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Lawrence would spend the majority of his waking hours stalking Andrew Jackson from a distance, learning his every move and idiosyncrasies. He noticed that he walked with a slight gimp, using his cane more than he’d like to have let on. This was believed to be in part from rounds that had been left in his body from numerous duels.

‘How sad, the mighty general limps along now.’ He chuckled to himself. He had learned from his previous attempt to kill Jackson, he knew now that he would need to be prepared. He devised no escape plan, in Lawrence’s mind, there was no need. Surely, once Jackson was dead, and an investigation was conducted it would become apparent his position and he would be acquitted. He knew that his quest was just and any man who had their own claim would understand that this was the only way to regain control of his empire, ‘the right of any man.’ He thought to himself.

The building rage that had overcome him the first attempt were no longer there. Lawrence was still, at ease, hunting his prey with his camouflage of ordinary. He would manage to change his clothes multiple times per day, sometimes purposely dressing in rags in order to avoid detection. There were several times when he was close enough to touch Jackson as he passed. He thought how odd it was that Jackson smelt old, he was more cracked, fragile, and shriveled up close.

‘I could have put a ball through his head then!’ he thought one time as he passed below the open window of Jackson’s carriage.

Richard would have multiple of these thoughts per day, he refused to act on them too quickly. He wanted to ensure when he killed Jackson it would not be on a whim, but instead planned, in detail. The reality was that Richard Lawrence’s delusions were always stronger than his ability to plan and coordinate.

Lawrence returned to his shop for the night, Jackson had turned in to his home, but his work wasn’t finished.

He set up multiple inch thick boards at varying distance from where he was sitting near the front door. Returning to his chair he sat down and slowed his breathing, in his lap sat two brass pistols his father had left him after his passing. He looked straight forward, not directly at the boards in the distance, which looked much darker and taller being only somewhat illuminated by a single candle. His breathing was slowing, he could hear his heart beat become heavy and infrequent, the pause in between beats seemed to have a heavy thud to them. He raised on pistol and fired at one of the boards, then again with the other. His ears rang loudly, his mustache catching remnants of the gun powder, he could taste it. The plume of smoke was dense, making it impossible to see the boards from where he sat, his heart was racing now. He rose and examined the boards, he had grazed one, and made a direct hit on another. The direct hit was closer at about twenty feet away, it had been obliterated. Even the grazed board had a significant portion of the board gone. He rubbed the grazed board and began another one of his laughing fits as he made his way back to his chair.

He would repeat this several times a night, including shooting at imaginary targets from his window and back yard. Eventually he determined that the furthest he could possibly be from Jackson was thirty yards if he wanted to make contact enough to kill him.

‘Not an issue, I’ve been that close to Jackson several times before.’ He said out loud.

The next morning, Lawrence began his hunt yet again. Lawrence could see from a distance that Jackson was getting in his carriage and headed away.

‘He’s headed to that awful Congress.’ He muttered to himself, and began to cross the dirt road to meet the carriage at its destination.

‘Richard!’ A burly voice called out from behind him. Lawrence turned and saw a large man he didn’t recognize waving at him.

Lawrence looked around, then back at the man who was smiling and waving him to come closer.

‘Yes, you!’ the man said confirming it was indeed Lawrence he was speaking to. Lawrence approached, stopping halfway in the middle of the street.

‘Peabody is still expecting payment, soon.’ The man said sternly.

Lawrence growled at the man and contorted his face, his body becoming tense. He began to stomp towards the large man, who didn’t move. Lawrence reached in his coat for one of the pistols, he looked both ways to see what witnesses he may have to contend with.

‘Woah! Don’t do anything brash, Mr. Lawrence. I’m just delivering a message!’ The man said, still not moving. He pressed a handful of papers at Lawrence, simultaneously creating distance between himself and the aggressor.

‘Relax and read the penny press.’ He suggested. Lawrence, furious that his money troubles had been dispersed to the commoners, clutched the papers out of his hand. He glanced at the paper and did a double take after he saw the word ‘JACKSON’ on it. His contorted, mean face eased into a sleazy long smile. His eyes fixated on the page as he turned away from the man simply saying, ‘Thank you.’

The paper read in bold lettering.

‘REPRESENTATIVE WARREN DAVIS DEAD! JACKSON TO ATTEND FUNERAL’

The article would go on to detail the circumstances of Davis’s death, the date, time, location, and prominent guests who would be in attendance.

‘You tell Peabody, he’ll get what’s coming to him soon!’ He shouted back to the man, walking off.

‘What does that mean?’ The man hollered back, Lawrence ignored him, hurrying back to his shop.

‘No need to follow the old dog now, he’s told me exactly where he’ll be and when!’ He said to himself.

He had only two days to prepare for this. He knew it was his time to rid the world of one king to return to another.

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