Authors: Paul Moxham
Ameristocracy
Ameristocracy
A Novella
By Paul Moxham
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When a conspiracy theorist cop stumbles upon the secret society responsible for the assassinations of Lincoln and Kennedy, he becomes convinced that they now have the newly elected President squarely in their crosshairs.
All rights reserved, without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means
without the prior written permission of the copyright owner of this book. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands and incidents
are either
the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
PREFACE
This novella is set in present day America and uses American English. To convey the feeling that you are with the characters, I have used present tense
.
Prologue
Baltimore
,
Maryland
, 1865
As the sun slowly sets over the fields of Baltimore, a number of men of great power and influence are congregating in a private library. The walls
are lined
with hardbound texts while leather-appointed seats cover the floor space.
One such man, a
middle aged
man with a bushy beard, commands all attention as he struts back and forth in his sharp suit, his thumbs hooked into his vest. “Gentlemen, we all agree our nation has been led astray.
This usurper has turned our guns against our own and threatens to transform an inferior class of citizenry into full-fledged Americans.
The bloodline of the Ameristocracy has for a century reigned over this great nation, but with his actions, this man threatens to steal our divine right to lead.”
He pauses as
hurumphs
and um-
hmms
are heard
from the assembled men. He then continues. “So by the power of our sacred order, I hereby enter a motion that we eliminate this man.”
He glances around the room. No one answers aloud. Instead, each man puts a single hand upon their knee, tapping identical gold rings as their response. Rings with a symbol that looks like
it’s
part flag, part crown emblazoned upon them. The decision is unanimous.
The leader nods. “Good. I have taken the liberty of enlisting a man of uncompromised vitriol to do our bidding.... Mr. John Wilkes Booth.” He motions to the rear of the room and the assembled men shift in their seat to see John Booth, standing hat-in-hand, eyes lowered in reverence to the men before him.
A few nights later in the Ford theatre, Booth barricades a doorway behind him. He casts his eyes upon the entry to the presidential box.
It’s
unguarded.
He leans back against the wall. Sweat beads along his hairline and his breath quickens. A trembling hand unbuttons his jacket and reaches inside.
Eyes closed, Booth listens to faint sounds of the play in progress - an actor waiting for his cue.
Nearby, in the presidential box, President Lincoln, his wife Mary, and guests Henry
Rathbone
and Clara Harris chuckle in good humor as they watch a performance of
Our American Cousin
.
On the stage, an actor speaks his line. “Don't know the manners of good society, eh? Well, I guess I know enough to turn you inside out, old gal; you
sockdologizing
old man-trap!”
The crowd erupts in laughter as Booth rushes onto the balcony, eyes wide as he produces a pistol. He fires a shot through Lincoln’s head!
Lincoln slumps in his rocking chair and
Rathbone
bounds over to stop Booth, the commotion quickly evolving into panic and screaming that fills the theatre…
Baltimore, Maryland, 1963
The same study.
Same furniture.
Same sacred texts on the shelves.
But
a different set of men. The attire is still impressive, the demeanor still stern, as a new leader speaks to his compatriots. “Gentlemen, we have long stood in the background, wielding power and control as is our divine right through blood, but just as what happened a century ago, our control is being threatened by a man fearful of military entanglements, swayed by his brother to acquiesce to the wishes of the an inferior race and class. The time has come,
gentlemen
, to do the deed again. I hereby enter the motion.”
The men tap their rings, the exact same rings that counted votes a hundred years before, on their knees.
The new leader nods. “So we are decided.”
A few days later, in downtown Dallas, President Kennedy’s motorcade rolls through the streets.
In an upstairs room of a nearby building, a gun-wielding Lee Harvey Oswald, leans out of a window.
He waits as the motorcade rolls past,
then
he squeezes the trigger…
Blam
!
Panic ensues.
Screaming.
Running.
Chaos...
Washington
D.C, Present Day
Riiiinnnggg
!
The blare of an alarm hits a liquor store. Strobe lights flicker. An angry shopkeeper stands in the doorway, clutching a handgun.
“Thief!”
He turns and sees a D.C. Police Cruiser round the corner, red-and-blue lights flashing, siren whooping. The shopkeeper hides his handgun behind his back and hooks a finger down the street. “He went that way.”
The cruiser continues down the alleyway where, covered head-to-toe in black - jeans,
hoodie
, even sneakers - the thief scrambles down an alley. He crashes into a row of
trash cans
, barely able to keep on his feet. He
doesn’t
even look back as the police cruiser rolls up behind him.
Behind the wheel is Officer Maggie Templeton.
She’s
good looking, in her 30’s, and sweet but strong. In the passenger seat is the handsome but high-strung Jack Mitchell,
thirty seven
, a mop of brown hair covering his head.
Before the cruiser even comes to a stop, Jack throws open the door and jumps out to give chase.
Maggie yells out. “Mitchell, wait!”
But
Jack’s long gone as he chases the thief down the alleyway, barreling through the same set of trash cans as he goes. Like the thief, Jack almost loses his footing, but he manages to stay up.
When he looks up again, the thief is throwing something back at him. Jack braces as a shoe hits him in the face. When he realizes what it is, it just seems to make him madder. Now he really jumps into action.
“Freeze!”
Jack lurches forward, jumps up and grabs the bottom rung of a fire escape ladder. His momentum propels him forward as he swings off the ladder and onto a dumpster. He takes two quick steps across the black plastic lids, then launches himself in the air, flying high, arms spread. He crashes down atop the thief, the two of them sprawling across the pavement.
The thief tries to run, but Jack overpowers him, pulling him to his feet and spinning him around. Jack’s jaw drops as he sees the thief’s face. Wide-eyed, frightened, still has baby fat on his cheeks. The thief is twelve years old, thirteen at the most. The thief glances down at the stolen goods in his hand.
Jack follows his gaze and sees a Snickers bar. He
can’t
believe it. His grip on the thief’s elbow slips and the thief takes off running again.
Jack looks up, shaking off the surprise of the moment just in time to see the thief crash into Maggie, who has driven around to the other side of the alley. The thief squirms, but Maggie quickly spins him around and reaches for her cuffs. “Okay, okay. Just settle down there. You have the right to remain silent...”
Jack walks up, still a little dazed by what has transpired. Maggie slaps the cuffs on the thief as Jack reaches forward and grabs her by the wrist, stopping her. Maggie glances down at Jack’s hand on her wrist and even smiles a second before asking: “What?”
Jack unlocks the cuffs. He looks at the kid. “Go on, get out of here.” The thief shuffles away. “Hey, kid!” The frightened child stops at the corner. “Stay away from Snickers. Mars Corporation spends millions bribing politicians to keep quiet about illegal workers and unsafe products. You want an honest, American candy bar, stick with Hershey.”
The confused thief scurries around the corner as Maggie gives Jack a look mixed with curiosity and respect. She heads for the car door. “You
coming?”
“Where’re we going?” asks Jack
“If we’re not making busts, we may as well take some target practice,” she replies, smiling.
There’s
Guinness on tap and rock ‘n roll on the jukebox at the Irish pub as Jack and Maggie shoot darts in the back.
Swoosh... A dart flies through the air and hits
double-20
. Maggie pumps her fist in victory. “That’s another
finsky
you owe me.”
“Put it on my tab,” answers Jack.
Maggie gives Jack a playful punch to the arm.
He shoots her a look
,
she returns a smile
. A little too flirtatious for partners but hey, the
beer’s
flowing, and these two are clearly close.
“Okay,” grins Maggie, “you want your money back? We’ll go double-or-nothing.”
“You’re on, Templeton,” smiles Jack. He walks up to the dartboard and collects the darts. Then walks back and hands Maggie’s darts to her.
He stops to sip his beer, but Maggie knocks her hip into his, nudging him to the line. “You go first.”
Jack puts his beer down and steps up to the line. He lines up his shot as Maggie yells out. “Don’t choke!”
The dart flies and misses wide as it hits the corkboard. Jack spins on Maggie and shoots her a glare. “Oh, so that’s how you’re
gonna
win? Shouting in my ear?”
Maggie grins. “If you can’t stand the pressure, big boy, maybe you shouldn’t be playing.”
Jack shakes off Maggie’s playful grin and turns back to the board. This time he fires off a dart that hits pretty darn close to the bull's-eye. “Huh? How’s that now?”
“Not bad for a mama’s boy.”
“Okay, make your jokes while you can. That’s temporary.”
Maggie walks around behind Jack, moving a little too close. “Relax, Mitchell. Now, you
gonna
throw your third dart or what?”