Dick pours himself a shot and drinks it in silence. In a few minutes, the cameras will turn on, and he will give a speech he has been dreading ever since he learned about his predecessor's passing. He would never admit this, but when he'd heard the news, he had laughed. That self-righteous bastard had held just as much malice in his heart as Dick, and yet, he had always been more beloved. Dick they hated, Dick they blamed for everything wrong in the world, but that jackass from Texas? They'd loved him. They'd given him a pass.
And why? Because Jack didn't duck in time? Because he had abandoned the moral heart of the country and bowed to the rioters, the communists, those goddamn hippies, to get elected? Dick was a cruel, self-centered bastard, but at least he admitted it. At least, when the American people saw him on television, they saw themselves reflected back, not the face of some racist old bastard pretending he gave a damn about civil rights. That's what Dick thought. That's why he laughed when he found out Lyndon Johnson was dead.
Then, they had told him how the old man had died. He tied a rope around a ceiling fan, stood on top of a chair, then kicked it away. Suicide.
Dick was shocked when he heard the news. Men like Lyndon, men like Dick, they didn't kill themselves. They were too prideful. Suicide was for cowards. Suicide was for the men who came back from Vietnam and still saw burning napalm every time they closed their eyes. It wasn't the type of thing presidents did.
Was it guilt? Is that why he did it? A week ago, that My Lai bullshit had hit the papers. A pointless slaughter that had happened under Lyndon's watch. They'd still blamed Dick for it, of course. Everyone always blamed Dick for everything. Still, the smarter members of the public would have placed some blame on Lyndon's feet. Maybe this was one stain too many on the record of a president already covered in stains. Maybe he thought he could garner some sympathy by pretending to be guilty. Or, maybe, just maybe, Lyndon Johnson actually felt bad about the horrors he had wrought.
Dick rolls his eyes at that idea. Presidents aren't responsible for the killing carried out in their names. No order had been given. No official document could tie anyone in the White House back to the massacre. What the hell did Lyndon have to feel guilty for?
Dick looks over the speech that had been written for him. It's bullshit, complete bullshit, but the type of forgettable bullshit the American people expected.
"The American Dream was not a catch phrase, it was a reality of his own life." What a load of shit. "Unshakable courage? No man had greater dreams for America?" Lies, every word of it. If Lyndon had gotten a well-deserved bullet to the forehead like Jack had, Dick would have cheered. But, he was dead now, and it behooved Dick to be polite. Hell, maybe giving a good speech would take heat off him for the mess happening overseas.
He pulls open a desk drawer and sets the speech down inside. He closes it, pauses, then opens the drawer again. He notices the gun sitting inside his desk drawer. How had that gotten there? Then he remembers. That drunken rock star had waltzed into his office, carrying a loaded gun, and demanded he be made a narcotics officer. When Dick capitulated, he had handed him the gun, apparently as a gift. Dick had done the only sensible thing, unload it and place it in the drawer.
Dick doesn't have long to think about the gun. The press come in with their cameras. He forces a solemn expression and begins to give his speech. "President Johnson believed in America, in what America could mean to all of its citizens and what America could mean to the world," he begins. Then, he stops himself. Dark thoughts pour into his mind. For the first time in his life, Dick decides to be honest.
"Lyndon Johnson hanged himself last night," he says. "I pray he burns in hell."
The news reporters try to cover their mouths, to hide their gasps. Dick doesn't care. He knows that this speech is going to be the last he ever gives, and he's not going to let the facade of civility silence him. "Four years ago, Lyndon Johnson dragged us into a brutal, pointless, unwinnable war in Vietnam. In that time, thousands of civilians have been slaughtered by our soldiers. I say thousands, a broad, vague term, because, quite frankly, I have no idea how many people we have killed," he says. "Our bombing campaigns have reduced cities to ash. We have used chemical weapons on civilians. Our ravenous butchers have slaughtered innocent after innocent and felt no guilt. They say they were just following orders. That's what murderers always say."
"I didn't start this war. But, over the past eleven months, I have ensured it continued," Dick says. "Hell, back in '68, I screwed with the peace talks, because I thought that would help me get elected. If I was a good man, if I was a man deserving of mercy, I would have ended the war. But, I am not a man deserving of mercy."
"You all know about the atrocities that happened in My Lai," he says. "Our soldiers rounded up hundreds of innocent people. Women, children, the elderly, not a single one of them Viet Cong. We gathered them in a ditch and gunned them down. Our soldiers, our proud American boys, they took turns raping the children, before shooting them in the head. They did this because they could. They did this because they wanted to. They did this because the United States government drilled it into their heads that this was righteous, that the people of Vietnam were subhumans that had to be eradicated. They were enraptured by the genocidal fever that has defined American history."
Dick reaches into the drawer. He sets the gun down on his desk.
"Do you know what I did, when I found out about My Lai? I started planning a coverup," he says. "I planned to hide reports, discredit witnesses, pardon any soldier who faced the prison time he had more than earned. Because, to be honest, I love what happened in My Lai. I wish it could happen every single day."
He pulls out a bullet out of the drawer. "My Lai isn't unique. There have been dozens of identical massacres. One every month, I'd estimate," he says. "But, I promise, there will not be another. Effective immediately, the United States Military is pulling out of Vietnam."
"Now, you're probably thinking, I don't have the authority to make that call. Don't worry. Congress will do the right thing," Dick says, loading the bullet into the gun. "Because, if they don't, they'll join me in death."
He holds the gun up to his head. His secret service agents realize, far too late, what is about to happen. As they try to tackle him, President Richard Milhouse Nixon pulls the trigger, painting the walls of the White House red with his brain.
Seven blocks away, FBI Director John Edgar Hoover watches, for the second time in his life, as a president is shot in the head. A lesser man would be shocked. But, Hoover stays calm. He picks up a phone and dials a secret number.
"I need to speak with L," he says in an authoritative voice. "Someone killed two presidents in two days. I need the case solved before this country falls apart.
A few miles away, a young man holds onto a pen with the death grip a murderer uses to hold onto a knife. He stares down at the black book sitting on his desk. The words he has written will change the world. The criminals who have poisoned society will die. This he is sure of.
On November 20th, 1969, at 6:30 p.m., Eastern Standard Time, Richard Milhouse Nixon will give a speech about the passing of his predecessor...
