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Only The Balladeer would think about trying to make friends with these guys. He thought, Hey, maybe with a bit of time and friendship, they can be redeemed into good people, saints who will be able to help all the other poor, tortured souls on Earth who want to commit terroristic actions!
Turns out he was wrong.
Very, very wrong.
First meeting: John Wilkes Booth. First successful assassin; everybody knows this. Vain in human form, and has out of line ideals about certain races. Balladeer thought some good old fashioned education could help him.
As it turns out it only made the Southerner extremely offended, believing he wasn’t “the bad guy” and that he’s actually the GOOD GUY! Because he’s white. And as Booth says, the white race is the more “advanced” race. He went off on a racist tangent, something that truly shook the Balladeer to his little cowboy boots and rattled his little feather wings and twisted his halo. Balladeer now knows all about eugenics!
Second meeting: Charles J. Guiteau. He’s a very strong Christian man, there’s no way he could be a truly bad person. That was until the unecessary bible-thumping came in! You invite a crazy Christian to eat a sandwich and you walk out with a big fat sticker on your back that says “ULTIMATE SINNER” placed there by Mister “Pious”.
He was prideful, thinking that what he did was correct. Refused to accept it any other way. A GENUINELY DELUSIONAL MAN! One would think that after years of being in this purgatory the delusions would be cleansed, but no, they stick to his brain like candy on a pan. The most hypocritical man he’s ever met.
Third meeting: Leon Czolgosz.
Insufferable.
Balladeer will never recover from whatever the hell that was. Bring up any topic to the man, any single fucking topic. He will find a way to relate it to that cause. When he wasn’t blabbering on about anarchism, he was quiet and ignorant. He was such an awkward man, with awkward tendencies, and awkward in the way that it makes both parties extremely uncomfortable, like you just want to leave the other guy because it’s genuinely hard to be around him, not the “endearing” awkward.
Balladeer noticed that man would complain about anything. Does he not have something worthwhile? A book he can pick up, maybe? Learn how to socialize? Good morals and causes, but the man following them is just…awful to be around.
Fourth meeting: Giuseppe “Joe” Zangara. The man is an immigrant, the unnoticed backbone of the U.S. labor force. Also clearly an anarchist, but doesn’t claim to be one himself.
To be quite frank with himself, Balladeer did not have anything bad to say about Zangara!
He thinks.
He’s moody. That’s for sure…that’s SO for sure. Always grumpy. And complaining about that stomach of his. Has he not adapted to it? Better yet, why hasn’t it gone away after death?
It’s not gone, and when it is, his wails and cries will finally shut up.
Fifth meeting: THAT’S YOU THAT’S YOU THAT’S YOU THA—
Sixth meeting: Samuel J. Byck.
Not to be that angel, but what the fuck is his genuine issue?
Drunkard. Hopeless father. The jokes just write themselves at this point!
Balladeer attempted to reach out to him, share empathy on his feelings, but all he got was a catty hiss and a “Fuck you, stupid idiot, you wouldn’t understand!” Plus a heap of hot, alcoholic breath and spit in his face!
Seventh meeting: Lynette “Squeaky” Fromme. She’s the Manson follower, a little bit high sometimes, but maybe that’d make her chill, right?
Note to self: Annoying as fuck.
She cannot shut up, she just cannot! Is there a time meter around here? Can the Balladeer get a dollar everytime she says “CHARLIE SAID…” in that condescending, know-it-all, squeaky voice of hers?!
Fromme has got a very slappable demeanor, and a very slappable face. Knowing that she’s all fake and a crazy ass bitch under those cutesy little freckles and baby face makes you want to take her by the collar and just shove her face in dirt!
I mean—Ahem…the Balladeer does not condone such violence…especially against women.
Eighth meeting: Sara Jane Moore.
Too much! Too much! The lady has got so much going on, it makes Balladeer’s head spin in circles and dizzy. She’s talking about this one second, then the other—BOOM! How and why are we talking about your sex life?! No one wants to know that! She’s “TMI”!
The Balladeer has never had a mother; he doesn’t have one biologically, but he considers Lady Liberty to be his mother! Well, he’s glad she’s a statue and a symbolism, and not an actual mother, because if she was anything like Moore, he’d gone crazy at that point with how much she henpecks!
Ninth meeting: John Hinckley Jr.
Is there…is there really a purpose in explaining it?
The twelve year old.
The Travis Bickle thing.
The picture.
The guitar.
The hair.
The political group.
The glasses.
The attitude.
The awkwardness.
After whatever all of that was, the Balladeer just wanted to take a nap in his little angel cloud, curled up like a little kitty and stretch his wings out after tucking them in all day, a thing he does when stressed. Only, the moment he laid down with his flannel untucked and feathers smoothed, he heard the arguments and yelling from a mile away.
They’re all insufferable individually.
Together, they’re living hell.