November 22, 1963. Dallas.
Confusion. Urgent voices. People running. Screams.
He heard someone say distinctly, “After a life on Earth, things get interesting. The pattern breaks.”
There was a memory. His mother reading to him the story of Babel Tower, and the Tower crashing, and new clean rivers flowing…
When he went out all the way, that memory collapsed, and he swept through reefs of reflecting data in an ocean of surveillance.
He tangled in nets and escaped, only to plunge into other layers where avid machinery was spinning, as if searching for crimes where no crimes were possible.
He felt velvet hands and suctioned fingers slide along him, and he grew cold in the submarine depths. He began to panic.
What did the Design want with him?
And why did it seem to be watching itself?
Then the Arctic chill passed, and he knew he was free of the structure, and was genuinely dying, and dying was a pleasure he had never known.
“Better,” he said, luxuriating in a dark baronial calm, uterine perfection, summer childhood bedroom closet.
He was suddenly in the cabin of a private jet. He’d been told there would be hallucinations. He saw a team of glass archangels; an ashtray worn yellow from ten thousand cigarettes; a framed photo of Al Capone sitting on the toilet in his Palm Springs suite.
Identity shattered into pieces. The lights of an enormous city loomed up under him, pulling the fragments down into liquor stores, newspaper racks, dark alleys, hotel rooms.
A news screen stood out in the black sky. A local anchor, her eyes bright with contempt, relayed the story of a lone gunman who had killed the President of the United States.
Now a quiet snowstorm in a deserted wood, falling, falling, falling on the hard earth. Relief.
How many times can I disperse? Kennedy wondered.
He was back in the cabin of the jet. Burnished lights set high in the cabin walls.
He thought: “I used to own a suit that cost three thousand dollars.”
A flight attendant entered his cabin with a vodka rocks.
She was six feet tall and blonde. That made her a target.
Wealthy and powerful men would seek her out.
Her body was sleek. He examined her left leg from wizardly articulated ankle to narrow thigh, through the slit of her sheath skirt. She strode in heels, one foot placed precisely in front of the other.
She set down the drink on the arm of his chair and looked at her watch.
“We can’t have sex now,” she said. “We’re east of the Rockies.”
“I didn’t realize they had a law,” he said.
“Two hours from now,” she said, “we can negotiate a price.”
“I was the President,” he said.
She pulled a half-sheet out of her jacket pocket and handed it to him.
“Standard,” she said. “Read and sign.”
It stated: “…I am not attempting to slant facts for political advantage…”
“Just out of curiosity,” he said, “how many layers of protection do you have?”
“Well,” she said, “the LA Mayor has a local contract. He supplies police and private soldiers whenever I’m in the city.”
“Have they ever had to go on attack?”
“A Belivar prince once tried to have his men kidnap me en route from the airport to my hotel. Blackbirton mercs burned them to the ground on Century Boulevard.”
“You’re John F Kennedy,” she said. “I know. I’m Carol.”
She held out her hand. He looked at her long fingers. Her nails were short. No polish. He shook her hand. It was cool. It immediately became warm, as if she could make it happen.
She sat down next to him.
“We’ve intercepted you en route,” she said. “We need you to ask you a few questions, for the record.”
Now, another figure walked into the cabin. Allen Dulles.
Dark soiled clothes, as if he’d stripped them from a corpse in an alley. Pinched face, sunken cheeks. Rimless spectacles.
“Watch what you say, Mr. President,” he whispered. “I may have had you killed, but I’m untouchable.”
Kennedy laughed, and Dulles melted away in the laughter, along corridors filled with brightly colored puzzle pieces.
Carol was sitting there calmly.
Kennedy realized he had been snapped up in transit. From Earth to…whatever came next. They had netted him.
He heard a grinding roar from a long way off.
“Sorry,” he said. “I can’t help you.”
Carol frowned. “Why not?”
The roar accelerated. He watched as the plane cabin spiraled down to the size of a dot of blood on a handkerchief.
The wild sound subsided.
He was in a boat, a wooden boat, at night, and a man was standing next to him. They were on a lake, moving slowly.
The man reminded him of a doctor his mother had taken him to when he was 12 years old. He’d fallen off his bike racing down a steep hill, and the doctor told his mother everything would be all right, it was just a mild concussion.
He looked ahead, and in the distance he saw lights of a shoreline.
The man said, “Here’s what we want to know. It’s simple. Did you really intend to smash the CIA into a thousand pieces? Were you going to get the US out of Vietnam?”
“Who are you?” Kennedy said. “Do you work for a Congressional committee?”
“No,” the old man said. “We just like to keep the record straight.”
It was a warm summer night.
Kennedy looked down through the water and saw sky above a small city in the Midwest. Men dressed in black, holding shields and automatic weapons, were storming a clapboard house. They were shooting.
“What’s going on?” he said.
The old man sighed. “It’s the future. Police. They picked up surveillance chatter. NSA blankets the whole country. The people in that house were behind on their tax payments. They grow marijuana for medical dispensaries.”
Kennedy shook his head. “What?”
An elevator door opened. A tall piece of muscle in a dark suit stood against the back wall. He was holding a .38 down at his side. He nodded. Kennedy got in.
They rode up. The door opened, and two more guards in dark suits stood there. Kennedy stepped out.
One of the guards frisked Kennedy. The other one backed away and watched.
They sandwiched JFK and walked together down a curving carpeted hallway to a mesh gate. It slid open and they passed through into a small room. A secretary sat behind a table.
“Hello, Mr. Kennedy” she said.
The secretary made a fist and rapped her knuckles once on the table. A guard took an envelope out of his inside jacket pocket and placed it in front of her. She picked it up, looked inside, counted the money, and nodded.
The two security guards grabbed Kennedy’s arms and guided him across the room to another door. One of them opened it and moved ahead, into an office.
It was large with no windows. The walls were dull dented metal. The only pieces of furniture were a long white couch and two scarred wooden folding chairs. A bull’s-head man, dressed in a tan suit, sat on the couch. Big chest, big belly, cheap shoes. Weary face.
He frowned. “Mr. Kennedy, I represent the CEO of Planet Earth.”
“The CEO of what?”
“Planet Earth is a kind of company. We aren’t here to explain that situation. We want to know whether you were prepared to smash the CIA into a thousand pieces, and whether you truly intended to get the US out of Vietnam.”
“And why do you care?” Kennedy said.
“Because we like to keep accurate history. Our books are, of course, held very privately. But it helps us to know the truth.”
As Kennedy started to speak, he heard a sound of upper crashing, at long, long distance.
A slow fall.
It might take centuries, but it was irreversible.
And now a dull silent depersonalized giant materialized next to him.
The giant was watching the world, making sure all non-human factors were in place and spinning, functioning. He was the machine and the architecture of spying. Surveillance. He was the exemplar of no-dream. He was the stand-in for life and death. He was the soldier. The robot. No awareness. No awareness of anything.
Nobody. Nobody at all. Just a clock on a wall wound up to eat the universe.
Kennedy heard the long faraway crashing sound again.
He’d heard that sound as a boy, when his mother read him the story of the Tower of Babel, which he imagined was a great fort holding soldiers.
The Tower went down, and the endless number of liberated languages made a new world.
“Yes,” Kennedy said. “Yes to both of your questions. I would have destroyed the CIA and taken us out of Vietnam. I guess that’s why they took me out.”
The big man said, “All right, it’s in the book. You’re free to go.”
The office and the men were now an old cartoon flaming up and bending and curling and turning gray.
John Kennedy was sitting in a chair in a library. French doors were open. He stood up and walked out into a summer afternoon.
He saw a beach.
A black dog, shaking water from his flanks, ran toward him with a stick in his mouth.
He laid the stick down at Kennedy’s feet.
JFK picked up the stick and threw it toward the waves.
He heard three shots, felt a pain in his head, and then the pain was gone.
He felt light.
He walked along the sand.
After a time, a young man in slacks and T-shirt came up to him.
“Mr. Kennedy,” he said, “I’m from the Visitors Bureau. You can sign on for a new life back on Earth. Of course, there are several Earths. For example, we can send you to one where there was never a CIA or a Vietnam. It’s quite a friendly place. You’ll be born into a fairly sane society.”
Kennedy stopped walking. “But,” he said, “I can go back…to the Earth I just left, the one that still has a CIA?”
“Sure,” the young man said. “You’ll be born in the year 1965.”
“I’ll take it,” he said. “You know, I wasn’t that nice a guy. I certainly was no saint. I screwed up a lot. But I did realize a few things when I was in the White House. I’m not interested in trying that route again…but I would like to take another crack at some of the bad guys.”
He was gone from the beach.
A short time later, a baby was born at the Massachusetts General Hospital. He came out of his mother with his fists clenched. A nurse said, “He has an eager little face.” Three words echoed in his mind, words he would remember years later:
The Warren Commission.
The author of three explosive collections, THE MATRIX REVEALED, EXIT FROM THE MATRIX, and POWER OUTSIDE THE MATRIX, Jon was a candidate for a US Congressional seat in the 29th District of California. He maintains a consulting practice for private clients, the purpose of which is the expansion of personal creative power. Nominated for a Pulitzer Prize, he has worked as an investigative reporter for 30 years, writing articles on politics, medicine, and health for CBS Healthwatch, LA Weekly, Spin Magazine, Stern, and other newspapers and magazines in the US and Europe. Jon has delivered lectures and seminars on global politics, health, logic, and creative power to audiences around the world. You can sign up for his free emails at www.nomorefakenews.com /www.jonrappoport.wordpress.com / link to original article