Abe had his back to the wall, surrounded by an angry mob of generals.
“Okay, so maybe I shouldn’t have said all that about you,” said Lincoln. “After all, you can always make horses, too. You just put a Mommy horse and a Daddy horse together and-”
They dragged him to the White House Hanging Tree. The generals threw the rope over a branch, tied the other end around his neck, and put him on the back of an old nag.
“GIDDYAP!” shouted General Grant, slapping the horse on the ass.
The horse ignored Grant, turned to Abe, and winked.
The preacher shouted hellfire upon the congregation, waving his arms like a madman. He kept a stack of bibles by his pulpit, and he’d throw them at exhausted parishioners.
Twenty feet above, Abraham clung to the rafters.
He’d staked out this church for weeks, testing his drops and marking spots with chalk.
Wait for it… wait for it…
The rafter creaked under his weight. The hive slipped from his grasp and fell on the choir director.
Oh well, he thought. When I hear a choir play, I like to see them act as if they were fighting bees, too.
“My home is a what?” yelled General Lee.
“A cemetery, sir,” said the messenger.
“This means war!” shouted Lee. He then looked in the mirror.
“Wait. Hold on. I’m already at war. Damn you, Lincoln!”
Lee sent a squadron of Confederate spies to the backwoods of Kentucky. They found the log cabin, and Lee had it rendered into toothpicks.
“Excellent party, Miss Scarlett,” said Rhett Butler. “These cocktail weenies are most excellent.”
“It’s the quality toothpick spears that make them good,” said Scarlett O’Hara. “Lincoln’s finest.”
Both laughed until they smelled the smoke.
Sure enough, General Sherman crashed the party.
“If I were two-faced, would I be wearing this one?” asked Abraham.
The crowd laughed, and Abraham took the opportunity to scurry back to his private quarters.
“Let me out!” shouted a familiar voice from the desk drawer. “Let me out of here, you ugly bastard!”
“Never!” shouted Abraham back. “I will not unleash your evil upon the world ever again!”
“Evil?” said the voice. “But isn’t war always a bad thing? Sure, millions must remain slaves to avoid confrontation, mind you…”
Later that night, Abe encased his beautiful face in concrete and sunk it in the White House well.
“Four score and seven years ago,” mumbled Abraham.
“Ago… or… from now?” he said.
What would the World of 1950 be like?
He imagined railroads everywhere, coal-fired behemoths racing fast as a gazelles from town to town. Massive steamboats plying the ocean waters. Maybe hot-air balloons for every man, woman, and child to float around, narrowly grazing the world-wide web of telegraph wires.
And chess machines! Turkish dwarves stuffed in simulacra to play at any time!
Abe liked the World of 1950.
Too bad that he had to kick some more ass in 1863 to make it happen.
Abraham rubbed the ointment on his thighs and calves for a week. Soon, he was his old, tall self again.
But not for long.
The trouble started when he began grazing a few chandeliers. Then, he’d bump his head on archways.
Finally, he had to duck to keep from braining himself on the ceiling.
“I have exchanged one Hell for another!” shouted Abraham on his high, stilt-like legs. “This is agony!”
“Yes, but they reach the ground now, right?” said Mary Todd.
Abraham sighed. At least he could scrape the butter-pats off of the ceiling that Tad kept flicking there
Abraham looked down and winced.
His legs dangled from the chair. He kicked and swung them, but they never reached the floor.
Abraham bit his fist and cried silently, his face a twisted mask of agony.
“Abraham!” yelled Mary Todd. “Come down here this instant!”
“My legs are not long enough to reach the ground!” yelled Abraham. “Nobody must see me this way! Tell the generals to all go home!”
“Abraham!” she shouted. “Oh, my sweet darling Abraham!”
He cried loudly, whimpering.
Mary Todd cried, too. She’d give every penny she had to see her Abraham’s bright, shining face again.