Abraham Lincoln woke up. He had had that dream again. The one where he is shot in the head by that squid with the giant breasts. One minute he’s looking at some slippery slimy cleavage, thinking about sticking his flesh-pistol in there and then the next minute BAM his brains are splattered all over a theatre balcony.
He was glad the dream was over. He got out of bed, making sure not to disturb his wife. She was a light sleeper. She was down to eighty pounds and blind. She was gradually turning into a mole. Lincoln was convinced that it was those goddamn confederates who were behind it. Was nothing sacred to them? It was his WIFE, goddamnit!
Lincoln walked to the corner of the room and looked down into his spittoon to make sure that his birthday cake was still there. It was. A soft and sugary rectangle covered in gooey phlegm provided by the Chinese prostitutes he hired. He’d eat it later.
He went downstairs, careful not to disturb his kittens who were busy playing poker. Those bastards were always gambling. And now they had taken up smoking pipes, too.
In the kitchen Lincoln made himself some breakfast: two hairy eggs and a glass of donkey milk. Shit, that stuff was good.
He was too busy chewing loudly so he didn’t hear me sneak up on him. I put the pistol to his head and then whispered, “This is for John, you bastard!” and then BAM-BAM-BAM. A bunch of presidential rice-krispie treats splattered across the kitchen.
His wife ran down the stairs but instead of attacking me, she ran outside and dug into the ground. She had a nice ass for a mole. I’d like to stick my flesh-pistol in there, I thought. Why not?
I walked up to her and said, “Sic semper tyrannis.”
She stuck her ass up out of the hole and said, “Where’s the beef?”
I stuck my manhood inside her, answering her question with a forceful thrust. God bless America.