All but one of the doctors packed up and left.
“He can still be saved,” said the last doctor.
“He’s dead,” said Robert. “There’s no way to cure death.”
“Is there?” asked the doctor.
He opened his case and pulled out an array of odd crystals, setting them around the dead president.
Who remained dead.
“Sorry,” said the doctor. He gathered up his crystals and left.
Robert shrugged. “Dad always said: ‘The only person who is a worse liar than a faith healer is his patient.'”
“Fine by me,” said Mary Todd. “As long as we don’t pay his bill.”
The doctors hauled Abe’s gangly frame out of the theater and across the street.
The bed was too short, so they laid him upon it at an angle.
Mary Todd was a wreck. Not only was her husband mortally wounded, but the theater owner refused to give a refund.
Abe’s son Robert pondered the situation: “Surely, God would not have created such a being as man, with an ability to grasp the infinite, to exist only for a day! No, man was made for immortality!”
Abe wheezed, sighed, and breathed no more.
The President was dead.
“Never mind,” said Robert.
“What was that loud noise?” was Abraham’s second-to-last thought.
Abe slumped forward and moaned. Booth shouted “Sic Semper Tyrannis!’ and leapt to the stage.
Abe heard the ugly crack of Booth’s ankle breaking. As a testament to Abe’s overflowing compassion, he felt badly for the man who would have to walk on such a leg.
His left eye saw nothing but blood. His one remaining eye opened and spotted the gun in Booth’s hand.
He’d been… shot?
“I guess the bullet is stronger than the ballot after all” was his final thought, and then…
The audience demanded an encore.
Abe tried to watch the play. The war was coming to a close, and here he was trying to enjoy himself, but his assistants kept interrupting him.
“How can I enjoy the play if you keep interrupting me,” he growled. “I have no idea what’s going on. None at all, assholes!”
Mary Todd wasn’t even going to handjob him tonight. Wasn’t that the point of having the “high box” at Ford’s. People paid extra just for that secret little thrill in public.
Another knock at the door.
He moaned. “I need this like I need a hole in the head.”
Congress, in its infinite wisdom, offered to grant royal powers to Lincoln.
The exhausted president refused them.
“If all earthly power were given to me,” he muttered, “I should not know what to do.”
That evening, he watched as a meteorite streaked across the sky and landed at his feet.
“What have we here?”
In his hands, the glowing green rock pulsed.
Abe smiled as the energy flowed through his body, but his smile quickly faded.
“I still don’t know what to do,” he muttered, sitting down on the back porch.
He went to bed and slept for a week.
Mary Todd was going crazy, but the analyst was curious as to the source of her husband’s misery.
Abe shrugged off all offers to get him on the couch and work out his issues.
“Perhaps it is something in your childhood?” said the doctor.
Abe laughed. “It is a great piece of folly to attempt to make anything out of my early life,” he said.
When the doctor left, Abe took out his flask of Zook’s “Crazy No More” Tonic.
“This is the only doctor I need,” he said, patting the flask and heading back to his office.
Cows, everywhere cows!
Lincoln couldn’t believe the sheer number of cows roaming through the streets of Washington.
Going forth like swarms of Egyptian locusts, devouring every blade of grass and other green thing.
“Where did all these cows come from?” he asked, but nobody had an answer.
As always, Abe came up with a solution. He commanded the city to hold a carnival and a massive barbecue.
Under his direction, the cows were caught, slaughtered, butchered into steaks, and cooked in the remnants of the public parks.
A good time was had by all.
Except for the cows, of course.