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Conspiracy

James Files is the name. The name of the man who committed the unthinkable. The name of the man who killed our president. But you see, James Files was never charged. He got away. James Files is the man on the grassy knoll.
Mr. Files was supposed to be another onlooker. He was just a simple civilian wanting to see his president. But what most don’t know is that Mr. Files had another plan. A twisted plan. An evil plan.
James Files was going to kill president Kennedy.
Mr. Files loads his car with his Remington XP - 100. Mr. Files packs one round. He won’t miss. Mr. Files slams the door behind him. As he cranks his engine, he doesn’t bother to put on his seatbelt. You see, Mr. Files isn’t shaking. He just has a subtle twitch. Mr. Files isn’t nervous, not even worried. His next act will only change the course of American politics forever, nothing new.
12 pm, Mr. Files stuffs his pocket rifle into the waistband of his white Hanes underwear littered with stains. The scrape just under his crotch awards a nice breeze to his package. His trench coat disguises the bulge. Salvia caresses his finger as he holds it up to the sky. Mr. Files calculates that the wind is blowing 17 MPH to the west. He also concludes that temperature is at a brisk 66 degrees. Mr. Files surveys the land. He concludes that the 15 people on the grassy knoll will not be able to spot him as he makes his escape. As you can tell, Mr. Files is a professional. He was raised by the mafia. Taught how to commit a murder. Taught how to get away with it.
Mr. Files finds his place. A spot right under the fence. He has just enough shade to make the shot and keep him concealed. Mr. Files cooly rolls his blanket out on the grass. He sits. He sits criss cross applesauce. Just like a school boy.
James Files has incredible patience. He could wait a millennium to reap the reward for his kill. Mr. Files does not let his thoughts drift off. His eyes are fixed on the road ahead. Waiting for his target to arrive. 
At 12:22 the motorcade should arrive. Approximately 7 minutes from now. Mr. Files came prepared. He knows the exact time the motorcade will leave and the exact course it will take. Mr. Files isn’t worried about the route after his location. Mr. Files knows the president won’t be completing his tour.
7 minutes has elapsed. Mr. Files’ stare has not been broken. The motorcade turns the corner. At this site Mr. Files calmly plucks his gun from his waistband, leaving him with an uncomfortable wedgie. No time to fix that.
The president's car has arrived. With his eye glued to the scope, Mr. Files flips the switch on his gun, turning the safety off. As the president's head lines up in the cross hairs, Mr. Files pulls the trigger. The president is killed at once. Mr. Files ejects his round from his rifle, catching it calmly. Mr. Files trots back to his car.
As he arrives at home, Mr. Files kisses his wife.
“Babe, I did it. Kennedy is dead.”
“Well, you’ve done it Honeysuckle. Did you leave any evidence? You think they’ll come after you?”
“Naw babe. they’ll go after that Oswald boy. I’ll promise you that.”




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