6 Real Scandals Crazier Than Anything On 'House Of Cards'

Determined to keep Coke from rendering Johnson impotent, Parr scrambled to issue "corrected tallies" for his counties. In Jim Wells County, for instance, an election judge found an extra 200 votes for LBJ by simply changing a 7 to a 9 on the results. In the end, LBJ "won" by "87" "votes" statewide.

Naturally, Coke Stevenson showed up in Jim Wells and demanded to see the election rolls. He claimed to have discovered that the last 202 names on the rolls had been written in alphabetical order, in a different ink, in the same handwriting, and oh yeah, all belonged to people who didn't recall voting. Unfortunately, as happens in these situations, the records in question spontaneously combusted. A flurry of back-and-forth legal chicanery ensued, which Johnson ultimately won by getting a Supreme Court judge to rule that the federal government couldn't interfere in a state election, even one that would embarrass Mobutu-era Zaire.

A bizarre postscript to this story came in 1950, when Sam Smithwick, a deputy sheriff in Jim Wells County, murdered a journalist who had criticized the rampant local corruption. Smithwick subsequently wrote to Coke Stevenson from prison, saying he was willing to share what he knew about those extra 200 votes. Coke was on his way to the prison when he learned that, tragically, Smithwick had gone and hanged himself. Who could have foreseen?!

Ley started his career pretending to be a family values religious conservative, known as "Lemonade Ley" for his anti-alcohol views. Of course, he was also taking huge bribes from brewing companies to ensure no actual prohibition legislation was passed. Since that was pretty standard 1920s corruption, he quickly became justice minister in New South Wales, where he routinely executed people on flimsy evidence. And not just criminals, it seems: In 1925, Ley's opponent in the election to Australia's Parliament claimed that Ley had offered him a bribe to drop out of the race. The man was on his way to demand an inquiry when he vanished, never to be seen again. An obviously forged suicide note was found, with handwriting remarkably similar to Ley's. Nobody found that suspicious enough to prevent him from taking his seat in Parliament, though, where his murder career firmly moved into "spree" territory.

One likely victim was fellow New South Wales politician Hyman Goldstein, who suggested setting up a committee to investigate the shady business dealings of Ley's agricultural poison company. His mangled body was soon found at the bottom of a cliff. We seriously need to highlight that Ley ran a poison company, and he still killed a dude by throwing him off a cliff.

Ley's disgruntled business partner also disappeared under strange circumstances, as did his mistress' husband. With suspicion rising in Australia, Ley fled to England, where he headed up a small criminal empire and was eventually arrested for the torture and murder of a man he wrongly suspected of sleeping with his girlfriend. Again, this man had been justice minister of Australia's most populous state. Proving once again that everything in Australia will murder you, up to and including their elected officials.

Fortunately, British politics defaults to comedy over drama, and Newton turned out to be the most bumbling assassin since Mr. Bean was airdropped into Pyongyang. For starters, British firearm laws meant the only gun Newton could get his hands on was an antique Mauser, built in 1910. Next, it turned out that Newton was terrified of dogs, and Scott refused to go anywhere without his beloved Great Dane. When the giant pooch bounded toward Newton, the panicked hitman pulled out his gun and shot it, prompting Scott to shout, "You can't involve the dog!" Newton then tried to shoot Scott in the back of the head, but his blunderbuss had jammed and wouldn't fire again. After briefly wrestling with the firing pin, Newton sensibly buggered off.

Newton and the Liberal treasurer both later stated that it was Thorpe who had ordered the hit. Thorpe was sensationally acquitted after a trial in which the judge openly favored him (even suspending proceedings so that Thorpe could run for reelection), but was finally forced to resign from the Liberal party ... over that stolen donation money.

Nix placed fake personal ads in gay magazines pretending to be a sexy young man looking for some hot pen pal action. Once his victims were drawn in, Nix would either blackmail them or spin a sob story and ask for money. In the dark days before the internet, that simple scam was enough to sucker over 2,000 guys out of millions of dollars.

So Halat obviously enlisted Nix's help running some sort of scam, right?

You're never right! No, Halat decided it would be wise to scam Nix himself.

Halat was supposed to launder Nix's cash, but allegedly took the opportunity to skim about $500,000 for himself. When a furious Nix worked out that his take was light, Halat knew that he would be under suspicion. Meanwhile, his budding political career was under threat from Biloxi councilwoman Margaret Sherry, who was also planning to run for mayor on an anti-corruption platform. Halat figured there might be a way to solve both his problems at once.

Halat convinced Nix that Sherry's husband (who was also Halat's former legal partner) had stolen the missing $500,000, and so Nix promptly sent a hitman to murder the couple in their bed. Halat didn't just attend their funeral; he gave the freaking eulogy. Oh, and then he was elected mayor of Biloxi. His role in the murders became public knowledge mere weeks after the election, but he managed to stonewall through an entire four-year term. He was eventually convicted of wire fraud and obstruction of justice in 1997, and released in 2013. Maybe he'll run for reelection. We've even got a slogan for him: "Halat 2020: Is murder really so bad anymore?"