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Abraham Lincoln: Unconventional Renesmee Killer

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It had been one month since the birth of Renesmee James Button. Renesmee was not like other girls. She had inherited the backwards-aging button gene from her father Cole, the vampirical button gene from her great-uncle Abraham, and the Indian gene from her father Rahul. As it was, Renesmee was born a 25-year-old half-Indian vampire with long blonde locks inherited from Jim Treliving.


Currently, Renesmee was playing at the park with Sherlock and John. They were pushing her down the slide and catching her at the bottom. You see, ever since not being named her godparents, they had harboured a jealous rage and were determined to win the love of both her and her fathers. They hoped that one day they would claim their rightful role as her godparents.




Meanwhile, Abraham perched on the edge of his couch, polishing his candlestick with his enemy’s tears. “My precious...” he growled ferociously, his manimalistic instincts rising up inside of him. He was a handsome ex-president possessed as he got down on all fours and galloped to the window, the well-polished candlestick abandoned on the floor. Looking out of the window, he could see Renesmee at the park, playing on the slide with Sherlock and John. If only he could find a way to get Renesmee to enter the kitchen, so he could kill her with a candlestick, in the kitchen!


He had been replacing all the old billboards this week, sending subliminal messages to Renesmee and her caregivers. The seductive call of kitchen portraits and the words, ‘Don’t you feel like going in the kitchen?’ spelled out in gorgeous colourful scrawl had to be working. Abraham would avenge Jimmy’s death and Jim Treliving’s betrayal by murdering Jim’s only grandchild if it was the last thing he did, even if that grandchild was Abraham’s only great-niece. Most nights, he could hardly stifle his fiery vengeance as he perched on his couch, fervently polishing. It had been hard, recently, to keep his rag wet with the tears of his enemies, since things had been so happy around Baker Street. He’d had to enter Chazz’s room at night and slip eye drops into his sleepy eyes to collect the dripping tears. What a hard life he lived. Abraham often said to himself, “WHAT IS THIS LIFE!”, struggling to comprehend why bad things always happen to Brad.


But nonetheless, Abraham’s exaction would be put into motion as soon as possible. Exacting revenge had turned out to take longer than he had originally planned the first time, and now Abraham wasn’t sure how long this would take. He had been perched on the couch for two months, and hadn’t eaten for five. Sighing deeply, Abraham settled down for a long South Dakotan sleep, visions of candlesticks dancing though his head.




Since the death of Jimmy, Chazz hadn’t been the same. He often awoke in the middle of the night with tears in his eyes, craving the Moaning Roberts that he’d been drowning his sorrows in since Jimmy’s death. On this particular night, he awoke with a fiery vengeance. Taking note of the billboards outside his window, he chuckled fondly, “I must go to the kitchen ASAP.” Once there, he mixed himself a Moaning Robert and reflected on the past two months. He’d been trying to throw himself into his godparenting role, but was finding it increasingly difficult under the scrutinous eyes of Sherlock Holmes and Gay Lover Dr. John H. Watson, who always took Renesmee whenever they could and made open threats to Chazz. They’d often “teased” him about murdering him or hiring a malaria hitman to finish him off, and although they were supposedly jokes, Chazz could sense the serious undertones in their words.


Unfortunately, Cole and Rahul were never around to witness these threats. Cole was working on both selling patriotic skates and digging (archaeologically), and Rahul had fled to Tuscany. You see, Rahul had been floating on air! He’d given birth last month to a 25 year-old half-Indian vampire with long, blonde locks. But in spite of all this excitement, something truly detestable happened after the birth. When Rahul saw that his daughter, Renesmee, had been born as a 25 year-old half-Indian vampire with long, blonde locks, he balked and ran to the nearest St. Lawrence river coast. Rahul promptly dove into the nearby St. Lawrence river waters and never stopped swimming until he reached Tuscany, Italy. The last anyone had heard from him, he’d moved in with Melanie Button and was attempting to gracefully transition back to being a straight man.


So Chazz suffered quietly alone in his apartment, having lost three friends in the past few months. He hadn’t been able to activate the power of his friendship in too long. He used to wake up happy, knowing that Jim, Sherlock, and Gay Lover Dr. John H. Watson would be there to brighten his day. But now, Jim lay dead underground and the two detectives were obsessed with replacing Chazz as godparent, and constantly antagonized him. Chazz fixed himself Moaning Robert after Moaning Robert as he thought about what the future may have in store for him. He still wore the friendship bracelet on his wrist, a painful reminder of his tormented past, and what he now had to live without. Not a day went by when he didn’t crave someone to roast weenies with or beat in a deep game of Stella Ella Ola.


Presently, Chazz stared out his kitchen window, drunk off Moaning Robert after Moaning Robert. In the distance, he could see the two notoriously gay detectives playing with Renesmee on the swings. They’ve been out there for hours... he thought suspiciously. It’s the middle of the night... that doesn’t even make sense. While peering through the window, he caught sight of Abraham’s elusive kitchen billboards once again, and felt the urge to exit the kitchen and re-enter the kitchen. Those billboards really WERE effective. He sighed deeply, and, in his drunken stupor, passed out for a long South Dakotan forty winks.