6th Floor Shooter || #Wattys2017

IX

// 23 November 1963 // 12:28 // Dallas County Police Station // Dallas, Texas //

"I didn't shoot anybody, no sir . . . I'm just a patsy."

Ed followed the winding suburban streets back to the city center, his vehicle flying down the freeway like a moth drawn to a flame. He neared the infamous Stemmons Freeway, navigating the open road entirely by memory. In the past twenty-four hours, the entire city had effectively become a ghost town. Gusting winds wafted through the open windows of his Studebaker, whistling their own haunting echo, as if to only reiterate his observation. Not so much as a single soul interrupted the landscape he had always remembered as being vibrant and full of life.

The sight brought Ed a twisted sense of debauched pleasure. He, as one man, had brought an entire city to its knees with one single bullet. Although the president had been the person who had officially died on that day, the rippling repercussions of his actions had effectively assassinated the hopes and dreams of 189 million more.

Growing closer with every passing second, the triple overpass framed the street in front of him like a gate into Dealey Plaza. He closed his eyes as he passed under it; he wanted to forever remember the open square how it had been, not how it was now. How the anticipation was palpable as hundreds of onlookers held their breath and waited for the faintest sound of the motorcade engines. How the electric excitement prevailed over the stifling heat and drew neighbor and neighbor together as friends...how optimism flowed infectiously and un-cautioned through the crowd, even in the face of communist tension and the military crisis in Cuba... and, as Ed reckoned as most important, for a brief and atypical moment, how not a single person in the Lone Star State was expecting to hear gunfire.

But the memory was faint, and like the dream it really was, faded into reality the moment he opened his eyes. No, that version of the Dealey Plaza that he grasped onto was a fleeting glance at the old America. Try as he might to change it, it would never be that way again.

His mind was numb as he followed the curved street through the Plaza. I killed a man. Yesterday, I shot a man in the head. But it wasn't just any man, it was the fucking President of the United States.

A smile broke out across his face as he registered the reality. It wasn't the same conniving grin as he frequently used to manipulate others, but rather a twisted and maniacal leer dripping in self-satisfaction.

I fucking killed the president, and no one has figured out it was me.

In his mind, it was an accomplishment. He no longer even fathomed the alternate reality of the world he had intended to create. There was no more remorse for the worldly suffering he had created for the Kennedy family... only perverted pride in the misery he had instilled.

Me, a loner from the piss-poor side of the city, singlehandedly took down the leader of the most successful country in the world. Imagine the infamy... the media fame... my name heard around the world...

From the moment that pen met paper, Ed had intended to go straight to the police station to confess... but every passing second challenged his intentions. Which would be more shocking? Coming forward as the man who killed the mighty John Kennedy? Or turning myself in as not only the unpursued assassin, and the master puppeteer behind the biggest police blunder of the country's history?

For him, it was no contest. Anyone could fire a cheap rifle, but only a dedicated psychopath could manipulate law enforcement like pawns in a chess match.

Yet again, that Oswald man has been growing into America's villain for a day now. Why should he get the credit for any of it? The only thing he should be remembered for is being desperate enough to do anything for a quick payday.