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Abraham Lincoln Robot short story about art

Mendyz

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September 14th, 2016 - 07:34 PM

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Abraham Lincoln Robot short story about art

Robotic Abe Lincoln short story about art

Most folks are about as happy as they make up their minds to be.


I, however, was an Abe Lincoln in a strange children’s restaurant. You have to admit, what children is going to want to hear presidential speeches over pizza? Some apparently. I remember that there were even a few kids that looked excited to see George W. Bush talk and talk about “The Pet Goat” to the point where the cassette tapes inside his brain were wearing down. There was every president in this strange Chuck E. Cheese knock-off. There was even George Washington. He got a lot more love than the rest of us, he was treated a bit like a celebrity. George even got a pose, he was like a warrior with his sword and his Star Spangled Banner cape. He got regular maintenance, so he always looked perfect. His face was regularly painted white and he always looked on top of his game.


His voice, unlike the rest of ours, was still crisp perfect. His tapes never skipped, they never burned out, and were always just perfect. He must have been getting regular replacements for months, if not weeks. Every president, from Hoover to the recently constructed Obama, hated the guy. He always, when the lights went out, would go on and on about how the kids all loved him. Have you ever met a person who you just didn’t like immediately as soon as you saw them? That was George Washington. He had this face that you just hated immediately and you are trying to find a reason to hate him because you don’t actually have one. I developed my reason from years of staring at him but the first time I could see, I just remember having him on sight. The reason I hated him is because when everyone left and the last minimum wage earning teenager locked and bolted the doors, there wasn’t even a minute silence. He just immediately starts chatting and talking and will not shut up. I think I might have made a list in my head at one point to why I hate him.


He just always talked about how much kids loved him, constantly. It was like the only thing he cared about was that he had these snot-filled fans that would treat him like he was a god and they were meant to bring sacrifices to the great George Washington. No one cared when he spoke, no one bothered to correct him when he said he got more visitors than anyone, and no one dare mention anything that he would take offence to. I remember Roosevelt once exploded at him, telling him to, and I quote, “finally shut up about the bags of disease that stare at him from glazed over eyes”. When the acne-infested teenager walked through the doors, they thought one of the local teenagers had took an ax to Roosevelt's head. His face was completely torn open, his moustache hung down like a swinging pendulum. He was taken into the maintenance room and gave out a few days later. He was finally fixed up except for the long metallic scar along the back of his head. When the lights went out again, we all rushed to see the scar and look over Roosevelt. He looked safe enough, he didn’t sound it though. His voice and eyes were shaking, his pupils stared at my face as if he was scared of me. I asked him what was wrong and, before Roosevelt could answer, George Washington gave a tut. We all turned to him with scowls, muttering things under our breath. Breath we didn’t have but you know what I mean.


Washington declared us all cowards. Bush declared he was a coward and punched him in the jaw. Before it could escalate to a full on fight, Richard Nixon and Ronald Reagan broke it up, holding the two presidents away from each other. They pinned the two attackers against the walls of the dirty Chuck E. Cheese knock off and whispered how the other president wasn’t worth it. I sighed and looked as my friends pushed each other against the walls and told them not to fight. I wanted to laugh really, I wanted to start bursting out in robotic, halting laughter at the hypocrisy of it all. A house divided against itself cannot stand. As they fought, I went behind the cashier desk and opened one of the “Staff Only” doors. Grabbing the lost and found box, I looked around inside it. I found a yellow scarf and wrapped it around my neck. A window, left open, fluttered in. The wind picked up the scarf and made it dance with it. I closed my eyes and jumped. The window broke open as I fell onto the street corner and the burglar alarm blared within the pizzeria. I didn’t care anymore, I didn’t care that the alarms were going off or that my friends would wonder where I was, I was free. I was out of where I had been forever and a day.


I started running down the street as I heard sirens. Then, I never stopped running.

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