Our cause being almost lost, something decisive and great must be done.
John rode up to the back door of the building, his horse’s hooves clopping on the cobblestone street. He was happy to see some stagehands that he knew milling around outside. “Hey, Edmund, can you hold these for me?” He dismounted and held the reins out to the man.
“Sorry, John, I’m busy,” Edmund replied and lit up a cigarette.
“What about you, Joe? I’ll only be a few minutes.”
“Alright, but you better hurry.” John handed Joseph the reins and stepped inside. He made sure the coast was clear and checked the pistol in his belt. John entered the door to the narrow hallway that lead to the balcony, closed it behind him, barricaded it. Can’t take any chances…
Slowly, John made his way up the stairs. He paused at the top, wiped his sweating palms. Wait for the line…
Soon: “You sockdologizing old man-trap!” The theater erupted in laughter, and he drew his weapon.
John Wilkes Booth took aim and pulled the trigger.