Nelson Wheete-Glass was the package deal, the right stereotypes of a racist man cramped in. He was the sheriff of Dadetown, twenty plus years and still counting. The moustache on him, and his short height and aging skin could only inform Lincoln that the man was on his way to his fifties. The short man with a heavy beer gut had Lincoln in the cell, staring down at the seated albino with a cup of cold brew at hand. "Well, boy..."

Lincoln looked up from the ground, not keen to talk to the lawman.

"Ran your fingerprints," Wheete-Glass croaked away, "but found only one match, and it isn't even right- No siree bob, that shit don't look right. Who is Lincoln Loud to you?"

What- The- Damn it! They just had to be this smart! Lincoln would kick himself for being such a sloppy person trying not to be.

"It might just be system error running ground, this Loud person is not even a teenager yet, and you're clearly a man. I ought to see the tech guys about this, I reckon."

Fucking Christ, this close to a heart attack.

"But you have nothing else," Wheete-Glass continued. "Not a damn thing we can tag you with. You, you're a ghost. Government plaything, maybe?"

"It would behoove you to release me, you cannot hold me-"

The fat sheriff broke into a laugh of great wheezing. "That's where you're wrong! You've shot a man in cold blood, numerous witnesses have written the statements, it's all here-"

"Beg to differ," Lincoln countered, standing up and grabbing the cell bars, meeting Wheete-Glass face forward. "You don't have the full story yet. I can certainly say I feel justified, the man comes in and attacks a close... Friend of mine while we were in Patrick Matthews' office. You know the town, so you must know him. Talk to him already so that you can let me out and on my way."

Wheete-Glass only stood observing him, trying to catch him break contact, a sign that he was bluffing- But no, Lincoln was being a truther, and the sheriff had nothing on that. "Alright... I'll call my friend Pat from up-top-"

Friend?

"He and I go way back, he'd never lie to me."

Lincoln narrowed his eyes with faint suspicion. There would best not be any lying...

"Hang in there, ghost man," Wheete-Glass eased. "I'll get you a book or something."

Huh... I've never been to jail before. I mean sure, Site fucking Prime the Alliance built was a prison, but this was authentic jail, the real deal. Nothing to do, it was like that time we've been on quarantine for COVID-19 in 2020. Oh yeah, that shit is going to happen again, and the same people are going to die. I can't do anything about that, but I know the outcome of that pandemic.

In the cell next to him, a burly black man rested upon the bed, barely waking up from his nap. The man, Mike Packer. "Urgh... Oh shit, a new guy!"

"New guy?" Lincoln fell down onto the bed. "What happened to the one before?"

"That's Munchies, they took him away," the black man explained. "Raped two young girls in a motel, from what he's told me."

Sharing a bed with a rapist... I was covered in filth right about now.

"Hey, boss, you did ask-" Mike sneered, then yawning to wake properly. "Where are my manners? Sorry, name's Mike Packer, and I'm guessing you are one of those anime fans with that white hair. Let me guess, they got you in for some "weeboo" type shit."

"Hate to break it to you, but this is all natural!" Lincoln ran a hand through his hair swiftly.

"You're lying, boss."

"Why would I lie about not being a weeaboo?" Lincoln reasoned. "Read my share of manga, watched anime, but this isn't dye, Mike."

"You legit?" Mike eyed around the block. "Where's that racist sheriff, boy?"

"Racist?" Wheete-Glass returned before the albino was supplied with answers.

"I see that the nigger is awake-"

"Whoa, man- There's no need for that." Mike was a voice of reason, calm and sincere but vocal. "This is just a misunderstanding-"

"Yeah?" The sheriff showed off another side to Lincoln, the one that believed dominated over the colored folk. "So it wasn't you I caught loitering around a 7-11?"

"I wasn't loitering, and you know it- Not even a phone call, man, you're way out of line."

"I know my place, chocolate," the racist sheriff further insulted. "Dare you to keep talking for a bonus night here at the precinct."

This humored me. What's a sheriff wearing a uniform if he was this much of a piece of shit?

Lincoln laughed maniacally, having a sudden urge to break out and give the racist what for. Just like that, and he had no such liquid that powered him. Things could be so simpler if he hadn't been robbed of the pheno gift. "You're a disrespect to the force! Speaking as if we Americans are all high and mighty, the dominant race deserving of first place!"

"Excuse me, motherfucker?"

"Nothing but a racist joke, you punk bastard," Lincoln scolded. "Dadetown's the shithole it is because of you."

"Is that a fact?" Wheete-Glass was injured, one simple thought away from coming into his cell with a baton. "How's I come in there and give you a whuppin'? You like that, do ya? A nice dose of proper punishment?"

"Yeah, yeah," Lincoln goaded. "Come in here and give me a whooping, officer dipshit."

"Why, you white-haired prick-" The sheriff dug around his body for the keys, yanking them out from the hold on his hip, jangling them about. "I'll take care of this! And Matthews wasn't picking up, don't expect his help-"

Patrick Matthews had wasted his own moneymaking time to come save some ass, under some very odd circumstances, too. "Nelson, old chum!" he yelled from the front.

The sheriff dropped what he was doing, but eyed Lincoln with a newfound sense of hostility before taking exit to see Matthews. "You best behave."

Lincoln wore himself a trap-happy grin.

Wheete-Glass met the visitor behind the counter. "Wonderful, what's a man like you coming to the precinct for?"

"I understand that you have a young man here- One with an interesting set of white hair."

Wheete-Glass's own brown eyes did widen, and for a moment, he was intrigued. "Yeah, so maybe we've placed one. What's this man to you?"

"How much for bail? Have you processed him yet?"

"I asked first, sir," the sheriff so cockily huffed. "What's your connection to him?"

"I never met him before today, this is that idiot Chang's doing, Nelson." Matthews took out a thick envelope from his suit, slamming it on the counter. "I'm going to assume you didn't start the file work on him. You didn't, didja, Nelson?"

"Damnest thing about him, I tell you," Wheete-Glass sipped again from his coffee. "He's a ghost, can't find anything on him."

"What, no record?"

"No anything, he's a non-existent fellow. Only thing I've gotten back was a child in Royal Woods in Michigan."

""Michigan?" Matthews cocked a smirk. "There could be a connection."

"I don't know, these computer things aren't as great as they used to be. So..." The sheriff took the envelope and opened it up, checking its contents. "A bribe- God Almighty, the great and powerful Patrick Matthews wants something I can do for him. What is it this time, old chum?"

"I want this man released back to the public as fast as you can spin hay into gold."

"Why on Goddamn earth would I dare to?" The stubborn sheriff was adamant on keeping Lincoln in jail for a few days if nothing could have been done. "A murderer is off these fine streets of Dadetown-"

"Let's be real, David Khan was a piece of shit," Matthews snorted.

"Wha-? Our friend of white hair killed that Khan menace?"

"Didn't you read the statements?"

"Give me a break, I skim through them, I get twenty at least on a daily basis." He gave it thought. "Alright, alright... I'll take this here cash-"

Matthews was promptly led by the sheriff to the cell block after the money was tucked away within the pocket of his pants. He met the same man again, trapped behind metal bars. "I take it you are having a good afternoon."

"Oh, I'm just dandy-" Lincoln hadn't bothered to get up yet. "I take it Jason's already at the hospital?"

"He'll be fine, and it's thanks to you that he is. That maniac was asking for it."

"I would not stand for it," Lincoln drew out. "I have no regret in having done what I did, and therefore I just might be guilty."

"Well, shit!" Wheete-Glass was pleased with this decision. "You can stay as long as you'd like, and hell, I'll even humor you and treat you like a king for... An hour or two. It ain't every day some stranger comes and shoots a junkie in the head."

Mike processed the revelation from his own cell. This college-aged dude shot some druggie?

"I've never witnessed a person turn down his residual freedom..." Matthews was most confused, intrigued by this unconventional nature Lincoln presented. "I would not reject this offer, I see fit to have you released back out there. Nelson, go on and open the cell."

"The guy made his choice-"

"And I paid you to liberate him, curse you!" Matthews slapped Wheete-Glass towards the cell. "This is my decision, not his."

"Dagnabit- You political motherfucker-" The sheriff mumbled and cursed under his breath, proceeding to let Lincoln out of his cage. "No funny business whatsoever- And Pat, this is on you now. My part is done now."

And just like that, the closed-minded officer had let me go without incident. Whatever this was, I had felt that there was a price to pay, a debt to be owed. Not even I was some sort of dumbfuck.

"Okay..." Lincoln cracked his knuckles firmly. "What do you want me to do?"

American Albino, Chapter III: The Blacklist

Later

Patrick Matthews carried out his first assignment; to simply be a silent bodyguard for the man at the meeting that had to be moved. The man himself had been expected to meet someone in the earlier daytime, but thanks to that miserable Khan, shit was delayed. This was with a few of Matthews' friends, job-related, Lincoln assumed. There they were, in a luxurious mansion, right in the long dining hall, and Lincoln sat on Matthews' left, a handgun concealed underneath his shirt for a precautionary measure.

Somehow, the official had seen Lincoln as some sort of soldier. Oh, how fun things had worked for him now. Spotlight.

"Behave, and do not speak unless spoken to."

Lincoln gave a slow nod, eyes then flying around the room. The crystal chandelier above. The fireplace at the end. The large oval windows behind him. This was how rich the man was- Maybe if Lincoln got on his good side... Freebies.

This meeting in question belonged to Matthews and a man with the funny name of Skip Bart, as Lincoln would come to find out.

Skip Bart, led by the butler of the place, had come into the room in casual clothing, sporting a Hawaiian shirt over some dangly cargo shorts. He was in his early thirties, an Irish-American with red hair, and a buzzcut too synonymous with the military. "Well, if it isn't the almighty Pattycakes!"

"Hey, Skip, you cash fucking cow, you!" Patrick expressed wholeheartedly with his greeting. "Come, take a sit here!"

"I see we've got a guest here," Skip observed Lincoln questionably. "This is a first time, who might you be?"

"Hey," Lincoln forced out, talking with little emotion. "I'm Jerry."

"Jerry...?" Skip guffawed. "Your parents hate you, man."

"Jerry, this is Skip Bart, he is... Sort of like my private funder. To make it simple, I guess you can say he invests in me so that I can have my place where I am today. Now, Skip here is the reason I can ascend to the title of Dadetown mayor. This is as big as can be-"

"Well said," Skip laughed.

"An investor?" Lincoln calculated the equation. "So... All of this-"

"Is money that comes from this man, yes," Matthews confirmed. "And please, don't ask me why Skip doesn't just do it all himself. Oh, he can, but..."

Skip Bart cleared his throat. "Don't be lying to the man, Pat. Jerry, let me explain it thoroughly. I had a chance, but no longer. You see... I lost my wife and daughter to a drug dealer. Rumors got out, my wife was an abuser, imagine the Bart name being so tainted that I could not touch foot in politics. They thought, if my wife did it, who's to say I might have touched that shit as well? No, no, I could not."

"But he saw potential in me. I was half of a nobody."

"Behind him, it's me, it's always been me."

"Skip has this much money to afford a mansion?"

"Huh?"

"Oh, no," Patrick denied. "This has been in my name since the passing of my old folk."

"I'm appalled that you bought a mansion, you piece of shit," Skip joked upon Patrick.

"Oh, hush, you!"

"Alright..." Lincoln shrugged it off, uncaring. "Condolences about your family, though."

"Appreciated..." Skip remained silent for a minute. "Actually-"

"No, no need to tell him."

"Hey, you brought him here as a friend, it's only fair I tell him."

"You are too honest for your own good, Skip," Patrick moaned.

"Tell me what?"

"How open minded are you? Would you judge me if I confessed something?"

"Uhh..."

"Wait-" Patrick pointed at Lincoln, still facing Skip. "This man is on your level, Skip. If he didn't know the hell that you do, he will since today."

"He...?" Skip faced Lincoln with surprise. "You've killed a man before?"

It was how he said it- So casually, like it was almost nothing. So then... Mister Skippy Bart here has taken the life of another. Judge? Let's see how it went down...

"Oh, I have," Lincoln confirmed, treating it as nothing. "From my understanding, you have. So, tell me about it, Skip."

Hey, my gun was still at grasp. Skip was giving off all the wrong vibes for some reason. Best case scenario, I could shoot him and Matthews for having a murderer for a friend. Bet they weren't counting in it. Still, I wonder why Patrick had given me a gun. He clearly had trust for Skip, why did I need to make sure it didn't go south?

Then, I had an even funnier feeling.

"The dealer- I got the dealer, found him. And with both of my hands, I grabbed his throat-"

Skip took his revenge...

"And killed him."

And then, Skip and Patrick turned to Lincoln, serious faces drawn. This radiated as a powerful red flag in that second, and if not for his second nature, the beastly impulse that he felt in the back of his neck, Lincoln would have been dead for sure. Skip had drawn out a revolver quickly, but Lincoln grabbed and flipped the table over on top of the redhead. The gun-toter fired as he fell down hard on his chair, and by then, Matthews was running out of the room. "FUCK YOU, JERRY!"

"Lincoln drew out his gun and cocked it back to load, standing over Skip. "What the fuck is this?"

Skip made a grab for the revolver he dropped- but Lincoln denied him by stepping over his hand. Skip screamed bloody murder, cursing the albino. "You son of a bitch!"

Lincoln applied the firearm to Skip's head and pulled the trigger once. Click, no bang. "What-?"

"H-how did you see through us?!" Skip demanded to know.

"You two froze, and I caught on right away. Secondly, Patrick gave me a gun-" Which he didn't bother checking. "Now I see why I was invited."

And just like that, Lincoln grabbed the revolver and executed Skip point-blank, brain matter and blood gushing right out. Miserable piece of shit... Fuck! What the fuck was this about?! At least now I had a weapon.

Lincoln jumped out through one of the windows, glass scratching upon his clothes and skin. Things were lost on him, but he had enough to know that he was being messed with in such a shady manner. What kind of friends did Jason have?

A black Sedan was pulling right out of the mansion, which could only be Matthews behind the wheel, revving away. Lincoln fired the revolver, trying to puncture the vehicle's tires. "MATTHEWS!"

He missed the first three shots, but the fourth lodged right into the left-rear tire, making it wobble and sway about. Patrick definitely panicked, doing his best to steer the car on main road. "FUCK!"

He wound up crashing into the statue placed at the exit right before the long driveway led into the street, head banging hard and right off the steering wheel.

I've got you, you weaseling bastard! Lincoln opened Matthews' side of the door, yanking him out fairly easily, tossing him right on the curb. "What was the goal here?"

"Hey, I heard a gunshot! That means Skip is dead, right?" Matthews was laughing like he had won. "You've done it now! G-go on and kill me, JERRY! Go on and make me a martyr!"

"Martyr? What are you babbling about?"

"My death will cement me in the papers!" Matthews boasted. "I will have my legacy in the end, and I will be the martyr of Dadetown! Ha, can you see it?! My life taken away, and they'll look at it as a politically motivated assassination! I am now big, I am that big! Go on, Jerry! Make my afterlife!"

The crooked son of a bitch was ready to die! The trick here was that this would make some noise as he thought, no way he'd be forgotten. Political propaganda by his death- Smart son of a bitch, he made me conflicted now.

Patrick Matthews took in his victory like a breath of fresh air.

"You can kill me or you don't- But I'd suggest you run! You run like hell, you're going to be wanted for the deaths of Skip and David Khan! This is my failsafe, mister fugitive!"

S-son of a bitch! He thought this through, meanwhile I was being this fucking careless.

"You're dead either way!"

"Why me?" Lincoln shot at Matthews' leg before the gun had been emptied of bullets. "WHY ME?!"

"YEAOWWWW GOD!"

"WHY ME, YOU PIECE OF SHIT?!"

"N-NOTHING PERSONAL! IT WAS GOING TO BE JASON CHANG, BUT YOU CAME ALONG! YOU WERE A MUCH BETTER CATCH THAN HIM, SO I CHOSE YOU! BAILED YOU OUT SO THAT YOU COULD BE THE SCAPEGOAT OF THIS STORY!"

These words were enough incentive for Lincoln to strike the butt of the gun against Matthew's head, knocking him out. "I won't be a pawn in your games."

The sirens were quick to echo about, giving him no time to think the next step. Killing the man would not help, and he wanted it to be of an advantageous grab. No, it was as the man said, it would make him wanted-

No... I'll be chased regardless. Fucking Christ. Okay, Matthews... You'll love another day.

Lincoln booked it into the street, running away from the large mansion, cutting through the houses in the neighborhood. He didn't see the drone flying overhead, monitoring him as he ran. It circled around the streets, following his every step. Three streets through from the mansion, and a few backyards layers, Lincoln lost enough energy that it slowed him down. He took a breather before forsisng the next street- only to be met with a large truck speeding and stopping right next to him. "C-come on-"

He expected a gunfight, of awful shit luck as he'd have gotten today. Instead, the driver honked at him, hand sticking out the window. "Get in! Get in, you don't have long!"

The drone came flying back down, landing right on the back as easy as pie. Lincoln hesitated, not trusting the unknowns inside. "Why should I?"

"We've been watching!" the driver explained. "Come with us! Come with us if you want to take down Matthews!"

"You...?"

"GET THE FUCK IN BEFORE THE STREETS GET CROWDED WITH COPPERS!"

"NGH!" Lincoln jumped right into the back, forced to make the decision. "GET US THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!"

The truck pulled forward, accelerating into drive. "AND DON'T YOU WORRY ABOUT US! WE'RE FRIENDS OF YOURS, ALLIES IN THE SAME SINKING BOAT!"

"SAME-?" Didn't take long for him to figure out who these people were.

"MATTHEWS WANTS US ALL SILENCED! DIVIDED, WE'RE ALL VOICELESS AND DEFENSELESS, BUT TOGETHER, WE FORM THE BLACKLIST! WE FORM AS THE ENEMY OF MATTHEWS AND HIS COLLECTIVE OF FRIENDS AND FOLLOWERS! WE WILL FIGHT THEM ALL!"

Lincoln's hair blew violently with the breeze as they drove far from the area.

"YOU TOOK OUT SKIP BART, THAT'S A MASSIVE BLOW! WE WELCOME YOU, WE WELCOME YOU TO THE BLACKLIST!"

AN: A battle of all sorts has begun, and has already been set in stone for the descendants to unearth from the graves of the fallen. Many will die, but can Lincoln make it out alive?