March 11, 1934
New Orleans, Louisiana
Huey Long walked into the diner to cheers and applause. He waved and smiled, as he always did, basking in the attention. The people loved him and his populist policies, and why shouldn't they? They'd worked wonders for the population of the state, making every man a king.
He signaled to the waiter, who directed him to his own private booth (most of his favorite eateries had such comforts for him), and took him order.
"The usual, Eddie," he responded, knowing Eddie knew what that meant.
"Of course, sir." Eddie hurried off.
As he waited for his food, the Senator was joined by a somewhat unimposing man, balding and moustached. The man was an appointee of Steele's to the FBI, but to a position innocuous enough to ensure he wouldn't be making headlines any time soon (as the President no doubt intended).
Stan McCoy had been working with the Steele campaign ever since he'd lost his job in an Ohio steel factory, and had quickly wormed his way through the ranks into the inner circle, quietly joining the likes of Hoover, Sinclair, and Morgan. He was effectively the President's fixer, and d---ed good at it, at this point. He'd even turned the Ed Sullivan Show into Joe Steele's Propaganda Hour: an impressive feat in a reactionary place like America.
So naturally it had both surprised and unnerved Long when McCoy began asking after him. He'd had his share of questions about the extent and viability of many of the President's programs, so he feared that McCoy was going to do unto him what had been done unto Sullivan (not that Sullivan looked too bad, especially compared to Hughes). It relieved him to see McCoy smiling amiably, but he refused to lower his guard, in any case.
"Senator, I take it you're wondering why Joe Steele's fixer gives half a rat's a-- about your actions."
"I am, yes." Long maintained his composure well. He knew better than to let a man like this smell fear.
McCoy smirked. "Oh, relax, Senator. I'm not here for your head on a spike; quite the opposite, in fact." He paused, allowing Long to grow intrigued. "I'm here to speak to you about the possibility of taking up the presidency of the chamber in which you currently serve."
Long gawked at him for a moment before responding. "But what about Vice President Sinclair? Surely he won't have any of this; he's been wanting an opportunity and a platform like this for years!"
McCoy sighed, rubbing his temples. "You're right on that front, Huey. He won't be going anywhere unless we push him, and the President wouldn't dare push him if he wasn't so violently against the whole Russia business."
Long snorted. He'd long since figured the narrative the President had put out about American non-involvement to be so much horses--t. Trotsky was something in the President's way, as Hilliard had been something in the President's way. Now, Hilliard was growing more and more of a reputation as a crank, and Trotsky...well, if the news had it right, Khruschev would be knocking on Trotsky's door within days now. "So you want a man who's willing to say that Trotsky's a nut for implicating the United States, but the Reds going at each other isn't so bad, is that it?"
McCoy beamed. "That's exactly right, Senator. Can we trust you to be that man?"
Long feigned consideration for a moment. He wanted the job, but to make himself look like he could be made to do anything once he had it would be both foolish and dangerous, neither of which sounded like good characteristics for a Vice President. In the end, however, he stretched out his hand, and said, "All the way to the moon and back."
McCoy grabbed the proffered hand, shook it, and left without a word. Long, however, realized he'd forgotten to ask one key question:
How was he going to be made Vice President, with Sinclair having no outward reason to be removed?
March 26, 1934
Moscow, Russia
The end had come.
Leon Trotsky sat in the Kremlin, raging over the treachery of Khruschev, knowing in his heart that it had been only the corrupting influence of Steele which had driven one of his chief lieutenants to rebel openly against him. The walls shook from the detonations of nearby artillery shells, as the rebels stalked ever closer to his base of power.
He'd been urged to flee by every adviser he had, but he would have none of it. He'd helped birth this nation, and he would stay with it even unto death. Some called him mad as they made plans to escape to Sweden, Switzerland, or any other country that would have them, with the West seeming to support the new Khruschev government. He didn't care. He would stand and fight to the last, even if he had to point a machine gun out one of the windows and fire on the rebel troops from above.
As he walked the halls of what had once been a bastion of feudalistic decadence, Trotsky thought back on all he had accomplished: the collectivization of the entirety of the Soviet Union (casualties be d---ed), the spread of the Red spirit all across the world, the strengthening of the Soviet Union to its power prior to the war. He smiled, even in defeat, knowing that all Khruschev would do would be to throw the USSR back into the reactionary darkness that had been its lot for centuries. And when he did, people would begin scheming against
him.Now small arms fire could be heard, chattering away as it moved closer to where Trotsky stood. He peered out a window, and could see muzzle flashes in the distance. Uncaring about the risk, he walked in front of every single window in the hallway, daring the enemy to take this chance to kill the man they had once sworn loyalty to.
One sniper appeared to take that as an invitation.
Glass shattered as the bullet scythed through Trotsky's brain. He was dead before he hit the floor.
