Million Dollar Lincolns was originally printed in LANDESCAPES, in 2008.
The Million Dollar Lincolns in:
Job Hunting
By Patrick McDonnell
And there came a day, a day unlike any other, when humanity called out for a hero and (due to a processing error) bore witness to the unification of EARTH’S MIGHTIEST HEROES (well, the only three available)!
Billionaire industrialist and master detective! With the resources and technology (but without the motivation or attention span) to cure diseases, end war, travel to other planets, impregnate human males, bring peace to the Middle East, and accurately predict America’s Next Top Model! Cloned from the relatively unknown but immaculately preserved braided rat-tail of Abraham Lincoln in an attempt to create the ultimate American…
He is LINCOLN GOLD!
Abandoned as a child in the harsh, unforgiving environs of the Circus Circus hotel and casino in Las Vegas, NV, he is no stranger to terror that would cripple most men. Raised by casino cleaning staff and aerial acrobats, he developed a violent contempt for his fellow man early in life. His passionate vitriol led him to the legendary ranks of the Las Vegas Police Department, serving up two distinct flavors for the criminal element: Justice and Hard Justice. The living embodiment of every sleazy, tough as nails, slightly deranged police officer ever committed to celluloid…
He is TRIGGER MCBULLIT
ex-COP ON THE EDGE!
Got a job too dirty for your own government’s involvement? Need an entire South African death squad to quietly disappear? Perhaps you’ve got a terrorist figurehead in need of hunting down, cut to ribbons, and forced to sign an apology with his own spleen? No job is too dirty, no man untouchable, and no mercy will be shown. The son of the KGB’s most ruthless spetsnaz operative, deadly with a blade and deadlier with his bare hands, more man than John Rambo, Walker Texas Ranger, and Uncle Jesse from Full House…
He is BOOTKNIFE JACKSON!
Now, after saving the world from an evil cabal of irradiated suicide bombers, these three heroes offer their services to the world. Got a job too big for your everyday police force? Has danger reared its ugly head in your town? Do you have an exorbitant amount of money to spend? Then there’s only one team for the job…
THE MILLION DOLLAR LINCOLNS!
In the hazy, smoke-filled offices of the Million Dollar Lincolns, on a frustratingly peaceful Wednesday afternoon in the middle of July, Bootknife Jackson held a mirror in one hand, and a 30-inch machete in the other. With the skill and focus of a thousand ER surgeons he silently trimmed his beard with the gleaming, razor sharp blade, gracefully cutting his coarse and manly beard into submission. As his eyes wandered to the reflection of the corkboard behind him, Bootknife smiled at an old black and white photo of his father, Vladimir Vyatich, the most savagely efficient son of glorious Mother Russia that ever lived. In the photo, Vladimir stood beside an ornate gold and red bed; his leathered face desperately contorting into something vaguely resembling a playful smirk. To his right, scattered around the bed, were the nearly unrecognizable remains of a man who knew too much, and in the area where a torso previously existed crouched a massive Doberman pinscher. The dog’s blood-soaked jaws pulling apart to welcome an ankle Vladimir had presumably tossed towards it.
The Secret Origin of Bootknife Jackson
Seven- year old Bootknife Jackson stood rigid and straight on a bleak and chilly November afternoon at the mouth of the Hudson River. Behind him, the old immigrant station so many foreigners passed through in the last century, cold and uninviting in the thick fog. To his left stood one of the most ruthless and unmercifully cold killers of the 20th century. Vladimir Vyatich could have passed for one of those irritating living statue street performers were it not for his little boy tugging at the sleeve of his woolen peacoat. “Weak, like a woman, just like small girl” the hardened Soviet Super-Soldier thought to himself in broken English, “Is time to teach him family tradition.”
Little Bootknife looked out on the Hudson with a bored frown, wondering why his father forced him into the family jalopy and driven them, flask firm in hand, all the way to Eastern New York. “Papa,” he whined, “when are we going to Coney Island, Papa? You said we could.” His father grimaced at the high-pitched bitching, looking away from the river and down to the product of his seed. It had been such a disappointment when the child emerged crying and shrieking, rather than the horrifying show Vladimir put on as he was ejected into the world. Vladimir had been on the edge since day one, literally strangling his mother with her own umbilical cord.
No one had ever seen a newborn leap before. Nobody ever imagined a baby could even fathom the idea of a garrote, let alone an umbilical one. Bootknife, however, emerged like a wet paper bag with overactive vocal cords, killing his mother with “complications” rather than brute, infantile force. As the newborn screamed and shook, glistening under the dim light of the delivery room, Vladimir assured himself this embarrassingly normal birth and average death was due to his wife’s weak peasant genes. Old Papa Vyatich never approved of her, but damn that woman had fantastic gams.
He pulled his gloved hand away from the squirming child and squatted down to look him in the eyes. “My Son, years ago your Mother, God rest her soul, come to this island in search of safe and prosperous life for the maggot gestating inside her. I left wonderful homeland and fulfilling work for your sake, little one, and you thank me by killing your Mother, God rest her soul, before you took first breath.” Lil’ Bootknife’s face melted downwards into a frightened stare, like a terrified puppy, as his father’s tone went icier than usual.
“Papa?” Bootknife squeaked, stumbling backwards as his huge father grabbed him with hands like 2X4’s and stood back up. The child’s spindly legs groped for land while his tiny shoulders trembled in Vladimir’s grip.
“Little Bootknife,” Vladimir spat, “It is time for you to learn life is shit and only strongest little soldier will be of any use. So.”
Bootknife shrieked as his father held him over his balding head and tossed him, one-handed, skyward. His tiny body spiraled as he traveled in a perfect arc and plummeted into the murky, freezing cold Hudson River. He twisted his body, heavy with his saturated clothes, to face the surface before the darkness consumed him, and saw his Papa’s disappointed face staring down into the depths.
Bootknife smiled, as if remembering a good joke, and set down his machete. “Good old Papa.”
