The nation mourned. It mourned more than it ever had in recent memory. Well, the last memory of such mourning was when Marilyn died (or “took her own life”) a year before. Norma Jeane, in contrast to the rest of the population on that November 22nd, felt lighter than she ever had in years, maybe her entire life (or afterlife). She knew she should feel terribly upset–and in a certain sense–she was. But as she looked down on him from her fluffy pink cloud of a perch, watching the instant the bullet made contact with his brain, and then shattered it into little bits that would no longer have any control over what happened in the country, she was, admittedly, vindicated. He had killed her, after all. Or at least sanctioned the hit.

In the summer of 1962, a few months after her notorious “Happy Birthday Mr. President” number at Madison Square Garden, word had gotten out that she was blabbing things like, “If I don’t hear from Bobby Kennedy soon I’m going to call a press conference and blow the lid off this whole damn thing–I’m going to tell about my relationships with both Kennedy brothers.” But the Kennedy brothers had a way of keeping a lid on everything until they themselves quite literally blew, often taking innocent bystanders with them. And yet, having respect for Marilyn’s sweet minge despite the crazy mind it came with, Jack was the one who tried to appeal to her indirectly by reaching out to her more paternal flame, Frank Sinatra, to attempt talking some sense into her (Peter Lawford, too, would prove a phony baloney in this regard).

Marilyn now believed that was the real reason Old Blue Eyes had asked her to come to Cal-Neva that July in 1962, very soon before her “suicide.” To tell her not to talk about the Kennedys anymore–to anyone. Not even Pat Lawford, Bobby and Jack’s sister, who orbited the Hollywood scene and Marilyn because of her husband, Peter. Marilyn felt that if Frank wanted her to stop thinking–let alone talking–about the Kennedys, then maybe he oughtn’t to have invited her to the very resort where she got it on with both of them. She was thankful that at least she didn’t stay in the same room with the circular bed–the one where she gave Jack the orgasm of his life. The explosion that spurt forth from his dick putting any atomic fallout to shame.

And why shouldn’t Jack and Bobby turn up at Cal-Neva the way their patriarch, Joe, used to so frequently before he became incapacitated? It was where he would have romps with his secretaries, and god knows who else. Broads were ten a penny when you were a Kennedy. Or just a man in the mid-twentieth century. But Marilyn was no “ten a penny” mistress, and she refused to continue being treated as such. Hence, all that overt posturing about being ready to confess the politicos’ “dirty secret” (her) to the entire world. How would the communists in Russia ever be able to take them seriously then? Huh? That’s what she would ask in forcing the Kennedys to reconsider their comportment toward her.

But Marilyn, as usual, was too ahead of the game in her progressiveness. Believing they lived in a society that was ready to embrace one of the Kennedys leaving their wife and children for an increasingly washed up sex bomb. Well, that bomb was about to go off at any minute, just like Khrushchev’s. Oh the pressure of all these buttons Jack was waiting for someone else to push. In many ways, he wanted them to–it would be a relief instead of the constant worry about waiting for the other shoe to drop. In Marilyn’s case, the other sultry stiletto. The one that was pried off in a room in Cal-Neva that last weekend before she would “disappear” forever. You see, the Kennedys “suggested” Giancana could get creative if need be. No mobster was squeamish about such a request, and he knew that if he could blackmail Marilyn with something even more scandalous, she would be forced to pipe down.

And so, she was drugged. Taken into one of the chintzy bungalows and physically abused for the sheer pleasure of it, and the added bonus that there was photo evidence being documented to later remind Marilyn of who she really was: an addict whore who could be put back where she came from at any time. Giancana knew this would give him leverage over Jackie Boy too. ‘Cause Jackie better start learning real quick that it was Giancana doing all the heavy lifting in the political arena, having also gotten the popular vote rigged in his favor over Nixon. And Giancana had plenty of friends in the CIA (who do you think they recruited to help them understand how to assassinate Castro?–which they never could) that were fed up with Jackie Boy as well. Friends who could furnish a “loose cannon” to take the fall for a hit if necessary.

While Giancana wanted Marilyn to be humiliated by a gang rape, he also wanted a taste for himself. Or so it seemed on wiretap that produced the following comment directed at Giancana from fellow mobster Johnny Roselli, “You sure get your rocks off fucking the same broad as the brothers, don’t you?”

When someone finally did put an end to all the pressure coming down on the mafia on November 22, 1963, Jack might have been glad he could stop worrying, stop constantly looking over his shoulder (while lying on his back)… that is, had he been given the time to process what was happening just before the bullet struck. He assumed it would mean he could, at the very least, rejoin the best lay (okay, Top 10) he ever had, Ms. Monroe. Alas, where Jack was going, they didn’t have pretty girls–at least not ones who weren’t framed by eternal hellfire that could scorch a man when he tried to touch them.

Marilyn felt a delightful pang of satisfaction she couldn’t ignore as she hovered over the scene in Dallas. And while she still despised Giancana to his core, she could briefly forgive him, still down there in the Land of the Living. He had carried out the hit she had wanted.