No One Is Above The Lone Guman

People are questioning how. Lone gunman could get that close to Trump. It’s easy. In 1991 I went to meet a friend after work in the Diamond District at the Statler Hilton in Manhattan. Thousands of protestors surrounded the building. Hundreds of NYPD blocked the entrances. I didn't know why. Dressed on a pinstriped English suit, I strolled up to the barricade and said, “I’m meeting a hotel guest at the bar for drinks.” The police was me through the security and I passed through the Blue to meet my friend at the bar. Inside the hotel there were more police, FBI, and Secret Service all looking very professional and alert for any opportunity to prove their worth. Philip, a Australian journalist, explained President George Bush was scheduled to speak that evening in the main ballroom. $10,000 a plate. Businessmen and capitalists. Not my crowd and we killed our drinks. No way to leave by the front, so I led Phil to the garage exit. None of the police or Secret Service bother us and we hit the parking lot, as the presidential limo pulls up to the curb. My sister-in-law had worked for the president when he was director of the CIA. Another band of fools. The limo doors open and out pops Bush. I call his name, walk up, and introduce myself as his ex-secretary’s brother- In-law. We shake hands. He goes his way and we goes ours. Anyone can get to anyone. Assassinations have ruled the politics of this and many countries. Lone gunmen have killed Lincoln and Kennedy as well as the latter's younger brother RFK after he won the California presidential primary in 1968. Ronald Reagun was bullet-gutted by a psychotic fan of the actress Jody Foster of TAXI DRIVER fame. Guns run blood on the streets of America and rlsewhere too. In 1983 I worked at les Bains-Douchrd. one evening I had a confrontation with a local Mafia gangster. We fought at the entrance, while the security watched in amusement. I tossed my attacker down the stairs. He leapt to his feet and struggled to whip out a revolver. Before he freed the weapon, we scurried inside the clubnan I slammed shut the heavy glass entrance door. The glass was supposedly bullet-proof. The gangster aimed his weapon and pulled the trigger twice. The first bullet impacted on the glass at my head level, The next was aimed at my heart. The crowd scattered away from les Bains. The gangster ran away. I thankfully never saw him again. Jacques the owner came down to the entrance and heard the story, then walked over to the door, surveying the bullet impacts "Are we going to replace the glass?" a bouncer asked in French. "Pas de tout. I have been shot and