Lincoln in Lisbon

The following is an excerpt from the forthcoming biography Senator Lincoln, by Falstaff G. Hockssley. As noted on the jacket, the book “documents the epic Senatorial tenure ofAmerica’s most significant slave-freeing president.”

Abe stepped off the boat at Lisbon, slipped the boatman a smooth ten-cent-piece for the speedy ride, and slid his shades out from his pocket and over his eyes. Little Johnny Wilkes hit the dock behind him, frantically shuffling pages of Abe’s poorly organized daily planner. Johnny hoped a raise might be in order after this trip; it was his keen eyeballs, after all, that spotted the June entry, 20-22, Lisbon, Portugal: Girls’ B.M.s, only three days earlier.

“Sir, what’s this about girls’ B.M.s in Lisbon this weekend?” Johnny Wilkes asked Senator Lincoln in his office after breakfast.

“B.M.s?” Abe asked. He didn’t remember anything about any B.M.s. “Let me see that…”

“Lisbon,Portugal, sir? I wasn’t aware you’d ever been out of the country, sir.” Abe ignored his assistant-boy, suddenly flooded with memories, regrets, and morning sickness.

“Goddamn! Is it time already? Has it already been twelve years?” He turned to the window, and gazed at the sky just in time to see some small birds flutter between the trees. “Pack my things, Johnny Wilkes – we’re going to Portugál.”

“Sir, I’m afraid I don’t understand,” he said as he pulled Abe’s battered favorite suitcase from the broom closet. “Isn’t this terrible timing, what with the Great Negro Silver War in full-swing and your campaign for President of These United States of America in the fast-approaching 1860 Presidential Election about to kick into high-gear!?”

Abe laughed and placed a balmy palm on his servant-boy’s shoulder. “M’boy, let the Negroes have their silver! We must tend to these sensitive matters immediately! Now put on those Big-Boy pants and let us get our moves on!” It was all Johnny Wilkes needed to hear.

How Rudolf Hess Solved The Great Fudge Crisis of 1944

We all knew by late 1944, had this feeling deep in our guts, that the war had taken a turn for the worse. We felt it when it happened – when the Allies cut our supply lines – but slowly it became common knowledge throughout the world. We all looked like fools and yet only the sharpest of us knew how bad it really was.

I entered the Führer’s chambers. He was standing, gazing dreamily at the glimmering rubble of beautiful Berlin. “Rudolf,” he said without turning, as if identifying me by my musk, “I fear we have reached the end. I don’t know that I can go on much longer.”

It broke my heart to hear him say this. “Adolf, my friend.” He turned. “We will be victorious. I promise you this. I would stake our friendship on it!”

“Rudy,” he laughed, “you needn’t make any promises to me. This war has made me old. Ragged. Tired…”

“Addy…”

The Lost Case Files of C. C. Columbus, P. I., Pt. 1

It is well-known that by 1493 Christopher Columbus had firmly established white-friendly settlements across the whole of the North American continent. This is, of course, evidenced by the prevalence of cities named Columbus, and the meager remaining population of Native American, or “Injun,” peoples. In an exciting turn, though, renowned archaeologist Samueel Frankenheimer Kross has unearthed documents proving that The Great Exploratorator immediately established a private detective agency – C. C. Columbus, P. I. – during that first year, deep in the seedy Nativeamericantown neighborhood of Hokpahnatawha, an Injun settlement located within what is now the legendary South Of The Border rest stop in South Carolina, U.S.A. Excerpted below is an excerpt from one of the recently exhumed case files.

November, 1492 – The Royal Jewel Thief

I returned home from following the duchess and found myself turning over again and again in my head the encounter with that Injun coachman. Could what he said have been true? And how can he possibly know ahead of time that it may rain simply by looking at some colored feathers? Such mysteries plagued me. I retired to my quarters that evening alone and unsatisfied, both intellectually and sexually.

Pelé’s Second Trip In the Trunk of A Moving Vehicle

This wasn’t the first time Pelé had found himself in the trunk of a moving vehicle, but it was surely the most precarious of circumstances. He had once managed to twist himself, with three young women, into the back of a jalopy with the intention of leaping out to surprise a new teammate, a sort of introduction to the grand life of an Brazilian footballer, but accidentally latched the trunk locking himself inside for nearly an hour with the three young women. After a multitude of “ I thought that was my leg” apologies, the team captain had finally found a locksmith to release, or interrupt Pelé and the ladies, depending on the view you want to take. Incidentally, the little gaffe in plans acted just as well an introduction as the original joke would have.

To Be A Man

“So Leo Szilard and Robert Oppenheimer are flying the Enola Gay across the Pacific.” Albert loved telling this story.

“Here we go again…” Hans muttered from the other side of the round blue Formica diner table. Dirtied white plates shuddered against it as he set his white coffee cup on a stained saucer with just a bit too much force.

“They’re soaring, real majestic-like over the ocean, in this enormous steel bird, carrying all the power of God Himself in the cargo bay.” He got excited as he told it, and looked at Robert as he said, “It was epic.”

What To Do In An Emergency

Last summer, President Lyndon “Basketballs” Johnson called me and said, “Jack, I’m gonna need you to find a gun for me.”

“But Lyndon, why?” I asked. “I don’t know anything about guns… What do you need it for?”

“It’s personal, Jack. Very personal. Hurry!”

I sped away to the nearest gunnery, just around the corner from the Capitol. I chose the Dirty Harry-style Magnum. It was cold and weighty in my hands. Would Lyndon be satisfied? I wondered. I brought it to him in a fancy cigar box, so as to not ruffle the feathers the monkey-suit-wearing 9-to-5 types that littered the bleak corridors of the White House.

“Yes, this’ll do,” he grumbled. He hesitated before shifting his baby blue eyes to face me. “We have a job to do tonight, Kennedy. We have to kill the President.”

Samuel Adams Recalls the Great Tornado of July 3rd, 1776.

It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. This sort of thing wasn’t even supposed to be able to happen in Philadelphia, but it did happen and, by God, I was there to see it.It was July 3^rd, and on that summer day, 1776, when Ben had us making last-minute revisions in that steaming shit-box they call the State House, Mozart’s new “Serenade No. 7” was being played by our very own Revolutionary Players Orchestra, at that very moment, Christ Church was hit, as was Mikveh Isreal Cemetery and the Merchants’ Exchange Building and the stables on Spruce, where all the horses were turned loose. It’s all true, how I saw an ink quill get driven through an oak tree and all the homes out at Quince Street get blown away like leaves in the gutter. A wares peddler got lifted off his horse and was laid down atop the American Philosophical Society. Richard Henry Lee had his brains smashed out on the side of a table during a chess match, while his brother, Francis Lightfoot Lee—right across from him—suffered unspeakable calmness.