Brittney went upstairs to ask her husband a question. She found him sitting on their bed and watching a football game on television. “Honey, how would you like to go to a movie tonight?”

“You know I don’t go to theaters!” Abraham Lincoln yelled.

Dr. Horton entered the room and took a deep breath. “There’s been a slight mix-up. We accidentally replaced some of your plasma with plasma.”

Brownell frowned. “I’m not following.”

Across the hall, nurses rushed into another room.

“You’re familiar with the plasma in your blood?” Dr. Horton said.

“Not really. I know there is such a thing.”

“Well, this plasma is different.”

“Different like it’s from a different person?”

“Different like it’s a completely different substance with the same name.”

Lincoln—that cocky bastard, he thought. Look at him. Sitting there. So sure of himself. Long legs crossed confidently, black stovepipe hat in his lap. Lean angular head slightly bent, tilted to one side. As if pondering some great thought when really he’s just trying to catch the conversation going on behind the door.

It was so convenient being Lincoln, thought William. So… unoriginal. Like a still life of a fruit basket.

“I’m so proud to stand before you after yet another year of increased profits. At this rate there is not a single competitor who can claim any more than 6% of the market share. The team that sits before me is the sole reason for this. It is your hard work, your extreme dedication, your attention to detail and inability to let anything, regardless of how small it may be, slide that allows us to grow while the rest of the market slows. With this team in place, their is no way we can fail. Now, do we have any… ah yes I can see a hand raised already, that’s what I like to see. You have a question?”

On a day there was a man. And on that day that man had an idea…a rotten idea. It involved taking a goldfish—a live one, not the snack—and placing it in his bottom. And not just one. As many as he could muster.