KFJbyEthanBooker

November 21^st 06:00 CST Johnson City, TX Driveway to Johnson Ranch

A speck at the end of a curvy country road picks up speed and a cloud of dust as it hits ninety round a bend. A faint ‘e’ crescendos into a climax of ‘HAW’ as the Chrysler blows by a pair of prospector-types who erupt in a boisterous Texan ditty on banjo and accompanying jug, while a third bumpkin begins jigdancing frantically. Trees whir by outside as White House accountant Mortie Liebowitz feels the morning’s gefilte fish gurgling up his throat.

“Perhaps we should slow down Mr. Vice President, sir. With the speeding and the swerving, Oy!”

Lyndon Baines Johnson is sipping Scotch out of a papercup, spilling it on his Wranglers as he takes a hard corner on the backwoods dirt road.

Johnson rolls down the windows, pokes his head out and breathes in two lungs full of Southern promise. “Yup. This is ‘xactly what you need, Jew.”

Liebowitz interjects, “I’m actually Episcopalian, Mr. Johnson, sir.”

LBJ continues, “The fresh air--”

Liebowitz sniffs and nearly dryheaves, “Ooh, it smells like cow feces.”

“—the flora, the fauna--”

Johnson veers off the road and back to avoid a crossing Jackalope and Mortie gazes out of the rearview mirror. “That was the smallest deer I’ve ever--”

Johnson drains his papercup and burps, “—and the booze.”

The Chrysler comes to a screeching halt mere feet from the front porch of the expansive Johnson ranch house and both men enter.

In the distance a man in Davy Crockett-garb kicks his horse into high-gear chasing a gentleman in an arrow shirt and comfortable slacks.

“Get back here Injun! I’m gon’ getcha!”

“Please sir! I’m not Indian, I’m Paki!”

November 21^st 06:50 CST Washington D.C. Bureau of Investigation

A potbellied balding older gentleman is traipsing fancifully about his grey office in downtown D.C. wearing a long flowing tea gown of soft auburn-shaded cotton. He twirls a tight circle in the corner of the room the dress swirling about his waist, and he lightly tiptoes back to his desk before slamming a fist down hard and shaking the two men before him to the edge of their seats.

“Goddamit! I’m the head of the friggin’ FBI! When I want something done, ya get it done!”

A nondescript man in a black suit and dark sunglasses opens the office door and peeks his head in. “Do you need assistance Mr. Hoover?”

J. Edgar looks up, smiles and curtsies. “No, thank you Reginald.” He holds the edges of his dress, sits down and crosses his legs, while glaring at the two uncomfortable men on the other side of his desk.

“Roselli I’d expect this sort of insubordination out of you, but Marcello.” At this point the FBI Director reaches into his desk, shaking his head in disappointment.

“Oh Marcello, Marcello.”

Carlos shifts uneasily in his seat and Tony Rosseli jumps in. “J., I don’t know what you’re thinkin’ a doin’ but I assure you it’s a bad idea.”

Hoover closes the drawer and brings his hand up slowly until Carlos cringes and screams. “We’ll do it! We’ll do it! We’ll get him!”

J. Edgar Hoover smiles. “Good. Now that we have that taken care of.” He brings his hand up onto the desk and pushes the contents across to the two men. “Who wants a lollipop?”

November 21^st 08:15 CST Washington D.C. Streets of Northwest D.C.

A severely hammered and increasingly drowsy Ted Kennedy is weaving through traffic in Northwest D.C., late for a Senate vote on Space or something. He floors his beat-up Chevy Biscayne through three straight red lights and up on the sidewalk. Townhouses blur into government buildings as Ted steers with his knees and leans over onto the floor of the passenger seat rummaging around for a tie that isn’t mustard- or rum-stained. Upon finding one he leans upright and swerves back onto the road, changing lanes on a whim as he attempts to wrap the tie around his fat neck.

Without warning the alcohol hits him all at once and his eyelids slam shut. His humongous head dips for a moment and then plummets full force onto the steering wheel. The horn blares as Teddy’s Biscayne zigzags left and right and into oncoming traffic. A smaller car stops short and Ted hits it with such force that he careens up onto the vehicle’s hood, and airborne over a large black gate and a cute little dog before landing in the front lawn of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Teddy is still out as the car hits the ground running.

Ted begins to rouse from his slumber thanks to the impact of the landing and he blinks once, twice before realizing where he is. He grabs ahold of the wheel and veers out of the way of his brother John who was practicing his short game with Secretary of Defense Bobby McNamara. President Kennedy dives off to the right and Teddy keeps right on rocketing straight for the White House with John’s clubs stuck under his muffler. Teddy stomps on the brakes to no avail as he’s picked up far too much speed at this point and his Biscayne slams head-on into the front rotunda of his brother’s domicile with the force of a thousand Cuban Missiles. Hunks of White House rain down upon Ted’s car.

Although a lesser man would’ve been in traction by this point, a still blasted Senator Ted Kennedy steps out of the totaled Chevy, dusts himself off and stumbles aimlessly about the front yard. His brother Jack is laughing and wiping off the grass stains. “Dammit Edwahd, you coulda killed me you harebrain.”

Ted ambles toward the President with one finger held high in the air. “Alf I wanted to chill you I’d choochoo…” And with that he faceplants into the soft Kentucky Bluegrass. JFK attempts to unwedge his clubs from under the wreck.

November 21^st 11:30 CST Saigon, Vietnam Presidential Palace

The Diem Brothers are sitting Indian style (feather on the head Indian, not dot on the face Indian) on the floor eating heaping steaming bowls of noodles. Younger brother Ngu Dinh Nhu pushes away the bowl and leans back, rubbing his belly. “Too much noodle. No more Oriental food today. We take-out Mexican tomorrow?”

Ngo Dinh Diem is half-listening. “Let’s try take out American ‘fore we take out Mexican.”

Bombs erupt outside and the bowls rattle across the short table. Nhu opens a heavy wooden box labeled “US Army Meds” and fiddles with the contents inside. He pulls out a large needle and sticks it in his arm falling back smiling into the large pillow behind him.

Diem is alarmed and runs over to his kid brother, shaking his limp body. “What you do? What you do?”

A smile is frozen on Nhu’s face and he gurgles happily. Diem pulls out a large bag of white powder labeled “Not Heroine.”

“Oh thank god, it not heroine.”

A future Vietnam vet bursts in through a window and glass shatters all over the richly-carpeted floor of Diem’s immense palace. The vet points a rifle at Diem’s head and screams at him, “Are you President Diem? Are you President Diem?”

Diem holds his hands up and shakes his head. “No, no. I simple servant boy. Diem go to Europe. You just miss him!”

The vet holds a glossy glamour shot of President Diem up to Diem’s face and his eyes flicker between Diem’s photographed scowl and the actual Diem smiling anxiously. “I dunno. You look an awful lot like him.”

Diem shakes his head profusely. “He no here. I rickshaw boy.”

The vet’s right eyebrow drops. “Aren’t you alittle old to be a rickshaw boy?”

“It’s old rickshaw!”

The vet lowers his rifle and spits. “Aw dammit! He is one crafty Asian. Well if you see him, can ya let him know we’re blowin’ up his villages and shit?”

With that the vet exits out the window in which he entered and Diem begins pacing nervously then stops to stare at his still-sleeping brother. “That close one. You pack bag. We go Texas.”

Nhu suddenly wakes from a smack dream with a shout of “Duck sauce!”

November 21^st 13:45 CST Washington D.C. D.C. Bowling Alley

Richard Millhouse Nixon is one frame away from throwing his first perfect game at the local D.C. Bowling Alley, with no witnesses. He steadies himself, approaches the white line, brings his red marble ball all the way back and is midway through release when a chorus of loud New England guffaws from the Alley bar shake Tricky Dick’s composure and he sends the ball two lanes in the wrong direction. He looks up at the final tally: 290, and turns his attention towards the distracting crowd drinking and laughing at the bar. Nixon is seething with anger as he approaches the group and they part down the middle to reveal President John F. Kennedy and his brother Bobby.

The President finishes his martini and beams at Nixon, a curvy blonde wrapped around his waist. “Richahd watta you doin’ heah you old rapscallion you.”

Bobby laughs and elbows his brother out of the way. “Richahd, pull up a seat heah at the bah and have a beah on me.”

He kicks a stool towards Nixon and John chimes in. “Yah, take a shot Richahd!”

The ex-Vice President crumples up his 290 score sheet and drops it on the greasy bar floor. “You Kennedy boys, live it up while you can. You wont be laughin’ for long. Mark my words, I’ll see the end of the Kennedy clan if it’s the last thing I do!”

With that he turns to go as Bobby turns to Jack and the gang. “Well, I guess we don’t have Nixon to kick around anymowa.” The entourage erupts into another merry row.

Nixon is redfaced with rage as he leaves the D.C. Bowling Alley.

November 21^st 16:26 CST Johnson City, TX Bathroom of Johnson Ranch

Back at LBJ’s ranch, Mortie the accountant is punching figures into his huge calculator while Lyndon relieves himself in the porcelain urinal of his downstairs bathroom. “This is bad, this is bad. Oh Mortie, I’m more nervous than a longtailed cat in a roomful of rocking horses.”

An awkward uncomfortable Mortie glances up from behind his monstrous calculator. “Just relax and it’ll come out, sir.”

“Are you positive it’s going down tomorrow, Mortie?”

Mortie slams the calculator down on Johnson’s countertop, not angrily, it’s just an extremely heavy calculator. “Look, I’ve run down every scenario, and the plan is perfect. You will have complete control. No Kennedies breathing down your neck; a Texas-run operation, through and through.”

Johnson sighs loudly, and the stream keeps going. “What about complicity? I can’t have anybody knowing I’m behind this.”

Mortie shakes his head. “You have nothing to worry about Mr. Vice President. You know the Cubans and the Russians want this as much as you. We have a patsy.”

Johnson scratches his neck and rubs his bald spot with his free hand. “If Lady Bird knew I was in cahoots with the Commies she’d be furious.”

At that convenient moment, Lady Bird Johnson enters the bathroom drying a dish. “What’s this about cahoots with Commies?”

Johnson panics, drips alittle on his shoe and spins to meet his wife. “Oh, it’s just some of that Yiddish slang, don’t worry about it. You dried that dish yet?”

November 21^st 17:01 CST Manhattan, NY The Plaza Hotel, 18^th Floor Suite

A graying handsome older man is tapping his toes to the latest Joan Baez record, chomping on an unlit cigar and fiddling with the cigar cutter, squeezing it with both hands and grunting. His phone rings and the cutter slips out of his grip over the ledge and down to the block below. A faint cry of “Motherfucker!” floats up from the street but Sinatra pays it no mind as he drops the cigar, slicks his hair back and rubs down his fresh-pressed suit.

Sinatra grabs the cereal box-sized remote to his Hi-Fi and flicks it off after several failed attempts. He picks up the phone and answers. “Tony, you knucklehead…Dallas? Of course, I’m flyin’ in tomorrow. Hold on--”

An old Italian woman upstairs begins fanning a dirty towel out the window, shaking its filth down on Ol’ Blue Eyes. Frank stands up and dusts himself off, glaring at his upstairs neighbor. “Estelle, cool ya jets!”

Estelle glances to her left then her right for the mysterious voice. “Who say that? Jabroni!”

Sinatra returns to the phone call. “Alright, what?...Yeah I got the ticket right here. Whaddya so worried about? You chowderheads just be ready, I’m takin’ the red-eye tonight…What? No I’m not gonna sing it…Because I’m not, I just…Start spreadin’ the news…”

November 21^st 19:30 CST Dallas, TX Gubernatorial Headquarters

Governor John Connally is a tall plain-faced politician; as big as they grow ‘em in Texas. He is sitting at his desk, smiling and benignly staring at the plain white wall across the room when the phone rings and he picks it up to hear President Kennedy’s nasally voice greeting him. His smile broadens and he begins to respond in a slow Southern drawl. “Why hello thayer Mr. Praise-ident, this is Governer Connally (wa wa wa wa) Yes we cayant wait to have you heeyer in Daylas tomorry (wa wa wa tomorry? wa wa) Oh yessir, we are going to have a puh-rade with all the fixins (wa wa wa balloons wa wa) Yessir, I will see you thayun (wa wa) Byebye!”

Gov. Connally hangs up the phone and goes back to smiling and staring at the white wall across the room.

November 21^st 22:23 CST Havana, Cuba Presidential Palace

A sprawling marble-white mansion stretches down the coast of an empty beach and the house seems empty except for a solitary figure reclining in a lawn chair on the third floor terrace of his palace, flanked by a rollickin’ mariachi band. A chupacabra skitters by, spooked by the Cuban beat. A man with a long nose and full beard, surrounding a large tanned face is smoking a fine Cuban (cigar) while looking out on the rolling blue waves crashing against the rocky Havana shore. The man emits a thin slow leak of smoke into the Cuban air and smiles as three men of similar stature and appearance but with obviously fake beards (one made of electrical tape, one of some sort of animal fur, and the third with a Crayola marker) approach the man and wait for him to butt his cigar and speak. The band takes it down a couple notches, but continues to play a rousing Caribbean Samba.

“What brings you here at this hour of night Fidels?”

The man in front hands him an envelope. “We were told to bring this directly to you Fidel.”

Castro nods, reaches in his pocket and throws some pesos at the other Castros. “Very good, Fidels. Go buy yourself something Cuban.”

The fake Castros bow and leave the terrace. “Thank you, Fidel.”

The real Castro smiles at them as they leave. “Don’t mention it, Fidels.”

Once they’re gone he opens the envelope and peruses the short telegram enclosed. It simply reads: “Operation is a go stop. We cannot be stopped stop.”

Fidel Castro relights his cigar, burns the incriminating telegram and looks out over the sea at the darkening clouds and blustery headwinds of an approaching storm.

He picks up a nearby phone and dials an extremely long number. On the other end a rough voice answers.

“Hello Premier. I just received your memo. It seems everything has fallen into place, no?...Haha, yes I appreciate the new beret you sent me. It is a size too small but it does the job. Hold on.” Castro stands up and squints into the darkness to spot a raftfull of Cuban baseball All-Stars paddling with their hands against the choppy breakers.

Fidel hollers at the rafting athletes. “Hey! Where are you Cuban All-Stars going? You’re not fleeing for America are you? Because we are on the southern coast.”

A faint “Dammit!” rebounds off the rocks.

The band culminates to a point and they all lift their heads and shout into the quiet island night. “Tequila!”

November 21^st 22:28 CST Moscow, Soviet Union Premier Palace

Nikita Khrushchev slams the phone down, annoyed. A KGB operative on the other side of the desk looks up at the Premier as he wanders over to a large window looking down on Moscow. “Problem sir?”

“Ah, I lost thee connection. Those freakink Cubans never pay their phone bills.”

Khrushchev is sipping a vodka while staring out the window at the falling snow over the city. Russian dancers highkick their way down a breadline stretching down the block and around the corner. The poor commonsfolk scowl at the festive display (festive for Russia anyway) and Khrushchev pulls down the drapes returning to a desk as large as many Moscowvian flats. The Premier tops off the operative’s glass. “Diss is good, ya?”

The operative nods, “Da.”

“Da?”

“Ya.”

Khrushchev brings his fist down and the desk shudders, the glasses rattle and the bottle tips over and spills onto the plush carpet. “No! Diss is not good!”

The Premier stands up and throws the files in the operative’s face with disgust. “You lied! You have failed me and you have failed Mother Russia! We will carry on today’s operation without you!”

With the pull of a lever, the floor drops out from under the operative and he plunges screaming into a dark Russian abyss.

The Premier peeks down the open hatch as a guard picks up the files and gapes at Nikita. “You’re strict, sir.”

Khrushchev settles back into his chair. “You know, I always try to think up somethink clever to say before I spring thee hatch, but every time I blank and just end up pulling thee leever.”

November 22^nd 07:00 CST Washington D.C. Lincoln Bedroom, White House

JFK is lying on his back with some young brunette starlet riding him, screaming out his name.

“Oh Jack…Jack..Jack, Jack—”

“John!” Jacqueline stands in the doorway and the promising actress covers up quickly, shrinking to the corner of the bed. John continues lying in a prone position, smiling sheepishly at his put-upon wife.

“Ah, yes deah?”

“Will you finish up here? We’ve gotta be on the plane for Dallas in fifteen minutes.” She saunters out of the bedroom, leaving the door gaped open in her wake.

John turns back to last night’s girl with a grin as wide as the Massachusetts Bay. “You, ah, wanna give it one mowa shot theya kiddo?”

November 22^nd 07:34 CST Dallas, TX Oswald Backyard

Lee Harvey Oswald is in the backyard of his quaint Dallas home, cleaning his rifle when his wife Marina comes onto the back porch washing a pan. “What would you like for dinner tonight dear?”

Lee squints into the rising sun, steelyeyed and focused on some inescapable future. With bated breath Marina stares at him as the minutes pass until Lee breaks the deathly silence with a steadfast, “Pizza.”

November 22^nd 11:40 CST Dallas, TX Love Field Airport Tarmac

Premier Khrushchev and President Castro exit a small Cessna aircraft while the Diem Brothers are arguing with each other while struggling to remove their luggage from an old WW2 Kamikaze warplane. Sinatra strides off his private jet, even more lavish than Air Force One, and snaps his fingers at a young pageboy to push his luggage cart to a waiting limousine.

Further down the tarmac Governor Connally meets JFK and Jacqueline as they exit Air Force One, tipping his tengallon to the lady in pink. “How y’all doin’?” he asks with a toothy grin.

Kennedy looks around the empty tarmac. “Where are, ah, all the people, John?”

Connally looks worried, he rubs the back of his neck staring at the gravel beneath his feet. “Well I’m sho-wer thayell be heeyer for the puh-rade.”

JFK pulls one of the passing Diem brothers aside. “Excuse me, do you, ah, work heeya? Couldja be a deah and get that luggage for us? Thank ya buddy.”

November 22^nd 12:27 CST Dallas, TX Third Story Window of Office Building

Lee Harvey has loaded his rifle and is sizing up his target in the street below. He pulls the trigger and it clicks but nothing happens. He looks down at the gun perplexed until a man passing by taps him on the shoulder and points at the gun. “You forgot the safety.”

Lee looks up and smiles. “Say, thanks man. It’s been awhile since I’ve handled one of these babies.”

The man heads downstairs. “No problem. Happy hunting!”

November 22^nd 12:28 CST Dallas, TX Stairs Between Second and Third Floors

The helpful man from before stops in his tracks and looks back up the stairs. “What is it? Rabbit season?”

November 22^nd 12:29 CST Dallas, TX Dealey Plaza

JFK is riding in the backseat with his wife, glancing around perplexed at the empty sidewalks. “John. Dammit, where is everybody?”

John Connally takes his hat off and holds it humbly in his hands as he turns around to level with the President. “I’m afraid thayer are not going to be ayny people, sir. Thayer all at the graynd opening of that Seenattra fella’s new pizza shop a block away. I heeyer thayer havin’ a helluva hullabaloo. All hootin’ and hollerin’ and carryin’ on.”

JFK shakes his head. “That I-talian bastahd is stealin’ my thunda. Turn this hunkajunk around, we’re goin’ back ta Washintin.”

Jackie pulls Kennedy’s arm. “We could at least check out the pizza shop. If Sinatra’s there, it’s gotta be good.”

Kennedy slinks down low in his seat. “Somebuddy just shoot me in the back a the head.”

November 22^nd 12:30 CST Dallas, TX Third Floor Window

Oswald braces himself and fires. Screams emanate from the streets below. He fires again. After a third shot, he drops the rifle and swiftly heads downstairs. He passes the man from before on the way down and the man shouts after him. “Didja kill any bunnies there, buddy?”

Oswald shouts back without turning or stopping. “I think I shot a Chinaman!”

November 22^nd 12:31 CST Dallas, TX On a Grassy Knoll

Martin Luther King Jr. is giving a speech to a large group of angry young black men at the top of a grassy knoll.

“And whys it gotta be the White House?”

Shouts of agreement resonate through the crowd.

“Looka this: white Lincoln Memorial, white Washington Monument, white U.S. Capitol. White House…where’s the Black House? Ain’t no Black House. Media be talkin’ ‘bout Kennedies, callin’ it Camelot. Ain’t no black knights in Camelot. The Black Knight was the evil knight. Black Knight be gettin’ chased by all them white Camelot knights. And what about night anyway? Why night gotta be black and day gotta be white? I wanna black day! People be talkin’ ‘bout Black Friday. Market crashin’, honkies lose all they money. Where my money? I want my money, honkies!”

A young black man in the front raises his hand. “Yes my brother?”

“Um, I don’t mean any disrespect or anything Dr. King but, uhh…ya lost me.”

Suddenly a shot echoes across the quiet Dallas morning.

Martin ducks behind the podium. “Ooh, what was that?”

One of his bodyguards glances across the dais, back towards Dealey Plaza. “Couldn’ta been one a us ‘cause we all here.”

November 22^nd 12:35 CST Dallas, TX Outside Sinatra’s New Pizza Joint

JFK’s limo pulls up to the curb of a deluxe shiny new two-story glass-walled complex, with a glitzy neon sign on the roof flashing “Frank Sinatra’s Fancy Pizzeria: In No Way Affiliated with or Funded by Cuba, Russia, and the Vice President of the United States.” Sinatra is out front trying to calm his patrons down as medics attend to a tall bearded man lying on his back, a bullet wound in his abdomen.

A roundish Texas Ranger spots the President and shuffles towards the limo. “Mr. Kennedy, we should get you inside. Castro’s been shot.”

The President stares at the downed dictator with a wrinkled nose, “Fidel Castro?”

The medic administering to President Castro lifts his fingers to his mouth and tastes the crayon residue from Castro’s face. He turns to the Ranger with a harsh glare. “It’s Crayola.”

Kennedy looks from the fake Castro to the medic to the Ranger. “Ah, what does that mean?” Premier Khrushchev slinks away in the background, back towards the airport.

Once the crowd discovers the rifled Castro is not the real Castro they become disinterested and get back in line for delicious delicious pizza. Lee Harvey is standing at the back of the line, eyes darting from left to right, nervous yet unable to resist the delectable aroma of Italian herbs and spices.

Frankie queues up the band and they start playing an old stage standard while he bops to the rhythm.

Across the street, President Diem is sitting on the curb in front of a small shanty with a dinky sign in front: “President Diem’s Vietnamese Food Place.” Diem is holding his right foot, blood dripping into the ditch. He looks up as the ambulance drives away, but no one pays him any attention as he whines quietly. “They shot-a ma toe.”

November 22^nd, 1962 13:35 CST Havana, Cuba Presidential Palace

President Castro is on the phone with Premier Khrushchev, who’s flying back to Moscow detailing the day’s events.

“And then what happened?...Those animals…Were any pizzas harmed?...Well alright then. I will talk to you later Nikita.”

Castro hangs up and stares out at the bright sea lain before him, the waves lolling calmly against the beach. “Looks like I’m gonna need a new Fidel.”