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Suddenly, Sir Abram Lincoln builds a log cabin and packs all his independent contractors plus his wife Mary onto a Giant Ark headed for Africa. Then he takes a cab to the Princess Movie Theater.
Abe does not lower himself by purchasing a tub of buttered popcorn and a “jumbo sodie-pop”: NO! Abe sits in front of a short person and leaves on his top-hat.
The film begins. It is a good film. (Believe me, I’ve watched it.)
Then my toddler nephew Frank Booth Ray stands up and shoots his revolver at Abraham Lincoln. He empties the cylinder. All the bullets are flying around the room, whizzing and ricocheting, making noises that sound like “Zing!” “Zam!” “Whoosh!” and “Kabam!” (This is an audio effect that I love to exploit; I can’t get enough of it: that’s why I use it so frequently in my mature storytelling.)
Now I Bryan the Suicide Line Operator dash into the crowded movie-theater and yell “Fire!”
Nobody moves.
Then I try crying “Wolf!” and, to my surprise, all the sheeple stand up and leave in single-file, orderly lines. — All, that is, except for Honest Abe.
My cowboy boots click loudly (not unlike tap-dancing shoes) as I pace very slowly and measuredly down the extra-long aisle and take a seat next to Abe. I remove his top-hat from his head and set it upon my own head, as if it’s the U.S. crown and I’m the King of New America. — I then strip his fake beard off and affix it to my own clean-shaven visage.
Abe nods to me. His eyes are brimming with tears. Then he stands and passes solemnly down the lane at the side of the movie theater, with the great cloud darkening the room (for this was back in the future where smoking turned legal again and everyone was constantly puffing in public places), past the pomp of the inloop’d flags with the ushers of the theater draped in black.
And when Abe reaches the lobby of the Princess Theater, as his tall form slowly looms forth, one of the most compassionate ushers places a sprig of lilac into Abe’s lapel as a boutonnière.
Alright; now that Abe has left the building, I give the signal, and the bullets that were meant for him recommence whizz-banging around until they hit me. Every one of them lodges into my heart, and I die in place of Abe — I am therefore the nation’s fresh savior.
So everybody drinks my blood, and then I go back to work. And the first call I get is from the guy whose life I saved.
“Hi, this is Abram. Remember me? From last night? At the theater?”
“Of course I remember you,” I say, flipping fast thru the pages of my miniature detective’s notebook where I keep a record of each day’s occurrences… Soon, I find the entry that deals with this “Father Abraham” fellow, and I say: “yes, of course, I recall our time together — how could I forget? — it’s as firmly imprinted upon my memory as if it happened yesterevening. How are you feeling? Did you eat steak tartare for breakfast, like I advised? With the raw egg topping?”
Honest Abe’s voice sounds noncommittal: “Yes, I did all those things that you said. But the reason for my call is that I wanted to thank you for being my scapegoat.”
“Abe, I would do anything for you,” I say, sincerely; “I’m just glad that you didn’t get murdered, and that you’re still the nation’s president. Now if you will kindly follow thru on your half of the deal and just establish an improved constitution that serves the People as well as Big Money, I’ll never regret expending my life to save your hide. Besides, there’s more where that came from. — You’re a railroad lawyer, right?”
“We’re on the telephone, Bryan,” Abe reminds me; “it’s an auditory medium: I cannot see you winking.”
I therefore nod and huff, in self-satisfied fashion.
Now the phone rings. “Abe, sorry, but I gotta let you go — the phone is ringing. Remember, I work at the Suicide Line: this could be important.”
“How can the phone be ringing when I’m talking to you on the phone?” Abe reasons slavishly.
“I got two lines now,” I trump Abe’s logic. “They bought me a second line after I rescued the hero of our nation and became a bigger hero than that old worn-out hero.”
Abe shakes his head and thinks “Fuck off,” but doesn’t say it — instead, he hangs up on me, rudely, and returns to running our Great Nation into the ground.
“Hello!” I say into BOTH of the receivers. I have an earpiece in each ear now, and twin mouthpieces at my jaw, from the dual telephone-handsets; for business is booming, because everyone is suicidal, and they’re all calling me either to hear me advise them to DO IT or else to employ the pull-out method. “My name is Bryan and you’ve reached the Suicide Line, how can I help you?”
What follows is a cacophony of information that’s impossible to understand, because both of the frantic voices speaking from all two phones are blabbing into either of my sensitive ears at exactly the same time; but I’ll present each conversation as if it happened on its own, and I’ll sort out all the words and make everything clear and correct, in memory of this here departed novel:
“Hello, Killer Bryan, this is your biggest fan: Clive Staples. I’m thinking of…”
“DO IT,” I say, “THIS INSTANT — THERE’S NO TIME TO WASTE!”
So Clive Staples Lewis kills himself before writing Mere Christianity.
Next call:
“Hi, this is Allen Dulles, former Director of Central Intelligence—”
“Yes, I know who you are,” I say; “what seems to be the problem?”
“Well, the new U.S. president JFK keeps trailing me around my office desk and trying to kill me, but he’s a very leisurely shot, so none of the slow-moving bullets have hit me yet; howbeit, I’m getting tired of fleeing from him. It’s like that song about the mulberry bush, where everyone keeps going round and round the goddamned thing: I wish we could stop this nonsense without it resulting in the president officially terminating my bureaucratic agency. Can you help me and my precious pet project to stay alive? This is the Suicide Line, isn’t it? You wouldn’t lie to me, rob me or cheat me, would you, dear Bryan?”
“Listen, Allen, I have an idea; but you MUST tell me the truth,” I say: “Is JFK within earshot, this instant?”
“Of course!” sez Allen Dulles, former Director of U.S. Central Intelligence, “He’s following me around the room casually, at a discrete distance, like we’re in an extremely tame slapstick film.”
“OK, good,” I say. “Now, Allen, please calm down and listen carefully. I’m gonna ask you simply to address Mr. Kennedy — use your words: just begin a conversation — then reach a truce diplomatically. Draw up and sign a peace treaty with the man. Then I want you to hand the phone over to him. Can you do that for me?”
“You want me to clandestinely lace his drink with LSD and then stab him with a pen knife?” Allen asks.
“No, I want you to talk to him and then put him on the horn.”
“You’re saying that I should lure him into a snare with one of my mistresses; then snap incriminating photos of the two in compromising acts for use as extortion? Maybe throw some child-abuse in, for good measure?”
“For the millionth time, NO, Allen, I’m simply asking you to engage with your foe verbally, face to face, on the up and up — employ brains, not brawn — don’t you work in ‘Intelligence’?”
“Ah, I see,” sez Mr. Dulles, “You want me to distract him with chitchat; then wait for the opportune moment and shove him out the window. Hey, that’s not a bad idea — it would work: this is the building’s seventeenth story…”
“Allen, you’re impossible. I’m hanging up now; I don’t even care who kills who. You defeated the Suicide Line, congratulations: that’s never been done before.”
But before I can terminate the call, Allen’s voice yells to me thru the earpiece: “OK, Bry, OK! Wait; don’t click off: I was only pulling your leg. Listen, I’ll talk to the prez and see if we can work things out — using dialogue alone, no skullduggery — then I’ll toss the call over to you.”
“O, heavens, yes, thanks,” I exhale in exasperation, “please do so, quickly.” Then I add in undertone: “My god, you’re a weasel.”
“Alright,” Allen informs me, “here goes nothing…”
After a brief silence, there is the sound of a slap on the soundtrack, then the voice of Allen Dulles is distinctly heard addressing the president: “Sir, here’s a telephone call from the author.”
“Eh, hello?” sez JFK.
“Jack,” I shout, “What’s wrong with you!? I told you to use the MAGIC BULLET.”
“Sorry,” sez JFK; “I’m just not a good shot.”
“Stop lying,” I shout louder: “the magic bullet aims itself!!!”
“Yes, yes; I know, I know,” sez JFK; “you explained earlier that it’s like a homing missile; but I couldn’t just assassinate the man in cold blood — I’m not a monster — so I’m giving the villain a fighting chance.”
Now I myself drop dead.*
* FOOTNOTE: Imagine calling the Suicide Line and your counselor kicks the bucket while trying to help you. Two back-to-back brain-strokes and a simultaneous heart attack caused by blockage to my widow-maker artery do the trick.
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