Subject: -New- Lunch: A Jack Colquitt Adventure 1/1 From: Raul Bloodworth Date: Fri, 05 Sep 1997 23:18:12 -0700 Disclaimer: The following characters and situations are the creations of Chris Carter, 1013 and Fox. No infringement is intended. This is a terrible story. I mean, just look who wrote it. Wait, who is this Raul Bloodworth person anyhow? The author wishes to thank the person who suggested this in the first place. Lunch: A Jack Colquitt Adventure by Raul Bloodworth The man who knows all your secrets can be your worst enemy. He is always a man who is better off dead. If you make the mistake of letting him live, it is you yourself who take the chance of dying. "I feel lucky," Jack Colquitt said to himself as he looked around his bare apartment. It wasn't the sort of apartment that generally made a man burst forth with such a statement - bland, beige walls without any adornment; a rickety bookshelf that held a fish tank whose inhabitants had all been flushed months before; the lumpy couch where he spent his nights alone. But at that moment, Jack Colquitt felt lucky. He didn't actually feel lucky. It was a metaphor for how he felt, really. He felt alive. He felt he would continue to be alive for some time to come. And he felt like taking a chance. The kind of chance that would make him look death in the eyes and walk away smiling. The kind of chance that made him feel even more alive. Since it was past the time for breakfast, Jack Colquitt went out for lunch. It was a sunny day outside, sunny and cold. He wore his long black overcoat, the one that made him look like some sort of government agent. He wasn't a government agent, of course, not really. Not that anyone could tell, at any rate. He did on occasion work on the same side as the government. Every once in a while, they even issued his paycheck. But Jack Colquitt, a government agent? That would have to wait for another day. He walked through the cool, sunny air to a small, run down cafe. Some might even think of it as a diner, or worse. To Jack Colquitt, it felt like home. His mother had never greeted him warmly at the door with steaming cookies and ice cold milk. And neither did the owner of the cafe. She vaguely waved a hand at him and snarled something in a language he did not understand. He supposed she could have been saying, "Hello," since he did come in to eat lunch nearly every day. But it wasn't the manner most people used to greet a faithful customer. So he suspected she wasn't really saying "Hello" after all. He took a seat at the counter and waited for her to bring him a menu. It wasn't that he needed a menu, since he did eat lunch there nearly every day. The woman behind the counter wiped her nose on the back of her hand and wandered out of sight, into the kitchen. The fragrant scent of dead meat wafted into the restaurant as the door swung open and then closed behind her. "The service here is terrible," said the man who was sitting beside him at the counter. "You know, I've been sitting here for half an hour and haven't even seen a menu." "Have the spaghetti," Jack Colquitt advised. "Or the sweet potato pie, if you have something sweeter in mind." "You've been here before?" the man asked, looking curious. Perhaps because he doubted anyone would return to this place again and again, day after day. But the man could not understand that after the life Jack Colquitt had led, he craved routine. "I've been nearly everywhere, once," Jack Colquitt said mysteriously. He found his fingers aching for a cigarette to accompany such an opaque statement, but the last time he had indulged in such a craving, the small foreign woman had ejected him from her establishment. He did not like to draw such attention to himself and so Jack Colquitt avoided such moves in the future. The man beside him did not respond. Jack Colquitt noticed they were the only two in the restaurant and took to studying the other man in the mirror. He was tall and lanky, with fair skin and long, straight blond hair that fell casually past his shoulders. Thick glasses that might have been a disguise sat on his nose. He was also wearing a T shirt that supported a rock band. Jack Colquitt wanted to make conversation. But not that polite, small-minded small talk so often indulged in under such circumstances. He wanted to confess. It would be dangerous and exciting. Moreover, he wanted to know if he could make this man believe him. The things he had done in his life were quite unbelievable. That made them safe. Even if he had gone into the Pentagon - a place he had been, at least once - and confessed, throwing himself on the merciless shoes of the Secret Service, they would not have believed him. How many other men had confessed to his crimes? Not including the men who had confessed to his crimes and been jailed or executed for them, of course. It had to be many. Perhaps even very many. "What do you know about the Kennedy Assassination?" he hissed. How much better those words would have been if there had been cigarette smoke to curl around them, he thought. But that would draw the attention of the small woman who ran the place and he wanted this moment to himself. "Oswald was set up. The Magic Bullet and all that. Everybody's got a theory," the man said amiably. He'd found the perfect subject. A man who knew all of the facts available about the killing. He would now know the facts unavailable, as well. "I am the man who shot Kennedy," Jack Colquitt confessed in the dim light of the dirty diner. The other man just looked at him. "I can see you have your doubts, but it is nonetheless the truth," Jack Colquitt assured him. "I was a Captain in the Army when they came to me, because of my specialized background." "What sort of specialized background?" Oh, the fish is on the hook now, Jack Colquitt thought. "Let's just say there were several things I -hadn't- done that qualified me for the position. They sent me to Dallas on that rainy day -" "The sun was shining," his companion pointed out. "It sounds so much more dramatic to say it was a rainy day," he protested. "Because the country would so soon be shedding tears for the innocence it had lost..." "It's your story, man." "The arrangements had been made in advance. Oswald was incredibly easy to convince to take the fall. He didn't realize until it was too late that he was going to take the fall, of course." "So how did you do it?" "A signal had been worked out. An accomplice of mine would open his umbrella unexpectedly - you see, there is that rainy day again - at the moment I had the perfect angle. I have always been a crack shot." "Where were you, when you shot him?" "Hiding in a storm drain with a high powered rifle. It is all the way on the other side of the grassy knoll. No one ever looked there for the killer, and no one suspected a thing." The man beside him cocked his head, obviously thinking. Perhaps doing mathematical computations in his head, calculating trajectory, bullet speed, force and velocity. "That could just be it. The location that explains where the bullet came from. Was there any ricochet involved?" "A touch." As though Jack Colquitt believed there could be 'a touch' of ricochet! "So you really did it? You really killed the President of the United States," he said, and Jack Colquitt's heart swelled with pride at the awe he heard there. He had chosen well the man to impress with his secret. "Why'd you do it?" "Because they asked me to." "They?" "The government." "-Our- government?" "I love this country!" declared Jack Colquitt fervently, barely able to restrain his urge to leap to his feet and salute the flag, the image of which burned into his vision. He could hear faint strains of the national anthem ringing in his ears. "Is that so hard to believe? Had Kennedy lived, he would have destroyed this great nation!" "You really believe that?" asked the man beside him. Jack Colquitt could only stare in amazed horror! "Kennedy was prepared to use the atomic bomb on Cuba. Killing him was the only way to prevent that, and keep the course of history on track." "The course of history?" the man beside him was sounding more and more unconvinced. "It has at times needed other nudges to keep it true." "Oh yeah?" "The death of Martin Luther King, for example." "You did that?" "He was going to encourage African-Americans not to fight in Vietnam. Then where would we have been?" "Here?" suggested the man beside him. Jack Colquitt felt a cold finger of dread touch him. He had just confessed the best of his actions to a pacifist! "It's all right, I don't believe in violence either," he assured him. "Really." "A handful of deaths have prevented hundreds or perhaps thousands of other deaths. How many Americans would have died if the bomb had been dropped on Cuba? If Vietnam had been allowed to develop its full powers and invade our shores? If the existence of extraterrestrial visitors to our planet were ever made public?" "Aliens?" Jack Colquitt then knew he had gone too far. He backed off and said nothing. "Let me give you my card," said the man beside him. "I help to publish a subversive newsletter that I think you might be able to appreciate. If you ever decide to share the details of your story, please give us a call. Or mention my name and receive a ten percent discount off our subscription rate." The man patted the counter. "Good luck getting some service around here." "Thanks," muttered Jack Colquitt, turning the card over and over between his fingers. "Give me a call and we'll set up an interview. I have a friend who'd love to hear your story," the man called back over his shoulder as he reached the door, his long blond hair whipping and tossing with the movement of his head. The little bell on the door chimed and then fell silent as the door settled back into its closed position. "Mr. Langly of The Lone Gunmen Newsletter," said the card that Jack Colquitt twirled in his idle hands. Now he knew the name and location of the only man alive who knew his secrets. He could kill him any time he wanted to. "But not today," Jack Colquitt said to himself. He rose from the stool and left the diner, his hands in the pockets of his long black overcoat as he strolled contentedly towards home. He wished he knew how to whistle; if he had, he would have done so. Of course not so loudly as to draw undue attention to himself. Just enough to express the general peace at which he felt with the world. He was alive, in spite of living dangerously. --- His hands trembled as he held the envelope that had come in the mail. It had only been two weeks since he had sent the story in for publication. A short time, combined with a thin envelope had to be good news. Jack Colquitt slit it open with ruthless abandon and unfolded the letter that lay inside. And he sat there stunned. "Dear Mr. Colquitt: "We must reject your manuscript, 'What I Know' at this time. It is a fanciful tale, and as you would know if you were one of our subscribers, we only publish true accounts of conspiracy. We regret that we are unable to return your submission to you at this time, as we must keep it for our files on the off chance it turns out to be true at some later date. "We would like to take this opportunity to offer you our special contributor's subscription rate, a ten percent savings off the newsstand price [not sold at newsstands]. Just complete the order form below and begin enjoying your first issue of The Lone Gunmen immediately. "Sincerely, "The Lone Gunmen." Jack Colquitt wasn't content merely throwing the letter onto the large stack of rejections that so filled one of the drawers of his desk that it no longer opened. He was offended by their suggestion that his story had been untrue. Of course it was true! He had lived it, hadn't he? Perhaps the section about the aliens was a little on the fantastic side, but that was exactly how it had happened and he didn't see any reason why he should change it. Besides, what would he change it to? If he changed it, that wouldn't be the way it had happened, now would it? Jack Colquitt burned this letter, setting fire to it with his shiny lighter that was inscribed, "The Truth Is Out There." The truth really was out there, but who among the ordinary men would recognize it when they saw it? But that was what made it safe for Jack Colquitt to live another day, undetected and unsuspected of any crime or wrong doing. And also unbelieved. The end. Comments would be appreciated by the author. Just hit reply, and I promise they'll get there.