BLACK PRESIDENT-Chapter 99. John is back at Fran's- sees Dali art melting everywhere he looks.

https://ca.biblio.com/book/black-president-story-jfks-secret-sons/d/1462281772

CHAPTER-NINETY-NINE.

Doing more research online after dinner, to get the most accurate picture of the world’s armament business, John sat with Cissy on their bed and searched his laptop under “employees armament factories.” Again Wikipedia paid off, with a page entitled, “Arms Industry.” That site listed the big international costs of world-wide buying and selling. Everything was in the billions and trillions. Was there any hope to keep anything contained, in an arms race where so much money was at stake?

Another website said that the average annual income for a Pakistani was $480. Then how could Pakistan, a very poor country, afford to play with the big boys in this capacity, John wondered? No logic there!

One supremely upsetting discussion John found by searching “Pakistan and Weapons of Mass Destruction,” was about that particular poor country’s ability to have a second nuclear strike capability. Regarding their nuclear program, which was initiated with the theft of centrifuge plans by Dr. Abdul Qadeer Khan when he returned from working in the Netherlands in 1976, John learned that Khan had also sold the plans – the key to building nuclear bombs – to North Korea, Libya, and Iran.

Reading further, he came across the “Davy Crockett Launcher,” a battle field tactical nuclear weapon that could send a warhead into a field just a couple miles away. He remembered the 1950s Crockett TV show, with its tall, handsome star wearing a coonskin cap and doing good deeds for plain folks out on the American prairie. It was unfortunate, he thought, that a weapon of mass destruction should be named after that American folk hero. John suddenly felt ill and Cissy instantly picked up on the vibe.

“Honey? You OK?”

“No. Not really, Look at this,” said John, as he motioned the laptop screen in her direction. “Pakistan, which has a third of its population living in poverty – that’s income below $500 a year – believes that they should have a second round of nukes in case of war.”

***

Hours later, around 2:00AM, John found himself fully awake. Staring at the ceiling, he finally came up with a solution, however crazy, to the world’s over-arming situations. All the planet needed was a gigantic magnet that could draw every piece of metal off the Earth’s surface, attract all the guns, rifles, bullets, bazookas, airplanes, warheads, battleships, up into the overhead electro-magnet thing, leaving the planet clear of those horrible systems of destruction. Yes, some fishing boats, commuter cars, backyard barbecues would be caught in the house-cleaning operation, with some pots and pans, kitchen utensils, and a few people with too many fillings in their teeth drawn up into the heavens, but overall the world would suddenly be a safer place.

***

Now that John had had his taste of Bilderberg’s honey-potting, experiencing first hand, how the political leaders of the major countries cross-pollinated, kowtowed to the military interests in countries like France, Germany, Russia, UK, US…it wasn’t difficult to surmise how his brother got trapped into that reciprocal flow of influence. But why did they want him dead, Jackson-as-President that is, when his brother had proved his willingness to support basically all MIC interests? That remained a mystery. Perhaps Holstead could shed some light on it. John decided to risk the topic, with an invite to the WH Oval, and Holstead made it over within the hour.

“Fred, I appreciate your support for my tax plan. Please have a seat.” Once the V.P. was well-planted on the cushy couch, John got down to brass tacks. “Of course, there is a built-in risk, politically, with the people rising up against my administration. Some of our Demos may jump ship before all is said and done.”

“Screw them,” responded Holstead, emphatically. “We don’t need them. We both know who we need to please here. Glad I can facilitate things at my end.”

“Thank you,” said John, preparing himself for the big question. Knowing Holstead’s preference for good grains, Little decided to lubricate the tracks. “What do you say we have a pinch of bourbon. I know it’s early afternoon, but I’ve heard tell that it’s good for the arteries.”

“Love to. May I?” Holstead moved with ease to the enclosed bar on the west side of the Oval Office, and depressed the cabinet’s carved mahogany door just enough to unlatch it. His knowledge of where the good bottle sat, and his facile drink-building spoke volumes of the relationship between the man and John’s dead brother. Ice cubes in two glasses, jigger for measuring, two napkins with the White House seal – in poured the alcohol . There was a great deal Jackson had been hiding from his twin.

Walking back to the double couches, Holstead handed John his cocktail, and took a seat again on the same side, dropping himself onto the fabric using the hand rest as a guide. Both men took a sip simultaneously, staring inadvertently over the opposing couch toward the Rose Garden.

“Mighty fine Kentucky tea,” said Holstead, with a grin of satisfaction. “This country is finally stepping up to the plate.”

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“I guess you need to find out what Holstead’s connection is to Kissinger,” asked Cissy upon learning they’d met again. “And if you want to discover just how far Henry’s strung you along, how much of a pal he really is, maybe try this little test. Ask him if he was proud of working for Operation Paperclip?”

John was happy to just listen, as his White-House wife raved on.

“As soon as I saw you were continuing to hobnob with Kissinger I did some research on my own. Henry started off as a translator for a German General, Alexander Bollings, who ran “Paperclip” – that’s the immigration of 900 top-ranking Nazis into the U.S. for secret military research carried over from the death camps. It soon became his job to locate these criminals and process them. You can’t tell me that wasn’t his entrée into the most disturbing elements of the CIA and friendship with that agency’s early director, Allen Dulles. Biological warfare, rockets with deadly warheads – all of that kind of thing is what those Nazis brought to US Intelligence!”

“So ask your friend if he still loves paperclips!” She had just stood there, not moving herself out of sight. She was, strangely enough, demanding some sort of response.

After a pause, John replied, but with the already-discussed concept. “I’m still considering raising taxes – even higher! Enough to really upset their apple cart!”

Cissy tried to listen, but felt impatient. It took almost the old trick of biting a lip to wait out John’s train of thought.

“Holstead acted like a 25% bump in taxes was completely desirable, containable even – that civil unrest would be manageable. Kissinger also seemed confident that that level of what I considered an excessive tax hike would be acceptable to his old cronies – those billionaires in particular. So that may be the key. Yes, possibly they could have ordered Henry to pursue such a direction, introduce the 25% tax hike concept to me, but only if they kept paid no taxes. I would secretly make sure they did!

Cissy just asked, How? But John’s riff continued on a while longer, independent of her question.

“Kissinger has always derived his power by being the King’s man, and I temporarily forgot that. He’s still playing the Louse of Laos game, figuring that I can’t see who’s behind the curtain, pulling his strings. And I didn’t – until just now. Thank you, wife!”

“How’s 100% going to play at Kissinger’s end? Double taxes? And I’m talking about corporate rates, too. The MIC might notice that. How about I stir up a shit storm of protest, to get the American populace up off its duff?

“The look on Henry’s face after I announce steeper tax numbers will tell me a who he’s really working for. And I realize my party – the Demos – will hate the Little Administration more than anyone in the opposing party. But who are they anyway, but secret servants of Henry’s benefactors. We’ve all been playing into MIC’s hands forever. Who in government isn’t a MIC bedfellow?”

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Being welcomed into Fran’s house for the first time since she’d learned his true identity was a very odd experience for John Little. While it was normal in most every way, that everyday stuff made it Daliesque to John. Just a happily married man entering a house where his pregnant wife kissed him on the cheek while his son was playing video games – really? If the surreal painter, Salvadore Dali, was painting a portrait of the house and family inside, Little imagined there would have been a melting Presidential Seal hung over the TV, his son shooting at two identical twin men while rifle-armed G-Men filled the outside windows watching their lovemaking through distorted glass.

In any case, Fran was cool as always, playing her normal role as sister-in-law of his brother Jackson, while under scrutiny at the front door. Once alone, her outstretched hand led the stroll back to the rear bedroom as usual

“We’ll be back in here, honey,” said Fran to John Jr. – everything the same – John tagging along. As soon as the bedroom door was shut behind them she planted a big kiss on John’s lips and started undressing. The kisses and lovemaking that followed were what John had come to expect, but not quite of the earlier intensity. Still, a pretty amazing accomplishment for an older married couple.

Fran pulled the thin sheet up over her exposed body and swiveled her head on the pillow to face John more fully. “I’m still worried about you being found out, you not being Jackson. How can we ever bring this fully back to normal? The pressure must be weighing on you every day, acting the part. Are you really OK?”

“Define OK .” John had pulled the sheet up as well, and moved his feet over to Fran’s between the covers for a little bit of extra warmth. “OK as long as I can keep all the balls in the air. I am moving, now, into some uncharted waters–this tax thing–and can’t be sure of the outcome. It’s demanding to defend it, not say too much, while taking the backlash from corporations - the basic rich-want-to-get-richer groups. Money is by far the worst addiction there is, in my opinion. The more you have, the more you want – and the more you think you need. It’s clear that the love of money really is the root of all evil. Do you know what Oscar Wilde said about it?”

“No. Let’s hear.”

“Something like, ’When I was young I thought money was the most important thing. Now that I’m old, I know it is!’”

“Funny.”

“But there’s a reverse. Mark Twain did say, “Lack of money was the root of all evil.” I learned this when I did a Google search. Try a site called “BrainyQuote” and click on the “Money” topic.”

“You use the Internet a lot, don’t you, Jackson? Dropping her voice-level down to almost a whisper, I’m going to keep calling you by that name, so I don’t make a mistake, OK?”

“Yes, that’s probably a good idea.” returned John, to complete the play-acting. Suddenly he got markedly more serious. “Don’t have a lot of time with you today, Sweetheart. My daily Executive agenda seems to have been increased. So we’d better talk about your…that is our pregnancy. You know some people will deduct that it is possibly with me, me-as-Jackson, from all these visits to your house. We can expect that question will arise, such as, ‘Who’s the father?’ I’ve thought about this, and believe we can play it several different ways.

“One: At some point you could admit that the child is by Jackson. After all, John has been deceased for over a half-year, so how could it be his? Two: You could use a ‘foil’ tactic, saying it’s by a man no one knows, and you plan to keep it that way. And Three: Here’s the most bizarre one. I read on the internet that women can still carry sperm from all the men they’ve had intercourse with, even from years back. The site discussed how even a couple sperm can hide in the tracts of the female organs, burrow in, lying dormant. Well, it may be undocumented, but what if ‘a John sperm’ suddenly got loose?”

Fran had a look that was a cross between a trapped laugh and peevishness, her scrunched up lip, rising toward her nose. Her look made John become the first to break out in a chuckle. “I know, pretty questionable, right! Highly suspect info at best. But it is an angle. Doubt you’d have much support from the American Medical Association. But, as they say, anything’s possible!”

“Really! So my baby would be…could be fathered by John Little, even though he’s ostensibly dead? That rules out my torrid affair with President Jackson?” She laughed. “I just made you into a Civil War General, Mr. President! Pardon me!

“At any rate, what you’re suggesting is I do have a leg to stand on. If I want to stick to a story of my child being legit and all, it could be a sort of immaculate conception?”

“Why not? It would certainly test out that way, DNA-wise, so to speak. So, other than someone putting two and two together, coming up with me being the imposter, that would work. Either way, he or she will certainly be a Kennedy, a grandson or granddaughter of JFK. No one can take that away from our child.”

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