Chapter Text
Being shot felt terrible.
Being reincarnated the literal moment L.B.Johnson was sworn in,felt even more terrible.
But when The balladeer hid behind some bushes and watched the assassins boo at the live tv of Johnson,they coudnt help but smirk.
They were all right.
The balladeer was right,because they predicted-no,they knew that shooting the president wasent going to help anyone be happy.
The assassins were right that "the american dream" doesent exist,not for them.
But damn them if the balladeer didnt atleast try to listen. And they were right,they knew that the assassins just coudnt see the way to get their prize. And look where that got their group.
Johnny didnt bring "his country" back,wasent celebrated.
Zangara still had stomach issues and hadnt got rid of "the king".
Guiteau wasent rememberd.
jealous actor
Spitefull immigrant
deranged priest
Czolgosz didnt make workers equal,he destroyed the reputation of anarchy. (He did win the love of Emma Goldman though.)
Hinckley didnt win jodies love and wasted most of his life in jail.
Squeaky didnt free Manson,
moody anarchist
upset pedophile
petty hippie
Sara Jane Moore still doesent know what her purpose is.
Byck didnt make people listen.
confused woman
boring drunkard
Outside their carnival world,all of them are nothing more then footnotes
Except Booth. Booth always takes center-stage,always acts.
Just like he acted to convince Lee.
Lee still cant connect,cant break out of his lonliness. Nobody dares tell him that the propietor was Ruby. Soon he will know.
pessimistic Marxist.
But for now,the group cheers,everybody knows that Johnson cant do shit.
The balladeer has lost once,they just have to try again.
But for now.
They run.