BLACK PRESIDENT-Chapter 76. Identical twin John-as-President, continues to fool everyone, including his own children. He prepares to change things, as leader of the "free world."(PART 5: 2015-2016).

PART 5, 2015-2016

PART 5: 2015-2016

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

As one day faded into another, John-as-Jackson experienced long stretches of visits from politicians, reporters and family members, including his own birth children (hugging him as their uncle) and those from his brother’s family. Somehow, each person he came in contact with helped him grow into the role he was assuming. His brother’s children, hugging and kissing him and calling him Dad – not questioning his identity – was one of three crucial tests for his successful identity switch. The second was visiting with his own kids as their “Uncle Jackson.” Would they ultimately detect he wasn't Jackson at all but their own father? Would they suddenly come to pieces, shouting out the lie for all to hear? THIS MAN IS JOHN LITTLE, OUR FATHER! He had to admit he was more than a bit scared when they came around. Also, there was the guilt factor. He had, in fact, deserted them. They were fatherless, alone, without his daily attention to their wellbeing. It was hard to live with himself when he considered that.

The final test, by far the most serious and difficult, would be co-habiting with Cissy as her husband, being around her long enough to either duplicate his brother’s unconscious traits or get nailed for the differences. And – making love to her. Would he try to keep up the charade in the bedroom? Or would he, under pressure of the boudoir, finally blurt out the truth? He couldn’t say. And, for the moment, he put the problem entirely out of his mind. He’d cross that bridge when he came to it. Fortunately, with his long list of injuries and his devoted, on-call nursing staff, he could cut short any situation, end any meeting at any time. He had an arsenal of excuses; pain, exhaustion, headache, nausea. Even his amputated “throbbing” toes could be used as an explanation to those who bugged him the most – politicians trying to pose as friends, others merely off-putting. During their private meetings together before the explosion, his brother had spelled out which of those men were true friends and which were wolves in sheep’s clothing. Thinking about the industrial military complex one evening after ingesting pain pills with his dinner – a quiet time when no visitors were allowed in – John remembered talking with his brother about dismantling the military threat from within.

Jackson had told him straight out: If you could stop the Federal Reserve bank from printing more money for the specific purpose of funding military armaments; new warplanes, tanks, drones, bombs, rifles, machine guns, pistols, bullets, advanced laser technology and various military uniforms/under-garments/shoes, these people would dry up and blow away. Get rid of the Reserve and you put an end to the main problem!

They had even joked about whether his bit of Presidential surfing on the White House internet was being intercepted by evil forces. Yes, they had laughed about it – what they termed “KP” (Kennedy Paranoia) – but the reality was that some people could easily have been monitoring any and all of his online movements. Perhaps, thought John, as he shifted to a better position on the elevated hospital bed, that was what had gotten his brother killed.

Jackson had explained that in 1963, JFK had actually put into place a directive to close down the Federal Reserve and had ordered the Treasury to issue its own currency, as “United States Bank Notes.” Four billion dollars worth of these bills, backed by silver bullion, had been printed and circulated throughout the United States and its territories. When John had asked how the member banks of the Reserve had reacted to being put out of business like that, his brother had just laughed.

“They didn’t react because they never were put out of business,” Jackson had answered

Jackson said that even the US notes had added to the FED coffers, because the Treasury Department that printed the currency was dependent on the worldwide cash flow from the wealthiest banking families – Rothchilds, Lehman Brothers, Lazard Freres of Paris, Self’s of Italy – to distribute it. It was the oldest game in town. When money was devalued – great depressions and post-war environments brought on these conditions – people had to sell their belongings, including their houses. That’s when the super-rich stepped in and scooped up everything in sight, at a dime – often a penny – to a dollar. The cycle had repeated itself ever since the War of 1812. The Great Depression of the 1930s had built many of the present-day fortunes.

It took money to make money. Jackson had repeated that phrase more than once.
When John had asked his brother about attending the once secret Bilderberg meetings of world finance, Jackson had refused to divulge what had transpired, citing that any information he released might further risk his brother’s life and that of all their relations. After making that blatant statement in his normal speaking voice, he had brought his lips very close to his brother’s ear and whispered, “Now they have that recorded on their little bugs we haven’t found yet. We’ll talk more later.”

After he and his brother were at a secure location, Jackson had described the B group as mostly just a consortium of rich people making sure they got richer. No mystery there. He, as U.S. President, was the “poor relation,” a mere “errand boy” to the people he had met with. Those leaders from Europe, he explained, gave off an entitlement vibe that made him want to flee the room. His roots as a Black American from ghettos of Seattle and Chicago's South Side was no match for people brought up in palaces, with colored servants and silver service by the pound. “Hell!” he exclaimed, “I felt like I was one of their houseboys, or chauffeurs!”

In weeks previous to Jackson’s death, while the brothers trolled for trout, salmon and bass at a safe location on the waters of Lake George in upstate New York, they had discussed how to effectively bring down the Federal Reserve banking system. Both men had done their internet research by then, and had prepared for the lively exchange. The boat holding the Secret Service agents was hundreds of feet back from theirs, so it seemed safe enough to talk without fear of audio surveillance. Jackson took the lead after he cast out his daredevil lure.

“America is in a chokehold from the Feds...we’ve talked about it. Hate to say it, but reversing it all would mean putting almost every FDIC bank temporarily out of business, which, of course, would have a devastating effect on the economy.”

Out of reflex, Jackson jerked his fishing line with a flick of his wrist, and reeled it in just enough to bring it taut.

“As you know, the banks currently loan out those dollars at a 10- to-1 ratio, then ask the Fed to print more when they turn up short.”

Lying in the hospital bed, John could still hear the timbre of his brother’s voice, almost as if they were still sitting there in the boat, tossing out lines. Maybe it was the rush of fresh oxygen entering his nostrils that gave some sensory support to that particular time and place. In addition, his near-hallucinatory state was supported by the light breeze from a fan near the hospital’s double-window.

With his eyes closed, John could fully envisioned that early autumn day. His response to his brother had been one guided by his own research on the topic: “I read at a few conspiracy sites that the families who control the wealth in the world are making huge amounts of money from the way our monetary system works. Is the rate of interest to the Feds really four-and-a half percent on the bills they print and loan the government?”

John remembered his brother’s answer: “Yes. Maybe more. It’s the best game in town, considering that banks only give their customers 1.5% for storing their hard-earned cash in savings accounts. But let’s stay focused on how to end the FED, cut it from our daily lives as Americans. That’s what I want to solve, with your help.”

Lying on sheets, surrounded by guards and hospital personnel, John was briefly overcome by sadness. It was clear how prophetic his brother’s words had been, when declaring his imagined timetable for the mission.

“We have so little time. Out here, dangling some monofilament, waiting for the proverbial ‘big fish,’ hanging out in this lazy environment, is deceptive. We have to get them before they get us! So let’s get serious!”

Outside the door of the hospital John heard a slight ruckus. Suddenly it got louder. What was happening? A half-minute later the door opened. Secret Service agent Al entered, apologized for the disturbance, and gave a quick rundown.

“Sorry Sir. Just some wise guy who thought he knew your step- father. Said they worked together at Coca Cola back in Oakland. Someone named Sal.”

That evening, as night darkened the brick façade outside his hospital window, John Little began to reconstruct the rest of his strategy toward ending the Fed stranglehold. Again, the memory of fishing with his brother brought the day back into focus. Jackson had cast and re-cast his lure several times, tossing it onto the wind-rippled surface of the lake before addressing his most important topic.

“The Federal Reserve prints money for wars, then uses advisory panels and politicians – those in their pockets – to pressure the current President to fall in line, sign the legislation, adopt bills, enact legislation to strengthen their hold on the US monetary system. And it’s all done under the guise of ‘progress,’ and ‘responsibility’ toward their constituents. John, everyone who ever got elected in this country in the last 100 years is on the take. Everyone. On their take.”

What had been my exact response? John asked himself, as the pain pills began to kick in. The Vicodin had a strange effect, of putting round corners on everything. Those pills were definitely good mood- elevators – too good, he reminded himself. Had I said anything intelligent at all on the subject, he wondered, while floating around in that boat?

John tried to extend the inner dialogue with his brother, as if they had had more time to sort things out, as if they had never come ashore. To begin with, he decided to improve his mental patterns. He first summarized the FED problem by defining the subject area with a title; as if were a movie he was making: “Eradicating The Federal Reserve.” Then he abbreviated it – ETFR. Eat-Fur. The shortest abbreviation for the operation? “F”...For “FED?” Or “F” for...“Fucked !”

Ha!

After John heard his own exclamation escape his lips, he realized he had to be much more careful. Stupid Vicodin. I’d better wise up, he told himself, or the next assassination attempt will take me out! Still, Vicodin thoughts kept cascading, as if out of their host's control.

SO funny! The entire country is being eaten away from the inside, one fake Fed-printed dollar at a time, and I’m just sitting here on bright sheets, everyone kowtowing, because they think I’m President of the United States!

People in America paid more interest on their paper money then on their credit cards and they didn’t even know it. When they paid their income tax and wrote checks payable to the Federal Reserve Bank they were paying the same people – the bankers – who keep conjuring up the wars and over-spending.

Wait a minute! A guy named Sal!

Suddenly John remembered. That was the name of the guy who Rudy had worked with in the bottling plant, the guy who had tried to get hush money from Rudy to keep their JFK paternity a secret. But it didn’t matter after Jackson announced it on TV. Of course! That’s where I can, as President, attack the Fed!

Adjusting his pillow so it gave better support to his full-sitting position, John realized that he could spell out the problem in public, let Americans know in clear language what had been happening to them. If he wrote a speech carefully, set it up in the clearest fashion like the Greek philosopher Aristotle had recommended – tell ‘em you’re going to tell ‘em, tell ‘em, then tell ‘em you’ve told ‘em – he could get the information across in a timely manner. And if he could hold back naming the culprit until the very last lines, it might just work! That way, the Fed-controlled media wouldn’t cut the cameras, pull the plug, halt the proceeding.

Swish, swish, the water was lapping up against the sides of their boat. John remembered the small waves heading toward him and his brother when a cruiser had passed by. And there had been a cold, brisk wind. When sunshine finally arrived, it had beaten down the morning fog. There was a small puddle at the bottom of the boat where they pulled in fish. The day had been a good one – three threaded “keepers” on the stringer, hanging overboard, ready for the frying pan. How about if he now imagined those fish as the Fed banks. Twelve banks = twelve fish.

Three down, and nine to go? A comforting thought. How vast, really, was the Reserve system? How many US bankers, in total, were intimately involved with the ruse? How many were dependent on the Fed for their paychecks? Good old internet. He’d do his research, get a true picture of the stranglehold.

More questions for the web. How many dollars had been wasted on the last few wars, starting with Kuwait? Then add Iraq and Afghanistan. Get the total figure. Pentagon spending. What was it? Military spending? Always gearing up for war. Making sure that there was a new one always beginning. Billions wasted each month. Good process – for crooks.

Splish, splash. The boat was rocking. Both still alive back then. Twins. Together forever. John and his brother merged into one. How did that song go? Before he fell into his drug-induced sleep – a pain-free dreamscape – John promised himself to write a speech as lyrical and popular as the hit song, “Splish, Splash,” by Bobby Darin.

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