Assassins’ Day

42 years ago today, there I was in my carriage, 7th floor of the Dal-Tex building, overlooking the intersection of Elm and Houston, a perfect shot out the window, down Elm, rocket launcher at the ready, awaiting a signal from my handler that never came. 
Dorris was in a stroller, behind a tree on the Grassy Knoll, automatic rifles mounted in the stroller, the trigger cunningly disguised as a rattle, awaiting the ‘go’ signal from her handler, a signal that wasn’t given.
If memory serves me correctly, she was the 18th backup assassin, I was the 33rd in what our handlers referred to later in life as the Great Dallas Presidential Fish Barrel. 
But because we were under-age, there not of our own free will but as unwitting victims of the C.I.A.’s MK-ULTRA program, we don’t get invited to the reunion parties.
There they’ll be sitting, in their cloned bodies, young and healthy, toasting the coup and its after-effects, watching videos that no one’s supposed to know exist (but get Oswald, the
REAL Oswald drunk and feeling talkative and he’ll tell you all about them); 16mm footage of the assassination from each of the 37 assassins’ POVs, and then of course the more fun stuff, like the Clay Shaw/J. Edgar Hoover sex tapes. 
They’ll watch the films of the programming of Sirhan Sirhan and James Earl Ray (that one is
REAL short, didn’t take much to make that cracker a murderer… all they really had to do was give him the idea). On another screen they’ll be showing the rape and torture of Marina Oswald at the hands of government agents, just to get her to follow the party line. And no, that prick Oswald has never told Marina that he’s alive. Last I heard, he’s bringing Russian women over to ‘marry’ and then killing them when he gets tired of them. 
What do you expect? None of them involved in the conspiracy at a high level got away unscathed. He’s crazier than a shit-house rat.
I’m a Marilyn Monroe fan, so I really want to see the films of her and each of the brothers. I’ve even heard that there’s a film of the three of them, Jack, Bobby and Marilyn, doing the menage a trois thing. Stupid girl shouldn’t have had her
Hollywood friends rig it so she could get it on film. You don’t blackmail the Kennedys. Doesn’t have much to do with this batch of conspirators, but they got the films anyway. Hey, when you’re the ruling elite, you can get anything you want.
Drinking cognac and smoking Cubans (and don’t think they don’t get great belly laughs out of that irony) they wait for
midnight, when the President will make his obligatory appearance and hand out presents to all the good little conspirators.
And while they’re celebrating, I’ll sit and remember the electro-shock treatments they used to condition me, fingernails digging into my palms till the blood flows. No one expected the conditioning they performed on us to have such interesting long-term effects… we were young, developing minds, easy to train, but no data had been collected on what it would do to us years down the road. I didn’t even remember I’d been there until a few years ago, when I went into spasms while watching a program on the assassination on the History Channel.
You’d think they’d send me a bottle of cognac. I mean, come on, it’s the least they could do.
this afternoon while everyone was engaging in tryptophan fantasies and watching their favorite brutality on the great glass teat, the conspirators made their way to this year’s reunion site… Bangkok this year. once again, no invitation, no bottle of cognac. Ya just know there’s some Thai child prostitutes who’ll be found dead tomorrow and if Lyndon has his way (and when does he NOT get his way?) they’ll all be shot and one pristine bullet will be found with the bodies. i’m very thankful that Ladybird no longer has to deal with pretending not to know he’s still alive. The real Oswald sent out the cutest little cards this year… evidently the conspirators had access to Jackie’s body for a bit before it got put in the ground… he’s got her posed like she’s asleep while he does the ‘dick in her mouth’ thing – the old Jackie, not any of the cloned copies. real class act, that Oswald. on the back it just read “Other than that, Mrs. Kennedy, how did you like Dallas?”. i can’t think of any real reason he sent them out, but apparently all the back-ups got them. i swear he gets crazier every goddamn year. Justin, either the 12th or 13th shooter (I forget), swears the cards mean we’re marked for death (gawddamn, the internet has made it SO much easier for all of us back-ups to stay in touch) but it’s so much ‘in the past’ that any of our testimonies and such are irrelevant. nobody cares, nobody’s listening. the only reason to kill us all now would be for a sense of completion they’ve never felt necessary before. there’s no reason and to kill us all now… well, it’d be crazy. which makes his idea all the more plausible, given the sanity of the conspirators. ran across Ruby at a strip club a couple of months ago… Jack’s dancing under the name Monique, does her act with a trained mongoose. s/he kept giving me the “CLEVER HUH? DO YA GET IT?” face while performing… i finally had to leave. I’ve found that the regular ingestion of opiates dulls the flashbacks somewhat, so that’s a plus. give me enough of them and i can look at a picture of Kennedy and not have my hand go into uncontrollable spasms. makes watching the History Channel around this time every year a Major Pain.
You gotta be suspicious when one of your old… well, not really partners-in-crime, but that’s as good a description as any… shows up and wants to do you ‘a favor’.  I was, I was on guard in a heartbeat, but Lee… well, Lee has always had a way about him, clumsy and earnest even when he’s being a smug, psychotic shithead, so I ended up taking a ride with Oswald. Never been in a Hummer before, it was an experience, but every mile my little liberal gas-economy-conscious soul was recoiling in disgust. Still and all, damned comfortable and I can see why someone with as big a case of ‘shrimp-dick-syndrome’ as Lee would crave that vehicle like a junkie craves dope.
I should’ve been more suspicious. I never sleep in cars, never… can’t do it, no matter how hard I try, but a little itchy spot on my back and the next thing I know I’m somewhere, west of here by my reckoning, and it’s like I’d been dropped into MK-UltraWonderland.
They built it, a movie-set recreation of Main and Houston and Elm, false-front facades of the buildings, cardboard cut-outs of the people. You’d think it’d be too fake to be believed, but something in that little cocktail that put me to sleep, or something in the air maybe… but I was there. It was the 22nd of November, 1963 all over again, and they were dressing me like I was dressed that day, sticking me in a very-oversized baby carriage, I knew it wasn’t my mother behind me on the seventh floor of their Daltex building, but it felt like it was…
And there he was, riding in the limo… it was him, I know it was him, know it like I know my own name, know it like I know I love my wife, it was HIM!
The shots rang out and missed, the limo started to accelerate down Elm, out of the kill-zone and over the little speaker in the carriage, next to my ear, I heard my handler’s voice clearly saying “Trout, trout, trout”. My finger convulsed on the trigger, the rocket was away, back-blast setting the office behind me alight… I heard my mother scream, a strange note of satisfaction in her voice as she died, knowing she’d done her job, the rocket hurtling down, like it was in slow motion, it hit just behind Connelly and the limo… the limo… it was a memory, man… it was just a memory. Chunks of it rained down on the bystanders, setting their cardboard bodies aflame.
I felt fulfilled… like decades of waiting, just at the edge of an orgasm, had finally been relieved… and don’t make any ‘shooting my wad’ jokes… I’ve already made ‘em all.
If it had happened on the day… if things had gone so disastrously awry that I had needed to be activated… I’d be dead. A gas explosion from a faulty line in an office in the Dal-tex building, a horrible tragedy, made cosmically significant only because a chunk of the building had been blown into the President’s limo, there would have been granite chunks and dust within seconds, laid out in the confusion and terror, people would have claimed to have heard gunshots, maybe a few would’ve said they saw someone shooting, or a jet of flame from that window on the seventh floor. But if they’d held on to their truth too adamantly they’d have been discredited, or disappeared. There’d still be conspiracy theories, but all in all it might have ended up neater than it did back in ’63.
I was laying there trembling, tears flowing down my face, as they wheeled the carriage down the series of ramps. I assume they put the fire out… I seem to remember the ‘whoosh’ing of extinguishers… and then they were helping me out of the carriage, showing me remains.
It was him. It was her. It was them and the Connellys and the driver and the Secret Service agents, but most importantly, it was him. They’ve been cloning bodies for themselves for decades, no doubt they’ve enjoyed variations on what I’d just done many times, knowing it was him, and her… knowing that they could not only get away with assassinating him once, but as many times as they felt like doing so.
“Why?” I croaked at Lee.
“So you’d shut the fuck up and quit whining… now come on, we’ll go have cognac and cigars and then I’ll drive you home.”
It was just Lee and me… not a real substitute for all the reunions I’ve missed, but it was something. I still wanted to see the Marilyn tapes but Lee just laughed. He said, “You could do a lot better than tapes if I liked you more,” and smirked at me. He flashed me a picture… it was Marilyn… handcuffed to a closet clothes bar, in pink bra and panties and garter belt, hair hanging in her face. It took me a minute to realize it was a copy of a Christina Aguilera photo.
I was expecting the ‘itch’ on my back in the Hummer and so I was actually able to feel the needle when it slid into me from the seat before we’d even gone a hundred feet… have to make sure that doesn’t get infected… and then I woke up back at my house, Lee shaking me awake, driving off laughing as I stumbled to the door, getting out my keys as the dogs sounded the alarm from inside. I felt different than I had when I’d woken up from the trip out there… groggier… more disconnected. I’m not sure…
So anyway, I’ve watched the History Channel today… not a twitch, not one convulsive tightening of my finger.
I still don’t feel ‘right’, though… I think maybe I’ve been re-tasked. I worry who my new target could be. I worry a lot.
It’s been a quiet couple of years… the greatest thing for me has been how much easier the Thanksgiving season has become. There’s no overwhelming sense of urgency, of things left undone. Since I’ve started writing about it, and the conspirators were nice enough to fire me off, so to speak, back in ’09, I’ve gotten a bottle of Jack Daniels and a pack of Marlboro’s every year – Lee’s joking take on cognac and Cubans. I don’t smoke anymore, but I still drink. Remembering what we were trained for, I drink most of the bottle on the day.
I said it had gotten easier – that doesn’t mean it’s ‘easy’.
I’ve been online, discussing with the others putting together and publishing a book called “The Child Assassins of Dallas”, but none of us are too sure we want to push the ruling elite that far… besides, it’s not like we’d ever be believed.
And I seem to have gotten on the conspirator’s mailing list. This isn’t necessarily a good thing. Lee’s “Assassins’ Day” cards get more disturbing with each passing year. The clumsy symbolism of the photo on the front of this year’s is impossible to miss.
A clone of Jackie, wearing a copy of the famous pink suit, at one end of a donkey show… while a young and vital Lyndon is fucking said donkey in the ass. It’s not Photoshop – it doesn’t have to be. But God, I wish it was.
Lee enclosed a picture of himself. Clear to see, he’s going to be switching bodies again soon – he’s about worn out the one he was wearing back in ’09. Track marks up and down his arms, pale – I could smell the ‘junkie stink’ on the card and photo – it smelled like death and madness.
I’m surprised any of them are still sane enough to function at all – and maybe they don’t. Maybe most of them are living it up in some other little MK-ULTRA Dreamland in another country, doing whatever their sick minds can imagine.
Ruby’s apparently much happier as a woman – though he’s still butt-ugly. According to his card, he’s working his way through strip clubs in Massachusetts – and periodically murdering guys that he imagines sound like a Kennedy. No problem, the deaths are covered up. Everything always gets covered up.
Lyndon’s personal card this year was almost too bizarre for words. Him, with nothing but a spear, a loincloth and a necklace of little brown ears around his neck… on the front it says “Hey, hey LBJ, how many kids did you kill today?” Inside it reads “As many as I could.”
Slowly the other secondary and tertiary shooters are dying off. My mother passed this year… in all the intervening years, she’s refused to admit we were there that day, but in her personal effects I found her journals. Nothing out of the ordinary except for ‘that day’ – every year she wrote the same thing.
“It’s so lovely in Dallas today. We’re having such fun on our vacation. My boy and I are going to see the President.”
I drank a lot the day I read her journals and considered taking up smoking again.
I never had any problem understanding why she, and my wife for that matter, hates Dallas with a passion. I guess I’m the odd one out – I love the town, no matter how many ghosts there are there for me – no matter how many ghosts there are there for all of us, whether we see them or not.
Lee talked in an enclosed note about Hoover’s reaction to the movie “J. Edgar” – the conspirators tried to talk him out of seeing it, but once that pitbull gets an idea in his head…
They had to sedate him. He went crazy over the scenes with his mother and the whole “forbidden love” vibe with Clyde Tolson had him literally setting the screening room on fire. But after he had calmed down, a couple of hours of such ‘forbidden love’ with his latest boytoy seemed to take the edge off and he admitted he liked DiCaprio’s portrayal of him – and he wanted the writers of the film killed.
I don’t know… some of the conspirators were evil sons-of-bitches from the get-go, others… I’m not sure the cloning and brain transplant procedures are all they’re cracked up to be.
Then again, that’s not something I’ll ever have to worry about, being one of the secondary shooters. If we get anything out of the deal, besides the nightmares, it’s fucked up “Assassins’ Day” cards, a bottle of whiskey and a pack of cigarettes.
Lee says this year, the President is giving them all something special… and knowing the tastes of those at the top, I’ve been intentionally avoiding the news, afraid of what I might see reported, who might go missing.
Last night I dreamed of the view from the 7th floor of the Dal-Tex building, the puff of smoke from behind the fence on the Grassy Knoll, and watching his head explode, and I’m not sure it’s the real memory, or what I expected to see and so convinced myself I did. How do you compare your dream to a film from the camera in your baby carriage… film you’re not allowed to see?
And is it really that important to know how accurate my nightmares are?

It’s time for a couple of Valium and that bottle of Jack Daniels.

2 thoughts on “Assassins’ Day

  1. By the way, the process of self-identification for publishing a comment on is incredibly tedious and drawn-out, and probably explains why mine is the first comment on your entry. Sorry, but there it is.

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