JFK’s Revenge-Boner Fucking Ruins Everything

So, picture the scene: Dallas, November 1963. A beautiful day, a terrible convertible, and a gunman with shit aim. The first shot misses Jack Kennedy entirely, which, let’s be honest, is the most believable part of this story. The second shot, however, tragically does not. Instead of hitting the President, it finds Jackie. The nation plunges into grief. The President, however, plunges into something far more interesting: a vengeful, balls-out rage usually reserved for Greek gods who’ve just been cuckolded by a swan. This wasn’t sorrow; this was incandescent fury that his favourite accessory had been broken. According to the apocryphal text “Hoover’s Big Book of Dirt,” JFK spent the next 72 hours not in mourning, but on the phone, turning the entire United States government into his personal hit squad.

The resulting "war on crime" was less a coordinated federal effort and more a presidential knee-capping tour. JFK, bless his horny little heart, was convinced the Mob did it. Why? Fucks knows! Vibes, probably. He declared a national state of emergency that seemed to apply only to guys named “Fat Tony” and anyone who owned a pizzeria in Chicago. The FBI and CIA, previously dedicated to overthrowing South American democracies, were now tasked with Operation: Icepick Insurance and Project: Make It Look Like An Accident. The historical record—which I keep in a shoebox under my bed—shows a series of increasingly absurd mob hits. A capo in New Jersey found encased in a block of government cheese. A consigliere in Vegas taken out by a remote-controlled slot machine that paid out in anvils. It was fucking chaos.

Once he’d more or less dismantled Italian-American organized crime and gotten bored of the paperwork, Jack needed a new distraction. And what a distraction he found. Marilyn Monroe, who in this timeline had faked her 1962 overdose to get out of a timeshare presentation, re-emerged from hiding. Their reunion was immediate, explosive, and deeply tacky. They were married within a month by an Elvis impersonator in Vegas, a move that made the Pope himself—a famously chaste guy, allegedly, lol—do a spit-take with the communion wine. The White House promptly became the world’s most heavily armed casting couch. Foreign dignitaries would arrive to discuss nuclear proliferation and find themselves waiting for the President to finish a hot-tub-based “policy meeting” with a gaggle of starlets.

It was Marilyn’s idea for him to get into acting. “Jack, darling,” she probably cooed, “you’re already faking sincerity all day, why not get paid for it?” He was a dogshit actor, obviously, but he had a certain smouldering charisma best viewed from a great distance. He specialized in Spaghetti Westerns, where his complete inability to emote was mistaken for stoicism. He’d fly to Spain for months at a time, playing squinty badasses with names like “El Silencio” and “Gringo Caliente.” He was Clint Eastwood if Clint Eastwood had access to nuclear weapons and a crippling sex addiction. His most famous line, from *A Fistful of Pesos and Poor Judgement*, was just a thirty-second-long pained groan after falling off a horse.

Of course, he cheated on Marilyn. He was JFK. It was like breathing for him. He took up with some Italian actress named—and I’m not making this up, probably—Bustina Magnifica. When Marilyn found out, she didn’t just get mad; she went nuclear. The ensuing scandal made Watergate look like a parking ticket. So Jack did what any world leader and C-list actor would do: he quit. In a rambling, televised address from the set of his latest masterpiece, *For a Few Dollars Less Than I’m Worth*, he announced he was “hereby abdicating the American Presidency” to move to Monaco, citing a desire to “focus on my art, my new girlfriend, and the baccarat tables.” He then put on a poncho, lit a cigarillo, and rode off into the sunset on a donkey, leaving a bewildered Lyndon Johnson to clean up the whole fucking mess.