More Than Paradise

Adam sighed. He was in a mental struggle, one quite frustrating and painful. He had been at war with conflicting emotions for some time now and just when he thought he had the answer, it slipped away like it had always done. Adam also would question why he was in this strained state, as he was granted practically everything to him upon birth. He came from dust, named the animals, and lived in absolute paradise. Yet still, with all these privileges, he was empty. His problem was one that could not be fixed with a nighttime prayer, no matter how close to Him he was. This was his problem, one that he knew not the solution, and because of this, he lay in grass, frustrated and in pain.

It had become a daily pilgrimage for Adam. Wake up, eat, do some calisthenics, and travel to the hill that over looked the grasslands. The hill was not mountainous, but it provided Adam with a view that he could admire. He oversaw miles of lush grass, peach trees, and small oasis's. It gave him some calm, but only briefly before the thoughts flooded in again. When they returned, he would lay back and watch the billowing but non-threatening clouds roll by. Eventually, the clouds passive movements lulled him into a midday nap.

From there he dreamt.

In his dreams he saw darkness that never existed in the lands that he lived in. There were black skies everywhere, and far off screams of terror that penetrated deep into him. The shrillness from these yells gave him a head-to-toe shiver that frightened him. They were high-pitched and cackling and they hit him like ice water. And they never stopped. He ran hard in his dreams, always trying to get away from the skies that seemed to get lower and lower to the ground. The ground was barren, his feet hitting hard dirt with every stride. It was a visual representation of the conflict brewing in his mind day in and day out. It scared him to death. In this nightmare he knew why he was really running. He was trying to be a savior, trying to help when there was no help to be needed. He was acting selfless, altruistic even, as he ran, knowing that somewhere out there in the darkness, she needed him.

But he always woke up before he could save her.

Now awake and shaken by his dreams, he waited for his friend to come along. His name was Zach, an archangel who had known Adam since The Creation. Adam always sensed Zach before he saw him, and that day he felt a warm sensation coming from the east. He turned right and saw a beautiful figure soaring toward him. With eyes so blue they put the sky to shame, and wings so large they could swallow the sun, Zach was a sight to behold. He was covered in armor that was so tight-fitting it could have been a part of his body. His sword was shimmering in the daylight as he brandished it from its sheath. Though it be paradise, Zach was still wary of his surroundings, and refused to pocket the weapon while on earth with Adam. Zach's wings sped up as he came to a controlled landing, and his sandals made a soft imprint into the ground. His presence had been made.

"How are you today, Adam?"

"Worse," Adam replied sullenly.

"I'm sorry to hear that."

They sat for a while and talked about their recent doings, meaning Zach was talking for most of the time. He spoke concisely and with a soft tone as he went about how he was fearing an uprising from longtime foes where he dwelt. When Adam asked for more details, Zach would suddenly declare the subject "nothing to be worried about." Adam knew this was an important matter, but knew Zach was trying not to burden him with anymore grief. Silent appreciation for this gesture was made by Adam. The two began to walk through the grasslands, picking fruit to eat as they went. Halfway through his fruit, Zach asked Adam about it.

"What did you decide to call this?"

"A plum."

"Plum. Well, it is very good."

There was a silence now as they walked. Adam knew what was coming next, Zach was simply gathering his words together.

"Would you like to talk about her?"

"I would. I don't know how though."

"Have you seen her lately?"

"Just three days ago."

"And?"

"And it reminded me of how much I love her. Since then I've only felt worse."

"I'm sorry."

"I know."

Adam's pain derived from his love of Eve. There existed no woman like her, both literally and figuratively. She was positively brilliant, a master of language and remarkable conversationalist. On top of that she brought Adam the only smiles that he got outside of viewing the beauty of nature around him. It did not matter that she walked about without a cloth upon her body, for her true beauty could not be observed with just the eyes. Adam knew that in this lonely world, God had meant for them to be together.

Alas, Eve did not reciprocate the feelings.

Adam was left in shambles. A broken man in paradise. The situation could not be more apparent, the answer more obvious. And yet, he was left to stay at the hilltop looking over the beautiful landscape and finding distractions for himself. He found an outlet for his sadness in the naming of things around him. From the fauna, to the flowers, to the fruit, to the fish. He named them all and cared for them. It was a creative way to keep his mind off of Eve, but it didn't help for long. When he began talking with Zach about his troubles, however, he found him to act as a conscious. He spoke the words that Adam did not want to hear, even though he knew them to already be true in his own mind. While Zach was quick to dish out the reality of Adam's dilemma, he still rooted for him, and so did many other angels above, according to Zach.

"Why can't she see it, Zach?"

"Perhaps because you two truly are not compatible."

"Do you believe that?"

"No. I don't."

"Has He been listening to me?"

"Of course. Always."

"And still I suffer."

"Everything happens for a reason."

This line had been told to Adam countless times, but it never did bring him comfort. He thought it might have just been his impatience. He didn't care. The two continued to walk in silence, this one more bearable, and it allowed Adam to relax to a degree. He had prayed every night for relief, for things to be better, and for this he would only be met with another nightmare and another tearful night. While he felt no physical pain from this ordeal, he hurt terribly. It was the sense that there was no hope for him, that no matter his accomplishments, there would always be that piece missing from his existence. What is life without love? This question had stumped Adam for the longest time, and the fact that he had no answer to it only added to his pain.

How could God do this to him?

"You blame God for this," Zach stated calmly.

"I do, but I don't want to."

"I know. I also know you love Him deeply."

"Why couldn't He have just made things perfect?"

"What kind of existence is one without conflict?"

"What is life without love?"

They walked, both without answers to each other's questions. Adam's solemn demeanor was suddenly broken by what he saw ahead of him. He grabbed Zach's shoulder and pulled him down and over to a bush to conceal themselves. Adam's forward gaze was a silent gesture to Zach to see what lie ahead. A gorgeous flock of flamingos were gathered no more than 100 feet from Adam and Zach. They were interacting with one another around a pool of water, cleaning themselves and taking their drinks as they groomed. Their plumage was a vibrant mix of white and pink, without a single speck of dirt on them. They were magnificent, allowing Adam to forget all things for just the briefest moment.

"They're flamingos."

"They're incredible."

After a few more moments of mesmerized observing, the two took about to turn around and head back to the hill. Adam continued to walk as an empty vessel, a man with nothing left in him. Zach sensed his worsening state, but could not think of how to help his friend. He wished nothing more than for Adam to be happy once more, like how he was in days old, but he knew that would be an Adam he may not see again.

"Zach."

"Yes, Adam?"

"Thank you for visiting me so often these days."

"Oh, you're welcome."

"I can't imagine how someone could go through this without someone to talk to. I really appreciate it."

"I wish I could do more."

"I know. But you've done all that you could do. That's enough."

Adam, in truth, wished Zach could do more, but he knew these were hopes that could be tossed away like all of his others. So they continued on through the ankle-high grass, talking of things that a man and an angelic being talk of. Both quietly enjoying each other's company. While Zach could never fully understand the love that Adam felt for Eve, he tried his best to sympathize. Adam's was a love that had never existed before. His was one that sought to protect Eve from any dangers, to provide for her and keep her healthy. He wished to always be by her side, to hold her when she was in pain and hold her still when the pain had passed. He loved her unconditionally to an extent that she may never know, but all this was fruitless. She loved him not, and with all these feelings and nothing to do with them, Adam spent his days in idleness, keeping his suffering silent outside of his discussions with Zach. He knew that Eve would never feel real pain and that danger would never be on her doorstep, but it did not matter to Adam. He wanted to a be her knight in a dragonless world.

Through all this, Adam never felt any hatred toward Eve. He could never imagine how he ever could, he could never bring himself to it. Eve was the only one for him, in all ways possible. And while he could know that fact until the day he died, he would only know it from his spot on the hill where he sat alone day after day.

"Why does she not love me, Zach? I understand you have difficulty grasping what I feel and everything, but if you could try and, I don't know, just, why do you believe Eve and I are not together?"

"You've dedicated yourself to her, correct?"

"Yes. Fully."

"Eve, however, has dedicated her life toward other things. Literature, Art, Nature. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry, Adam, but from what I can see, these are the things she truly loves."

Adam's eyes stung. Tears had begun to swell up and were threatening to let themselves loose. He didn't want to cry in front of Zach. Adam wanted to save him from the grief that Zach had so politely protected him from earlier. They reached the top as the sun was setting over the grasslands. They both watched as the sky became painted in swipes of orange and red. Adam contemplated his situation, wondered where he would be when he woke up tomorrow. If he would be in a happier place or still in a lonely would where Eve was a fruit that could never be touched. Either way he would have to keep on living his life, it would just be a little more difficult by himself. If only things were as he wished, as he prayed for. If only he were with Eve.

"I love her so much, Zach."

"I know. I guess not even paradise can be perfect. However, I think you need to see her again."

"And say what to her?"

"Say the things you tell me. Say what is always on your mind."

"I've told it all to her before."

"Perhaps you need to be more forceful. Explain that you love her for exactly who she is. Make her understand everything you wish to offer to her."

"That sounds like I'm pressing this upon her."

"You're forcing her to realize the truth. She simply does not realize that despite the love she has for her other pursuits, her true love has gone unrequited for too long, and he's suffering horribly."

"I'm not sure, Zach."

"You're afraid, Adam. Why?"

Adam felt the first of many tears stream down his cheeks. This flash flood of vulnerability embarrassed Adam, and Zach knew it, but he asked him again.

"Why are you afraid to tell her this?"

"Because, because I'm afraid if she says "No." I can't bear to hear that again. That would be worse than the nightmares I have, then the loneliness I feel now, and that's what scares me."

"I think you two were made for each other in more than one way, Adam. Until you make her realize that, you will continue to find yourself on this hill everyday."

"You believe that?"

"Yes."

"I thought you archangels couldn't sympathize with this kind of love."

"I'm surprised myself."

Adam did not know what to do. He was inspired by his friend's surprising words, but the fear of rejection and uncertainty still petrified him. His thoughts were battling again, two conflicting feelings engaging in an epic fight. He looked at the sunset once more as its warm colors fell upon paradise. It was a sunset that he determined would be the last spent alone on that hilltop. He would be alone no longer, he refused to be. He loved Eve to the ends of the earth and knew her to be the most amazing woman that would set foot upon it. He would never give up on her.

"Adam?"

"Yes, Zach?"

"What if she says "Yes"?"

Adam smiled, "That would be more than paradise could ever offer."

Advice for Michael and Amy

I'm going to be honest and straight with you all. Someday, I plan on having children. Whether they're going to be with someone I care about or with a Guatemalan prostitute who kinda looks like Jennifer Lopez when you squint will be up to God to determine. What's for certain is that I'm going to have to be role model for these children, instill them with values, and most importantly, give them advice.

This is why I post today, so when the time comes, I can simply come back to this and print it off. Or better yet, print it now and just fold it up and keep it in the wallet. That too, will be up to God to determine. So here I shall list what I deem as the most important things my son should know as he grows up. Although, I think I will have a girl's list as well as a boy's one, just in case my wife turns out to have really powerful eggs.

____________________________


Michael

1. Always respect women. They are the most beautiful and intelligent things on this planet. And until we explore other worlds and find planets that hold even more beautiful and intelligent creatures, we shall be polite, courteous, and chivalric to the female sex.

2. Cops do not take bribes. It doesn't matter whether you have your credit card, debit card, checkbook, traveler's check, rain check, I.O.U., or cold hard cash. When they say they want your license and registration. That really is all they want.

3. It's lefty loosy, righty tighty. You have no idea how many armoire sets have failed to stay together for me because I was not bestowed with this helpful mnemonic tip until I was 17. Turn the screw left to unscrew and screw it right to screw it right. If you really are my son, by the way, you just laughed at the second part of that sentence. Good job, kiddo.

4. A little confidence, charm, and wit go a long way. Walk into a room with an upright posture, a gleaming smile, and an arched eyebrow and you will be creating something called an "Aura." It's an invisible field of energy that a man exudes that can turn him into a leader, comedian, and sex symbol. Sometimes all three.

5. Always wear a condom. You don't want to have to worry about writing an advice list when you're seventeen like I am. Rubber up, pal. Remember, "keep it snug, then shag the rug." That was kind of weird, I know, but it'll help you remember.

6. When at a sporting event, bring a Sharpie, White-out, and the nicest clothes you own. Let me explain, when you go to a baseball game or a tennis match or whatever, you find the best seats available and take them. From that point, White-out the seat and aisle numbers on your ticket, check the seat and aisle number you're now in and then fill them in with your Sharpie on your ticket where the old numbers use to be. When the "rightful owners" appear and politely tell you that you're in their seats, you can say, "No, look at my tickets." You'll embarrass them by showing them the seats are yours at which point you can go a step further and say, "You people don't even look properly dressed for a game of tennis," while brandishing your tuxedo, top hat, and cane. They will leave, sullen, sad, and without front row seats.

7. Love really does exist. It is also the most complicated thing you will ever encounter. You may have to go through a few women until you find the one. During this uncharted course, you will come across seedy clubs, loose ladies, and if you happen to have a bad break-up, you will come across all your belongings outside you and your girlfriend's apartment. It's a path that will make you wiser, better, and emotionally stronger. Sure, you'll lose faith in humanity and then find "meaning" in everything all in the same week, but you just have to keep your wits about you. The same wits you should have after reading Advice #4. She's out there for you, kiddo. And hopefully if you've followed all my advice, she'll realize that no one is going to be a better man out there than you.

Amy

1. Men are idiots. They will forever be perpetual children, and they will only become smarter at concealing this fact. Take the most "mature" man you know, put a gun to his head and he will tell you his favorite fart joke. The best you can do with men is tolerate their childish tendencies, and the smart ones will try their best to show their mature side more often.

2. Don't let the other girls get you down. You do what you want to do, and if that makes you popular, then that's great. If you end up being a social pariah, well, that's the price for being an independent woman. Eventually people will come to respect your independent nature, trust me, they will. Heck, Destiny's Child even wrote a song promoting independent women. That was Beyonce's group before she became super famous, by the way.

3. Remember, not all the prettiest flowers are roses and not all the prettiest girls are stick-thin fashion models. You're beautiful, just like Christina Aguilera says, so just be happy who you are.

4. Kissing on the first date carries a lot of weight with it. Just imagine what sex on the first date carries. I don't know what it carries exactly, but I always picture some giant ape with those ankle weights as a visual representation. What I'm trying to say is that taking it slow is the best way to go. It rhymes, so it must work. Check out the boy's advice list's #5 for another example.

5. A nice face will blow a man away for a moment, but good humor and brains will blow him away for the rest of his life. Don't fall for their wagging tongues, when it comes down to it, a laugh and quick remark from you will stick with them more than anything else. A pretty face is only a plus at that point.

6. While we're talking about pretty faces, the only cop that can be bribed is a cop that's a sucker for pretty faces. So, always keep lipstick and mascara in your car, along with a spare tire and road flares.

7. Never take crap from anyone. If a man is being sexist to you, kick him straight in the balls. Then call me, and I'll go punch his lights out. Until the day you get married, I want to know you're honoring that Juntunen name, so don't let some punkass lessen your awesomeness. Remind me to enroll you in a Krav Maga class at some point too.

____________________________


Alright, hopefully with these 7 things each (I keep it equal) you will grow up to be two kids I'm proud to call my own, unless of course your mother actually does end up being that Guatemalan J.Lo Hooker, then I may play dumb. Sorry if that does turn out to be the case. But if things do turn out well for me and I'm with someone I care about, well, I can't speak for your mother, obviously, but I will always love you no matter what.

Until I actually do see you, I'm going to go enjoy my time and maybe try to follow the rules I set forth for you two. Mostly the boy's ones, but some of the girl's ones cross over too. Someday we'll see each other, just remember, I'll be the one smiling back at you.

Unless the person has long hair. That's your mother.

The Assassination of Abraham Lincoln by the Thespian John Wilkes Booth

The man sat in the back of the trolley with a look of most ill contempt about him. He stared out the window as if each passing visage was a brutal enemy of his. He twisted his moustache in a way that classic villains would when coming up with a murderous plot. His hair was black, blacker than the night that the train was cutting through. It was around two in the morning and the train had been going for about 6 hours now, but the man had never moved from his spot. The women pushing the carts were afraid to approach him and ask if he would like any tea. He didn't look like a tea man anyway. He looked like a man who liked coffee black, black as the hair that sat upon his head and twice as dark as the night the train he was riding was cutting through. It was dark alright.

The man was John Wilkes Booth, famed thespian of his day and proud Confederate sympathizer. He took the end of his moustache and twirled away at it with his thumb and forefinger, risking to pull it out by the roots. He was maddened with deep thoughts the last few hours, hardly blinking and constantly going over in his mind the same events. He couldn't stop thinking about it, he just twirled and twisted away. The same thing had been on his mind the whole train trip up to that point.

"Where did I leave my keys?"

Booth was remarkably forgetful and quite short-sighted when it came to doing things. He had placed his keys inside his locked briefcase for "safe keeping." Now remembering this, he slapped his forehead with fury and cursed himself for his lapse in judgment. For this error, he would be left with the clothes on his back for at least another day. In the process of cursing his name, the cart pushing lady passing by took notice and became entranced at who she had been afraid of this whole time.

"Wilkes Booth?" John Wilkes Booth the actor?"

"Thespian."

"Golly, if my eyes don't tell lies, you are Booth." The woman put her hand to her chest in awe. "I loved you in that play."

Booth waited a moment for her to explain which play, but when he realized she wasn't and was just going to gawk at him, he relented.

"Thank you," he said through a false smile.

"Would you do me the honor of letting me get you something?"

Booth's voice became absolutely menacing, "Coffee. Black as the night of which this train cuts through. With sugar."

The woman nodded, still in disbelief over meeting a celebrity. She grabbed her cart and began to trot away. As she did, the other door that led into Booth's trolley opened and a kindly old man shuffled in with a newspaper. Booth watched his movements with dread, for he knew what was coming. The trolley was empty, as most midnight trains were, but this lonely old man was going to take the liberty of sitting next to him. Booth's anger grew exponentially. First the key, now this. He hated conversing with strangers, especially when he had serious thinking to do. Plans were to be laid out in his mind, and how could they unfurl when Father Time is next to you talking about why he can't stand up too long these days.

The Old Man asked quietly, "May I sit next to you, young man?"

"Burn in Hell."

The Old Man took his seat next to Booth and smiled. Old men who were hard of hearing were the bottom rung of society, according to Booth. Below even the homeless and the Negros lay the deaf old men, who put forth nothing toward society but stories that go nowhere. As The Old Man reclined back in his seat, Booth cursed himself again for forgetting his Bowie knife in his briefcase, as he could really use it to his advantage at the moment.

A moment of brilliance came over Booth. He tended to think best when speaking his plans out loud and quite nefariously. What better time than to spill his secrets to The Old Man as he sat reading the newspaper? No. It wasn't worth it. The plans that existed in his head sounded pretty good. Shoot. Jump. Escape. A three step plan toward success he ever heard of it. But he needed to fill the gaps. What to say after the shooting? It had to be grand, something memorable, and downright chilling.

"The man has been shot!"

Brilliant. Shoot. "The man has been shot!" Jump. Escape. And after the jumping he would need to do something just as good, so the audience would never forget it.

"I'll wag my finger," Booth thought, "And say, 'Nay to those who agree with the man I just shot.' Lord, it'll be a show!"

Booth was enamored with his scheme when the woman came back silently with a cup of coffee. She had a wavering smile and she seemed to be near tears, as if on the edge of hysterics. Booth took the cup and looked at her curiously.

"Goodness, woman, what is it? Did you expel saliva into my beverage?"

"N-N-No, Mr. John Wilkes Booth. I'm just so guffawed. Excuse my expression, but may I have an autograph?"

"Listen carefully, I'm on a very important...acting venture. If you are to do me a favor, I will give you an autograph, and a lock of my hair. Now, don't come back here until the train reaches Washington. Do you understand?"

The woman couldn't speak. She simply nodded violently and left the room. Having forgotten her cart, she came back in 30 seconds later to retrieve it. The Old Man just kept reading, nothing bothered him, and he bothered no one. Booth liked this man. Perhaps he had been too hasty earlier when he envisioned himself jamming a large blade into the man's neck. Maybe.

They had dozed off together, The Old Man and Booth. When they awoke, they gave each other an odd look and went about their business. Booth gathered his case, and The Old Man left the room and wiped the drool from his face. The train had reached its destination just as the morning broke. Booth looked out the window once more and saw a ray of light flying endlessly though the tree branches in the distance. And a squint of the eyes revealed the historic White House. He smiled, with a mix of amazement and pure evil. Then the train started to move again. Booth gobbled up his belongings in his arms and raced toward the nearest exit, jumping out just before he ran out of platform to land on. There amongst his scattered cases and the curious onlookers, John Wilkes Booth laid on the ground as the happiest man around. He was finally in Washington D.C.

But laying on the ground was for idle dilly dalliers, and John Wilkes Booth had a mission to accomplish. With that, he dusted himself off, gathered his belongings, and gave his moustache one last wicked twist for good luck. He made his way through the early morning crowd and found his way outside the train terminal and onto the busy streets of the downtown district, all bustling with politics and high-class gentlemen. Booth could hear it in the air.

"So I hear beards are really catching on."

"You don't say? Perhaps it's time I began giving my whiskers a break from the old cream and shave."

"Here here!"

It was like sweet music to his ears, this city and its people were just utterly sophisticated. For a moment, he considered walking to his destination, as the morning was brisk and the early spring air was dewy and invigorating. Alas, Booth had to get a move on, so he gave a whistle and a wave and hailed down the nearest horse-drawn carriage. He threw his things into the carriage and stepped in, slamming the door behind him. The driver of the carriage opened the little wooden door that separated the passenger's carriage to the driver's seat outside. The driver was a young man with a gleaming smile and mutton chops that startled Booth upon first glance.

"My Lord. What beastly hair."

The driver ignored him and spoke in a New York accented voice that told Booth two things. One, the driver had shipped on down to Washington in hopes of the rich political clientele bettering his pay and tips. And two, that the driver had been forced to memorize this speech to give to all customers.

"Hey there, sir. Thank you for choosing Right and Proper Carriage Company. I will be your honored chauffeur to wherever you wish to go. To what location may I so happily drive you to today?"

"The theater."

The driver's eyes widened, "My God...you're John Wilkes Booth! Of course, I'll get you to the theater right away, sir. You know, I saw you perform a few years ago in New York. You are remarkable man, anyone ever tell you that?"

"Yes."

"Do they?"

"Yes. Get a move on."

"Do they ever say how absolutely astounding you look."

"Yes. Mostly the women."

"Yeah, I bet. Because you're a beautiful man and I would-"

"This conversation is going down a markedly homosexual path. Perhaps we begin moving."

"Right you are, John Wilkes Booth."

As the driver closed the little door, Booth let out a heavy sigh of relief. Why did all his fans either have to be ugly women or gay carriage drivers? Those two had to have consisted of at least 85% of his fan base, Booth thought.

The ride was uneventful, just the kind of ride Booth was a fan of. The only interesting aspect of the voyage is when Booth saw his brother in a carriage alongside him. Booth took an apple he was saving for later, opened his carriage's door and hurled it at the driver of his brother's carriage, knocking him unconscious. Booth belted out a sinister laugh and shut the door, continuing his uproar all the way to the theater. Not that his brother had done anything to him, this was simply the bastard that John Wilkes Booth was.

Upon arriving at Ford's Theater, Booth took out a pocket full of coins and threw them at his driver, three of them striking his right eye simultaneously.

"Wow, hit in the eye with money by John Wilkes Booth. What an honor!"

Booth threw his bags over his shoulders and proceeded to flip the driver off. He crossed the street and opened the theater's doors with a swift power kick. There to greet him was the theater's owner, John T. Ford. Ford was a man in his forties but with the looks of a teenager. His heart belonged to the stage and his mouth likely came from a filthy sailor. Despite his ribald remarks and tendency to act aggressively toward woman, and occasionally men, he was a proper gentleman and quite the charmer.

"Booth, you slick son of a bitch. Where have you been?"

"Good morning there, John."

"You better come with me, we ain't want them homo carriage drivers swarming after you like last time. Come on, I'll take you to my office."

Booth was led through numerous backstage doors and stairs, all of which he was familiar with, until they reached the small and unorganized office of Ford. They stepped in and proceeded to step over the many papers and liquor bottles that lay strewn about the floor. As Ford closed the door behind them, Booth looked out the window of the office that was meant to look out onto the stage but was becoming more stained with cigar smoke every time Booth visited the place. Just as he turned back to face Ford, he noticed the theater owner moving papers around in a drawer until he pulled out his cigar box. After a subtle offer to Booth and a subsequent wave of the hand in a polite turn down, Ford sat back in his seat and lit up. Booth crossed his legs and ran his hand through his hair. Each man looked at each other, both knowing how the conversation was going to begin, but neither wanting to start it. Finally, Ford gave in.

"The hell are you doing here, Johnny?" Ford asked in a more subdued tone.

"I'm here on official business."

"Let's not beat around the bush, eh? Come on, Johnny, you're talking to your best friend here. What in the name of Christ are you doing here?"

"I plan to make history tonight."

"You know I'm a big fan of vague one-liners, truly, I am," Ford's face began to redden with anger, "But if you don't give me a straight answer, well, I'm gonna start getting hot-tempered. I got the President coming tonight, Johnny. You know that? I can't have Mr. Quit-The-Theater-Business-And-Go-To-Montreal-For-Three-Months running loose in my place tonight."

"I'm here to kill the President, John."

"Holy Mother of shit. Are you a lunatic? He's a goddamn President. The goddamn President! You have got to have some firm plums to come into my office on my birthday and tell me you're about to kill the goddamn President in my establishment. Firm plums, my friend."

"It's not your birthday."

"Hey, good morning, Johnny, on this fine Sunday in April. The day of my birth! Fuck you it's not my birthday! "

"It's Friday the 14th."

Ford leaned on the desk in front of him with both elbows digging into the maple wood. Taking hard, serious puffs, and considering what various curse words he could put into a stunning rebuttal. Without anything to come back at his friend with, and accepting that his birthday was not for another two days, he pointed his cigar straight at Booth.

"Well you better have a damn nice present on Sunday for me."

"I do."

"Okay, good. Now you listen right clear and hear me out because I'm only going to say it once or twice. I'm not big on leaders getting killed, especially in my place of business. But you are a dear friend. And I owe you one for the time with the thing and I'll never forget it."

"The pleasure was mine."

"With that being said. I will let you go about your business on one condition."

"That being?"

"You have to be in the summer production of Hamlet."

"Damn..."

"That's right, you'll be performing alongside your brother again. I've already envisioned you as Horatio and your brother as Hamlet. Have you seen your brother lately?"

Booth pictured the carriage riding through the dirty, Irish part of the city with his brother trembling inside and the driver slumped over in the front, horses walking where they please. He laughed maniacally.

"Those drunken scoundrels will tear him apart!"

Booth calmed down and told Ford he was unaware of where his brother might be and that he hadn't seen him in months. Ford snuffed out his cigar with no mercy and gave out a heavy cough. He then pulled out a massive bottle of 75-proof whiskey and ten shot glasses.

"Well, Johnny, you can scurry about the place until the play tonight. Let me know if you need anything."

"Are you expecting visitors?" Booth asked in regards to the alcohol and glasses.

"No, I simply plan to drunken myself."

With that, Booth took his leave of the office and gazed at the stage from the balcony in the back. The real performance tonight would be found in the luxury booth were the President will be killed, Booth thought. He then realized the connection to where he planned on killing him and his own last name and it proved to be a sense that this was meant to be. He twisted and twirled his midnight black moustache at the brilliance of it all.

Booth spent the day walking and going over his obsessively elaborate plan. The three-step plan was engraved in his mind, along with the phrases he planned to yell between each step. Everything was falling into place, absolutely perfect in every facet of the scheme, nothing had yet gone wrong and nothing seemed to be doomed on the horizon. He thought again that such a situation going so well must mean one of two things. Either this was fate that he was conscious to, something pre-ordained that could not be altered or stopped without serious repercussions. If not that, then something at the last moment would ruin everything, the whole deal falls through, the President survives, the Confederacy dies, and Booth himself would find his new home to be 8 feet by 10 and with a gorgeous view of stone walls on all but one side. There was no gray area to Booth, it was one or the other, and he knew if he dwelt on the other too long that it was bound to come true. So for the day he thought of this, his plan's steps, and if he should partake in some popped corn before the show began.

Time flew and the clock struck nine o'clock in the evening. The President was due to arrive any second. Booth felt in his vest pocket for his weapon and after feeling the reassuring touch of the trigger, he put the plan into action. He fled out of a backdoor exit and into the alley behind the theater, leaving a rock in the door's path so it wouldn't close on him and lock him out. He jogged down the alley until he reached the gas lamp streets of nighttime Washington D.C. His hair blended in perfectly. He waved about at a young man no older that 18 who was galloping about on a horse. The lad slowed to a halt and recognized Booth.

"By golly, Mr. Booth the actor!"

"Thespian. Now, how much for this steed?"

"Shucks, I reckon my Pa paid 10 dollars for it. I'd need at least 15 to give him up."

"Done," Booth shot back as he produced 15 dollars so quickly it looked as if it came out of a skin pocket in his hand.

"Boy, my family sure ain't gon' believe this. Thanks, Mr. Booth!"

"Wait, what's his name?"

"Umm..."

"Well, the beast must be endowed with a title. What is it?"

"John Wilkes Booth."

"You damn scamp!"

Booth reached for the boy's collar, but the young chap was already paces ahead and soon far out of reach. Booth grit his teeth and made a peculiar noise that startled the horse. How dare someone name such a simple creature after a brilliant stage actor, he thought. He pulled hard on the reins and led the horse down the alley, grinding his teeth all the way.

Now with his getaway tied up to a rusty water pipe and swatting its tail at pesky bugs, Booth could move on to the next step. He made his way back to the door and removed the rock, slipping himself in and silently closing it behind him. He found the path that would lead him to the luxury booth and smiled again at the connection. Tip-toe after tip-toe eventually led him to the his endpoint. He read the placard that graced the door of the room, "Presidential Box." They had changed it just for the President's visit tonight. Booth's eye twitched with increasing madness, his hands balled up into cracking fists of rage, and his mouth was making odd movements that seemed to be unconscious it their randomness. He may have even made a high-pitched squeal. All of this because he knew it was an early sign that not all was going to fall into place as he liked it. He managed to compose himself, however, and pulled out the weapon from his vest pocket, a one-shot Derringer pistol. Three deep breaths were followed by a barely audible mutter.

"Let the show begin."

Booth slowly turned the knob of the door and let it open by itself. The tip toeing he had just perfected were put to use once more as he inched himself toward the President's seat which was now within an arm-and-a-half length away from Booth. He cocked the gun back and took aim when he caught sight of another man seated at the far end of the Box speak to his fiancee. It was one, Henry Rathbone, a military man and unfashionable beard enthusiast.

"Excuse my leave Clara, it seems the fish dinner we took to earlier tonight is producing a bit of a rumble in my stomach."

This was Booth's door of opportunity closing. He took aim at the President's head, closed his eyes and without any hesitation, pulled the trigger.

The result from the shot was a chorus of yells from ladies down below in the audience and a shocked Rathbone, who Booth took by surprise with a left hook to the jaw, knocking him out. The President's wife and Rathbone's fiancee stayed in their seats and they watched Booth smile and laugh at his historical accomplishment. He stood up on the ledge of the Presidential Box, one hand on the pistol and the other on a knife he had pulled out of his pocket. He smiled to the audience just as the spotlight shone its light upon his body. All eyes were on him.

"The man has been shot!" He laughed and cackled and roared and then repeated the process.

An older gentleman in the audience stood up and pointed at the madman Booth.

"By Heavens, that's John Wilkes Booth! He's made a surprise appearance after three months leave."

The crowd murmured and whispered amongst themselves until another man stood up.

"And he's pretended to kill the President and knock Mr. Rathbone on his back! I do say, what an entrance!"

The crowd, now believing this all to be an act, began clapping and hollering at the unorthodox return to the stage by the beloved John Wilkes Booth.

A random fellow shouted out sarcastically, "Shoot him again, Mr. Booth!"

The crowd burst out into uproarious applause, uncontained and unstoppable. No security guards were rushing toward Booth as expected, for they were on the ground dying of laughter.

Another man yelled with mock worry, "Hey, Rathbone, how's the view from the ground?"

The chuckles were deafening, and it was then that Booth realized history had set him up to play the fool. The twitch returned, along with the odd movements of the lips. He had to make his escape, the embarrassment of this misconstrued assassination was insufferable. He grabbed hold of his knife and dug it into the flag next to the Presidential Box, he held onto the blade's handle with both hands and slid down, the knife cutting the flag all the way. Unfortunately, sweat that had began emminating from him due to the humiliation of this experience. As a result, his grip slipped and he fell 10 feet to the ground floor face-first.

The crowd at Ford's Theater had never laughed so hard.

Booth picked his disgraced self up and with the determination only he could muster up at the moment, and finished through with his three-step plan.

Through teary eyes and a drooping moustache, he yelled, "Nay to those who agree with the man I just shot!"

He then dropped his head, faced the ground and hobbled away as quickly as possible on a broken ankle through a crowd of cackling men and women. His tears flowed with heat down his face as he kicked open the doors of the theater out onto the street. He would go to the alley, get the horse-version John Wilkes Booth, and ride off.

Meanwhile, the crowd laughed without interruption for 10 minutes with a chanting of "Encore" mixed in near the end. Eventually, though, the laughter came to a chuckle and soon to an end altogether. The crowd, now all suffering from sore throats, looked back up to the Presidential Box and and waited for the President and military man to pop back up. Yet, nothing happened. The two women in the Box merely cried and moaned. After another five minutes, the audience caught on. The first being the older gentleman who first believed the whole assassination to be a joke.

He looked down, thought deeply, then rose his head up when he came to realize the truth.

"Good God."

The rest is history.

_______________________________________________


The following is a podcast that is loosely tied to the story above. It was done as a historical trial of a famed person who never went to trial for reasons such as death or whatnot.

This is John Wilkes Booth's trial, it takes place a few months after his death, and all the characters are voiced by me.

First, click on the icon that says "Posts" and click on "The Prosecution of John Wilkes Booth." Listen to that first before listening to the Defense, which should play right after. Enjoy!


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