Anyone ready for more?
*****
Part Four
Reclining in his chair, Hendrix took a long drag from his cigarette. The canvas of the army tent did its best to keep the heat out, but it wasn’t much use. Inside, the heat from the relaxing men mingled with the jungle, the canvas serving only to trap it with the clouds of tobacco and reefer smoke. Exhaling slowly, Hendrix spied an approaching MP. The man marched across the tent, heading straight towards him. Plucking the cigarette from his mouth, he leaned forward as the MP arrived.
“Hendirx, Jimi?” the man said simply. Hendrix gave him a simple nod. “You are to report to the commander’s tent, immediately.” Sighing, Jimi extinguished the cigarette in the ash tray beside him, rising from his seat. Wordlessly, the MP led the way for the conscripted rock star. Hendrix could already tell this would be another hopeless endeavor that he would need to save the army from. As they arrived at the large tent, the MP stepped aside, holding the tent flap open.
Stepping inside, Hendrix found the interior largely deserted. Only one man sat in the room, a quill in one hand and a sheet of paper in the other. He was an older man, dressed in a fine, silk waistcoat, as well as a pair of breeches and stockings. On his collar was a small, metal pin of the American flag, marked with an eagle clutching a great serpent in its talons. As the tent flap closed behind Hendrix, the man looked up at the new comer, giving Hendrix a clear view of the man’s face. His face was rounded and soft, a pair of spectacles resting on the bridge of his nose. Although his receding hairline left him with a great expanse without hair, what hair remained was shock white and reached down to his shoulders. Glancing up from his writing, he lowered his spectacles slightly, “Jimi Hendrix, I presume?”
Nodding, Hendrix stepped towards the man, “I know you. I’ve seen you before.” Chuckling, the man pulled a green piece of paper from his coat.
“Of course, you likely recognize me from my picture.” He said with a chuckle, handing Hendrix the hundred dollar bill.
“Benjamin Franklin?” Hendrix said with a roll of his eyes. Bringing up the dollar bill, he compared the two faces. The man in the room was in far better shape than the one printed on the paper, but otherwise, the resemblance was striking.
“Is this some kind of joke?” Hendrix snapped, crossing his arms.
“I assure you, my appearance here is no laughing matter.” The man rose from his chair, drawing a handful of photographs from his coat pocket, “America needs your help, Mr. Hendrix.”
Snorting, Hendrix motioned to their surroundings, “What do you think I’m doing here?”
“No Mr. Hendrix, this is a matter of grave importance. This war, as tragic as it may be, can wait. This,” he said, placing the photographs on the table, “Can not.” Taking a step towards the table, Hendrix picked up one of the photographs. In it, a man wearing a tall stove-pipe hat stood beside a wall, his hand pressed against it to keep himself propped upright. His face was cleanly shaved, even in the distant photo, it was plain to see that there wasn’t even a hint of stubble.
“Someone has stolen Lincoln’s beard. More worrying, it has not grown back. Normally, we would have to wait but a few moments and then he would have returned to his majestic appearance. This time, there is nothing. No hair, no stubble, not even the faint hairs of a peach’s skin.” Franklin said darkly.
Carefully, Hendrix inspected the images. The other photographs showed the same weakened man. His form was hunched over, his body hardly able to support its lanky frame. In some pictures, he had to be propped up by soldiers, or against various objects, but one thing was clear: whoever was in the photographs was suffering greatly.
“And this is supposed to be Lincoln? Abraham Lincoln?” Hendrix said, throwing the photographs back on the table, “What is all this? Who are you, really?”
“I have told you the truth and nothing else. I am a member of the American Action Heroes, as was Lincoln here. However, after his beard was stolen, we are in need of a third member. He disappeared shortly after we discovered him clean shaven. Whoever has stolen his beard would be powerful indeed and we will need your help to stop whatever plans they may have.” Franklin eased himself back into his seat, resting hands on his lap.
Holding up his hands, Hendrix took a step back, “Hang on, just a minute. How are you supposed to be alive? And Lincoln too? You two have been dead for more than a few years.”
Sighing, Franklin took his spectacles off, resting them on the table beside him as electricity began to crackle within his eyes, “You see, Mr. Hendrix, mastery over lightning changes a man in rather fundamental ways.” The power flowed outwards from his eyes, lifting his hair upright, arcs of electricity flashing out in each direction. In his eyes, the intensity grew, pupils shining white from the power hidden behind them. With a flick of his wrist, a bolt of lightning flew from his fingertips, scorching a great hole in the ground.
“As for Lincoln,” he said, reclaiming his glasses, “The man is simply the picture of health, so long as his beard remains intact. As it is, he is fading quickly and we are unsure how much longer he may be counted among the living. Which is why we need your help.”
Nodding, Hendrix took a seat beside the table, “So, do you have any leads?”
Smiling, Franklin withdrew another photograph from his pocket, handing it to Hendrix. In it was another picture of Lincoln, this time sitting at the edge of his bed. On the head board, the words “We shall rise again! The Lesser People shall be expunged!” had been carved into the wood.
“At first, we had suspected Jefferson Davis had returned. However, we are now led to believe it is someone far more powerful. Our inspection of the site has revealed a powerful item was used to shave Lincoln, however we cannot be certain as to just what item would be able to perform such a feat. At the moment, we suspect it may have been a great sorcerer, though the only one who would have been able to perform such a feat would have been-“
“Adolf Hitler.” Hendrix finished Franklin’s thought.
“Quite. However, one Joseph Stalin made quite certain he was dead. It was also verified by a General Patton and Franklin Delano Roosevelt.” Franklin recalled the information easily. Waving his hand, Franklin did his best to disturb the stagnant air within the tent, “In any case, we should retire to better lodgings than these. I must say that I am not fond of this unseemly weather.”
Stepping out of the tent, Hendrix turned back to Franklin, “Are you sure Hitler was killed? He didn’t escape?”
Chuckling to himself, Franklin looked at the much younger man, “Perhaps you should ask one of the witnesses yourself.” Smoothing out his hair, Franklin called out, “Oh Delano, we could do with transportation.”
A great grinding of steel of steel rang out through the jungle, sending animals racing to escape the source of the phantasmal sounds. It roared towards them, growing louder and louder with each passing moment. Hendrix stared at the source of the sound, however he did not see trees topple, nor feel the earth shake beneath his feet as he had imagined he would. Instead, he could only mark the progress of the sound by the movement of the jungle animals.
Suddenly, a great fiery carriage erupted from the treeline, skewing to a halt before Hendrix and Franklin. It was massive, towering over the two men at nearly four times their height. Its wheels had the appearance of black fire, each serving to support a long, single cabin. At the fore of the carriage was a massive pair of wheels, each nearly the height of the carriage itself. Seated atop these wheels was a tall, slender man, dressed in a simple black suit. His hair was slicked back, keeping it free of his soft eyes. He turned back to look at the two men, the sun shining through his wavering form, “Nice to finally meet you Mr. Hendrix, care for a ride?”
If I can get my ass in gear, I'll probably have the next one up around noonish.
