#Scuse me but he asked for no pickles- | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

zutaralover94 · 6 years ago

Note

Secret child, run away bride/groom, sex hotline operator

So I did not get a little teary-eyed writing this. This is the secret child AU. I am working on the other two. I will make sure to tag you in both of those when I post them. Anyway, Thanks so much for these three prompts! Here we go!

Zuko picked up another box of ramen cups and all but sighed as he put it in his basket filled with similar easy make meals for one. It was just his typical once a month, late night grocery shopping trip. Things that spoiled faster he bought at the convenience store at the end of the block. He pushed the basket a little further down the aisle when a kids came running by with a quick ‘Scuse me!’.

Zuko paid the child no mind. It was normal this late at night for parents to let their kids run through the empty store. He looked back to the dark haired kid stepping up on the lowest shelf. Zuko stepped away from his basket to help the child out. “Here,” Zuko grabbed for the pickled sea prunes and placed it in the child’s hands.

The kid blinked up to him with a smile and a high pitched, “Thanks!” before running back off and down another aisle.

But Zuko didn’t move an inch.

The little girl looked like Azula but with really tanned skin. And maybe without that evil little sister glint in her golden eyes. Her dark hair was pulled back in the messiest pigtail buns. And the uniform she wore wasn’t one of the local schools. And the pickled sea prunes… That wasn’t an everyday…

Nope!

Not possible.

Zuko shook his head and walked to his cart. It was a long day already. He just needed to get home put a mac and cheese cup in the microwave and sit on the couch in his boxers. He deserved it. After the four hour long training session with new employees. Then the next four hours spent on a international conference call. And after all of that he had to play catch up on what he had missed through his training sessions and the meeting. Plus with the end of the month reports due in the morning, Zuko stayed an extra three hours.

He pushed his cart down the next aisle and debated cereal or pop tarts. He always went for the pop tarts because again he didn’t want to have to buy milk only for it to go bad because he doesn’t have time in his morning to do a sit down meal. So poptarts-

Zuko reached out for the moving cart as the kid from the aisle earlier was now standing in the cart and grabbing at a box of cereal causing the cart to move back from under her.

“Lulu!” The mother, or who he assumed was her mother, reached out for the child. Grabbing her just in time as her and the box of cereal decided to tumble out of the cart. “Oh spirits.” The woman cradled the child into her arms and Zuko gently pushed the cart back. “Thank yo-,”

Zuko finally looked up to fully taken in the familiar looking woman. Her hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail, her shirt rode up on the side the child was propped on, and her jeans looked well worn. She blinked bright blue, tired eyes at Zuko.

Zuko could swear on whatever you laid in front of him now that, this, Katara with a child on her hip, was definitely the most beautiful sight he had ever taken in.

“Be careful next time, okay kid?” Zuko smiled to the little girl as she was set back in the basket and told to sit down. She did as she was told and nodded to Zuko. Katara gave a brief smile and pushed her cart away.

+++

“Mommy, who was that?”

“Huh?” Katara blinked up from where she was staring at her shaking grocery list.

“That guy had golden eyes like me!” Lulu smiled up to her mother.

“See I told you there was other people out there with golden eyes!” Katara smiled back tears and looked down at her list. She had gotten most of everything on the list and whatever was left, Sokka could come get himself.

Katara pushed the cart to the checkout area. There were only two lanes open right next to each other. Katara blew a breath of relief to not see Zuko anywhere around. She began loading up the conveyor belt with groceries and a few thing Katara forgot to pack for her and Lulu.

“She’s a cutie.”

Katara looked out of the corner of her eye to see Zuko placing his items on the conveyor belt next to hers. She bit her lip and turned to take more groceries out of her basket. Maybe if she ignored him…

“Thank you!” Lulu smiled brightly and handed Katara a bundle of tomatoes.

“You are very welcome.” Zuko gave an identical smile. Katara stacked three bags of chips on the belt. “Party?”

“Yes,” Katara was quick to answer. “Lulu hand me the deli meats.”

Lulu did as she was told, “It’s for my birthday!”

Katara and Zuko paused simultaneously. Katara took a deep breath and held it as she heard the dreaded question that was masked in a happy tone.

“And how older are you going to be?”

“Five,” Lulu wiggled slightly in the cart. “But I’m only four right now. That’s not until next week even though we are celebrating it this week with Uncle Sokka and Aunt Suki.” The little girl handed the last can in the basket to Katara.

“Five years old.”

Katara cringed and prayed the cashier would checkout her items faster. She needed out of this store. It was silly for her to bring Lulu back. Sokka and Suki could have done her birthday another time. But Lulu had begged to see her brother’s large dog, who was correctly named, Bear. And when Sokka said they could stay for as long as they wanted as long as they picked up groceries, Katara quickly agreed. So Katara packed up as soon as she got off work, picked Lulu up from daycare and start her four and a half hour drive.

Katara guessed 11 p.m. was just not late enough to go grocery shopping.

“How old are you?” Lulu was leaning on the side of the cart.

“Lulu, it’s not nice to ask people questions.” Her mother gently scolded her child.

“It’s fine,” Zuko nodded. “I’ll be 28 in a few months.”

“You’re older than mommy!”

Katara grabbed Lulu out of the cart and pushed the now empty cart to the bagger. She held onto her daughter’s hand and watched the total on the screen add up with each item. Just ignore him a little longer. You can do this.

“Yeah?” Katara watched out of the corner of her eye as Zuko leaned down to Lulu’s height.

“Spirits!” Lulu gasped.

“Lulu!” Katara turned to her child.

“Mommy! Look he’s hurt!” Lulu pointed to the light pink scar down the left side of his face.

Katara did her best not to react to the scar. But Lulu was right. It was hided well under his long bangs. “Honey, it is rude to point to out things like that.”

“It’s alright,” Zuko lifted up his bangs to show off the skin. Katara raised a hand to her mouth and her daughter reached out to touch her father’s face. Katara quickly grabbed the hand in hers. Zuko looked up to her and let the bangs fall. And Katara could have sworn the whole world stopped around her.

“What happened?” Lulu brought their attention back to her.

“Lu-”

“Well when I was just a little older than you. I had a very mean dad who didn’t like me very much.” Zuko told Lulu.

“That’s so sad.” Lulu tightened her hand in Katara’s. “I didn’t know my dad. But Mommy says he was a very nice man and went to heaven because he helped all those people in the burning building. He was a firefighter.”

Zuko blinked in surprise a few times before looking up to Katara.

“165.98.”

Katara had never been so happy to hear someone else’s voice and quickly turned to the cashier to pay for the groceries. “Thank you.” she tugged on Lulu’s hand to signal they were leaving. Lulu’s ‘Bye!’ echoed around the empty store.

Katara quickly turned on the car and loaded Lulu into her carseat before turning and loading the groceries into trunk.

“A firefighter huh?”

Katara froze briefly, before nonchalantly wiping her eyes with her arm, “She asked and I told her.”

“A lie.” Zuko bit back.

“Well, I certainly didn’t think we would ever run into each other ever again.” Katara continued to pile in her groceries.

“But what about when she got older? And had other questions. Then what?” Zuko tightened his grip on the cart.

“She wouldn’t ask because you,” Katara huffed as she lifted the potatoes into the trunk as well. “Her father is dead.”

“But I’m not dead 'Tara.”

Katara slammed the truck closed and turned to Zuko, the fire he loved so much caught ablaze in her eyes. “I did what I thought was best. I wanted her to know that you were a good person but reaching out for you was like reaching past the grave. Completely unobtainable.” Katara nudged Zuko’s cart with her own so she could put it in the return.

“When was I ever 'unobtainable’?” Zuko bumped her cart right back.

“The minute you took over your dad’s business.” Katara pushed back and finally made it past Zuko.

“I thought we were okay with that?” Zuko said after she had returned to her car.

“No,” Katara opened up the driver’s door. “You saw the opportunity to move up and left no time for me or our unborn child.”

“If you would have just told me-,”

“You would have what?” Katara stepped back towards Zuko. “Huh? Tried to work less hours? Maybe get a vacation day here or there? Quit?” Katara snorted an ugly laugh.

“I-,” Zuko sighed

“So I left,” Katara crossed her arms. “Because that was the only option left.”

The two stood in the quiet of the late night. Stuck in their own thoughts.

“I don’t expect anything now that you do know.” Katara looked back into the car to see Lulu yawn and swipe on a game on her tablet. “We’ve made it this long.”

“Katara,” Zuko sigh and pushed the cart back and forth a few times. “You shouldn’t have to do it alone. She’s my daughter too.”

“You really don’t have to. I’ve been making it well without you for the past five years.” Katara looked back to Zuko and frowned. “I really should get her to Sokka’s. She needs to go to bed.”

“Right,” Zuko nodded in agreement. But they both stood there for a moment.

“Good bye, Zuko.” Katara finally said her voice breaking through the tears that had started to form again.

“Bye, ‘Tara.” Zuko whispered and began pushing his cart towards his car.

“The party is at 6 tomorrow.” Katara called out. “If you get off in time, you should swing by Sokka’s. It’s my parents old place. You remember where that is?”

“Really?” Zuko’s smile practically lit up the dark parking lot..

“She turns five and loves ducks and turtles. Her favorite color is red. Spirits, if she isn’t your child through and through.” Katara gave a wobbling smile.

“Turtles and ducks. Got it.” Zuko nodded. “Do I need to bring anything else?”

“Ha, probably a bodyguard!” Katara yelled across the parking lot.

“What-?” Zuko asked but Katara was already in her car and waving bye.

+++

“You ran into him?”

Katara nodded to Suki who sat opposite of her on the couch. A game of cards between the two of them on the center couch cushion. “And I may have invited him…” Katara bit her bottom lip and gave Suki a guilty look.

“Katara!” Suki exclaimed and looked round. “Sorry, what were you thinking?” Suki laid down three 5s on to the center and placed a 7 in the center.

“I wasn’t.” Katara shook her head and looked at her hand.

“So you invited the father to your daughter’s fifth birthday party. The daughter thinks her dad died in a fire but he’s actually coming to her birthday party.” Suki picked up more cards from the center.

“Possibly. There’s still a chance that he won’t make it.” Katara sighed as Suki set down a wild card on her straight. “Plus Lulu has no idea that Zuko is her father.”

All of Suki’s cards fell out of her hands as she gaped at Katara. “I’m sorry who did you say the father was?”

“Why do you act so surprised?” Katara down her large straight. “Then again I guess you did come into this kind of late.”

“I mean I remember you both were seriously dating. But I don’t-,” Suki began picking her cards back up. “I honestly thought she was Jet’s.”

“Agni, Jet feels like decades ago. We only dated until I couldn’t hide the fact I was pregnant.” Katara laid out a pair of 2s. “I’m glad that didn’t work out. Heard he was a leader of an air band.”

“No way,” Suki rearranged her card before placing her set of 2s down. “Do you think we could invite him too for the entertainment?”

“I swear to Yue if you call him I will demote you as Godmother to Lulu.” Katara threatened weakly.

“Just try and stop me.” Suki laughed and waited for Katara to play her hand. “So why did you invite him?”

Katara sighed and dropped her hands down into her lap. “I-,” Katara let out a long breath. “We were talking about how I don’t really need him to be here. That we are fine on our own. I don’t know.” Katara finally slumped back and over the armrest causing her back to pop in about three places.

“I think you do.” Suki finished her hand with a clap. “And you should just say it out loud while it’s just you and me here.”

Katara wrinkled her eyebrows and shook her head. No, I don’t have those feelings anymore. It’s been five years. I’ve gotten over it. I’ve gotten over him. But there was a tug in her chest that made her feel hollow. Like it knew the lie she was repeating over and over again in her head. “Nah, I really don’t think I do.”

+++

Zuko showed up a little after six jiggling the keys in his hands and looking out to Katara’s parents house.

They had a kid. She was five. She loved the color red.

I wanted her to know that you were a good person but reaching out for you was like reaching past the grave. Completely unobtainable.

Her name is Lulu. She has the beautiful tanned skin of her mother. Her dark hair like his.

I’ve been making it well without you for the past five years.

Zuko grabbed for the gift. It was his oldest memory of his mother. A small yellow duck. His mother would be overjoyed to know that he had pasted it down to his child.

“Okay, you can do this. You’re here for Ka-Lulu. You are here for Lulu. Give her the gift. Wish her a happy birthday. Good,” Zuko talked himself into finally opening the door and getting out. “Hey, it’s me. Zuko. I came to give Lulu her present. Yes. Good.” Zuko whispered to himself as he walked up the sidewalk to the house. Streamers and balloons had been tied to the banister and around the door. Zuko pressed the doorbell and a loud deep barking erupted on the other side. Zuko jumped and almost took back to the car but the door opened before he could.

“Hey. it’s me-,” Zuko started with a raise of his hand. Sokka glared at him and man five years can really buff up a dude. Zuko swallowed and held out the frilly pink sparkly birthday bag. “It’s for Lulu.”

“Well, duh it’s her birthday.” Sokka leaned against the frame of the door and looked from the present up the arm to the person holding it and back again. “What are you doing here?”

“I-uh,”

“Sokka, please.” Zuko heard Katara’s slight beg towards Sokka. Sokka opened the door for him but before he could make it over the threshold Sokka’s arm came out to stop him.

“Hurt my sister or her baby and I’ll have you buried six feet under without any traces of you being gone.” Sokka growled under his breath then switched to a smile when another girl passed through the hallway. “Suki, you remember Zuko right?”

“Vaguely.” Suki stretched out a hand and shook Zuko’s. “Welcome, you can put your presents on the table. We are all out back anyway.”

Zuko followed the couple after Sokka closed the door. He placed his gift along with the rest of them before making his way out through the sliding glass door. He was surprised to see lots of faces he knew already one or two he didn’t. There were three kids playing in a sand pit including Lulu. When she saw him, she waved but quickly went back to playing.

“You made it.” Katara gave just a small smile and gestured to a lawn chair. “We’ll have sandwiches soon. But we were waiting for Toph to get back with the cake.”

“Oh okay,” Zuko nodded and sat down in the chair next to her.

The party went on with light talk and laughter. There was a few stories that filled Zuko in from the past five years, a few he remembers himself. He found himself quickly brought back into the circle of friends. He was even invited to a BBQ happening next month. But he couldn’t bring himself to give a clear answer whether or not he would be there. This all, everything, depended on Lulu and her mother.

Zuko happily stood behind Katara and Suki as Lulu opened presents. “And this one is from Zuko.” Katara placed the pink sack in front of Lulu. Lulu looked to where he was standing before ripping out the tissue paper.

Lulu let out the loudest squeal yet as she reached into the bag. “Oh my spirits! I love him!” Lulu squeezed the yellow duck. “I am going to take him everywhere.” Lulu looked directly at Zuko with honest golden eyes.

“I’m really glad you like him.” Zuko smiled at his daughter and felt emotions he never knew pop into his chest. He coughed and excused himself to down the hallway as he felt the warmth begin to swim in his eyes.

Zuko blew out a breath and wiped at his eyes. Five years. He had missed out on five years of her life. That was time he would never get back. Zuko pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a shaky breath. This could be the very last time he would ever see her again. Zuko sucked in a breath of air through his teeth as he realized he didn’t know who he was more upset about never seeing again, Lulu or Katara. “Oh fuck.” A tear slid down his face and he sniffled.

“Zuko?” Katara laid a hand on his shoulder.

Zuko turned in surprise, “I’m fine.” He opened his mouth and rubbed at his other eye when he realized that it was going to start leaking too. “I, um, I guess it’s time for me to leave. Will you, um,” Zuko cleared his throat. “Will you let her know that her dad.” Zuko swallowed and a tear leaked down the other side of his face. “That I love her very much.”

Katara looked to be struggling to hold back tears too but she nodded.

“I’m sorry, ‘Tara.” Zuko gave a weak smile. “I hope someday you will both forgive me for the last five years.” He finally gave up trying to wipe the tears out of his own eyes and focused on the ones running down Katara’s face. He swiped thumbs over Katara’s cheeks, “And all the years to come. Please forgive me.”

Katara reached up to Zuko’s wrists and tilted her head into Zuko’s left palm with a light kiss, “I’ll let her know. The truth.” Katara pulled Zuko hands away from her face. “So, um expect her to be on your doorstep saying she hates me and wants to live with you now.” Katara and Zuko both let out a light laugh.

“As long as you’re not far behind her.” Zuko leaned his forehead against Katara’s. “I’ve really missed you ‘Tara.”

“I-I’ve missed you, too.” Zuko watched tired blue eyes close before he closed his too. They stood there and listened to the party still going on in the other room. Katara and Zuko both leaning on the other for the first time in over five years.

“Ahem!” Zuko and Katara broke apart and took a step back from one another as Suki stood there with an eyebrow raised. “Be glad it was me and not Sokka.” Suki turned back to the party.

The birthday girl’s parents stood there in awkward silence for way too long of a moment.

“I hope that you come to the BBQ next month. I’ll be bringing Lulu with me.” Katara said after a deep inhale.

“I’ll make sure to put it on my calendar.” Zuko nodded and stepped to the door. “I’m going to go. I don’t want to overstay-,”

Katara quickly stepped up to him and kissed him on the cheek, “Thank you for the gift. Ursa would be pleased that you kept it to give to her.”

“Yeah,” Zuko felt a blush creep up like he was a teenaged girl. “Bye, Katara.”

“Bye, Zuko.” Katara smiled and leaned against the door to watch the love of her life leave. But not for long. And never, ever did another five days go by without them seeing each other.

Author’s note: I was going to do this big long flash back of Uncle Iroh knowing that Katara was pregnant and sending her money each month. And in respect she was going to name her child after Lu Ten. So I went with Lulu.

#thanks for the request #zutara #zutara fanfiction #zutara child #kind of?#secret child au #lulu #zuko x katara #more prompts soon #3K words

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sylvaniaschoolofmagic · 8 years ago

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Detectives: Hunting for a Lead

Sonic needs to find out what Shadow is up to. The black-and-red hedgehog has shown up near the Room of Requirement two more times in the past month (something Knuckles is still extremely doubtful of), and there has to be some reason behind it. Plus, Knuckles has been oddly quiet and more reserved than usual, leaving Sonic with little to do outside of class. So for the time being, he’s on the case.

Now, obviously, the best person to ask about Shadow’s motives would be Shadow himself, but that really isn’t an option. Especially since Sonic wants to keep his snooping a secret, and he doesn’t fancy getting beaten up. So the direct approach is out of the question. Likewise, he can’t just ask the people Shadow is closest to, because that would mean talking to Professor Robotnik. Granted, he still doesn’t know the exact nature of their relationship, but Shadow definitely seems closer to her than anyone else in the school. If Sonic starts asking her questions out of nowhere about Shadow or the Room of Requirement, he has no reason to believe that she wouldn’t tell Shadow about it.

And just like that, he’s out of specific people to interrogate. Time to get non-specific and ask any Slytherin that he’s seen talk to Shadow recently. Well, any Slytherin except Jet. He’s not willing to put himself through that.

It’s lunchtime, and Sonic is sitting with Knuckles at the Hufflepuff table. They just got done with their “how are you” “I’m okay” “are you sure” “yeah” song and dance which has become almost customary lately, ever since that one day where Knuckles had rushed out of Pickle’s class. Sonic doesn’t think Knuckles is too upset about it anymore, but the echidna seems like he’s taken a step back after that whole incident. Like he was reminded that he isn’t a normal kid, even by wizard standards, and decided to close himself off a little bit more than normal. He still talks to Sonic, but never about anything really important, and Sonic can’t get through to him. Hence the aforementioned song and dance.

When Knuckles gives the silent signal that Sonic isn’t going to get anything more out of him, the Gryffindor leaves him be and lets his eyes scan the nearby Slytherin table instead. He needs to find someone who can give him a lead on Shadow-- partially because he wants to stop the dark hedgehog from getting near the Master Emerald, and partially because getting any sort of proof that Shadow is up to something might help get the Guardian out of his funk.

It’s at this point the young speedster realizes that there are almost no Slytherins that he’s on speaking terms with. The friendliest conversation he can muster with Jet consists of trading death glares across the crowded Great Hall, and most everyone else he either doesn’t know at all, or only knows by name because he has double potions with them. The lot of them are probably decent kids-- he doesn’t buy into the whole ‘Slytherins are evil’ schtick that a lot of the older Gryffindors spout-- but he doesn’t know who would and wouldn’t snitch, or who would have useful information. So he just has to watch, frustrated.

“Hey.” He hears a girl’s voice and his attention whips from the edge of the Slytherin table to right in front of him, where he can see a familiar bat through the heads of the Hufflepuffs he sits across from. “If you want to light our table on fire, I’m sure there’s easier ways to do it than just staring that harshly.” Rouge shoots him a playful smirk, and there’s a glimmer in her eye that suggests she knows that Sonic wants something.

“Sorry, I’ll stare more affectionately next time,” Sonic answers her over the din of the crowd. She, apparently not done with the conversation, rises from her seat and steps across the aisle to squeeze in between the Hufflepuffs.

“‘Scuse me,” she hums as she sits, not pulling her legs over the bench and under the table but instead keeping them in the aise. She wants a quick chat, Sonic recognizes. The Hufflepuffs come to this realization as well, and scoot to the side without making much fuss. They’re used to making room for Sonic, so this is nothing new to them. “So what’s going on, Sonic? I honestly didn’t peg you for the Hufflepuff-in-disguise type. Or did you just need a better view of the Slytherins?” Her voice has a calm yet joking tone, and Sonic is reminded why he opened up to Rouge so quickly when they first met in the beginning of the year. Talking with her just feels comfortable.

“Nah, I don’t buy into that rivalry stuff. Except with Jet, and he started it,” Sonic says, lowering his voice at mention of the hawk. “And I chill at the Hufflepuff table like, literally fifty percent of the time. Knuckles and I switch back and forth with where we sit. Right, dude?” He nudges the red form at his side, who is currently more engrossed with pushing around the food on his plate than conversation.

Knuckles blinks up regardless, looking up at Sonic before receiving a sideways nod that turns his attention to Rouge. “Oh. Um,” he says blankly, the key in his brain turning but the engine refusing to turn over and start, and he glances at Sonic, confused.

“... This is my friend Knuckles. He’s tired today,” the hedgehog supplies, introducing him so Knuckles doesn’t have to. The poor guy seems like he barely has it in him to talk to Sonic right now, let alone someone he hasn’t met before. Knuckles manages to take the cue from there, and extends a hand for Rouge to shake. She takes it.

“It happens to the best of us. I’m Rouge.”

“Cool... I’m not going to ask how you know Sonic, since he’s apparently allergic to other Gryffindors. He’s friends with pretty much everyone else.”

“I’m right here,” Sonic nudges him in the shoulder again, trying not to smile at the comment.

“It’s true, though. I think the only other Gryffindor I’ve seen you talk to is Ray, and Ray’s a ghost,” the echidna smirks. A welcome facial expression after two weeks of little more than polite smiles.

“Yeah, I don’t see you talking to other Hufflepuffs other than Mighty,” Sonic jokes back. “But anyway, Rouge,” he says, readjusting focus and giving Knuckles a way out of the conversation if he wants it, “you might be just the person I need to talk to. Is there... anything you can tell me about Shadow?”

The older Slytherin looks only mildly surprised by this question, furrowing her brow slightly. “Not much. He keeps to himself, mostly. He’s in my year, and I guess we’re on decent enough terms. We’re partners in potions, but he’s not much of a talker. Why’re you interested?” She speaks in a hushed tone, one of her large ears flicking.

“I’ve seen him sneaking around up on the seventh floor,” Sonic says, dismissing Knuckles’s yeah right snort with a roll of his eyes. “I’m just… wondering what he’s up to, is all.” He decides to leave out the fact that he knows Shadow is interested in the Room of Requirement. That information is better kept classified, he thinks.

Rouge hums, her lips pooched and one brow raised. “Interesting,” she says, slyly turning her head so she can catch a glimpse of Shadow in her peripherie. “Well, I don’t know anything about that, but I can always keep an ear out and see if I hear anything. What do you think he could want all the way up on seventh?”

“Maybe there’s some sort of secret or something? The castle’s full of ‘em,” Sonic says, acting oblivious.

“Ah, and you’re all about exploring. That’s right,” Rouge smiles. “Well, consider my interest piqued. I’d be lying if I said I’m not curious about Shadow. He’s such a loner, I can’t help but wonder about him sometimes.”

“So you’ll help me out then?” the hedgehog asks, trying not to sound too hopeful. He doesn’t want to make it seem like the stakes are too high.

“We’ll see. You can’t expect me to get information like this for you for free, can you? Shadow’s not exactly an open book.” She rests her chin on her hand and winks at him.

He groans a little bit. There always had to be a catch. “What do you want?”

“Just a small favor. I do this for you, and you owe me one later. Sound good?”

“Fine by me,” Sonic grins. He doesn’t know what kind of favor Rouge could have in mind, but he’s already used to breaking the rules. If her favor winds up being as sneaky as his request, he won’t mind.

“Then it’s a deal,” she says, and they shake on it. Her handshake is firm and confident, like she’s been shaking hands all her thirteen-year-old life. It’s slightly jarring considering how casually she’s sitting on the bench, but Sonic quickly gets over it. “I’ll let you know when I find anything out, then!”

“Cool, thanks Rouge!” Sonic waves goodbye to her as she gets up and leaves the Hufflepuff table. The Hufflepuff students quickly scoot back together to fill the void she leaves behind.

Knuckles is back to playing with the food on his plate, pushing it around more than eating it. “She seems nice,” he says in a low voice, eyeing the bat as she leaves.

“Yeah, Rouge is pretty cool. I think you two would get along,” the hedgehog says.

“I dunno. She seemed a little too eager to spy on people.”

“That eagerness to spy just might wind up saving Emmy.”

“Emmy? Who’s-- oh, right. Your codeword for the M. E.”

“That’s what I said, Emmy,” Sonic smirks. “And look, if Rouge can’t dig up any dirt on Shadow, I’ll drop this whole thing. Yeah?”

“Yeah, I’ll believe that when I see it.” The echidna cracks a small smile, and Sonic gives him a little jab with his elbow. He jabs back, and by the time lunch ends, they’re having an all-out elbow war.

Sonic is smiling from ear to ear as he walks out of the Great Hall and heads towards his next class. Maybe this lead is just what they needed.

#its rouge weekend apparently #happy women's history month i guess! lol #1st year #sonic #knuckles #rouge #writing #katie

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storiesbybrian · 8 years ago

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Sexy Abe (June, 1999)

Part I

His heritage was dormant inside of him. Why should he care about his people’s legendary dealings with sacred powers? Life was good. She was hot and they were gonna get drunk. He thought he might even love her.

Anyone could see that Lori was special, with her honeyed hair spilling past wicked eyes. She told dirty jokes and liked sports. And dogs and old movies. Abe’s friends would all agree this was the best one yet. He met her at a party where they talked about Woman of the Year. Abe happened to know that the bar where Tracy and Hepburn got drunk and fell in love actually existed somewhere near Union Square, a factoid he remembered from his one semester of film school.

It stood lower than the sidewalk, cowering in the gutter. It was the type of place that fills up in broad daylight and, full, has an assortment of canes and crutches leaning against the bar while the rusty stools get gobbled up by a floppy row of gin-pickled asses scarcely contained in cheap fabrics. At the hour Abe and Lori stepped down to its door, the street’s neon lights had just been switched on. It was a summer evening and nightfall was hours away, but the blaring pinks and blues adorning most of the storefronts were so luminous that the sun’s own rays seemed enfeebled, creating the affect of a premature dusk.

He led her inside, where a jukebox rattled the bottles. Abe was ready. They sat in a booth in the back. There were rips in the burgundy naugahyde upholstery and a carved orgy of letters coupled and tripled in every conceivable position on the lacquered surface of the booth’s table. Abe looked around to see if anyone was impressed with him for bringing in such a beautiful girl. Nobody seemed to care, which felt unfair to him. He realized that the frivolities of this crowd were different than his own, but he still expected appreciation for brightening up the spot with such a hot babe. And yet he tried to blend in, unaffected, real. He even tried ordering drinks in a down to earth manner since he wanted Lori to think he was a man of the people.

Inconsistent as he was though, Abe wore a shirt the color of blue tin foil. This was set off by shiny shoes, shiny hair, a shiny gold bracelet, and dead black pants. His baller-est stuff. He leaned against the bar, then turned around to look at Lori. The bartender was was adorned with tattoos, piercings and a gorgeous belt buckle depicting dice bouncing along under the slogan “LADY LUCK.” A light emanated from under the bar, shadowing her face like a ghost storyteller on a camping trip, which frightened Abe when he turned back around to face her. But he played it cool. He waited politely while she toweled the bar. He looked back again at his date and she waved through the dark at him. He nodded and turned to the bartender and said, “ ’Scuse me.”

She looked up at him and sneered, revealing a small blue rhinestone grafted into the gum above one of her canine teeth. It had a brief morse code conversation with Abe’s shirt.

“Is this the bar from Woman of the Year?”

“Check.”

“Pinky here?”

“Stabbed and eaten by his youngest granddaughter.”

“Oh. Uh, do you have Amstel Light?” he asked.

The bartender turned towards the line of dusty beer bottles on a shelf behind her. There, standing between the silver and red of Coors light and the fake plant green of Heineken, was indeed a bottle of Amstel Light. Abe stood by the bar waiting for the woman to bring him two of them. After a moment of silence she was about to go back to her grey rag so he said, “Two please?”

Another idle moment ticked away before he gave in and said, “Two Amstel Lights…. please.” He wanted all encounters with all peoples to go smoothly on this date.

While LADY LUCK took her time getting the beers from a cooler, Abe surveyed the company and was surprised to see, among the usual suspects, a middle aged Hassidic Jew drinking a fruity vodka drink with what appeared to be a lady of the evening; or, in this case, late afternoon.

“Stop staring,” said the bartender as she stamped the bottles onto the bar so that foam dribbled from their spouts. “Eight-Fifty.”

Several drinks later, Abe had moved over to Lori’s side of the booth. They sat with their arms touching, sharing whatever fact about themselves seemed relevant. Unlike most of his dates, Abe was not in control. He was well practiced in the art of self presentation. But with Lori, he felt he was over-extending himself, awkwardly groping inward to bare his most soulful qualities instead of casually whipping something out from his usual jackpot of admirable character traits. Since Lori was so special, he tried very hard not to cheapen her by using any of the techniques that always worked on dumber girls. So, instead, he found that he was promising himself to live up to personal standards that he was creating on the spot.

“Smoke?” he asked, mainly to see if he had permission to do so himself.

“Never,” she said with a corroborating smile.

“Are you warm enough?” Abe asked.

“Why don’t you check?”

Abe moved closer and slid his arm around her. She was burning, which somehow made Abe shiver.

“Where does your family come from? Originally, I mean,” she asked hiccuping softly.

“Lawrence.”

“Funny, you don’t look Algonquin.”

“Wha?”

“I mean, like Poland? Russia? Lithuania? Germany? Which old country is your country, Abe?”

“Oh. Um, Poland, I think. I never really knew my great grandparents, so… What about yours?”

“Well, my dad was born in Russia but my grandpa earned enough money over here to send for dad and grandma just before the war. And then my mother’s parents were survivors.”

“You mean, like, the Holocaust?”

“Yeah,” said Lori. “Auschwitz.”

“Wow. I mean, you know. I don’t mean to sound happy impressed but, I think...” Abe trailed off. He withdrew his arm from Lori’s shoulders, thinking hard for something interesting to say.

“Is your family religious, Abe?” she asked.

“Oh, yeah,” he lied. “Yours?”

“Yeah. I went to Yeshiva,” she said. “You’ve gotta funny looking shirt on, Abraham.”

“Want me to take it off?” Abe asked with his hands already throttling over the blue buttons. He had an impressive physique.

“Maybe later.”

“Do you want another drink?”

“Sure,” she said and leaned her downy head on his shoulder.

“I wish they had table service here.”

“Mmmm, me too.”

Abe sat there with Lori, in awe of her. He could just imagine the kind of happiness she must bring her family. The Yiddish word for it is “nachas” but Abe didn’t know that. He only knew that Lori seemed to have given her parents more to be proud of than Abe had his. But he knew better than to get down on himself like that in the middle of a date.

“Lori, wanna do a shot?”

“Alright.”

Abe decided to buy in bulk from the bar so he would not have to go far from Lori again for a while. He snuggled back into the booth with a salt shaker, a dozen lime wedges and three shots apiece of tequila.

“What should we drink to?” Lori whispered.

“To… to heritage. Yours and mine,” Abe said. Lori shrugged and threw the pale liquor down her throat. Abe looked at the flash of her delicate neck and lurched violently with longing. He wanted so badly to grab Lori and kiss her but something stopped him. What? Did kissing Lori like this on the first date turn her into just another chippee? No that wasn’t it. It was her grandparents. Lori had used the past tense when she mentioned them, but to Abe, they were sitting in the kitchen, numbers peeking out of their bathrobe sleeves, waiting up for Lori with a nice piece of cake. Waiting to hear if this evening had brought her any closer to giving them great grandchildren. And then Abe realized that yes, he could be that man with this beautiful girl. Of course, he would have to become more serious in his own life, but, hell, that was no problem. Not if it meant Lori. He looked at her with more meaning but he still couldn’t kiss her.

The incongruity of this perfect, drunken moment and his total lack of resolve was brand new to Abe. He knew that if he didn’t want to completely blow it with Lori forever, he must not get caught being so materialistic and so assimilated. His eyes darted around in 359 degrees of avoidance while he tried to remember hot narrative passages from the cheap romance novels he and his friends used to read in junior high school.

As Abe slumped towards Lori, he tried to remember things that other girls had liked about him.

“Know one of the things that amazes me about you, Lor’?”

“Hmmm.”

“You’re so fuckin’ smart. See, in my family… And your legs. You’ve got the most wonderful legs. I love how the narrowest parts of them are your kneecaps, like a heroine in a comic book. The swells of your thigh and your calf,” but then he stopped talking and just shook his head with admiration before he could finish reciting something his father had written in one of his medical journals about the marriage of femur and tibia in a symphony of bone and cartiledge. Abe’s dad was an orthopedist.

“Thanks.”

Silence hung between them and she looked at him again but Abe still couldn’t kiss her. He excused himself and walked very quickly up to the bar.

“’Scuse me,” Abe mumbled, tapping the Hassidic man at the bar on the shoulder.

“What?”

“Look, I know this is gonna seem weird, but, well, see that girl over there?”

The Hassid turned and peered through the thick darkness at Lori. She waved at them.

“I’m sorry,” said the Hassid. “I don’t know her.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Abe. “But, well see, she’s like kosher and all and I grew up reformed and I don’t really know anything to say to her but I think I’m really in love with her, so I was, like, wondering if you could tell me something Jewish to say. You know, like a Mel Brooks movie I can watch. Something like that. What’s your name?”

“Mendel.”

“Abe,” he said, shaking the other man’s fat hand.

“I don’t think so,” Mendel said and turned back to his date.

“Look!” Abe said and wheeled the older man back around by his short arm. “I really don’t think you’re in a position to gimme any of this high road shit. Know what I mean? Now can’t you just help me out a little? Come on, bro, I’m askin’ you nicely.”

“I think you’ve had too much to drink. Smells like tequila.”

Abe felt he had been bullied and condescended all evening by these losers at this dump and it was time to assert himself.

“Look, old man,” Abe whispered.

Mendel turned to face him with a pleasant expression on his face and blinked innocently. This mollified Abe and he got ahold of himself.

“30 seconds. Ok?”

“Do you really believe,” asked Mendel, “that devotion to God is going to help you get laid?”

“Well, you’re getting laid, aren’t you?” snapped Abe.

“Well, yes but certainly not because I’m religious.”

“Dude, are you gonna help me or not?”

“Young man,” began the Hassid.

“Abe, please.”

“Avram-“

“No. Abraham.”

“Whatever. Look,” said the older man, “I suggest you go back to your date and allow me to attend to mine. I judge by now you know that you are wasting my time as well as my money?”

But Abe was possessed of a different logic and so he was not deterred. “What do you do?” he asked Mendel. “For a living.”

“I own a toy store in Brooklyn.”

“Well, here,” said Abe and pulled two crumpled $100 bills from his pocket. “That’s fair, then. Right?”

Mendel eyed the money drunkenly. His date and the bartender watched his face, silently rooting for him to push the money back to the obnoxious boy. The man stroked his beard with his thick, dry fingers, sighed and shook his head slowly. He turned his gaze from the money back to the boy and nodded him back to his date.

“What does that mean? Aren’t you coming over to talk to her?”

“Listen. Kid. You’re not doing me any favors. You’re trying to buy me so I can chant a few magic spells for you and stir your little golden bowl of borscht over there to a boil. Wait. Please, let me finish. It’s true that your money would help me. Your $200. But I don’t think it would help you much. I’m not sure that anything would.” And with that, the older man turned to the girl on his left while sliding the money back to Abe on his right. The woman and the bartender nodded their approval and then glared at Abe, LADY LUCK’s sapphire gum glinting brilliantly in the dim light of the bar. Abe’s shirt had no response.

Abe ran both hands through his hair, unsure what to do. He turned back to Lori who lolled her head about drunkenly, her birch hair brushing down her cream neck.

“Alright, look. Keep the money. Just tell me like, where’s a good synagogue or deli or something. A’right?”

Mendel ignored him.

“Hey! I asked you a question!” Abe hollered.

“Drop dead you bourgeois high school jerkoff!” said the hooker.

“Hey, you can’t talk to me like that you fuckin’ whore!” And all heads not confined to neck braces turned toward Abe, except Lori’s, who could not hear any of them over the loud jukebox.

“Wuddy say?!” asked one of the older customers with a gnarled hand cupped behind his useless ear.

LADY LUCK looked at her watch, upset that the bouncer wasn’t due in for another two hours. Mendel’s hand gripped his drink tightly but still he remained turned towards his date and away from Abe. Abe was by far the youngest, strongest, healthiest person in the bar.

“OK, OK, look, I’m sorry I said that. Alright?”

Mendel winced his eyes shut in prayer. The bartender threw two beers at Abe just to get him away from the customers at the bar. Abe’s pretense of virtue, rooted in some mythical Brooklyn where the first generation of American Jews grew up to be Gershwin and Heifetz, scattered quickly into his generation’s spoilt Long Island reality. Abe was mad at the people at the bar. But Lori’s grandparents, still seated hopefully in their kitchen in his head, shook their heads sadly and shamefully at Abe. And Abe couldn’t argue with them, especially now that their sleeves were rolled up. He took the beer back to Lori. He left the money on the bar.

“Look, I’m drunk,” he told her when he got back to the booth. “You wanna go?”

“Alright.”

As they were gathering their things, they were approached by Mendel’s date whose hard stare implored both of them to sit back down in their booth.

“You know your friend here,” she told Lori, “wanted to buy Jewish lessons from my uncle over there at the bar. But I think you should have it. I think you could find a better catch willing to blow $200 on you too, sweetheart.”

Lori looked through her bleary eyes at Mendel’s niece in delightful amazement. The woman liked Lori immediately because she could see that Lori had the good sense and class to avoid the mock empathy that most non-working girls threw her way. Then they both looked contemptuously at Abe.

Abe snatched the money from the hooker’s extended hand and said, “Christ!”

“Maybe that’s where you should go, kid,” the hooker said and traipsed back to Mendel at the bar.

Abe could feel Lori staring at him and he wanted to hide under the table. He wanted to punch the wall until his hands bled. He drew a deep breath and then turned toward Lori but she was gone. He looked around the place but it was just a regular Thursday evening. The light had gone off in Lori’s grandparents’ kitchen, too. He sucked down the beer he had gotten from LADY LUCK and then started in on Lori’s bottle.

How had it come to this? He was an inexperienced brooder but he was overcome by a horrible sadness, not only for his own loss but for the splintering of the collective identity of these people whom he considered his own. Boy, girl, Hassid, whore- weren’t they Jews above all? And wasn’t Abe an exemplary specimen of Jewish manhood, strong, handsome and rich? The specter of Lori’s grandparents now sat at his table, their sleeves rolled back down but their heads shaking heads back and forth. No one in his community ever shook their heads like that at their children. They got disappointed in their children just like anyone else, but not with such sadness.

Maybe if Abe had ever felt sheepish before, he wouldn’t have slept with nearly 50 women by the age of 24. But now he realized that all of the sparks of attraction he had felt with other girls that sent his penis toward them like a dart; all of the hours or weeks he spent with them angling, positioning, trussing them up for conquests had ill prepared him for his date with a nice Jewish girl. Deep down, Abe knew that with a girl as bright as Lori, manipulation and deceit were the only ways to prolong her inevitable rejection of him. Until when? Yes, it was true. Abe had been foolish enough to think that if he could just get her into bed, then she would love him despite their ultimate incompatibility. But, if they weren’t right for each other, why did he want her at all? Abe knew the answer to this, too. Lori was right for anybody. It was Abe who was wrong. Finally, her grandparents nodded.

Part II

The young reporter popped a fresh cigar into Abraham Lincoln’s mouth and lit it for him, careful not to singe his whiskers, which had become scraggly in the recent weeks since the election.

Lincoln puffed on it and grumbled out of the side of his mouth, “Thank you, Mr. Bellingsworth. Thank you, indeed.”

“Not at all, Mr. President. I assure you that the honor is entirely mine to have the opportunity to share my joy with our nation’s chief executive. A-hum! A-hum!” chuckled Bellingsworth, the buttons of his stiff white shirt glinting like silver coins as his fat belly heaved up and down with delight.

“Won’t you sit down, please?” invited Lincoln with a sweeping movement of his large, wood-colored right hand.

Bellingsworth quickly took up the flaps of his blazer and rushed his substantial posterior into the nearest chair. Seated, he delicately crossed one well-tailored pants leg over the other. Lincoln fell into the small wooden chair behind his desk and folded his big hands before him.

“Well, Mitchell-” began the President.

“Mitch, please, Mr. President,” said Bellingsworth. “If you’ll permit me to interrupt.”

“Little late for permission… Mitch. Hmm Hmm Hmm,” said Lincoln. Bellingsworth joined him in the riotous cackling, his whiskers puffing out as he rolled his head about his pillowy shoulders and, for the second time within a minute, the Oval Office was filled with the hearty cheer of the two boisterous men.

After a moment, Lincoln snapped his mouth shut while Bellingsworth continued to quake with delight. Lincoln waited patiently for Bellingsworth to calm down. While he waited, he mused to himself that Bellingsworth reminded him of an overheated stove on the brink of combustion. Finally, Bellingsworth regained control of himself and nodded formally to the President that he was ready to continue their meeting.

Lincoln decided to extend the informality a bit further so as to put Bellingsworth at ease. He asked, “So, what’s the delightful little scamp’s name?”

The reporter’s eyes glowed with pride that the President of the United States of America should take such an interest in his affairs, when it was he, Mitchell Stacey Bellingsworth, who was dispatched by his publisher to jot down a mere thirty minutes worth of Abraham Lincoln’s comments regarding his assumption of a second term of office. He summoned the finest timbre he could and purred out his favorite words in the world, “Victor Lamonte O’Hanagan Bellingsworth, Mr. President.”

“Alright. Damn fine name. Damn fine,” said Lincoln who, ever since amending the Constitution, had come under the impression that his opinion was valued in all matters. “Now, Mitch. Let’s get down to the railroad spikes. What would you like to talk about today?”

“Ah, well, Mr. President, I know your time is limited and I don’t want to rush uncomfortably into anything too blunt, but, that is, if we could discuss your policies with regard to a few of the recent tariffs, if it seems a reasonable thing for you… Well, Mr. President, ah, you see, several states, that is to say that you’d care to opine wherefore we might…”

The President’s eyes began narrowing suspiciously but Bellingsworth did not fall silent until one of Lincoln’s hands unfastened itself from the other and raised up like a paddle to halt his fumbling speech. Lincoln’s stern demeanor softened once again as he stood up and turned around. He twisted his head back towards the reporter and offered, “Drink, Mitch?”

“Oh,” stammered Bellingsworth. “Oh, hum, well. Well, certainly, Mr. President.”

“Please. Call me Abe.”

“Beg pardon? Oh, no. I couldn’t possibly… President Lincoln, perhaps... or maybe- um- that is- on the most chumly of occasions- Abraham. But, oh dear.”

“Nonsense,” said Lincoln as he turned back around to face Bellingsworth with two crystal bulbs of port in one hand, his cigar in the other. He slid one of the bulbs across the desk to Bellingsworth, hammered the ash off the tip of his cigar, sat back down and swung his enormous feet onto the desk. Tilting his drink towards the reporter, he said, “Mitchell. I want you to call me Illinois Abe. Alright? Now that’s an order. You’re a proud father and here we are hoisting better days ahead, toasting camaraderie and such and I’m asking you, man to man, to call me Illinois Abe. Now say it.”

Bellingsworth, aghast, shot back his port and on his rheumatic exhalation muttered, “Illinois Abe.”

“See?” said Lincoln as he leaned across his desk to refill Bellingsworth’s glass. “That wasn’t exactly a debate with Douglas, now was it? Now I’m going to sip my drink, remove my shoes and we’re going to pick up where we left off.”

Bellingsworth was dumfounded. He had interviewed Lincoln several times before and had heard at press functions of some of the strange tactics he had used upon younger, greener reporters than himself, but neither he, nor anyone else to his recollection, had never been confronted by two gigantic yellow feet propped upon the nation’s most prestigious desk, sharply undermining the quality of the world’s most hallowed office’s air. Again Bellingsworth referred to his crystal bulb and again the President slopped him more of the thick purple drink from the black bottle.

“What do you think of these socks, Mitchy?” asked the President, dangling the things over his desk. “My secretary, Mrs. Kennedy stitched them for me last winter. Man my size needs custom made everything. Even underbritches! Wanna see?”

“Really, Mr. Pres-”

“Oh, come on! Don’t be such a stick in the mud! And I’m not going to tell you again what you’re supposed to be calling me,” the President chided playfully as he lightly cuffed the journalist on his ample chin.

As Bellingsworth’s friend Marsh had noted during the campaign of 1860, Lincoln’s frequent attempts at gentle horseplay usually resulted in painful cracks and bruises. Bellingsworth rubbed his chin that throbbed with the privilege of such treatment as he remembered Marsh’s observations. He had watered his share of punch bowls and clogged his share of muskets during his days at Dartmouth. And, while a stickler for decorum and gentility, Bellingsworth had always been careful not to place himself above those whose regard for propriety was somewhat laxer than his own. For Bellingsworth understood that a lack of refinement was almost always (and certainly in the case of the sitting President) the result of a lack of opportunity. And yet, for the first time since becoming White House correspondent in mid-term of the Buchanan administration, Bellingsworth, like a child’s innocence being stabbed viciously by adulthood when he sees the first crack of fallibility in his parents, began to consider the possibility that Abraham Lincoln might be something of a boorish ass.

Despite his foppish stammerings, Bellingsworth’s composure had an epic threshold. So, as Lincoln arose from his chair and softly rounded the desk while unbuckling his vest, Bellingsworth calmly reached around the President’s slender waist and helped himself to another serving of port. After a moment of unfastening, Lincoln’s winglike hands were hooked around his hips and his pants sat loosely about his ankles.

Bellingsworth took a moment of his own to summon the timbre of voice that would not betray his shock before saying, “Well, Illinois Abe, I can see why you need bespoke underbritches.” Then, reaching onto the desk for his note pad and pen, Bellingsworth knocked over his empty glass. Its crash on the floor startled Lincoln and he hopped up in surprise. Because of the position of his trousers, he keeled over instead of landing on his bare feet. Bellingsworth quickly helped the President up, brushed some of the crystal shards from his bare thighs and set about sweeping up his mess with one of his shoes.

“One second, Mitch,” said Lincoln. “I’ve got an idea.” Lincoln pulled up his pants and made his way to a closet on the left side of the office. He returned with a small red bundle. “You know, Mitch. Sometimes being President is a lot like having a pregnant wife. It can get quite lonely, if you know what I mean,” he said, batting his eyes coquettishly at the journalist.

The blue in Bellingsworth’s blood boiled in astonishment of the President’s behavior. But, rather than allow himself to be carried away by his upper class sensibilities, the fourth estate in Bellingsworth began to wonder how much of this peculiar interview would make it into the morning papers. The entire country wondered how President Lincoln dealt with the loss of his own two sons. Was this it? As he daydreamed of the headlines, Lincoln approached him with the small bundle.

“Man my age, my size? Well, let’s just say you eventually learn how to fulfill your needs in the most precise of fashions,” Lincoln whispered into Bellingsworth’s ear as he removed the reporter’s blazer. “Oh now I can understand if you’re still locked in to the archaic ideal of love. Plenty of men in your station are. Especially the new fathers, all humbled by the frailty of new life, marvelling at the vague lightening of infantile comprehension, the gray strands of electricity wandering from synapse to vein, searching for a connection of bio-logic. And then some are not. Shall I name them for you? Oh not that you belong in the same pile of conquests with those other louts. I’ve always cherished the moments you and I have spent together here. Anyway, as I was saying, sometimes the rush of war-“

“War?”

“Yes the cut and thrust of battle, the marching formations of men. It can whip up such a lust in a man that one simple evening in the company of an old-fashioned prude like Mary Todd just doesn’t do the trick. I swear to you, Mitchy, that woman belongs in a goddamn convent!”

Bellingsworth shivered beneath the grasp of Lincoln’s hands, one of which crept around and began unfastening the buttons of his shirt.

“Illinois Abe, might I be so bold as to request a new receptacle for your delicious port?”

“Not until you’ve cleaned up the remains of your first one, big boy.”

And with that, Lincoln tore Bellingsworth’s shirt from his back, balled up the stiff white linen and tossed it aside. He forced the shorter man down onto his hands and knees before the littered pieces of glass. Then, with a flourish, Lincoln whipped the red bundle into its full expanse and draped it across Bellingsworth’s shoulders. Had the reporter glanced up for a moment, he would have seen the flash of the Stars and Bars as they came swooping down on him like a spangled insect. Lincoln had also donned his stovepipe hat, which clung miraculously to his large skull.

Although Bellingsworth was already prone, shamefully huddled under the confederate flag, Lincoln issued the orders, “Now on your knees, boy! Clean up that mess! Whoop-dee-daw!”

All of the private tutors and gourmet meals and lolling about the mahogany furniture of Europe’s finest salons that had sailed through Mitchell Bellingsworth’s life in such a splendid stream of pageantry so that he may, among other things, keep his dignity firmly intact under the most bizarre of circumstances, flitted away like smoke in the rain. Were he sober enough to be conscious of his thought process, he would have been surprised by the enthusiasm with which he fell to his duty. When the spanking began, he welcomed it as if his backside had throbbed coldly with neglect until the President’s merciful attendance.

“Come on now, boy!” yowled Lincoln. “Ever last crumb!” And he straddled Bellingsworth and began riding him around the Oval Office, tugging on the man’s ears and scooping behind him for turgid fistfuls of flesh. Bellingsworth panted and groaned and shuttled the President around his desk, awaiting his next delicious humiliation.

“Giddap, you fat floozy! Giddap!”

But then suddenly, Bellingsworth’s hand mashed down on an object that sent a fierce pain charging all up his arm and into his chest. This sensation put his quivering body over the edge and, after the dam had broken, he rocked to one side to get his hand off of the burning cigar. Lincoln toppled from his saddle, taking Bellingsworth over with him in the vice grip of his five-miles-to-school thighs. Bellingsworth licked his hand and squirmed his behind towards the President for more contact. And all the while, the cigar beckoned him to remember little Victor Lamonte.

Breathless, the two men embraced on the floor, Bellingsworth’s girth a worthy match for the span of Lincoln’s condorlike arms. Bellingsworth snuggled his bald head into the thick whiskers of Lincoln’s chin and sighed exhaustedly. Lincoln hardly seemed tired at all. In fact his caresses seemed perfunctory, as if he would take his leave the moment he was sure it wouldn’t hurt the reporter’s feelings, and even that consideration was rapidly fading.

“Oh, Illinois Abe,” said Bellingsworth.

Lincoln smiled craftily, unseen by Bellingsworth as he figured out how to escape from the journalist’s pudgy reach. “Mitchy?”

“Yes, Illinois Abe?”

“Congratulations again on the birth of your son. I’m sure you and the wife are beaming with pride.”

The wife. Bellingsworth looked ahead in terror at the thought of returning to bed with little Victor Lamonte’s mother, a woman he had known since his boarding school days. She may not have been Mary Todd Lincoln, but how in the world would she react to his plump behind wriggling around her in the hopes that she might just brush against it accidentally? Was she an astute enough lover to distinguish his theatrical sighs from his involuntary shudders? And how would he react when, thrashing through the sheets towards her while the dawn gently overtook heaven’s blackness, he learned of her indifference towards him; of her distant routine that he had been buying as genuine intimacy all these years? It was too much to bear and only one solution presented itself- spend more time with the Lincolns. And as he loosed himself from the bony tangle of limbs and beard and stood up, he searched his mind for the first opportunity for a get together with Illinois Abe and Mary Todd. And then, as he was unballing his shirt, he recalled that the wife and he had extra tickets to the new production of Our American Cousins.

#Sexy Abe #Lincoln #Judaism #short story #Shuman #Fiction

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