Information

LINCOLNLOOKER

The Bloodred Aeanoid
Owner: boy

Age: 2 years, 2 weeks

Born: April 11th, 2022

Adopted: 2 years, 2 weeks ago

Adopted: April 11th, 2022

Nominate Pet for Spotlight

Statistics

• Level: 9
   
• Strength: 10
   
• Defense: 10
   
• Speed: 14
   
• Health: 10
   
• HP: 10/10
   
• Intelligence: 0
   
• Books Read: 0
• Food Eaten: 0
• Job: Unemployed

CW: violence, suffering, politics

True patriots speak truth to power.

Those liberals might have power, but they damn well can’t handle truth if it were served all pretty-like in a three-course meal.

I might not be the politest messenger–it’d be a rare day that if I was someone’s favorite person–but I’ll keep it nice and real; for a two for one deal, I’ll even throw you a nice and real right hook if those libs keep talkin’ their nonsense. I’ve punched some sense into a man more than once and, god, I’d be raring to do it again.

Me and my family, we were well enough off without these silly performative political shakeups; we might not’ve been the most clean-cut, but the work was honest enough. The mob might work under the table, but the libs are just as guilty of as much, if not more, dirty dealings. We didn’t need those new-fangled reforms then, we don’t need them now–and if others can’t make it in the world without supreme hand-holding, they weren’t cut out for it, too weak to be a true American. Struggle is part of our tradition; we are the mixing pot because of our shared experiences bootstrapping through tough times and holding steadfast to our values.

Robert Kennedy is nothing but a con man; he’s diluting the god-loving American spirit with his politics. The nation can lick the boots of the Kennedy dynasty, but they’re nothing special–god, why does no one see that? They can parade these cheap freedoms all they want, but it’s all for show; they’re seeding a rot at the heart of the nation, cheapening the success of past hard-working Americans, success garnered without countless safety nets. This, this right here, is a blight on the country.

Worst of all, no one realizes it–hedonistic fools, the lot of them. The libs don’t deserve power; they waste it, squander it. If anything, they ought to be ousted; I’d bet we could take it by force. They wouldn’t see it coming; they’re too busy fawning over their agenda to expect a real fight.

I know damn well I’m not only one who feels this way. I might not be a liked person, but my political message is liked well enough. Those in conservative circles laud my words, tell me that I might be one of the only people who could truly challenge Kennedy, the shining knight golden boy of the Democrats.

He just curdles my blood and, goddamn, do I love a challenge.

Just put me on air–get me on the radio show. I’ll give the people a piece of mind, rally them to this cause–

James Dean was their start, but this can’t go on; Americana itself is in danger. The liberal establishment needs to fall.

That man–nothing but a talking head, a self-serving political pundit with no tact on his tongue–wasn’t even reported missing.

We took him out–that pretentious crock of political nonsense–to secure the welfare of the people and insure domestic tranquility. All in a day’s work, a welcome break from watching monitors and filing reports.

To the people, he simply vanished; he became a vague ghoul of political rage, a shape with neither face nor name. Once offscreen and off the air, his identity blurred into the new ones who jumped to take his place.

No rebellion rose in his wake, no inquiries followed in his name. A few forums speculated about a hush-hush execution, but no action was taken. The 48-hour time window came and went; days turned to weeks and, even still, the silence followed.

A shame really–he was so dedicated to his cause.

But ain’t that the truth: a political voice can squawk they want, but they come and go.

They are oh-so-replaceable.

The suits, the suits, the goddamn suits. King Kennedy’s lackeys and goons.

Those filthy cowards came in the night. Picked my locks, kicked in the door with ballistics shields at the ready.

It must’ve been the liberals, couldn’t have been anyone else.

I can still feel the hands at my shirt collar, throwing me back against the wall. The wind knocked from my lungs as I scrabble back to my feet, only to meet a swift and well-placed kick that knocked to the carpeted floor. The taste of copper on my tongue as I coughed blood onto the carpet, the red pooling starkly against the beige. The sick-sweet smell of the rag clamped over my nose and mouth. The vague sensation of the world spinning as I struggle not to inhale. The gasp of breath when physical necessity wins. The black that draws me deep into its fold. The nothing that follows.

Damn them and their bastardized utopia. How could they treat me like this, a born and raised proud American? How could they go against the basic principles of what the nation is built on, those sacred rights of free speech, petition, and assembly?

How dare they?

My people will come for me; they are nothing without me, without my guidance. There’s a reason why I rose so fast within our political conversations, why they called me the Voice of the Right, a foremost activist of traditional values.

They will know what happened. They will see beyond the political machinations, see what a corrupt and heinous establishment rules over America.

My side is tender from the kick; I’m conscious of it with every breath I take. Bag over my head, I buck in the trunk of the van, struggling against the restraints tying my hands behind my back. My foot hits a padded wall with a muffled thunk. The surfaces of the handcuffs–cool to the touch–are completely rigid. They dig into my skin unforgivingly as I strain against them.

Metal. I sigh inwardly, try to pull my hands through the cuffs to no avail.

I keep squirming, but still get nowhere. I hear a door slide open; someone quickly sidles in and turns me onto my stomach, planting a tactical-geared knee into the middle of my back and jabbing a needle into my neck.

I can feel the drug fogging up my thoughts, dragging me under.

The vehicle continues moving forward, the tires rumbling over miles of road. My indignance putters out quick, gives way to muddled resignation.

My mind, growing every hazier, muses to itself. Wonder where this is going.

My prone body bounces off the cool concrete-feeling floor. That’ll leave some bruises, I’ll bet.

In my drugged state, I don’t have the strength to struggle, to fight back. I feel hands heft me into a new space, carelessly shove a plastic mask over my face. The plastic squashes against my mask as someone unseen straps it down over the top of my face and below my jaw. The fastenings are some kind of unknown behind my head and hold the mask steadfastly to my face.

I muster up a squawk of a shout, which earns me another kick in the side. Cowed, I yelp in pain before instinctively curling up.

They give me no rest, no reprieve, no mercy.

They hoist me up and then shove me down into a kneeling position; I flop loosely in their grip. They secure me to the ground so I stay kneeled, hands restrained behind my back. I face a wall with a narrow eye-level horizontal slit that looks into an unknowable nothing.

A tube is jammed into deep into my mouth. I gag as a bitter slop-like paste pours out of it. There’s no choice but to swallow. My body fights me as it travels down my throat and into my body.

Another day, another Lincolnlooker.

Traditionally, we’d only be torturing one of these saps under the Lincoln Monument, but these are hardly precedented times. If anything, the Lincolnlooking process has churned out progressively more… reformed individuals.

We’ve come so far in so little time post-James Dean, one of the greatest American leaders the world’s seen. In response to radical progressive change, right-wing dissidents have gotten too bold; they crop up like angry weeds and resort to disruptive, drastic measures. The violence they espouse and incite is self-destructive–no less destructive than our means.

Truth is, even the political right wanted to put this dangerous dipshit down; he made plenty of bigwigs all around nervous with his blazing rhetoric and seditious ramblings.

We all sleep easier tonight without him walking about; I’ll call that justified enough.

Besides, it’s vaguely satisfying to watch his transformation–Lincoln mask on and all. It’s a poetic kind of justice: if the right wants to staunchly claim Lincoln, they can go down with his face over theirs.

Time blurs in this unending darkness.

There’s a routine, but it services bare necessities–if even that: tube down the throat, gruelish slop that follows, the heavy blood draws and the deep fatigue accompanying. Every fiber of my being wishes to give out and flop on the floor, but the restraints keep me kneeling. The skin ulcerations that develop on my legs stay open to air, oozing; I can feel the rank discharge trickle outward from the wounds, mixing with the rank wastes all around me.

I live, but it’s a faint, flickering life. I am hollowed out, the hunger pangs failing to rally food for my empty stomach before going silent themselves. I’m left alone to sluggish thought, the faintest figment of humanity.

I know I’m at their mercy–it’s easier to bear if I close my eyes.

But the opening in the wall beckons me to watch, its black nothingness devoid of any promise.

I can’t look away.

It’s like a morbid fascination: everything screams to close my eyes, to turn away.

Yet I keep looking.

I keep watching, as if in a trance.

A madness follows.

You don’t notice at first, but it’s almost like the fabric of reality goes fuzzy at the edges. The distortions jump in and out of view–you dismiss them first as floaters, but they become undeniably not that as they skitter about disrupting your vision.

You don’t know how long it takes for you to go deeply, truly mad.

You see in the eldritch rift tear open from the slit in the wall, see the horrid, massive creature emerge forth.

It is an amalgamous being, its main body squat and wreathed in tentacles. An “upper body” is blobbish with a collection of multi-colored and un-uniformly sized eyes skitter about to focus their gaze on you; some of them never fully focus and instead wildly swing in different direction. Its reddish skin is shiny-slick and fibrously textured–it bears almost too much resemblance to exposed muscle. This skin openly weeps rivulets of bodily fluid–some are clear discharge, but others are very clearly blood.

It eerily caresses your face–your masked face, the filth of tears and grime and remnant slop caked beneath its plastic facade–with a grotesque appendage, a tentacle almost.

You–disgusting, disheveled, dehumanized you–flinch away as much as you can, horrified and so fearful of the vision before you. Even in your state, you comprehend the monstrosity before you.

You hear a voice from the creature. Another morsel for our–

The disjointed voice is jarring, nothing short of shudder-inducing; its intimidating cadence crackles at the bounds of reality itself.

You know not what it is. You only know that it should not exist.

But there’s nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.

It wraps you into its tentacles, pulls itself into you as you panickedly wriggle in your restraints–a futile struggle till the end.

Subsumed into the beast, you struggle to stay afloat from the cacophonous scream of infernal voices. The racket threatens to pull you into itself, scramble you until you’re nothing but an extension of it.

The pain–oh, oh the pain. It pulls at every fiber of your being, threatening to disperse every molecule of you in every which direction.

The voices are frenetic, frantic, blood-curdling in their piercing cries.

Many voices gibber in unknowable words, in languages neither of your dimension nor your time. But other voices are undeniably human, the shrieking screams too disturbingly familiar, too loud in your ears.

Before long, you join in their discordant chorus, reduced to your screams and your shrieks.

The beast drags itself away from where the victim once knelt, its hunger sated for the time being.

It meets a wall, feels at it with its tentacles. As if dissatisfied, it wavers in its course before choosing to clamber up the wall.

The ceiling of the chamber poses it no obstacle.

The beast slowly phases through, wriggling its way up toward the surface–

–and somewhere, up above…

A fleshy red tentacle punches out from behind the Lincoln Memorial, meeting the open DC air.

---

photograph from freepik
writting by Tribe
profile & graphics by boy
a tribute pet to Monument Mythos by ALEXKANSAS