Abe Lincoln On Acid: Immortal Lincoln

By Bill Walker and Brian Anthony

You can't keep a groovy president down!

 

There are whispers even now that Abraham Lincoln never really died, that a voodoo spell cursed him with a terrible eternal life. It has even been claimed that he robbed banks in the 1930s with John Dillinger, only to mysteriously disappear once again into the pages of history. But the truth is even stranger than the rumors...

Watched over by a vengeful J. Edgar Hoover and held in a secret location near his old Springfield home, Lincoln re-awakens in the 1960s, and finds himself thrust into an era even more turbulent than the Depression, a time where a divisive war is once again tearing a nation apart and political intrigue and assassinations are rampant. Escaping Hoover's clutches with a clever bit of deception, he navigates an even more treacherous and unfamiliar terrain, finding an ally in John Voci, a young San Francisco folk-singer.

 

Together they journey across a counter-cultural landscape, meeting those who believe a great man has returned, and striving to remain free from those who want to bury him once and for all.

 

Will Lincoln inspire the younger generation and save his country from its final reckoning, or will he turn on, tune in, and drop out?

Abe Lincoln On Acid is the second book in the Immortal Lincoln series. If you like alternate history, tight writing, and tongue-in-cheek humor, you'll love Anthony and Walker's page-turning tale.

 

Buy Abe Lincoln On Acid and book your own trip today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bill Walker
• Release date: Dec 14, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393792901

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Oval Office

The White House

November 4, 2013

---

The press is going to crucify me .

Barack Obama sighed, rubbed his left temple, and reached for his second cigarette of the day, stopping short of lighting it. He let his eyes roam over the room’s furnishings, his gaze coming to rest on the oval rug bearing the Presidential seal and stifled a wave of despair.

The website for his much vaunted Affordable Care Act was an unqualified disaster. The site crashed constantly or refused to load at all, and when it did manage to operate it was riddled with glitches and errors. And the responsibility for its failure rested entirely with him. Crucifixion was altogether too apt a word for what they would do to him, and there would be no resurrection. If his healthcare plan failed, his presidency was doomed, all credibility lost. The hounds of Congress would be baying for his blood and the Republicans would have meat for dinner.

Obama held the cigarette under his nose, inhaling its earthy tang, then looked at the varnished mahogany humidor from which he’d taken it. There was a plain brass plaque inset into the lid with one word engraved upon it: THINK. Michelle had given it to him the day after they’d moved into the White House as her way of admonishing him to think twice before lighting up in the hopes he’d eventually quit. The irony was that sometimes a smoke allowed him to think more clearly, calming his raging mind and revitalizing his energies just as they seemed to be waning.

He started to put the cigarette back into the humidor then stopped himself.

Sorry, my dear, but this is one I need.

He placed the cigarette between his lips then reached for his lighter, a replica of the Deringer John Wilkes Booth used to shoot Abraham Lincoln, and pulled the trigger. A small butane flame shot out of the barrel, making the end of the cigarette glow a pulsing red as he drew in the warm, silky smoke. A moment later he exhaled a thick gray cloud that hovered over his head like a layer of mist over a tranquil country lake.

There was a knock at the door and Obama smiled wearily.

Come in, Joe.

The curved, hidden door in the far wall opened and Joe Biden strode in, his tanned face etched with a confident, avuncular smile.

He’d known it was Joe because his Vice President invariably used the same knock: Shave and a haircut, two bits.

Biden took one of the chairs in front of the desk, his nose wrinkling at the odor of smoke.

Any news?

Biden shook his head. They say they’ll have the major bugs out of it in about two weeks. Apparently re-writing a few thousand lines of code is not the walk in the park we assumed it would be.

The President stubbed out the cigarette in disgust. I don’t think we have two weeks, Joe.

The first thing you need to do is put this out of your mind, at least for awhile. The techies are working on it round the clock. We’ll get it sorted it out. It will work...in time.

I wish I had your confidence. I think what makes this worse for me is that I have absolutely no idea how to fix any of it.

Biden’s easy grin vanished. Mr. President, a pretty remarkable man once told me a story. He was traveling to the funeral of a friend. The rain was pouring buckets when his transportation broke down, and he hadn’t a clue how to fix it. But he knew what had to be done, and that was to get to the funeral to say good-bye to his friend. So he got out and walked, in the driving rain, for seven miles. Not very efficient, but he put one foot in front of the other until he got to where he had to be.

Your pep talk is about a funeral?

Biden sighed. Sorry, my point is that we need to back off and let the experts fix the website, because we have another issue.

What now? Have I been voted ‘Most Likely to Succeed’ in Kenya again?

Biden ignored the remark and leaned forward. We have a situation in Springfield.

Obama frowned. Springfield?

And then he remembered.

When he’d taken office four years earlier and was settling into the Oval Office that first day he’d received a phone call from his predecessor. There was none of the folksy banter of previous conversations, none of the good-natured political sniping. Instead, he had listened while George W. Bush had told him the most incredible story he’d ever heard: that Abraham Lincoln was alive and slumbering in a secure building near his original Springfield home under the ever-watchful eyes of the FBI and the Bureau of the Interior. Slumbering for nearly a hundred and fifty years except, incredibly, for a short period of time during the 1930s.

Obama grabbed another cigarette and lit it, giving the Deringer lighter a studied glance.

You know, when Mr. Bush told me that Lincoln was alive, it was all I could do to keep from laughing out loud. He sounded so earnest, so serious; I was frankly in awe of his ability to keep a straight face. After he hung up, I thought about it and came to the inescapable conclusion that this must be some rite of passage, some little initiation prank played on every in-coming Commander-in-Chief since Ulysses S. Grant. I laughed at it then, but I’m not laughing now. We have real problems.

Biden just stared at the President, remaining silent.

Obama rolled his eyes and threw up his hands. Okay, okay, you’re obviously not going to let this one go until you’ve had your little laugh at my expense. Go on then, tell me, what’s the problem with our dear Mr. Lincoln? Is he awake again?

Biden nodded soberly. Five days ago. After eighty years he opened his eyes and asked for a glass of water. The President sat back in his chair, a look of wonder on his face. Biden continued. I know you never believed it. I didn’t believe it myself until I sat across from him this morning. As close to him as I am to you. I can’t blame you for not believing the impossible, Mr. President. But it’s true—all of it.

Men don’t live to be over two hundred years old, with perhaps the exception of some members of Congress. Obama shook his head, chuckling humorlessly. Okay, I’ll bite. What did he say?

That he wants to see you, as soon as possible. That it’s a matter of ‘utmost urgency,’ as he put it.

Of course it is, Obama said, his eyes twinkling with amusement. I wonder if our esteemed predecessor can offer any advice on our healthcare dilemma?

For the first time Biden looked annoyed. Please, Mr. President, I’m not here to waste your time. You know me better than that. I think there’s a reason he’s come back just now.

Obama played along. Like the mouse running across the mirror said, ‘That’s one way to look at it!’

You know, sometimes you even sound like him, Biden said, chuckling.

An enigmatic smile crossed Obama’s face as he stared at the bust of Lincoln on the other side of the room. A moment later he reached a decision.

All right, on your say-so, I’ll see whoever it is. Tell Denis to make the necessary arrangements. When will he be here?

Tomorrow morning, with his FBI escort—after our briefing; but he said he had to do something first.

Obama laughed. He has an appointment with the President of the United States, but has to do something first? That’s taking fashionably late to an extreme! What’s so important?

He wants to visit the grave of an old friend.

CHAPTER TWO

Forever Flowers

Washington, DC

November 5, 2013

Virginia Casey looked up from her iPhone as the tall man walked into Forever Flowers, thinking to herself: He looks how I feel . She’d been working in the shop for nearly six months. When she’d first taken the job, she’d thought working with flowers might be a good way to spend some time while contemplating what to do with her life. High School was behind her, the prospect of college loomed, and she had no idea what to do with herself. Her parents refused to allow her to leave town, afraid that something might happen to their precious daughter in the big, bad world. Dear God, she wished something would happen. Anything. It had to be better than the sweet, cloying odor of the flowers and the monotony of her existence.

She watched the tall man meander around the shop, stooping to look at various arrangements, examining them with an expression that reminded her of so many of the sad old men who visited the nearby cemetery. And that was the worst part of her job, all these downcast, miserable people coming in to buy flowers just to throw on a grave. It was a sorrowful waste, and it would be worse in a few days with Veteran’s Day right around the corner.

The tall man finished his circuit of the shop and approached the counter.

Excuse me, Miss. Do you have any roses? I didn’t see any.

She looked up into the man’s light blue eyes and saw more sadness than she’d ever seen in anyone’s face. It made her want to cry.

We keep those in the back, Virginia said. How many did you want?

I expect a dozen would suffice, miss. He smiled then, and Virginia found herself returning the smile.

You know, you remind me of someone, mister.

The tall man’s smile widened. I’m told I have that kind of face.

Virginia laughed. Right. Red, white or yellow?

The tall man frowned.

The color, I mean, Virginia added, feeling a little foolish.

Red would be about right, I think.

Would you like some greens and Baby’s Breath?

The tall man looked thoughtful, stroking his beard. Virginia realized it made the man look Amish, though there were no Amish in DC and his Ralph Lauren clothes clashed with that image.

Miss, I have full faith in your judgment, he said, making a slight bow.

Virginia nodded and went into the back, returning with one of the pre-made arrangements and handed it to the tall man.

Thank you, Miss. What do I owe you?

Forty-five dollars.

The tall man’s thick eyebrows arched and he reached into the pocket of his khaki pants and pulled out a wad of bills, handing Virginia two twenties and a five.

Are these for your wife?

The tall man looked sad again. For an old friend, though she was far younger than I when she passed.

I’m sorry to hear that, mister.

Quite all right. Thank you for your help, my dear, I’m much obliged.

He turned and left the shop, leaving Virginia with her mind whirling. She’d wanted to say something more to the man, something that would lift his spirits. For some reason she felt an ardent need to do that and she had no idea why. She also couldn’t shake the feeling that he reminded her of someone she knew. She looked down at the money he’d handed her, two twenties and a five, and then it came to her: the gaunt face, the sad eyes, and the beard.

He looked just like Abraham Lincoln.

CHAPTER THREE

Mt. Zion Cemetery

Washington, DC

November 5, 2013

The sleek black Cadillac Escalade turned off Q Street into Mt. Zion Cemetery leaving the quiet elegance of Georgetown behind. Inside the vehicle, Abraham Lincoln gazed out the tinted passenger window and felt a wave of melancholy sweep over him. Though he was told the burial ground was a registered National Landmark, it looked run-down and neglected. Most of the gravestones were tilted, others fallen over and shattered into pieces, and off in the distance he spied a jumble of headstones resembling a Roman ruin. It must be because of the ongoing restoration he’d been told about. Still, that cheerless pile of stones made him all the more disconsolate, reminding him of Matthew Brady’s battlefield photos, the bodies strewn helter-skelter, stiffened in the rigor of death.

It’s just up ahead, Mr. Lincoln.

The earnest young FBI agent driving the SUV offered a reassuring smile and Lincoln nodded his thanks. A moment later, the Escalade slowed to a stop and the young agent leaped out, rounded the front of the SUV and opened the door. Lincoln stepped out and shivered from the cold wind blowing in off the Potomac. The clothes he’d been given, a pale blue button-down shirt and a pair of butternut-colored slacks they called ‘khakis,’ while casual and comfortable, offered scant protection from the raw Fall weather. Seeing his discomfort, the young agent retrieved a trench coat from the SUV.

Thank you, Lincoln said, slipping it on and tying the belt as he’d seen men do in the old movies he’d watched. The flowers, son?

Right. Sorry, sir, the agent said, looking embarrassed. He returned to the Escalade, opened the tailgate, and pulled out a bouquet of a dozen red roses, which he gently handed to Lincoln. It’s just over there, sir. Do you want me to accompany you?

No, thank you, Lincoln said. I believe these old bones can still manage.

Lincoln walked off among the graves, pausing now and then to study the names and dates on the stones still legible. According to what he’d read, the cemetery had buried both whites and blacks when it was founded in 1808, the year before his birth; it had become exclusively black in the 1840s, remaining in use right up until its abandonment in 1950.

Lincoln felt an acute kinship with that abandonment. After surviving Booth’s fateful shot, the government had hidden him away, content to let him slumber in obscurity rather than let the world know he lived. They’d been afraid of what he might do if he ever awakened. Afraid he would usurp their precious power. Perhaps now times had changed. Perhaps now they would let him live in peace.

He found the grave a moment later, nestled in the shadow of a gnarled oak tree. His eyes clouded with tears and he wiped them away with a swipe of his callused hand. The inscription on the headstone was worn, but still readable:

HANNAH WHEELHOUSE

February 2, 1859 - July 22, 1934

Beloved wife, mother, and friend

How ironic that she was born the day John Brown was hanged for treason, he thought.

And how ironic that I should be standing on this very spot in the here and now to note it.

He glanced toward the SUV then back at Hannah’s headstone. It was another moment before the significance of the second date sank in. The tears returned and he let them fall.

Such a calamitous day for us all, Hannah, he said with a hitch in his voice.

At least she’d lived a full and worthy life. The same could not be said of his old friend John Dillinger. His brief, meteoric existence had left an indelible mark on the national consciousness. Some, such as J. Edgar Hoover, had reviled him as a common thug, while others hailed Johnnie as a latter-day Robin Hood. He was neither. Lincoln remembered him as a determined man fiercely loyal to his friends and family until the bitter end. A better man than those who’d brought him down.

Sighing, Lincoln knelt down and placed the roses on Hannah’s grave. The grass immediately surrounding him was browned and sparse, the roses offering the only splash of color in the otherwise pallid gloom of an overcast day.

You were a good friend, Hannah. If Heaven truly exists you have earned its eternal reward, and it shall be all the more resplendent for your presence.

And then he heard her, her child-like voice riding on the soft breeze caressing his face, her words a prayer dimly recalled from a lifetime ago: Then for each of us the moment comes when the great nurse, Death, takes the child by the hand and quietly says, ‘It is time to go home. Night is coming. It is your bedtime, child of earth. Come, you’re tired. Lie down at last in the quiet nursery of nature and sleep. The day is gone, Abraham. Stars shine in the canopy of eternity.’

He knew she was beckoning him home. But the spell of John Wilkes Booth’s bullet, cursing him with eternal life, was stronger than the natural order of things. The tears filled his eyes again and he reached out and touched the headstone, feeling warmth radiating from it that should not have been there.

Show me the road, Hannah, and I will gladly walk beside you.

Lincoln mouthed a silent prayer of his own and rose to his feet. He turned and saw the young FBI agent standing at a respectful distance.

Ready, sir?

About as ready as I’ll ever be, son, he replied, offering the young man a gentle grin. I expect your boss will be a bit taken aback when he sees me.

The young agent returned the grin, holding open the door to the Escalade. I expect you’re right about that, Mr. Lincoln.

Lincoln climbed in and a moment later they were on their way.

You know, son, you’ll have to forgive me, but I never got your name.

Mullens, sir. You knew my grandfather.

Mullens.... The young federal agent who had been so kind to him in 1933, and suffered Hoover’s wrath for it.

Lincoln smiled sadly and settled back into his seat with a hiss of fragrant leather. Some things never changed.

CHAPTER FOUR

Oval Office

The White House

November 5, 2013

Barack Obama slept badly the night before. And while the Affordable Healthcare situation was a disaster, it was the impending visit from the man from Springfield that had held sleep at bay. He already decided he would decline to call him Lincoln. He was humoring the others; he’d admitted that much to himself, but he was also curious to see who would walk through that door into the Oval Office. He was prepared for anything, including what he was now convinced was a staff-wide practical joke of monumental proportions. So be it. Let them have their fun. Truth be told, he needed the distraction.

With sleep impossible, he’d risen at six-thirty, swum ten laps in the downstairs pool then dressed and made his way to the Oval Office, ordering a breakfast of egg whites, English Muffin with strawberry jam, and coffee. While he ate, he scanned both The Washington Post and The New York Times, finding the usual polemic rants. He tossed them aside in disgust and pulled a book down from one of the shelves. It was only when he’d sat down and opened the book that he realized it was the leather-bound edition of Doris Kearns Goodwin’s A Team of Rivals, signed and inscribed by the author.

He’d opened the volume toward the end and studied the section about Lincoln’s struggle with the Thirteenth Amendment until his Deputy Chief, Anita Breckenridge, stuck her head in the door.

Good morning, Mr. President, she said. Is there anything I can get for you?

Anita always greeted the day with such marked enthusiasm; he couldn’t help smiling in return, even when his mood was anything but ebullient.

And good morning to you, he replied. I think I’ll be fine until the Daily Briefing arrives. Did the Vice President tell you anything about a special visitor?

Just that he would be arriving around 10:30.

Obama studied his Deputy Chief’s face, trying to discern any hint of subterfuge, but her cheery expression revealed nothing.

All right, send Joe in when he arrives. And please tell Denis to make sure I’m not disturbed when our guest arrives.

Anita nodded. Yes, sir, he knows.

She left and closed the door behind her, leaving the President to his thoughts.

This had better be worth it.

And then the business of the day took precedence, documents to review, letters to sign and other minutiae of his office. He took special pleasure in replying to a letter from a young boy from Illinois, who asked if he really tried to model his presidency after that of Abraham Lincoln’s.

...I feel that the spirit of Lincoln lives within these walls, and always endeavor to keep the principles for which Lincoln stood uppermost in my mind, he wrote, and that is something you can do, as well, something we all as a nation should do...

Biden arrived precisely at ten and the two of them worked through the Daily Briefing, which was a lengthy distillation of information from reliable intelligence sources from around the world. For today, at least, the world appeared to be relatively calm, the status quo undisturbed.

At 10:20 Biden glanced at his watch and stood. Let me go see if he’s arrived.

Obama nodded as Biden left the office.

Whatever happens I will laugh along with everyone else.

A moment later there came a knock on the door: Shave and a haircut, two bits.

Come on in, Joe, he said. Obama grabbed a cigarette out of the humidor and lit it with the Deringer, inhaling deeply and closing his eyes.

I’d be wary of both of those things; one will kill you as sure as the other.

Obama’s eyes sprung open at the sound of that voice and he saw a tall, gaunt figure standing in the main doorway.

Obama stubbed out the cigarette, rose to his feet and approached the tall man. His eyes caught the George Henry Story portrait of Lincoln hanging to the right of the doorway and couldn’t help comparing it to the face of the man standing before him. They were identical, down to the smallest detail: the asymmetry, the prominent cheekbones, the Roman nose, the mole on his right cheek. And then there was the towering height—

Someone went to great lengths to play this joke, but why?

The tall man moved toward him with a kindly smile, extending a large rough-hewn hand. Obama took it. A pleasure to meet you, Mr. President, the man said, his eyes twinkling. It was rare in my day to see a black man in the White House. Now I stand before one who is the President of the United States. A pleasure, indeed, sir.

Obama nodded, trying to keep it light-hearted. There are people in Washington who have seen me in the White House every day for years that still appear to be in shock.

Biden joined them for a few minutes and Obama watched his Vice President laugh and joke with Lincoln, as if they were old friends. After Joe reluctantly made his apologies and left for a meeting, Obama guided his guest on a personal tour of the White House. Lincoln had listened and offered his own comments about the residence during his own time in office: Damp and dreary, as he put it. When he saw the Lincoln Bedroom, he smiled.

This is where I had my office. A lot of hot air was expelled by my fellow politicians within these walls, punctuated by a few moments of which I’m still justly proud. And I am grateful for the homage you and your predecessors have paid me.

I don’t know if anyone told you, Obama said, but the president after Roosevelt, Harry Truman, completely renovated the residence, gutted it and rebuilt everything with a steel superstructure.

I wouldn’t have known to look at it. Mighty fine work. Mighty fine.

They made their way back to the Oval Office where Anita had arranged a private luncheon of cold