Alternate Destinies - 1973 (PJW)

A look at the alternate destinies of several people on March 1, 1973.

March 1, 1973
In Little Rock, Arkansas, Federal Bureau of Racial Affairs Chief BILL CLINTON does his best to ignore the pouring rain as he walks toward the entrance of a local cafe in the downtown section of the city. Little Rock's rebuilding had been mostly been paid for by the state, with Wayne spending his money on bombers and Byrd not willing to spend money at all. As such, the rebuilding took a long time, and in that long time criminal elements of the city managed to get their hands involved. Old Governor Faubus had a quite a personal fortune, and the lords of Little Rock had quite a large empire.

It was a typical story. Clinton grew up seeing news stories of the horrendous Little Rock Riot, the constant racial violence in the state, the firebombing of his grandparent's store where they sold items to all races...he was an idealist, entering the FBRA hoping to clean up its act.

Clinton was smart and charismatic, rising up the ranks, becoming the city's FBRA Chief in record time. Nixon had quite expanded the powers of the FBRA, and many men would abuse that power, but not Clinton. He would try to fight both the criminal elements and racism, but that battle was a losing one. Forced to choose between the two, Clinton chose to keep the peace between the races.

Which is why he was in the cafe at the moment. He ducked into a back room, where the local white Citizens' Council chairman was waiting for him. Clinton smiled and shook his head. They had done business before. Clinton simply pulled out a newspaper, its headline screaming that the FBRA had arrested members of the Council. Rogue members, that went against the chairman. The chairman smiled and slid an envelope of cash across the table, along with a handshake and guarantee that the chairman would tell his boys to stay away from the darktown.

Leaving the cafe, Clinton was driven through the room across town, heading toward the looming walls of the darktown. Little Rock was one of the remaining cities to have walls; Nixon tore a lot down, but not all of them. The stone-faced security guard allowed the Chief inside.

Empty faces started at the car as it drove across the neighborhood, arriving at a lonely warehouse. Same old story. Clinton greeted the neighborhood's National Revolutionary leader, shook his hand, and handed him that envelope full of cash. The neighborhood needed money for food and shelter, since the city's mayor and Governor Faubus were not known for being particular nice to that neighborhood. The man smiled at Clinton. Another period of peace between the whites and the blacks.

So what if it was built on corruption? It was peace. And that's what America needed, anyhow. And besides, corruption and vice did have its certain benefits, as Clinton was next driven to the city's red light district.

It's a sweltering afternoon as TOM DELAY drives an inconspicuous van down the Arizona freeway. That was just an extra precaution; no one was on this road for miles, no one would see him. In the back of his van are several boxes of papers. Sweat pours down his face as he arrives at his stop and pulls over to the side of the road. Twenty meters away is a large ditch, probably once filled with water but has now dried up in the Arizonan heat.

Delay opens the back of his truck and starts pulling out boxes. Wiping the sweat off of his brow, he begins opening the boxes and stacking them inside the ditch. 4 or 5 boxes, not too many, just enough to tip the scale of an election. With the boxes out of the way, Delay pulls the final object out of the van: a drum of gasoline. Gasoline was becoming mighty precious, with the instability of the Venezuelan regime as well as the increasing anger toward America coming out of the Middle East, but Delay had his orders.

The contents of the drum were emptied onto the boxes, Delay grimacing in the heat. Emptied, Delay cast the drum aside and took a swig of whiskey. Thirsty work, rigging an election. He had a quick thought, wondering if Washington would be rolling in his grave at the thought of Delay's work, but he shrugged it off. Delay would be rewarded.

Putting the whiskey away, Delay lit a cigar, it was one of those common Cuban ones, but it had to do. He took a long hit, then flicked the cigar into the boxes. A whoosh, and then 2,000 ballots for Wilbur Mills, James Johnson, even a few for McGovern went up in flames. Delay watched as the flames dipped and rose, and took another long sip from the bottle.

To the new American century.