67. Reagan vs Lincoln XII: Permit Me

“The winner,” Taft repeated, “the winner…”

He gulped, staring at the countless faces in the stands, each of them making the same, dumbfounded expression he had.

“…the winner,” Taft continued, puffing out his chest, “is [The Platinum Star], Ronda Regan!”

Thompson stared at the arena. She picked up her mic, put it down, then picked it up again.

“I…” she stammered, “…I don’t believe it folks! We all knew Rushmore had to fall eventually, but I never expected it to happen in round one!”

“It…it was a close match,” Truman added, his own voice quivering slightly. “Lincoln was on the cusp of victory, but Reagan managed to take him down in the third act.”

Reagan breathed deeply, staring at Lincoln with a blank expression, then raised her arms into the air with a triumphant smile.

“Yesssss!” she screamed at the top of her lungs. She stood still, waiting for the greatest ovation of her career.

But there were no cheers. Instead, the crowed met her with a dark silence mixed with a pool of conflicting emotions.

“This is ridiculous!” someone finally shouted, “Reagan obviously cheated!”

“What are you talking about?” another exclaimed, “Reagan won ‘cause she’s the better fighter!”

“Reagan’s a crook!”

“Lincoln’s a washed-up has-been!”

Arguments erupted across the stands as friends screamed at friends and brothers fought against brothers. Reagan twitched her eyes.

“Stop this…” she muttered underneath her smile. “Look at me…all of you, just shut up and look at me!”

Reagan flinched as Lincoln rose behind her, his towering, somber frame instantly silencing the rowdy audience. He looked to Reagan with a grim expression, then turned to the audience.

“…let’s hear it,” he screamed as he lifted Reagan’s arm into the air, “for our winner!”

The crowd remained quiet, unsure of how to react.

Finally, the silence was broken by a slow, methodical applause from Grant, followed by a series of claps from the remaining Presidents. More hands joined into the chorus until the entire stadium ultimately erupted into a unified cheer.

Reagan looked across the stadium, basking in the warmth of the spotlight, then turned to Lincoln.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Lincoln gave her a friendly pat, then headed out the arena. He stepped through the entranceway, tipping his hat at the familiar face waiting for him there.

“That was one heck of an exit,” Douglas sneered as he walked towards her.

“I’ve had plenty of practice losing fights,” Lincoln said with a smile, “it’s only natural for my shameless exits to be perfected by now.”

Douglas rolled her eyes.

“I see you’re still using humor to deflect away from the pain that you’re feeling.”

Lincoln gave a shrug.

“I can’t say I’m not disappointed, but as the old saying goes: what is to be, will be, and no prayers of ours can arrest the decree.”

Lincoln looked back, watching Reagan as she gave another bow to the audience.

“And just like the sayings of old, I too shall be forgotten as a new generation of Presidents steps forward to lead our nation. And though I now sink out of view, I believe I have made some marks which will remain long after I—”

Lincoln suddenly stumbled back as the remains of Reagan’s poison poured through him.

Douglas lunged ahead, supporting Lincoln’s back and catching his hat before it hit the ground.

“Thank you, Douglas.” Lincoln stood up and reached for his hat, but Douglas retracted it into her chest.

“Permit me, sir, to take at least this much weight off your head.” She looked him in the eyes. “I’m certain your burden is a heavy one, even if you refuse to show it.”

Lincoln’s lip quivered, then straightened out as he wiped a hand across his cheek.

“…thank you, Douglas…I appreciate it.”

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Douglas and Lincoln. During his inaugural address, Abraham Lincoln awkwardly held onto his large stove pipe hat until Stephen Douglas stepped in and said “permit me sir” as he took the hat and held it the rest of the speech.