(yes, the title is a Cold War novel reference. and yes, it’s plot relevant. believe me)tw: brief descriptions of gore.
November 22, 1963
Dallas, Texas
12:23 p.m.
Man, he was tired.
It was the kind of tired that came from sour drugstore coffee and aching arches, misread weather reports, indigestion, stress. Something bone-deep: something he hadn’t felt since the early days of training camp, and something he never wanted to feel again. Damn the weather. Texas had no right being this warm in November. It was a Friday afternoon, the end of his first week on the job, and destiny really had to cut him some fucking slack.
He checked his watch. 12:24.
Behind him, he could sense the crowd shifting, murmuring. Somewhere, a baby started crying. All around, coats were off and draped over the metal barriers, and the sun gleamed on tie pins and pearls. Nothing but the Sunday best for the President. The Secret Service agent grumbled something incoherent and curled his toes inside his shoes. 12:25. They said it was going to rain all day, and here they were, 67 degrees and sunny as the light shining out of God’s asshole. Wonderful. He was sweating so much in his damn overcoat that he was about to dissolve. Not his fault that he was born and raised in West Virginia. Appalachian Novembers were brutal, but he was used to them. He was used to Novembers being chilly as the Arctic, not balmy and warm.
Man, fuck Texas.
A hand tapped him on the shoulder. “Excuse me, sir?”
He summoned a bland Secret Agent smile and turned to face the voice: thin, faint, a bit shaky. Probably a nervous young teenage boy – the precocious type, a bit antsy, with freckles across his nose and his tie pulled up snug against his neck, with his school knapsack on his back and some ink stains smudging his fingers. Neat-combed hair and pressed pants. The kind of kid who would sooner staple his tongue than swear. Nervous and excited to see the President, and full of questions and bullshit and –
The bland smile froze on his face.
No rosy-cheeked, nervous-smiling up-and-coming student senator stood before him. Instead, the agent looked up, and up: he was face to face with a man nearly a foot taller than him – and at six foot two himself, that was no easy feat – with long, black-streaked white hippie hair pulled back in a ponytail. All sharp, hunching lines, an anxious downturned mouth, a bit gaunt and wrinkled and –
He wore red-lensed sunglasses that the agent could easily see his own reflection in. He also wore an old secondhand army parka, battered and torn, with what looked like several sweaters underneath – enough to withstand a blizzard, and keep him warm. Not good for nearly 70-degree weather.
12:26.
“Sir,” said the man.
The Moth who Came In from the Cold
Published
PTA archive 