BLACK PRESIDENT- Chapter 86. President-John practices forgery of "J" for brother 'Jackson.' Bilderberg offers up the scary 90+-year-old Kissinger, the movie, MISSING, +secrets about his deceased twin.

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CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX

As John Little had launched into the day-to-day particulars of the US Presidency, he felt himself growing into the job. It was with greater ease than expected, as he performed the role of a leader at meetings and interacted with various cabinet members, even heads of state. What he got used to, he realized, was sensing the respect generated in his direction. Everyone, from the secretary pool of the White House to the reporters stationed on the lawn, got a special buzz from being in his general vicinity. And if he said anything, just a couple words, then he received a flood of appreciation. Everyone wanted to be able to say, “I saw the President today,” or, better yet, “I spoke with the President.” So he enjoyed the process of raising people’s positive energy, making others happy just with his mere presence. But in and around the socializing, he had identified a major difficulty in maintaining his disguise as Chief Executive.

The job required that he occasionally sign bills, and his signature wasn’t quite that of his dead brother. He had realized early on that for the deception to work properly he would need to deliver to paper a closer proximity in penning the words “Jackson Little,” complete with all his brother’s flourishes – dips, loops, and crossed Ts – and knew that there was a battery of experts in the world that could no doubt detect a forgery if they ever got the chance. How, then, could he succeed in making a perfect duplicate of his brother’s signature, he wondered? Well, to begin with, he made a point of practicing it every day.

When he was alone in the White House living quarters, with no threat of anyone’s interruption, Cissy included, he would remove his practice book from a nearby filing cabinet and start in, beginning with the flourish of the J in Jackson. Sometimes his brother had just signed with that one character. To help him concentrate, John divided the signing problem into segments, studying his brother’s handwriting stroke by stroke, curve by curve. And each millimeter of line had some concept attached.

He thought of the top line as a crossbar upon which he and his brother had done chin ups, back when they were just kids in Seattle, later Chicago. And for where the lower part of the J connected to the top, he imagined that convergence as his hand gripping a bar, like when he and Jackson had attempted the ever-elusive one-hand pull- ups. How much time had he and Jackson spent trying to accomplish that difficult task? Seemed like months. Neither of the twins had been able to reach the bar with their chin. That’s when their weight training had begun in earnest.. A set of barbells. Christmas present for 1974, when they turned 13 – had made a huge difference.

Again and again he repeated the J. The bottom of the letter was, of course, a fishhook. And that symbol brought forth their many boating excursions, the fishing and conversations. It was amazing how relaxing the process of fishing had been on their psyches. Something to do with the water flowing along, the fresh air, constant wind, sun, and occasional splash of hooking something. Food there for the taking. Self-sufficiency. In control. Row their own boat. More memories flooded in: the brother’s bike rides, the TV shows they watched, friends (and enemies) at school. Always, Twins against the world!

J. J. J. Another hundred Js were practiced. John could see that repetition was paying off. And for the forgery experts, enemies of his deception, he believed that he had them squared away. They could always point to the near-fatal attempt on his (Jackson’s) life as something that incurred subtle changes in his signature. Just write it off to trauma. Who wouldn’t have been profoundly changed by such an intense and horrific experience?

John’s extreme concentration on his dead brother’s signature, examining the leading letter in such detail, led to doing some research on the form and symbol of fishhooks in general. That’s what the internet offered: a flow of information that could occasionally expand the knowledge of the practitioner. Searching in Google, he first turned up a full page of Disney and Disney-like cartoon images, funny animated, fish-human forms from various movies and TV shows. Was there anything left that hasn’t been Disney-ized? he wondered? He suddenly remembered his own kids having the same show on early Saturday mornings. Disney was always looking for new revenue with its animated shows and characters, and they had a major city’s-worth of employees to feed, plus millions of shareholders to placate. But who had thought up the pregnant male fish, Mr. Baldwin, who was a “Freshwater” high school teacher? Weren’t pre-college institutions trying to discourage teenage pregnancy?

As John tried in vain to follow the logic, he clicked on the second page of offered “fish hook” images, and finally found real fishhooks. Wikipedia showed a depiction of the basic form, with barb and eye for connecting the line. It also named other parts: bend, point, and gap. There was an arrow drawn between the main shank and the length that led up to the hook. So, thought John, the diagram listed “a measurement” in the same way it listed an actual physical part of the hook. What was done to form the hook (determining the gap in the bend) was just as important as the ingredients. This divergence in thinking led John to wonder if he could better draw his dead brother’s signature by thinking more of the spaces around the letters than the actual lines themselves. He re-examined Jackson’s signature. And suddenly he saw it in clearer terms. He saw the gaps.

During the process of practicing Jackson’s signature, John had also decided to examine it from the point of view of handwriting analysis. As a twin, he would have thought that brothers’ signatures would be exactly the same, but their emotional lives had been very different. A person looking at identical twins couldn’t possibly understand how each individual had lived his interior life. One great difference, John had learned, was that his beloved brother was a cheat. Jackson had bedded his brother’s wife. That made Fran a cheater too. What had happened to the character of the woman he had married? In any case, that difference in him and his brother had to be reflected somewhere in that signature. Did that flaw in his brother’s character reveal itself in more than usual pressure being exerted on the L loop in “Little?” Could Jackson’s excessive sex drive be reflected in the low-hanging J of his first name? And how about persistence? Handwriting experts attributed that characteristic to a downward-stroke finish, rather than a dainty curl (think “e”)? Everything John read about handwriting helped hone his forgery skills.

And the mental game he played – acting the part of his brother in that moment of signing documents – brought him closest to a perfect “President Little” signature. It helped, he thought, that now he was a cheater too. He was, in fact, a double cheater! Having sex with his brother’s wife and his own wife (having an affair, as far as she knew), added up to two infidelities. If that wasn’t cheating, then what was? So, as a newly minted cheater, he felt he could certainly succeed in duplicating his corrupt brother’s name in cursive.

On the back-burner of his mind, though, he recognized the spiritual cost of his impersonation. John knew that an artist who cheats at things can never really create a great artwork of true purity. (How about Leonardo daVinci? Van Gogh?). In any case, he realized that to survive as President, he had to exist as a total fraud. To save America, support the vision of country that he and his brother shared – real equality for all – he had to keep up the charade. At least until a bullet found its mark.

***

Between the pain pills, having sex with two women, interacting with his own children as an uncle – faking his role as father to his brother’s kids and signing political documents – John Little’s Presidency had somehow run without incident until early May, 2017, and the scheduled Bilderberg meeting in Geneva. Jackson had earlier confided in him about the secret group while they fished together, explaining what basically happened during such meetings between world leaders. But while he had communicated the basics – Billionaires just want more money – Jackson had said little more about the particulars. So nothing prepared John for what his brother actually encountered.

Every phase of the experience, from the flight to Europe, to and the limo ride and the gated and security-bound castle, had been fascinating. To begin with, his truncated staff seemed to have its own agenda, and he could sense the private relationships between certain members and the Bilderberg staff as soon as Air Force One touched down at Genéve Aéroport. Was he the only one who could tell that Sara Hollingsworth, assistant to his Chief of Staff, was most likely sleeping with the Concierge at the Hotel President Wilson? As they were escorted through the lobby to the Royal Penthouse Suite, he caught the look between the two parties. The handsome gentleman gave off no emotion to speak of , and neither did Sara, but somehow John detected electricity. Was his extra-sensory perception due to his constant use of pain killers, or just being half a living twin? After the approximate half-hour periods each dose took to relieve pain – passing through the “blood brain barrier” as the experts described it – John felt like he had eyes in the back of his head. So watching Sara reach out her hand to accept the President’s set of room keys, and the concierge’s resistance to meet her gaze, John felt he knew the score.

Of course the professionalism of the hotel was unexcelled – $68,000 per night for the 12-room penthouse flat with its bullet- proof glass and various amenities (Steinway grand piano, billiard room and library, plus a fitness center) was not unusual for the President’s party while traveling abroad. But it was unusual to John Little. He found the excesses of spending, and the bloated Presidential staff more irritating than practical. US taxpayers had no idea where their hard-earned tax dollars were going. But he did have to admit that luxury at that scale was addictive. It was a losing battle. What was most important was getting mentally prepared to play President among the world’s leadership at Bilderberg, 120-150 of the most influential people on the planet. He was thankful for the large Jacuzzi tub and penetrating massage-tipped water jets, which supplied a welcomed break before his command performance.

What jolted John the most was how his heightened sense of observations carried over to the cast of characters at the secret Bilderberg meeting. Because many of the participants had previously met with his brother, Jackson, as President, had shared private moments, had confidences, made promises and agreed to present and future pacts, and these heads of state approached him with complete familiarity and trust. John’s first encounter with the power brokers was with the Scot Sir John Kerr (think Sean Connery/007), who the world press suspected, correctly, was the unofficial leader of the grand affair. A handshake between the two men was captured by photographer John Lindon of the U.K. Guardian newspaper, as they ascended the seven steps into the castle. Kerr’s full title, “Baron Kerr of Kinlochard,” was enough of a clue to John that some people were destined to rule from birth. Just his Directorship of Shell Transport and Trading in 2002 would have qualified him for entrance into the Bilderberg club.

Then came Henry Kissinger, a somewhat dignified, though pudgy man for all seasons. When he laid his large hand on John’s arm it felt like a lead weight had just descended from somewhere (what made Kissinger’s appendage so heavy, John wondered?). In any case, Kissinger obviously viewed the American President as a friend, a buddy, and told him as much as he deftly sidled up to power.

“Dear Jack –” began Kissinger, as he squeezed in next to the man he believed to be Jackson Little. “It’s great to see you on this side again. We have a lot to talk about – if we can just get a moment alone. Please let me know the second you’re free to –”

Before Kissinger could set up a secret hotel room meeting, John-as-American-President was approached by the English Prime Minister, Ronald Cable, newly elected from the Labor Party and a bit overly anxious to make a good impression. “Mr. President, so very GREAT to finally meet you, and under these VERY GOOD circumstances! Perhaps, if you have a moment, we can let the dollar and the pound do a little dancing in favor of future economics.”

Kissinger, the lapdog, kept crashing back into John’s private space, campaigning for a private meeting before the afternoon expired. Finally John saw an opportunity and walked the statesman to an alcove looking out at a garden dotted with security personnel. Two empty chairs were in place, facing outward, as if on a movie set specially prepared for their upcoming discussion.

“After you, Mr. President,” said Kissinger, maintaining the official protocol, adding, “Hopefully we will have a few minutes.” As both men got comfortable, Kissinger jumped right in with his priorities. “First of all, please let me offer condolences – your brother John, a gentle soul whom we’ll all miss. So sorry.”

Before the gentle-soul description had much chance to reverberate, Kissinger proceeded with his most pressing topic, by way of laying in another side comment about the deceased brother of the President. “A shame the world can’t be kinder to people like John and his friendly-face-forward approach. But we must get much tougher on nations that break promises, or make agreements they have no thought of ever keeping. As you know, a stern older brother must knock out the bully before he intimidates someone else.”

My god, thought John, is he referring to how Jackson and I interacted on the playing field as brothers against the white bullies? Had Jackson talked about this with Kissinger? Pretty private stuff!

“We all know that John was never particularly well-suited for these skirmishes, so it’s ironic that he had to become a victim of one of them. But it appears Interpol has finally identified the group that tried to terminate your Presidency. I’m recommending that you proceed to eliminate their Palestinian base as soon as possible, to show that you – the US – means business.”

Not well-suited? Is that how Jackson had represented his own brother’s inner core to Kissinger-type people? Or did Jackson simply use the comparison – inaccurate as it may have been – to draw out some of his advisors, see their true colors?

“Well, John and I seemed pretty aligned on most of the highest-priority international matters, and I think we both understood well that an attack on Palestine could only be regarded as an attack upon the entire Arab world. So why would you assume that this political climate, right now, would read it any differently? Even if we could prove the base of operations, where is the legality for such a military endeavor?”

John-as-Jackson could feel the older man bristle with the question. Kissinger wasn’t the kind of man that was used to people either confronting him or dismissing his ideas. As John awaited Kissinger’s response (which seemed slow in coming) he reminded himself that he was chatting with the guy who had knelt next to a drunken Nixon and prayed for deliverance. It seemed Kissinger’s notoriety made it almost impossible for people to question his recommendations – and his Nobel Prize hadn't hurt. Every word he spoke was supposedly the gospel, was it not?

“Son –” began Kissinger, trying for the upper hand, “If the US doesn’t strike with assurance on this one, then we might as well close up shop at the State Department and the Pentagon and head home to the Mrs., in…well…Lincoln, Nebraska or somewhere. Iowa? I don’t know. Maybe the attack on the White House cost you some cojones.” His reddish face became brighter in color, as he gulped some air along with champagne from the “B” monogrammed stemware.

“We used to joke about how your brother would always take the pacifist route, and now you’re doing it too. Maybe it’s catching. I’m sorry for your lost brother, and realize that you took a good hit yourself, but this is no time to turn tail. Believe me, the last thing I want is to send our boys – girls – into battle.”

While Kissinger took another sip, John realized that his twin brother had used him as a buffer when dealing with such hawks. Yeah – Pacifist John. That was okay, Jackson, thought John to himself. Well done. Anything to maintain some element of humanity, as NSA members and Chiefs of Staff throw military options on the table.

“Look at what’s happened just in the last year or two.” Kissinger seemed to have raised his intensity with the imbibing of bubbly. “Israel got nuked and there was retaliation – Iran is still a wounded tiger, plenty dangerous. We didn’t get it all, I can tell you that.” A short beat for dramatic pause was all Kissinger allowed, as he zeroed in. “The Attorney General of the United States got assassinated when certain forces gunned for you. Get them before they get you, I say. We’ve got the machine. It’s greased and ready to deploy. Hell, half the job gets done by twenty-somethings, thinking they’re playing video games over there. All I’m saying is, send in a couple waves of nuclear-tipped missiles to eradicate that part of Palestine that has been responsible for the latest shenanigans. No harm in that.”

How old was Kissinger, John wondered? He tried to do the math. The guy must have been at least 45 or 50 when Nixon was in office (Kissinger always looked old). So say 50, in 1972-3. Counting decdes; 1983, 1993, 2003, 2013 – at least ninety-five. And it was clear that he knew everyone at Bilderberg, probably their fathers, even grandfathers too! Prescott Bush!

As Kissinger continued to do his soft shoe dance for the man he believed to be President Jackson Little, John Little tried to digest the fact of Kissinger operating as friend to his late brother. Perhaps it was John’s momentary flat stare that prompted Kissinger to say too much next. The old man’s energy suddenly took on a threatening edge.

“So Jackson –” re-started Kissinger, not really satisfied to be next chatting about what appetizers or even pretty women he spied in France’s diplomatic entourage. “About that Chilean thing we were discussing last time – I now need your full commitment to help me insure certain documents don’t surface that could embarrass our services.”

The Chilean thing! It sounded at first like he was speaking about the weather, or possibly even the over-cool air conditioning at the event. John peered out at other Bilderberg members in his general vicinity and got the feeling that they were avoiding the two men by a radius of about 20 feet, which wasn’t so easy to do in the fairly small conference rooms.

“The trial thing,” added Kissinger. He was doing everything he could not to be specific about something he and Jackson Little had previously discussed. How can the President be so obtuse, Kissinger wondered, as he waited for the US Commander-in-Chief to at least convey some familiarity with the topic. “I have kept Jojo invisible to even my own people. Wives, you know. Everyone. So I’d like some equality in this matter.”

John instantly tried to stop himself from over-reacting. Jojo was the code word for the most top-secret activity in the bowels of the US government, a program he had first been briefed on just three months earlier. US operatives had been trying to get a secret agent into the Iranian nuclear program for years and had finally succeeded. But it was a grand scheme that needed a full ten years to germinate. Before his assassination, Jackson had green-lighted the plan to smuggle in an Iranian-American boy, with hope that once he achieved maturity he could monitor any and all nuclear activities, inform on future plans over there. A perfect sleeper that the U.S. desperately needed.

At age ten the boy had been identified as a genius-level student in computers and electronics. He was the son of an FBI agent stationed in Lincoln, Nebraska. When the boy became a science fair winner an FBI friend of the family brought him to the attention of certain CIA pals,. Beyond the extreme expertise that it took to invent the circuitry for his project, the boy spoke fluent Farsi as well as mature American English. How on earth had Kissinger known about it?

“Jackson –” continued Kissinger, filling up the void, “we both know the trouble that can be generated by the Horman thing, both for me and also the Presidency. None of us need any of that, do we? You help me and I’ll help you. I hoped that’s where we’d left it, dear Sir.”

Horman. That name. So familiar. Then it hit! Horman’s life had been splashed across the movie screens in the movie Missing, which John and his brother had seen together during college years. Jack Lemon played the young man’s father, Sissy Spacek as Horman’s wife, and together they tried to solve their son’s disappearance during the early 1970’s coup d’état in Chile. A chilling cinematic experience. Before long, it was clear that the US government was involved in the coup and was aggressively covering it up.

The twins had been in total agreement after watching Lemon discover his dead son. If elected to any office, they vowed to never be a party to such evil, even to safeguard US interests. And yet, here was the actual evil-doer, standing before the man he believed was the American President. John suddenly remembered that in the book, “The Trial of Henry Kissinger,” in which author/activist Christopher Hitchens suggested that Kissinger was still vulnerable to an ongoing investigation into the death of Charles Horman in Chile. Now, with Kissinger’s next words, the question, What was Henry really asking for? became clear.

“I just want to make sure that no unfortunate decisions are made in district courts about the Horman case. We discussed this previously, Jackson. This is a National Security issue, as I’m sure you agree, dear friend. Now that we’ve finally reduced any negativity of public opinion directed toward Israel – their recent victimization from the attack worked wonders – I think it’s time to clear the slate on my ancient history as well.”

You’re a good fellow, were Kissinger’s last words, delivered with a shoulder pat before he shuffled off toward a group of German delegates and chancellor Angela Merkel, who quickly encircled him and made him their central focus.

Could brother Jackson have really considered a pardon regarding the Chilean coup and Kissinger’s part in it? If so, his brother had not really been as forthcoming as John had believed, and that was a sad and ever-growing fact. It was rough to start losing respect for one’s own sibling. The secrets of government; Kissinger, Jackson Little and Bilderberg not to mention John Little’s impersonation of a sitting President, would someday require a thorough rewriting of U.S. history.

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