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SKILORD
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Live free or Die
Mar 2002
time: 05:32
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Elizabeth’s fist wavered over the door and pulled away, she paced back and forth, peering at the expensive wood of the door.
A voice came from nowhere, “What is it, dear madam?”
She was startled, “Just…. Needed to talk to chairman Lincoln.”
“He’ll see you shortly, please come inside.”
“Damn cameras,” Elizabeth cursed under her breath, Lincoln had become omnipresent through the cameras, but for sake of her safety, she felt them justified.
She sat in the waiting room of the office, Lincoln had begun spending more and more time here than in the White House, in the old days she would have had to drive all the way down to Pennsylvania Avenue to meet him, Elizabeth had shunned driving lately, always afraid that a mark of red would betray her.
“He will see you now,” the receptionist shared a smile with her. A dark toned Zulu walked out from the office, smiling broadly and shaking hands enthusiastically with Lincoln.
As he left Lincoln smiled to her, indicating his office and explaining, “I was granted veto powers over the delegations, the Zulu had just sent Shikur for approval, sorry for the wait."
“No, its nothing,” she waved him off feebly.
“You look rather pale, is it too cold in my waiting room?” he pulled his chair up to his desk, seating himself.
“No, that’s fine, but it is this that I need to talk to you about.”
Lincoln nodded reassuringly, “You can tell me anything that’s bothering you.”
Elizabeth nodded and smiled as any inferior would, “Yesterday morning…”
She stuttered unintelligibly for a moment, Lincoln smiled, “Yes dear?”
“I’ve killed a man.”
Lincoln frowns back at her, “Who was it, that you feel you’ve killed?”
Her own frown entrenched itself even deeper as her eyes darted across the room to make sure that she couldn’t see any cameras, “Mandu. He was lying in the middle of the parking lot and I ran over him and disposed of the body.”
Lincoln frowned even further, with a sigh he began, “You know, I should probably have you arrested.”
Elizabeth nodded furiously, weeping.
“But I like you Elizabeth, I always have.”
The nodding continued, hopeful, “I needed someone to confide in and I just knew you were the man to do it. Is there anything I can do in return, sir? You have no idea how much you’ve lifted off of my shoulders.”
Lincoln smiled benignly at her and slid across the table a sheet of paper, “Write down the codes for the British Warheads.”
Elizabeth shook her head in confusion, “The band?’
Lincoln smiled, “The warheads, Elizabeth.”
Her face assumed a look of utter disbelief, “I can’t do that what of the…”
“Elizabeth, unless you want to live out your days in chains you can’t afford not to,” he leaned in, breathing aggressively across the table, “The American justice system can be terribly cruel, there are some rather harsh prisons.”
“You… You wouldn’t!”
“Why not? I’m not the father figure I’ve become.”
“You can’t prove anything! I’ll deny all of this!”
Lincoln smiled, “I’m sure that there is parking video to help prove whatever you’ve said.”
Elizabeth’s eyes loss in that moment all luster, surrendering to the dark reality that she realized she had confined herself to. She picked up a pen and began to write.
“I’ll be checking those, you know.”
She shot her eyes up at him, marked out some numbers and began again, Lincoln smiled.
“By the way,” he earned another glare, “What did you do with the body?”
-
“This is channel seven news at the morgue, where the body peeled off of the street last week has been identified as none other than missing Prime Minister Mandu, allegedly of the Zulu nation. After much DNA testing it was ascertained that this was indeed the Prime Minister, isn’t that right Doctor?”
Doctor Zeinblin, who was in fact not a doctor but rather a con man posing as a doctor while he worked his way to Detroit smiled and turned around from the body.
“Vell, joo zee,” his accent was outlandish and he hid a grin as he realized that the people were buying everything, even his poorly faked white moustache that didn’t even match the color of the rest of his hair, “Zee man in qvestion, he vas playing in traffic at zee thyme…”
“What?” the newswoman shook her head in disbelief.
“Vell, despite our research vee have yet to determine vat he vas playing, some theorize perhapz a game of pin zee tail on zee donkee vhile ozzers belive is to be some form of vall-ball… err wall ball.”
“This makes no sense, can you be certain that he was playing in the street, this wasn’t some mafia hit or something?”
“Vell, upon finding a bullet in his skull some zeeorized zat, but you zee, vee have every reason to believe that the bullet vas simply carelessly plazed and fell into zee wreckage.”
“What?”
“Jes, joo heard, properly, childerens, let ziss be a varning to yoo all, do not be playing in zee streets.”
“But this makes no…”
-
Temujin lay sprawledc across the bar, sipping on the finest vodka he could bear to waste, he was too drunk to taste any of it anyway, “Barkeep,” he lifted his hand in the signal that he had long ago established in the bar.
The bar in question was composed generally of ivory, with a finely set mahogany top that had never been intended to meet the alcohol it would hold, despite this there wa even now fermented fruit of potato seeping mightily across the bar.
Another bottle found it’s way across the bar.
“Hard day?”
Temujin had intended for no companion, yet it was only with a muffled shock that he appraised the man, easily six feet tall And yet slim in build, his dark hair drooping sloppily across his forehead, “Yeah, none of yer business. This is big boy stuff.”
Though obviously taken aback, the other man forced his hand out,. “Senator McDowle of the United States Senate, you are Temujin of the Mongols unless I am mistaken.”
“Yeah,” Temujin’s half shut eyes appraised the man, seeking for fear, finding none, but then again he was drunk.
“Is it Lincoln?”
Temujin bolted aright, dropping his new bottle of vodka and lifting his hand again at the bartender, “How do you…”
McDowle smiled knowingly, “What has a man to do but listen to know?”
“Listen to what?”
“Your drunken ramblings,” McDowle contorted his body into a semblance of Temujin, “He’s got all the power, things used to be different, he’s murdering us off, its all my fault.”
Temujin pulled himself off of the bar, nearly sitting by his own power, “When did I say that?”
“Not three minutes ago, everyone else left because of your ramblings, but you need to be freed, not shunned. I have a proposition for you.”
“What?”
“Would you like to get Lincoln out of the way?”
From across the bar James Smiley, professional bartender and part time revolutionary smiled.
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SKILORD
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Live free or Die
Mar 2002
time: 05:32
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Bullets sang a dissonant harmony as they embedded themselves irrevocably into the walls. Repairmen might cover over the wounds of plaster, but the scars would forever be there, a constant reminder of this blood soaked Tuesday.
Abraham Lincoln pulled a drawer out from his desk, lifting a small revolver from it. The cruel musicians behind his door played their rifles, carefully wounding all of the staff, Lincoln stood lifting the virgin pistol in front of him.
The door swung open and a gun was leveled to him.
-
Temujin sat across from McDowle, looking to his watch.
“It’s about the time.”
Duncan smiled, “Indeed.”
He lifted a small radio to the table, flipping the button with his thumb.
“There have been gunshots within the White House, we are confirmed the Secret Servicemen have entered the building and to all appearances they are having some sort of shoot out with an unnamed terror cell.
They exchanged a cold smile as the panicked voice proceeded from the radio, “We have, at this point no recourse but to believe that President Lincoln is dead, our view of his office, before the reporters were removed from the lawn, showed it to be blood soaked, there is no hope for him even if he did escape his office.”
Rifle fire continued to dominate the background, and the reporter let out a last gasp of air, the station dissipating to static.
Temukin picked up his glass and lifted it in a toast, “The king is dead.”
“Long live the King.”
-
The other man was slumped in the corner, dead. His blood was streaked down the wall of Lincoln’s office. Lincoln was crouched behind his desk, a bullet lodged in his arm, weeping. He would glance in a sort of horror at the body, weeping again and again.
There were only two people in the world who would have done it, he realized, only two who knew him to be so dark and cruel. He would have revenge, he picked up his laptop from where it had fallen on the floor, navigating himself to the British government’s website, winding his way to the head of states center, inputting into the computer a code that only one other person knew.
The he picked up is phone.
-
Mao’s golf ball swam through the sky, a drive that, for once, might not require the assistance of attendants to appear magnificent. Mao smiled, for life was good.
He looked back to the clubhouse, where women and liquor awaited his lusts and thirsts and he was content.
That was when the explosion rocked the city.
-
The MI-6 agent at her side paused for a moment, “Excuse me ‘mam.”
Elizabeth cursed under her breath, quite upset at the lack of respect that the agent provided. He had been with her for months now, never once had he indicated that it was he who was the escort and not vice versa.
He stepped off to the side, lifting his cell phone to his ear, he was silent, nodding.
“Yes, sir.”
And his pistol was pointed in a direction that MI-6 had never intended.
-
Abraham Lincoln stepped onto the front porch, leaning onto the famous marble supports. His suit was covered in blood. He looked out to the sea of reporters and panicked supporters.
Abraham Lincoln looked to the heavens, alive.
-
Temujin was having an exceptional day, as he walked to the United Nations building. The meeting that day was not mandatory, many of the representatives were sure to be absent, and yet Temujin was excited about the new possibilities that the building held.
Temujin opened the door and walked inside past the receptionist, greeting her with a smile.
He opened the immense doors to the meeting chamber.
“Hello, Temujin,” Chairman Lincoln, soaked in blood, smiled savagely from behind the podium, his arm hung in a sling.
-
James Smiley frowned, “Of all the dictators to die, none of them have been ours.”
“Elizabeth and Mao both dead today, both nations blame the other, Lincoln survived a shootout and was well enough yet to attend the evening session of the united Nations. He’s too damn resilient.”
“Yeah, Duncan, too damn resilient. We need something stronger, surer.”
“No point in it right now. That man’ll be harder to get to than anyone. There’s no point to it, he’s indefatigable.”
Smiley nodded, “Yes, we’ll have to lie low now, he’s too strong and he’s probably angry.”
“You think he suspects that it’s us?” Duncan achieved a look of panic.
“I don’t know, alright, I don’t f***ing know,” Smiley lit up a cigarette and cradled it gently on his lips.
“Who else would do it?”
-
Abraham Lincoln sat alone in his chair, long after the meeting was called to a close, Temujin had been alone and rather jumpy, considering the situation he was entirely justified.
Lincoln had been justified in that murder too.
Just a click, and he was dead.
Lincoln had been justified in the murder, if not in any other, he had been defending himself.
The man had come in with his Rifle, aimed it. In his panic Lincoln had fired, the man’s chest exploded onto the wall behind him in a sickening internal portrait. He had slumped back, looking in the final moment of his life at his wound, he had shot Lincoln as he was shot, but he knew that the president wouldn’t die and he submitted.
Lincoln had been defending himself, and so he assured himself so many times.
The moon thrust itself against the night in it’s bold arc, and Abraham Lincoln sat in it’s pale glow, far beneath it, pondering how he justified his life.
Last edited by SKILORD on 22-01-2004 at 07:06
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SKILORD
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Live free or Die
Mar 2002
time: 05:32
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The phone was ringing.
It was a dull, insistent ring that pulled Temujin to his side from his slumber and which dragged his arm to the handset.
“Hello.”
“When you kill a man… that never goes away,” the tone was melancholy, depressed.
“What?’ Temujin looked, dazed, into the handset.
“But that doesn’t bother me, I’ve killed lots of men.”
Temujin was silent, curious.
“What kills me is that noone respects me, never has. I thought you loved me, I thought I was revered. I was wrong. What’s wrong with me?”
“I… I don’t know… Lincoln is this you?”
The telephone hung silent for a moment, darkness came from every angle.
“Lincoln?”
“Don’t worry Temujin, this time it wasn’t you.”
The handset reverted to its dialtone.
-
“Chinese paratroopers have seized towns deep into the British Empire, Prime Minister Winston Churchill promises that we shall ‘fight on the plains, in the hills, and on the waves,’ that we will, ‘defend our land at any cost’ and that ‘defeat can be achieved only through surrender.’ British RAF have begun scrapping with the bombers over London, the scene is grim, but perseverance, with any fortune, shall prove our victory in the end.”
The reporter, poised before the rabble of buildings in what had once been York, but was now little more than a shelter for the few frightened souls who wandered the ruins waited until the camera was pointed away from her to weep. Britain lay about her.
“Never give up,” the cameraman wore a frightened smile, “Never surrender.”
The bombers overhead dropped ominous cargo.
-
Lincoln put in the code one last time, he had started the war, he would help the victims of his madness.
He cursed himself as he promised the death of millions more, to help balance out his own actions.
He was not God, he knew this, he had no right to play with these men’s lives.
He pushed the ‘Enter’ button.
-
China lay wasted by the nuclear fire, crops and troops were burnt. Supply lines weren’t provided to the troops inside Britain because, to be honest, there were no supplies.
The dead were a countless legion, the dying alone could match their number.
A shattered bell tolled in the remains of Beijing.
-
“Sic… semper… tyrranis,” the cool gun was pressed against his temple.
Just one more death, he promised himself, then hell would be a luxury.
-
Eight Months Later
“I, Duncan McDowle, do solemnly swear,” the bible was cool and smooth beneath his hand.
“That I will faithfully execute the office,” Smiley stood behind him, grinning uncontrollably, elections for President without revolution, who would have imagined.
“Of President of the United States, and will, to the best of my ability, preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution,” A real constitution, not the flimsy paper that had never bound Lincoln.
“Of the United States.”
The crowd did not bother to restrain itself, no moderation was evident in the wildly screaming men in business suits and ties of the House and Senate.
Duncan McDowle, President of the United States of America; the most powerful nation left on the Earth, smiled to the crowd.
He stepped fully onto the podium, smiling wildly and saluting.
”My fellow Americans,” the crowd began to cool itself, cameras swiveled quickly to bear fully on the podium, “It has been a long year.
“There was once a popular phrase, a promise, if you will that even the Tyrant Lincoln was fond of quoting, ‘America shall Rise again.’ I can promise you my friends that it has, at long last, done so.
“It is odd to salute such a poorly colored past as ours, but I must tip my hat to you Lincoln, for in your ashes we found our root. Lincoln, it was recently discovered, caused the war between China and Britain that soon came to entangle Russia, the Iroquois, and the myriad other nations of the Earth, but America, too occupied with putting itself in order in the wake of Lincoln’s suicide, would not be burdened by such petty grievances.
“So Lincoln brought us, alone, unscathed through the fire and so I salute this man, whom I hated as did any of you who ever met a policeman at three in the morning.”
A respectful applause followed, but only because Duncan deserved it, not for the man whom he praised.
“But I come to bury Lincoln, not to praise him. Britannia and her allies may call themselves victors of the war, but they depend on America for all production. Once proud Britain has been reduced to despotism in a renamed wasteland. China’s once mighty populous lies dead, strewn about a million fields. Russia is not a nation to speak of, rather a number of warlords and generals who claim some small allegiance to the ever weakening Tsarina as she dies the slow death of radiation poisoning. The Iroquois have been wiped from the Earth. America alone stands tall.
“So I make this offer to our brothers across the world, give us your poor, give us your hungry, give us your huddled masses. We shall tend the flock of humanity while you learn again to walk.”
President McDowle smiled and stepped back off the stage, leaving the cameras to focus once more on the cheering crowd.
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Apolyton Time is 00:32. |
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15-12-2003 14:35
sorry I have'nt got around to reading this untill now but Ive been very busy.
Ok so this post is a tad cheeky... 
please note that executions are at 3pm here in Sydney, 
which would be one way to deal with me.... 
as you may be aware 
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