The Secret Histories.

[Doktor Howl]

Part 1

"Are you sure about this, Mr President?"

"Absolutely certain, I am afraid.", Lincoln replied to Vice President Johnson, "Our victory is at hand, but the South will never come to terms with it if I am president.  Yet to resign would be a sign of weakness that would inspire them to perhaps try again.  No, I am convinced that the only way forward is for me to be assassinated.  Or at least for things to appear that way.  Please make the arrangements as I have requested."

Johnson left the oval office in a mood.  It wasn't going to work.  No matter where Lincoln went, someone would recognize his, um, unique appearance.  Let's face facts...The man is ugly, in a manner that had precluded the usual "doubles" used for security.

But there was a way out.

The next morning, he met with the actor, Mr John Wilkes Booth.  Booth was perfect for the part, having spent the last 2 years developing a reputation as pro-Southern. 

"We're going to go ahead with it.  You realize that you're going to have to disappear from the American continent when it's done, right?"

"With what you're paying me, I imagine I can find a way to drown my sorrows, Mr Vice President."

"Very well.  Here is your payment."  Johnson pushed a very heavy valaise under the table to Booth.  "The guards have been instructed to let you get away, and one will hand you a pistol loaded with powder but no ball, once you're inside the theater."

"Sounds good.  I'll...I guess I won't see you again."

"No, that will most unfortunately never be possible, sir.  Enjoy your  new life."

Johnson watched Booth leave the theater.  Poor man, he had listened to Lincoln's plan from Lincoln himself, and quite correctly believed  that Lincoln was on the level.  Unfortunately, the plan had been altered.

He turned to his guard, and said, "You know what to do."

The guard gave Johnson a rather disgusted look.  "Yes sir.  I hand him a loaded pistol, and we lay in wait for him at the barn, afterwards."

Johnson accepted the guard's disgust; The price of history was sometimes steep.  The South would be made to pay for "their" treachery.   Lincoln had been too soft-hearted about reunification.  The South had to understand that their secession would not be easily forgotten or forgiven.  And given the 600,000 or so dead men, what was one more?  And Lincoln, well, he'd never know what hit him.

[LMNO]

Oh, man.  That's good.



Looking forward to more.

[Doktor Howl]

Oh, man.  That's good.



Looking forward to more.

Thanks.  Check PMs.

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

Brilliant! I love it.

[Nephew Twiddleton]

Oh this series is going to scratch a bit of the history itch for me.

[East Coast Hustle]

Oh fuck yeah. I love this kind of stuff.

[EK WAFFLR]

Oh wow! Love it.

[Anna Mae Bollocks]

WHOOOOOA.
Awesome!

[Salty]

Hell yeah.

What I like about this is it's going to force me to actually read more history, which I've been wanting to do for a while now.
Now pardon me while I get fuel to make Democrats cry.

[Richter]

Illuminati do not, as a cohesive, singular organization, exist.

Oddly enough, by their very existence they tend to contain, hobble, and confound each other.  The rigors of maintaining puppet governance and social direction, front and blinds, secretive meetings, and the required authentication and in-signs make them unwieldy and impractical organizations.  If only second rate geniuses get into politics, only third rate ones would ever want to be part of such a clusterfuck.

Rather, several "tests" have been devised to gauge men who may assume power.  They are administered by those who pass them.  Those who do not tend to fall away or die under mysterious circumstance.  The criteria and administration of these tests are only known to those who pass them, who understand unconditionally the necessity and benefit of them.

These exist outside of more commonly known secret societies or fraternal organizations.  There are no levels of membership, common meetings, or  leadership.  The structure is entirely de centralized, and is more akin to a meme than anything else, a meme to make certain that the new candidate can turn certain mental corners or think certain ways.  The rumored "Doll cult" which Benjamin Franklin was inducted prior to his dispatch to France is one good example.

On occasion variants emerge.  It is only natural, and expected, even encouraged indirectly to ensure that the nature of the meme retains relevance and freshness in relation to society.  Equally likely is the rise to power of a leader who may be perfectly capable of passing such a test, but is not, for various reasons, able to be exposed to it.  In such cases, not knowing the reserve and silence which must be maintained about such facts, their personal habits or propensities hint at, or in extreme cases parody, the reality of the test.

Where Hitler tried to get a body count, Stalin succeeded.  Uncle Joe had, from the start, a vicious streak.  With an abusive father, and a bum arm (gee, thanks Dad.), it was pretty much inevitable.  Stalin also had a hobby.  He loved tiny wooden ponies.  He collected them, treasured them, and beat the bejeesus out of anyone who looked sideways at his little hobby.  This was OK for awhile.  He even had a few primary school friends who shared his interest.  Over the years he kept it more and more on the quiet though.  Following his eventual rise to prominence in the newly minted Soviet Union though, things took a sinister turn.  Lenin walked in on him paying with his ponies.

Stalin had him poisoned, the symptoms mimicking a stroke.  Not that this was far off in coming anyways, the pony incident just brought Stalin's mind around to the conclusion a little faster.  The fact would hardly ruin him, realistically.  To his mind though, it would be a fate worse than death, a hotline straight to his old schoolboy insecurities.  So he dealt with it in the old schoolboy way.  Get rid of it.

Hardly a week later an old school friend from back home in Gori wrote him a letter, unfortunately signed "Comrade Pony".  His friend likely thought it was funny.  Having already ordered one killing of a prominent figure, Stalin saw little downside in ordering the elimination of just about everyone who knew him there.   After that, it only made sense to nab a few bad mofos from Cheka, and repurpose them into his own secret anti-pony squad. 

"....мой маленький пони"

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

That was awesome, Richter!

[Luna]

Awesome stuff!

[Doktor Howl]

Nice, Richter. 

As for the rest of you schmoes, I hope your bungholes shrivel up until every time you fart, all the neighborhood dogs go batshit from the high-pitched whistle.

[Anna Mae Bollocks]

Nice, Richter. 

As for the rest of you schmoes, I hope your bungholes shrivel up until every time you fart, all the neighborhood dogs go batshit from the high-pitched whistle.

[Doktor Howl]

Yeah.