[center][b]The Assassination of Huey Long by the Coward Samuel Polk [/b][/center] [b]May, 1939 Brooklyn [/b] "I believe in America." Anthony Fortunato said as he looked over his cup of coffee at the two men.He didn't know their names, their real names anyway. They'd introduced themselves as Smith and Jones the first itme they met last year. Jones was some kind of military officer. Even without a uniform he sat with ramrod straight posture, his hair cut short in compliance of military regulations. Smith wore a three-piece suit and shoes that marked him as upper crust, a New England WASP whose yearly government salary couldn't cover the cost of that suit. He had a breezy confidence that marked him as someone who had always had money and connections. To him, privilege was a birthright. "I came to America as a young man in 1898. I could not speak a word of English. I worked as as street cleaner in Little Italy. I literally shoveled shit for pennies a day." Anthony took a long sip of coffee for dramatic pause. After he finished, his eyes shifted towards the skyline of New York, visible from his patio. "Now here I am. The most successful businessman in New York City, if not the entire state. I have more money than I or my children or their children could ever spend." What he didn't say was that his business was built on the backs of gamblers, hookers, and drug addicts. But that was America. Smith's people had made their money by killing Indians, enslaving blacks, and exploiting Chinese railroad workers. The unspoken truth was that in America, a crime lay at the heart of any vast fortune. "How much do you want to see the country whole again?" Smith asked. "They say it is a matter of time," said Anthony. "After Denver and Salt Lake City, the west coast lost their fighting spirit. Before long, the south will collapse as well." "Did Vinnie tell you that?" asked Jones. Anthony raised an eyebrow at the man and set his coffee on the patio table. Vincent, his youngest son, served in the Marines and was somewhere in the south. The last letter the family received from him was postmarked Houston. "If this is regarding the previous matter we discussed, then I have to warn you gentlemen that the south is a different beast than the radicals out west." Late last year, Smith and Jones met Anthony and his Jewish counterpart Herman Green. Even though the west coast was more fervent than the south, their labor unions were still interwoven with men who owed their alliegence Anthony and Herman, men who who recognized that politics were ever changing, but this thing of theirs was here to stay. "Long abolished all labor unions through the south," Anthony shrugged. "My friends in New Orleans, Miami, and Atlanta were not pleased." "This isn't about labor disputes or causing strikes," said Smith. "This is about something more serious." "You're right that the end of the war is a matter of time," said Jones. "But, there are people who want to speed it up. There is a serious roadblock to that process, and he sits in Baton Rouge." "Your son is doing his part with the war effort," said Smith. "Help us bring him home." Anthony picked his coffee back up and drank from it as a sardonic smile played on his lips. "We'll take care of it," he said after a long pause. "Not because of my son, or you, or even President Wheeler. Because I love this country." --- [b]June, 1939 Columbia, South Carolina [/b] President Huey Long bounded on to the stage. He seemed to glow with confidence and energy. The crowd at the fairgrounds roared in approval. Ten thousand strong, all of them cheering their hearts out for the populist hero, the man who had escaped MacArthur's grasp and was carrying on the legacy of both Washington and Lee, a soldier and statesman who stood for american liberty. Towering over Huey was South Carolina's Wilbur Helms, the SUSA's Secretary of State. The two men shook hands, Helms' big hand wrapped around Long's pudgy one. Helms held up Long's arm to the crowd. More applause and cheers for the two men. Mixed among the people were the Louisiana State Police, dressed in all black with sunglasses. Long's personal guard, handpicked by him and loyal only to the president. In the third row sat Samuel Polk. He was sweating, more so than he should be in the humid June air. He was sweating because it was almost time. Time for the pain to end, time for the headaches and the smells of rotten flesh to stop. Time to die. That would be okay, though. He'd feel no pain, and he would set up his family to live without him. They had promised him so much money that his wife and children would be set for years. "How y'all doing out there?!" Long boomed. There was a microphone in front of him, but Samuel was so close he could hear the man without it. "South Carolina, y'all sure know how to make an old country boy feel right at home!" Samuel took a deep breath and slipped a hand into his sports coat. A little five shot revolver rested there. He wrapped his right hand around it and said the Lord's prayer. Long was starting the wind up part of his speech when Samuel pulled the revolver from his pocket and took aim. He suddenly felt pain in his armpit, the sound of a gunshot followed it. More shots let into before he could even pull the trigger of his revolver. A bullet caught him in the chest and sent him spinning. The crowd all around him was in total disarray and panic. On stage, two troopers flanked Long on both sides, guns drawn. Samuel started to topple backwards. As he did so, he saw one of the guards behind Long turn his gun away from Samuel and towards the president himself. With a clear line of sight, the trooper shot Long three times in the back of the head. Long crumpled to the ground as the guards opened fire on the guard. Both he and Helms went down in a torrent of gunfire. --- Sergeant Michael Bordeaux died on the way to the hospital, as did Samuel Polk. Wilbur Helms would survive after multiple surgeries, the use of his legs robbed from him by the attack. After lingering for two days, Huey Long died on June 17th, 1939. Officially, Polk was labeled the assassin of Huey Long and Bordeaux. Records showed that his family never received any money after his death. Sergeant Bordeaux, who was later discovered to have been on the payroll of New Orleans' Mancini Family for years, was buried will full honors in Baton Rogue. The Southern United States surrendered to federal forces on August 22nd, 1939. Gerald L.K. Smith, acting president of the SUSA, signed a formal surrender two days later. On January 1st, 1940, the nation was dissolved and the rogue states were admitted back into the Union. Corporal Vinnie Fortunato made it back to New York City for Christmas with his family. He was gunned down by unknown assailants in 1947, a casualty of the Mafia's Chinatown Wars.