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November 1963

He stared out the open window, hearing sirens and the crowd noise getting louder as the otorcade approached. As it came within view, he steadied himself, remembering his military training. He drew in his breath slowly, intending to hold it, to brace himself to take the shot...and then the irritation in his nose. He tried to ignore it, but it was too strong: must have been some dust stirred by a stray air current. He tried not to, but a vigorous sneeze overcame him, not once, but twice in rapid succession, followed by a hacking cough. When finally he regained control, the motorcade had essentially
passed by: gone too far to get anything like a decent shot. Swearing to himself, he flipped the safety, removed the ammunition, and began to pack the rifle for transport. Within minutes, he was on the stairway, leading to the alley. When he reached the street, he began walking toward a bus stop to head home. Nobody paid much attention to the rather sullen-looking man carrying a moderately-sized duffle bag...

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Mid-December 1963

The vice president drew in on his cigarette as he read the morning's Washington Post, shaking his head over the headlines. That Harvard boy (which was how he saw the president, nine years his junior) and his rich high-style wife were on the front page again. And if that weren't bad enough, there was the snotty, arrogant younger brother grandstanding, making noises like he'd be the next in line for the Oval Office. "Shit," the vice president muttered, stubbing out his smoke and drinking some of his coffee. "Garner was right." He stared out the window for a few minutes and then abruptly grabbed the phone. When his secretary picked up, he snapped, "Get me on the president's calendar tomorrow or the next day" and hung up. He punched another button on his phone and his aide picked up. "Get me Connally," he ordered.

Within a few minutes, the phone on the desk rang. Picking up, he heard "Lyndon! How you doin' this morning? Still got that cute secretary that doesn't care how she crosses her legs?". The vice president snapped, "Never mind that; I need some information." John Connally knew enough to shift to all-business mode, and answered, "Of course. Tell me what you need." The vice president said, "You know the law that got passed back in '60, right?" "The one where you could run for the Senate at the same time as running for vice president? Sure I do. Why?" "Have your legal boys check it out to see if I can run for the Senate while still in this goddam vice presidency." There was a long silence on the other end. "You hear me, Governor?" "I did, Lyndon. Does that mean what I think it does--that you're going to get out after one term as vice president and go for your old Senate seat?" "You're damn right it does. Jack Garner was right: this
isn't worth a bucket of piss. I'm tired of that Harvard boy and his piss-ant kid brother, and I'm tired of sitting on my ass with nothing to do. I'm tired of being their water boy with the likes of Smathers, Thurmond, and that crowd. They can go piss up a rope." Another silence. "All right, I'll have the boys look into this. One way or another, we'll make sure it's OK for you to run the way you want." A faint chuckle. "It'll be good to have you back, Lyndon." "Thanks, John. I knew I could count on you. Best to your wife."

The vice president hung up only to be buzzed by his secretary. "Sir, the White House says not before the first of the new year. The president is booked..." "Shee-it...those damn Harvard boys are at it again. All right, take it. Then send in a stenographer." He hung up and turned to stare out the window to compose his thoughts.
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