BLACK PRESIDENT-Chapter 97. Cissy and John risk all with Fran...TOTAL BLOWOUT as she is TOLD about the SWITCH! Rudy learns about K's plan to eradicate military control in US with high taxes.

CHAPTER NINETY-SEVEN

“We know who you are now, Mr. President. I certainly do.” Vice president Holstead had requested a full hour with the President, and John had obliged. But the wording Holstead used had frozen John’s blood. Almost as soon as John believed that his impersonation had been uncovered, Holstead clarified what exactly he meant.

“We agree – my people and I – that taxes have been too low to maintain our current levels of defense spending. Thank God for your proposed increase. The country just can’t withstand going cheap anymore, when other countries are moving forward with new missile systems, nano-tech and lasers. At any rate, I’m very happy to realize that you’re the man we knew you to be. After all, you had promised certain defense factions that you’d be at their service, at least before the assassination attempt rattled your memory.

“I, for one, never doubted your plan. Lockheed and other majors were questioning your credibility, but I stood firm. And now we can get moving again. We’re America, for Christ sake! If we’re going to lead, then let’s do it right, generate the proper funds.

“You know, we’ve had to piggyback our research by sneaking it into classrooms from Berkeley to Amherst. Not right. Anyway, we’re with you one hundred percent. And so what if the people grumble. They always do, don’t they?”

John kept his poker face on as he learned of his brother’s involvement with Holstead’s people, the same gang of war-mongers who had inflated the U.S. military spending to record levels before the assassination. Since Jackson had always claimed that he was “fighting the military brass” when the brothers discussed such things, it was a shock to learn about his twin brother’s corruption. Not only was Jackson screwing my wife, but he was also siding with Holstead’s support of MIC!

***

“Twenty-five percent raise in taxes!” exclaimed Cissy. “No wonder Holstead is for it! You’ve given him and his military cohorts the wet dream of the century. I hope you know what you’re doing. Yes, dissatisfied people may revolt. But what if they do what they’ve always done – grin and bear it? You’re probably just adding more suffering for the lower classes, and that usually leads to an excuse to fund new methods of law enforcement, military control over unruly civilians.

“You say Holstead didn’t act that surprised with the tax hike? You say that he almost expected it. From Jackson – you? What does that tell you?

“I’m worried, deeply worried, and not embarrassed to say so. And chalk this up to my paranoia, but what if Kissinger is playing you? You said he suggested such an extreme tax-raising plan. Where did he get off thinking that is going to help anything?

Cissy was visibly upset. She wrapped her robe over her knees and stood up from the bed. Though she wasn’t in the mood for either a shower or brushing her teeth, she headed for the bathroom. Sometimes the White House was less cozy than desired, she thought to herself.

As she reached the bathroom door she spun around toward John with final words. “Ever hear the expression,’leopard can’t change his spots? I know you have.”

***

Rudy still looked disturbed as John continued to rationalize his excessive taxes.

“I’ve been in various conversations with Henry Kissinger – you know that – and we’ve discussed raising taxes by 25%. He was all for that, probably for reasons beyond the logic I understood. I wanted to create an uprising of sorts, where the people of America can begin to reject the notion that we should be ruled by the whims of the Military Industrial Complex. They are presently running us dry, keeping us hamstrung with wars we can’t afford. The middle class has been turned into the generator of cash for their operations, via taxation. And the government has been completely lax in offering incentives for happily paying taxes, unlike countries you mentioned – Scandinavia for instance – where services are almost completely covered. So, to shake things up, generate support for across-the-board services, we need to insist that corporations pay their fair share. This was my plan.

“Now I know, or at least deeply suspect, that Kissinger has been reporting all my words back to his superiors, their counterparts in Europe, and I’m taking a kung fu proactive approach to all this. So far, I’ve given him the opinion that the wealthy would be spared any tax increases. This is false. They are my ultimate target.

“Secondly, I made my case as a way to stir up the middle class, bringing it to the breaking point so they will more eagerly oppose MIC.

“MIC has everything running too smoothly at present. The banks are in their pocket, the companies are seeing good growth in manufacturing products of war, the employees are receiving pretty good wages and terrorism is the fuel for all this continuing, ad infinitum. Something has to alter the momentum. I believe a change in taxes might be a start.”

“How so?” Rudy was trying to listen patiently, however disturbed he had been earlier. He hated taxes almost as much as he hated governments and the VA.

“Because, while Kissinger’s old cohorts believe there will be more of the same – constant cash flow to the armament factories – it just won’t be true. They will be massively taxed, that money ultimately supporting the services that should have been free all along. I’m turning the tables on them, before they can block the legislation. They will not see it coming.”

John knew from Rudy’s puzzled expression that he still had doubts, so he decided to insert a short history lesson. “Did you know that in the early 20th century, before WWI, just the tax on liquor and cigarettes was enough to pay all government-related expenses?”

“No I didn’t.” Rudy had never been able to focus much in school, in classes like US history.

“That flow of revenue only shifted to income-tax based in 1913. The Revenue Act of 1913 lowered tariff rates from 40% to 25%, and that paved the way for need of an additional federal tax to compensate for the loss. So the Sixteenth Amendment re-instituted income tax. But at the start the rates were very low–1% for any couple earning over $4000, or individuals over $3000. Factoring in inflation - in 2020 dollars for instance - that would be equal to approximately $70,000 and $56,000 income, respectively . So one percent taxation was a pretty good deal, especially when you consider that less than 1% of the population even earned enough to pay federal income tax.

“Jumping even farther back in history, a flat 3% tax was levied on all citizens back in 1861 at the outbreak of Civil War, for all those who earned more than $800-per-year, which is about $40,000 in today’s dollars. Again, the majority of a populace earned considerably less than that per annum. On a side note, did you know that slaves in America in 1860 cost around $400 each? So basically, only rich folks could afford to buy a black man or woman. But that’s another matter.”

“Horrible. The whole thing,” said Rudy, dividing his disgust between the taxation problems and the fact that people were bought and sold.

“So back to the spread of this blight of taxation. 1913 was really when the whole thing began to take off with higher taxes. Of course, keep in mind that the original colonists’ reason for the American Revolution was based on their protest against British taxation, in the form of tariffs for imported goods, whiskey, and even glass for windowpanes. Revolution was the result.

“What I’m suggesting is, within that overall question of income taxes lies both a reduction of military spending and the restoration of the middle class. As a person of color, born from generations of slave stock, I want to assure you that I will do everything in my power to destroy this unfair system of entitlement.”

———-
Once again, the Secret Service agents found themselves book-ending the door to Fran Little’s home. Between them, and flanked by a cadre of agents basically surrounding the premises, stood the President and First Lady of the United States. The door bell brought Fran’s gleaming face out from behind the oak door, her hands immediately grasping Cissy’s as they entered. “So great to see you – both.” Fran had obviously psyched herself up for the couple’s visit, and so far as John could tell, she was handling it well.

After he did his perfunctory cheek-kiss, he noticed the absence of children. For a second he thought to ask the obvious question about John Jr., but held back. He needed to keep his mind on other matters. And in fact, because of the pressure of the moment and what was at stake, his brain kept sending Tourette’s-like phrases:

TWO WOMEN I’VE BEEN SCREWING!

It was almost a helpful diversion to hear obscene statements rip through his consciousness, louder thoughts which kept the other, longer, scarier ones, fuller analysis about the broad realities of deeper dangers.

YOU’RE SCREWED!

He was becoming a split personality. As soon as the voices subsided, his quiet brain tried to communicate that there was nothing to worry about. Yeah, no probs bro. But the odd Tourette’s – whatever it was – kept up the sarcastic banter: NO problems, except for YOUR Presidency. YOUR newborn child if Fran keeps it. YOUR freedom from jail while the impersonation continues. YOUR death if you don’t end the Federal Reserve and MIC before it ends you!

Fran led them to the kitchen table, a place he’d happily occupied several years before his brother’s death.

SHIT!

“Please, have a seat while I get the coffee,” said Fran, her performance still in the A+ category, thought John. He felt some strange pride in the woman he’d married.

SHE’S GONNA HATE YOUR ASS!

John tried to repress the voice, but it was getting more aggressive. He tried to act like it wasn’t there, but a weird expression must have crossed his face, because Cissy touched his hand and gripped it hard – pinching in fact. When he made eye contact with her, it shook him. Her look was beyond pleading. It said, Get it together! in its silent scream.

“Cream? Sugar?” Fran knew exactly what both Cissy and Jackson liked, coffee-wise, but still said the obvious anyway. Cissy could tell she was nervous.

“Fran, we can get our own, dear.” Cissy rose out of her chair and headed for the fridge. As John followed her path with his eyes he spotted several agents outside, walking the side perimeter of the house. It would mean their job if they lost the First Couple to a terrorist attack or something. So there had been seven additional Secret Service men placed on the day’s detail. In any case, John felt even more spooked by seeing extra armed men prowling around.

“You do enough, Fran. Please let us serve you – have a seat.” Cissy assembled the cream and sugar bowl on a tray as Fran seated herself at the end of the wooden table. Fran knew, full well and good, that it was just cream and honey for Cissy, while Jackson usually took cream, sugar, sometimes honey too. Her deceased husband, John, had gone with the standard cream & sugar.

Once the tray touched the table, Fran did the honors for Jackson, fixing his drink as always. As soon as the Jackson-double-sweet coffee hit John’s lips his Tourette’s reactivated.

DEEP SHIT!

The words continued, each with a scarier statement of fact.

You’re a fake!

WHATCHA GONNA DO?

IDIOT!

Cissy suddenly took over. They had already discussed their approach to the necessary truth-telling moment, and had decided that the First Lady would be the one to broach the delicate subject. She would explain that it was okay for The President to keep loving Fran because, after all, he was actually John. And that gave Fran the option of keeping her pregnancy, because it was legitimate – the father was John, himself just momentarily in disguise as Jackson.

“Fran, you know we both love you –” started Cissy, as John looked on helplessly.

MUTHA FUCKA!

“I love you too, you know,” returned Fran, “and really appreciate all you have given me since the explosion.” Fran was looking thoughtfully in Cissy’s direction, then threw a quick glance toward Jackson. Her eyes tried to conceal all the appreciation for their wild lovemaking, their grand diversion. But John’s mind continued to analyze the outcome – possibly the biggest marital breakdown in history.

“Fran, I know this is going to be difficult, but there are some things you need to know, and I think you’ll ultimately appreciate what I – we – have to say.”

FUCK!

Fran found herself becoming nervous, and she reached for her coffee and had to stop herself from drinking since the liquid was still very hot. As soon as the mug had reached her lips the heat backed her off. Cissy must suspect the affair, she thought. What else could it be? The next words out of Cissy’s mouth confirmed Fran’s worst fears.

“I know about you and Jackson,” said Cissy, quickly following up with, “And I don’t care.”

YIKES!

Fran put the cup down, her fingers immediately went to covering part of her face, tears of guilt spewing forth. “I’m so sorry. Don’t know why – how this happened.”

Cissy got up and took two steps over to the seated Fran. She wrapped her arms around the distraught woman, while John sat there frozen.

MY GOD!

“I understand, I really do! But it’s OK,” added Cissy, glancing at John, but not knowing how he should join in the process of comforting. Instinctively, she knew he’d soon have his own turn, fielding Fran’s deepest emotions – confusion, hate, other possible combinations. “Please don’t cry.”

Fran looked up at Cissy through her tears. “I feel so ashamed. Your husband.”

“That’s the thing…” Cissy was being very systematic, “…it’s not all as it seems.” She had given John some screwy confidence that all would work out, but…nothing seemed certain with Fran’s meltdown.

“I know you’re pregnant. Can we talk a little about that?” Cissy was keeping with her steady presentation, just as she and John had rehearsed.

HOLY SHIT!

Fran had suddenly stopped crying. “You know? Of course I’ll get rid of it. I’m just so sorry that it’s gotten this far. Can you forgive me?”

SHE’S GONNA TELL!

Fran was still not looking toward John at all. The man she knew as Jackson continued to stay out of the fray.

“I can, and do forgive you,” announced Cissy. And John and I are here to set the record straight.”

SON OF A BITCH! HERE GOES!

“John? You said John. You mean Jackson.”

“No, I mean John.”

FUUUUCK!

Now Fran was looking directly at John. Her eyes were glistening. “Jackson, what’s going on?”

MOTHER-FU……

The pause seemed endless. John suddenly and uncontrollably just blurted it out.

“I’m not Jackson, I’m John.”

“Jackson died in the White House,” added Cissy, for good measure. “You’re pregnant by your own husband.

“And you’re going to keep this child.”

———-