Jonathan Slate took a moment to bask in his accomplishments. He wasn’t usually one to entertain such unavailing emotions; those were for lesser minds with lesser ambitions. However, he had just received the concession call from his counterpart nominee for President, Sean Dougherty, and couldn’t help but feel the triumph of a political battle well fought and fairly won. Out of respect for Sean—or, at least, for the positive media coverage—Jon allowed him to have the first word with his supporters in his hometown, in Michigan before addressing his own in the Texas state capital, Austin.

Jon was just out of sight behind an unassuming press partition, situated in front of the capitol building steps. With eyes closed, fingers laced behind his head, he waited patiently with legs crossed in the fold-up chair his staff had provided. Despite the modest and bland stage that was set for such a significant situation, a content smile formed on his face. This expression was unlike the usual megawatt accessory he painted on himself, like a geisha’s makeup, or the well-crafted leer taught by his public image consultants. Instead, it resembled a Cheshire grin of malicious glee—like a tiger’s grinning maw, dripping with the blood of its prey.

He could hear the crowd’s energy swell just mere yards away as they watched Dougherty’s speech to his supporters on their various mobile devices. The news vans were excitedly reporting live updates, and cameramen and women desperately tried to catch sight of the politician. Jon allowed the crowd’s murmuring to increase in pitch and intensity, like an expert maestro in front of an orchestra.

Once the magic moment arrived in the instinctual pause between crowd and mob, Jon opened his eyes. His light gray orbs fixed upon one of his staff members, who involuntarily shuddered at the unusual intensity.

“Rebecca, is it time?” His voice was calm and measured with rich undertones that caused even the most ardent detractors to feel comfortable. He knew it was time, of course, the crowd had settled to a dull roar, and the energy in the air was just right.

Rebecca took a corroborating glance at her watch before stuttering, “yes, Jo—I mean…” pausing as the full import of the moment hit her. “Yes, Mr. President-Elect,” she corrected with a shy smile that Jon returned with a roguish one of his own.

“Well,” he grinned, “We mustn’t keep the people waiting.”

He stood up with poise, straightening his tie, ready to address the anticipating crowd. His staff followed suit behind, him like he was the center of the universe—orbiting like celestial bodies. In some ways, that was true. Every one of his staff members were here for this single moment, their sole purpose; to win Jonathan Slate the presidency.

As he strode into view, posture unbent by age or sickness. The crowd cheered, erupting with a cacophony of yelling, clapping and whistling. Being used to this response from his many speeches on the campaign trail, he took it in stride before reaching the podium and placing his hands on either side. The smallness of the rostrum, however plain, was dwarfed by Jon, who appeared larger than life in comparison; a strategic move by his team of political psychologists to elevate the occasion.

As he stood there, patiently waiting for the crowd to calm, he waved presidentially according to etiquette, switching hands appropriately to sustain practiced gesticulations to particular parts of the crowd, one hand always grasping the podium. He made sure to meet the eyes of participants in different parts of the massed gathering and, occasionally, conjure a surprised expression as if he genuinely recognized someone within the sea of unfamiliar faces.

Once again, another tried and true tactic—the carefully crafted show—and that was precisely what this performance was, a show, echoing in the moment one of Jon’s favorite quotes from Macbeth.

Away, and mock the time with fairest show. False face must hide what false heart doth know.

What was politics but a series of false faces? Jon was ready to display his next.

The crowd responded to even the slightest of Jon’s movements with unbridled enthusiasm. In a world that drifted further from organized religion, they had turned politicians into their gods. He accepted their worship with grace. He paused and took a visible breath as if he was overwhelmed; a modest touch that engendered him with the crowd. Another round of cheers, clapping, and whistling descended upon him. It was in these moments, Jon felt as if Caesar must have when he rode into Rome after his victory over Pompey. Finally, the tumultuous noise died down to an excited hush. Knowing the exact moment to pause and the exact moment to speak was a lesson that Jon had inscribed onto his very heart.

“Good evening, my fellow Americans,” he said with reverence. “I am thankful for the time and energy that brings you here tonight, allowing me the pleasure—and honor—of speaking to my dear friends and distinguished guests this evening. After all, what brought us together is the culmination of a hard-fought journey that has consumed much of the American discourse for over a year.

“My opponent, Senator Dougherty, waged an honorable campaign with a poise we haven’t seen in close to three decades. Before this election, political campaigns have been waged using vitriolic, bombastic, and divisive speech; but I am proud to have joined the Senator in a pledge to speak only of the issues we face as a nation, and let the people decide upon our character.

“This election was close, and I can empathize with Senator Dougherty and his family on the difficulty of this moment. In the term ahead, I look forward to working together again as colleagues and friends...”

Jon paused and looked into the cameras as if to address Senator Dougherty directly, supposing that, in some way, he was. While, on the surface, their campaigns appeared nothing short of honorable, the cutthroat politicking they were each guilty of behind the scenes, in fact, had ruled out any possibility of ever being friends; an impalpable irony Jon would never acknowledge

“…and now, I want to express my thanks to—”

Interrupting his performance, a deadly rose bloomed on Jon’s chest.

A second later, the sound of a gunshot cracked through the capitol.

The sound reverberated across the marble buildings of the plaza and as if it were emanating from everywhere and nowhere at once. It wasn’t until a blood-curdling scream from a member of the crowd running away at the moment of realization, that panic ensued. Like a disturbed anthill, people swarmed in every direction, illogically and simultaneously convinced they were the next targets of the mysterious shooter. It was the perfect exemplar of an individual’s tendency toward over-inflated self-importance.

Despite the crowd’s hysteria, there could only be one target of this assassination. The Secret Service agents assigned to Jon, since he had been confirmed as his party’s nominee, knew this and shoved passersby out of the way to rush to their charge. The sound of the bullet cracking through the air hadn’t even finished it’s final reverberations before agents had tackled the President-elect to the ground.

The agent that tackled him, William Turn—or “Bill” as his friends called him—had already seen the blood spill across the politician’s chest. He cursed, realizing the consequences of security flaws they may have overlooked that enabled this moment. This site had been chosen well before the speech had been conducted.

Earlier that day, as routine, agents had combed over every inch within a square mile of the stage. The capital police had been the epitome of professionalism since the Secret Service had contacted them to coordinate the President-elect’s protection. After all, this speech wasn’t Austin’s first political event the city had hosted. Bill himself, had recommended that the President-elect wear a bulletproof vest, but his public image consultants had advised him to forsake it for just this evening. He knew he should not have allowed political snakes to override good sense.

Acting quickly, the agents shuttled the President-elect into an ambulance on standby and set off to Austin Heart Hospital in less than a minute from the time the round had impacted his chest. As Bill sat in the ambulance next to the President-elect, and the EKG tolled the death knell, he idly wondered how Texans would feel about having not one, but two presidents assassinated in their state. It wasn’t an apropos thought, he knew, under the given circumstances, but tragedy didn’t often inspire the rational.

President-elect Jonathan Slate died en-route to the hospital at the age of 53. He was a devout Christian, Yale Law School alumnus, Marine Corps veteran, Governor of Texas, husband to his wife of twenty-five years, and father to a single daughter; the last, being perhaps the only thing he truly cared about. In the end, despite the self-important vision he held for himself, Jonathan Slate was just a man on the wrong side of a bullet.