening statement. Time to turn on the old Lincoln charm.
"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I admit I'm just a simple country boy, not up on your fine city ways. And it's true, I'm more comfortable on the defence table than the prosecutor's. Heck, I wish I was there right now, given how stacked against me this case is. But I aim to do everything I can to show you fine people that the defendant, Mr. Pone there...well folks, he's just not a nice man. Just really a bad person. Gosh, the things he's done...but all I ask is that you hear me out, and keep an open mind, and don't let fear or nerves or fancy new jewellery sway your opinion. Thank you."
Given how little evidence he had to go on, his best hope was that he could charm the jury into pleading guilty because they felt sorry for the poor prosecutor. Lincoln took a quick look at the jurors as the defense attorney took his place. They did look a little sympathetic towards him.
"Ladies and gentleman of the jury," the attorney began. "I ask you one question, and one question only. Does my client look like the kind of guy who'd commit a crime?"
The jury murmured loudly that, of course, such a respectful businessman would never commit a crime, and he looked very honest indeed, and who has this human who came down here and started causing trouble?
"I rest my case," the attorney grinned, as Aqua Pone shot Lincoln with a vile sneer.
It was a fairly short trial, all in all. The defence saw no need to make any effort, no one had come forward to be a witness against the alleged notorious crime boss, and all Lincoln could really do was try and convince the jury that his stories were true. Even if they hadn't been bought off, he doubted they would have believed him. Without a single shred of evidence, he had no way of proving that anything he'd said wasn't just slander against a respectable business man. He'd even tried to bring up the speakeasy, but apparently that was perfectly legal in this subaquatic community.
"Well, it seems you don't really have a legal leg to stand on," said the judge, and harsh though he may be, Lincoln couldn't blame him. Even if he wasn't feeling woozy from not having a proper lungful of air for a while, there didn't seem to be any way to win this battle. Frantically, desperately, he rummaged through the documents he'd found in the bin. Maybe he could at least charge him with a misdemeanor of littering or something.
"What say you, Mr. Lincoln?" asked the judge, as Lincoln scoured through the forms. "Have you any closing remarks before I ask the jury to make their verdict?"
Abe looked at the papers as if for the first time. There it was. The answer had been there all along, in this rubbish.
"Just one, your honour," he smiled, holding up the documents. "I'd like to submit this evidence to the court. These are tax forms, your honour. Tax forms -that were meant to be filed this year. I found these tax forms in the waste container outside Mr. Pone's speakeasy. Your honour, I believe this proves that Mr. Pone has not paid his taxes this year."
"Yeah, so?" Aqua Pone chuckled. "No, I didn't pay my taxes. I never pay my taxes. I got half the government in my pocket, why should I pay any taxes? It's not a crime, is it?"
"Um, actually," the judge coughed. "It is indeed a crime, Mr. Pone. One that it seems you've just admitted to. So therefore, I'm afraid I don't have any choice but to...."
"Now hold your freakin' horses there, judgey!" Pone angrily rose to his webbed feet. "You're gonna try to convict me of tax evasion? After all the bad stuff I've done, all the rackets, the bootlegging, the bribing, the murderers, the ship sinking...you're gonna put me down for tax evasion? That ain't how it's going down, see? I ain't being put in jail because I didn't pay my stinking taxes!"
"Well, not now you're not," said the judge. "I mean, there's all those other crimes you just confessed to."
"Oh boo hoo hoo! Yeah, I'm a criminal, see? I'm the most notorious gangster in the seven seas, see? And I'm sick and tired of all this legal jazz now. I shoulda just done this in the first place."
He took out a mobile phone and dialled a number quickly.
"Alright boys, let 'er loose!" he called down the phone. "See ya, suckers!" he shouted as he ran from the courtroom.
"Stop that criminal!" shouted the judge after him.
"Don't worry your honour, I'm on the case!" cried Lincoln, charging after the fishy crime boss. Once he left the courtroom however, he was stunned to see Aqua Pone riding on the back of a giant mechanical crab.
"Surprised, Mr. Lawyer?" Pone screamed manically. "Let's see if ya can find a technicality to stop this beast!"
Well Lincoln fans, looks like Lincoln's swapped his legal battle for a physical battle. Which is probably for the best. That was the worst write up of a trial in history. Maybe that's why it's the trial of the century. Because it was so poor. Well, maybe the next one will be better. Besides, who wants legal issues when there are giant robot crabs to fight?! I think I know which one I'd prefer.
Monday, 5 March 2012
The Awesome Adventures of Abraham Lincoln-Outlaws of the Ocean, Part 5B
The three people who read this story blog, or stog, will be happy to know that my finger stopped bleeding and is now making a full recovery. What a crazy way to begin March, eh? Well, let's continue with the story. Last time, Lincoln had made a mistake. Let's get back to that.
"This is a toilet?" Lincoln took a look inside the room. Nothing but a row of urinals and toilet cubicles." If it was the office of an undersea crime lord, it was not very impressive. Unless that was just to throw him off the scent. Speaking of scent, ewww! Didn't these fish guys flush?
"Yes sir, this here's the finest kept terlet in all the seven seas," said the old fishman proudly. "I scrubs it up, I scrubs it down, I scrubs it side to side. You won't find a better terlet scrubber than I, no siree bob!"
Abe's cheeks went red with embarrassment. "I think I may have made quite a mistake here. You see, I thought this was where your boss was hanging out."
"In here?" the fish janitor pondered this. "Well, sometimes he's in here. 'Specially if he's had a little too much of the chilli special, if you get me."
"I'm afraid I do," Lincoln tried not to show his disgust.
"Why'd you think the boss'd be in here, anyway?" asked the old fishman. "You think he's some kinda toilet fiend?"
"No, not at all. I just--"
"'Cos I tell ya, I won't work for no toilet fiend."
"I'm sure you won't, it's just--"
"Any toilet fiends come in here, they get the other side of my plunger!"
"I'm not even sure what a toilet fiend is. I just assumed, with the iron door and all..."
The fish janitor laughed. "Oh my no, son. This here door's just for keeping in the smell. Lotta folks go for the chilli special, if you get me."
"Still do, sadly," Lincoln made a mental note never to try this chilli special. "Well, do you know where it is your boss is?"
"Why sure I do," the old fishman pointed to a fine mahogany door. "He'll be in his office, where he usually is."
"Thanks for your help," Lincoln stormed towards the office, slamming open the door. Slamming open a door is a very complex move, not like slamming a door shut, which is commonplace and not encouraged unless it's really called for. Like if your parents just don't understand you.
Inside the room, behind a desk also made of fine mahogany, sat the scarred fishman he'd seen earlier, fresh cigar hanging in his lips. At Lincoln's intrusion, he immediately got up and slammed his hands on the desk.
"Alright, alright, who's da woise guy?" he raised an eyebrow angrily. "Who thinks dey can just slam dere way inta my office all disrespectful like?"
"My name is Abraham Lincoln sir, and I'm here to place you under arrest for crimes against the shipping industry."
The fishman laughed. "Oh, dat is rich, dat is real rich pal! You think you can just waltz in here and arrest da most feared crime boss in all da oceans?"
"So, you are the crime boss that's been wrecking those ships," said Abe, a little relieved that he had the right fishman this time.
"Hey hey, not so fast dere," the crime boss raised his hands in protest. "Who said anything about me being a crime boss?"
"You did, just now!"
"It's your word against mine, buddy. I'm just a legitimate business man here. Pone's da name, Aqua Pone. And what can I do ya for, mac?"
"You can start by stopping your villainous plans to built your battle submarine, you underwater marauder!" Lincoln pointed a finger angrily.
"Listen da dis guy!" Aqua Pone laughed. "He wants me ta start by stopping! And stopping something I ain't even started! It's confusing over here!"
"Don't lie to me, Pone!" Lincoln slammed his own hands on the desk. "One of your flunkies spilled the beans on your little operation. The game, as they say, is up."
"Oh yeah, wise guy?" the fishy crime lord sneered. "Well, I think my boys may just have a few lead-lined words ta say about dat!"
On cue, Lincoln was surrounded by a school of gangster fish people, who began blasting him with their tommy guns. But if you think this little distraction was enough to put Lincoln off, then brother, you've been reading the wrong story! Our stove-pipe-hatted saviour made short work of those goons, and turned his attention back to the crime lord.
"And now you're coming with me, Pone!" he smiled triumphantly.
"Oh, look who thinks he's da king a da block!" Aqua Pone flicked cigar ash at him. "And what makes you think you're gonna put me away? You got anything incriminating?"
"How about the fact that your goons just tried to shoot me?"
"Circumstantial at best! Dey was just shooting at something behind ya, and you was too stupid to get outta da way! Now I ask again...ya got any incontrovertible evidence dat links me ta any crime? Ya got any proof dat I'm building a battle submarine dat will wipe da surface dwellers like you of da face of da Earth? Huh? Ya got proof? Anything that could make a conviction?"
"Well...I guess not," Lincoln admitted.
Aqua Pone laughed. "Then how ya gonna make anything stick, ya palooka? Ya really think your accusations would stand up in a court of law? I'd be back on the streets before ya's could say Jackie Robinson. Oh, or maybes you was thinking a' just putting me away without a trial! Ain't that more your thing, Mr. "I hates habeus corpus"?
You suspend the right to a fair trail during a period of war one time and they never let you forget it. "On the contrary, Mr. Pone. I'll see you get a fair trial before I drag you away to a cell at Seaworld. I'll even be the prosecuting attorney!" said Abe confidently. "I'm sure with all your criminal activities, there'll be a ton of evidence to support my claim, if I look for it."
"Oh, look who's da big comedian!" Aqua Pone blew cigar smoke in Lincoln's face. Underwater. It's best if you don't question the physics of it. "Alright, you're on Mr. Lincoln. Let's see if ya has da skills ta back up ya moxie. I'll see ya's in court."
Wow! Looks like we're on the precipice of the trial of the century! That's underwater. And involves fish people. And Lincoln. With all those qualifiers I can be confident I'll never be wrong. I'm sure we'll find out more about it next time, assuming another part of my body doesn't give out.
"This is a toilet?" Lincoln took a look inside the room. Nothing but a row of urinals and toilet cubicles." If it was the office of an undersea crime lord, it was not very impressive. Unless that was just to throw him off the scent. Speaking of scent, ewww! Didn't these fish guys flush?
"Yes sir, this here's the finest kept terlet in all the seven seas," said the old fishman proudly. "I scrubs it up, I scrubs it down, I scrubs it side to side. You won't find a better terlet scrubber than I, no siree bob!"
Abe's cheeks went red with embarrassment. "I think I may have made quite a mistake here. You see, I thought this was where your boss was hanging out."
"In here?" the fish janitor pondered this. "Well, sometimes he's in here. 'Specially if he's had a little too much of the chilli special, if you get me."
"I'm afraid I do," Lincoln tried not to show his disgust.
"Why'd you think the boss'd be in here, anyway?" asked the old fishman. "You think he's some kinda toilet fiend?"
"No, not at all. I just--"
"'Cos I tell ya, I won't work for no toilet fiend."
"I'm sure you won't, it's just--"
"Any toilet fiends come in here, they get the other side of my plunger!"
"I'm not even sure what a toilet fiend is. I just assumed, with the iron door and all..."
The fish janitor laughed. "Oh my no, son. This here door's just for keeping in the smell. Lotta folks go for the chilli special, if you get me."
"Still do, sadly," Lincoln made a mental note never to try this chilli special. "Well, do you know where it is your boss is?"
"Why sure I do," the old fishman pointed to a fine mahogany door. "He'll be in his office, where he usually is."
"Thanks for your help," Lincoln stormed towards the office, slamming open the door. Slamming open a door is a very complex move, not like slamming a door shut, which is commonplace and not encouraged unless it's really called for. Like if your parents just don't understand you.
Inside the room, behind a desk also made of fine mahogany, sat the scarred fishman he'd seen earlier, fresh cigar hanging in his lips. At Lincoln's intrusion, he immediately got up and slammed his hands on the desk.
"Alright, alright, who's da woise guy?" he raised an eyebrow angrily. "Who thinks dey can just slam dere way inta my office all disrespectful like?"
"My name is Abraham Lincoln sir, and I'm here to place you under arrest for crimes against the shipping industry."
The fishman laughed. "Oh, dat is rich, dat is real rich pal! You think you can just waltz in here and arrest da most feared crime boss in all da oceans?"
"So, you are the crime boss that's been wrecking those ships," said Abe, a little relieved that he had the right fishman this time.
"Hey hey, not so fast dere," the crime boss raised his hands in protest. "Who said anything about me being a crime boss?"
"You did, just now!"
"It's your word against mine, buddy. I'm just a legitimate business man here. Pone's da name, Aqua Pone. And what can I do ya for, mac?"
"You can start by stopping your villainous plans to built your battle submarine, you underwater marauder!" Lincoln pointed a finger angrily.
"Listen da dis guy!" Aqua Pone laughed. "He wants me ta start by stopping! And stopping something I ain't even started! It's confusing over here!"
"Don't lie to me, Pone!" Lincoln slammed his own hands on the desk. "One of your flunkies spilled the beans on your little operation. The game, as they say, is up."
"Oh yeah, wise guy?" the fishy crime lord sneered. "Well, I think my boys may just have a few lead-lined words ta say about dat!"
On cue, Lincoln was surrounded by a school of gangster fish people, who began blasting him with their tommy guns. But if you think this little distraction was enough to put Lincoln off, then brother, you've been reading the wrong story! Our stove-pipe-hatted saviour made short work of those goons, and turned his attention back to the crime lord.
"And now you're coming with me, Pone!" he smiled triumphantly.
"Oh, look who thinks he's da king a da block!" Aqua Pone flicked cigar ash at him. "And what makes you think you're gonna put me away? You got anything incriminating?"
"How about the fact that your goons just tried to shoot me?"
"Circumstantial at best! Dey was just shooting at something behind ya, and you was too stupid to get outta da way! Now I ask again...ya got any incontrovertible evidence dat links me ta any crime? Ya got any proof dat I'm building a battle submarine dat will wipe da surface dwellers like you of da face of da Earth? Huh? Ya got proof? Anything that could make a conviction?"
"Well...I guess not," Lincoln admitted.
Aqua Pone laughed. "Then how ya gonna make anything stick, ya palooka? Ya really think your accusations would stand up in a court of law? I'd be back on the streets before ya's could say Jackie Robinson. Oh, or maybes you was thinking a' just putting me away without a trial! Ain't that more your thing, Mr. "I hates habeus corpus"?
You suspend the right to a fair trail during a period of war one time and they never let you forget it. "On the contrary, Mr. Pone. I'll see you get a fair trial before I drag you away to a cell at Seaworld. I'll even be the prosecuting attorney!" said Abe confidently. "I'm sure with all your criminal activities, there'll be a ton of evidence to support my claim, if I look for it."
"Oh, look who's da big comedian!" Aqua Pone blew cigar smoke in Lincoln's face. Underwater. It's best if you don't question the physics of it. "Alright, you're on Mr. Lincoln. Let's see if ya has da skills ta back up ya moxie. I'll see ya's in court."
Wow! Looks like we're on the precipice of the trial of the century! That's underwater. And involves fish people. And Lincoln. With all those qualifiers I can be confident I'll never be wrong. I'm sure we'll find out more about it next time, assuming another part of my body doesn't give out.
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