Let's try a penny
first. No sense wasting a whole nickel, you reason. You dig a penny out
of your pocket and prepare to drop it into the alien blood. As you wind
up to make this drop a drop to remember, you stop for a moment to
consider the penny you've selected for the job.
The penny is so
blackened with filthy that you can barely make out the visage of Honest
Abe, and the only way you could tell it was a penny when you grabbed it
out of your pocket was because it was too small to be a quarter or a
nickel, and you make it a point to never carry dimes. Lousy FDR and his
"New Deal." You never even agreed to the Old Deal! Anyway, you wonder
for a moment if it would be wise to use such a dirty coin. Who knows
what kind of reaction you could get from the impurities on the penny. On
the other hand, you don't really feel like doing a lot of extra
coin-washing. Whatever happens, you reason, it couldn't possibly be that
bad. Lincoln would never allow it. You toss the penny into the blood.
Before you can reassure yourself that everything is going to be ok, the
blood starts to boil itself into a froth. The orange mess expands along
the table and starts to gain height. A lot of height. Maybe this wasn't
such a good idea. The foamy orange mass reaches a height of more than
nine feet (just over three meters, for our international readers), and
then stops just as suddenly as it started. Before the shock can wear
off, the foam begins to recede, leaving behind a towering copper
likeness of former president Abraham Lincoln!
He is a little dirty,
though. Probably a side effect of the crud on the coin. Still, pretty
schnazzy. As you contemplate where you can fit a Lincoln statue in your
den, the statue creaks to life! This is even more incredible than it was
a few seconds ago, you think excitedly. It's just like Clash of the
Titans, except he's made out of copper, and he's Lincoln and not some
Greek guy, and there aren't any oiled Mediterranean men around. You step
forward and ask the tottering automaton for his autograph. Instead, he
gives you a firm handshake. And by "handshake," I mean he puts his hand
around your neck and shakes you violently.
"Help me, Dr. Dolph!" you manage to scream.
Of course, Lundgren had enough sense to avoid going with you, and the
only answer you get to your plea is an impassive stare from a mountain
goat. The goat finishes the clump of grass it was eating and bounds off
into the distance. Good, he's probably going to get help. Lincoln,
however, has other plans:
"Must return to Illinois," he growls in a flat, metallic voice.
And so your journey beings, being dragged along by an unstoppable metal
Lincoln as he makes his way to Illinois, the Land of Lincoln. By the
time he finally reaches the flat, near featureless landscape of
Illinois, his copper fingers have "emancipated" you from life.
