A President Meets the CIA Machine

by Jon Rappoport

December 13, 2021

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President John X retired to the White House residence for the night.

Asleep, he went all the way out, floating above thousands of tiny mirrors in an ocean of surveillance.

He plunged into cloud layers.


He was suddenly sitting in the cabin of a private jet. On a table, he saw a team of small glass angels, a silver cup, and a framed photo of Al Capone sitting on the toilet in his Palm Springs suite.

And then identity shattered into a thousand pieces. The lights of an enormous city loomed up under him, pulling the fragments down into liquor stores, newspaper racks, 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 man who had just died falling from an escarpment above the Chicago Loop while attempting to set up a sniper’s nest and kill shoppers in the indoor-outdoor Langland Mall.

A boyish blonde field reporter, standing in front of a McDonald’s, was interviewing a witness, an old man who was sitting in a wheelchair and foaming at the mouth and spitting. He doubled over and a siren went off. A security guard appeared with a riot baton and sent a fork of electricity into his crotch, quieting him.

The news screen disappeared.

Identity now a quiet snowstorm in a deserted wood, falling, falling, falling on the hard earth.

He was back in the cabin of the jet. Burnished lights set high in the walls.

A flight attendant entered with a drink.

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 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’m 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 elicit information pursuant to an investigation, case, or sentencing option…”

He signed.

“Just out of curiosity,” he said, “how much protection do you have?”

“Well,” she said, “the LA Mayor has a local contract. He supplies private soldiers when I’m in the city.”

“Have they ever had to go on attack?”

“A Belivar prince once tried to have his men kidnap me between the airport and my hotel. My mercs burned them to the ground on Century Boulevard.”


“You’re John X,” she said. “I know. The President. 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 on the arm of his chair.

“Defendant in a federal trafficking case,” she said. “He claims his cartel, Zuma, struck a prior immunity deal with the CIA. No limit on protection.”

“What do you want from me?”

“Are there documents granting that immunity?” she said.

“You think they put that kind of thing in writing?”

“Here it is,” she said. Make the deal with the cartel. The defendants in the Chicago case plead guilty and keep their mouths shut. No trial. No testimony. Nothing links the cartel to us. Chicago stays open as a distribution hub. We extend the cartel executives’ immunity, in exchange for actionable intel on other major traffickers.”

“You’re CIA?”

“Another thing, John. No more cases against scientists for transferring technology to the Chinese. Shut that door.”

She put her hand on his forehead. “NOW WATCH THE MOVIE,” she said.

Old friends. Bobby Thoms came to him. 25 years ago. The Swan, a bar in the Loop.

The place was jammed with lawyers eating lunch. He sat at a back table, a cup of coffee in front of him. Bobby Thoms. Sitting next to him. In dark soiled clothes, as if he’d stripped them from a corpse in an alley. Pinched face, sunken cheeks. A lawyer’s runner, go-between. Supplier of information.

Bobby moved in close. “Sal Mosca’s bumping his appointment with city treasurer for you. He’ll be here in a minute.”

X reached into his pocket and pulled out a tight roll of bills. Bobby fielded it and slipped it into his pocket.

“There are national security implications in this case, John X. If the shit hits the fan, a lot of people could go down. You have a way out. You, me, Sal. We can all get well. Permanently.”

John X turned to his left and Sal was sitting next to him. Bull’s-head, dressed in his tan suit. Big chest, big belly, tired face. He’d been swaddled in the bullrushes of Lake Michigan. Dirty feet running on stones, foster homes, small-time collector/protection money, law school at night, muscled his way into city government as a private conduit between prosecutors and defense lawyers on major felonies.

Mosca frowned. “Your case has tricks, John X. As you know, the defendant isn’t just a Congressman’s aide. His family is in banking.”

“Immunity,” X said.

“Sky-high,” Mosca said. “And not just in this country. You’re prosecuting a young man who’s bulletproof.”

“I’m going to say four witnesses who saw him stab a man he was having sex with in the back room of a bathhouse are blind?”

“We can piece off those witnesses. The victim is recovering. He owns two properties that are underwater. He needs help. The defendant has a wife and a young child. They need a clean future.”

“The mayor is on board with this?”

“He would be grateful for your cooperation, John. A few years from now, he’s going to be running for a senate seat. You make the right move now, and we all have bright prospects. This is a moment.”

“Let’s talk about a higher level. Who is immune?”

Sal leaned back and grinned.

“Well, X, we are. We could be. There’s no legal market for the kind of protection I’m talking about.”

Then Mosca was standing next to X. He took his arm and walked him into the kitchen. They exited from a side door and climbed a flight of steps. Mosca opened another door on to the roof.

“The shed,” he said.

In the middle of the roof was a wooden structure. The padlock was open and hanging from a chain. They stepped inside and Mosca turned on a light. X shut the door. Tools were arranged on shelves. An open cabinet was stacked with brooms and shovels and an old shotgun. They sat down on two rickety chairs.

“John X,” he said, “immunity is an Atlas holding up the world. And now he’s watching and spying, to make sure it stays intact. If he’s your friend, the political highway is open.”

“On the other hand, if I decline to prosecute this case, I’m committing multiple felonies, and I’m owned forever.”

A sheet of slow lightning swam up X’s legs and infiltrated his spine. It nuzzled and burned each bone on the way up.

John X was standing in a courtroom open to the sky. He was behind the prosecutor’s table.

And there was a giant standing before him.

His head was barely visible, an imprint. He was radiating nothing. He was a no one.

X waited. He stood and waited.

The silent depersonalized giant standing before him…

Nobody. Nobody at all. Just a clock wound up to monitor and eat time.

…X was back in the cabin of the jet. With Carol.

She was still sitting on the edge of his chair.

“So, John X,” she said. “A point. Are you in transit right now because you died?”

“Maybe this is what I did on my summer vacation.”

She smiled.

“All right,” she said. “Let’s negotiate a price.”

“I won the election,” X said. “I’ve already been paid.”

“Don’t you remember, John? I’m your wife,” she said. “We’re on Air Force One.”

He looked out the window. They were passing over Washington. The Monument and the Capitol Dome and the White House were lit up.

“How long can I play this out?” he said.

She shrugged. “Two terms. Then you’re golden. Fairways and greens.”

“I am the President.”

He woke up in the residence.

She wasn’t in bed next to him. He heard the shower running. He turned on the night light.

A few minutes later, she came out of the bathroom wrapped in a white robe.

“You’re up,” she said. “Everything all right?”

“Let me ask you something,” he said. “Suppose I refuse. What happens then?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said.

“I cancel my order. I shut down Chicago as a trafficking hub. All the Agency arrangements are made public. No payoffs. No deals.”


“I wouldn’t do that, John. Even if you wanted to, COULD you do it?”

“I just had a crazy dream. You were in it.”

“What was I doing?”

“Turning the screws on me.”


“Reminding me of my obligations.”

“Well,” she said, “that’s legitimate. When we moved into the White House, I had a conversation with Alice. She was packing a few things here in the residence. She told me her husband now and then went into a bit of shock over the power he had. A few wild ideas occurred to him during his Presidency. She had to bring him back to Earth. Part of her job, she said.”

“What made you choose me, Carol?”

She laughed. “That’s a tired line from an old movie. Because I loved you. And besides, look where it landed me. In bed with the President. A girl doesn’t get that every day. I’d say I was a good judge of character.”

“You were on the money.”

“John, we’ve got an hour before you have to go downstairs and keep the world from falling apart today.”

“Let’s imagine that’s where I was heading with this conversation.”

“You took a roundabout route.”

“I bore myself easily. I have to vary the lines.”

“Keep people guessing. I’ve learned that from you, Mr. President.”

“I doubt that.”

She took off her robe and stood before him.

“Well,” she said. “You’re reborn in your dream of me.”

Exit From the Matrix

(To read about Jon’s mega-collection, Exit From The Matrix, click here.)

Jon Rappoport

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 NoMoreFakeNews emails here or his free OutsideTheRealityMachine emails here.

10 comments on “A President Meets the CIA Machine

  1. Mos Craciun says:

    Interesting story but what has to do with ” the virus ” ?!?

  2. Elvis says:


    this may be a bit off topic, but here is Coronavirus Act of 2020 passed in UK in spring of last year with speed comparable to PATRIOT Act just after 911.

    Impossible to write in a matter of days. Clearly, was already prepared in advance. Chapter titles alone are chilling:


    Way beyond “pandemic”.

    Didn’t see these details in NY Times, did you?

  3. Eluard says:

    “That’s a tired line from an old movie.”

    This is a good piece, I know Jon’s posted it before. What are you trying to TELL us with this piece, J.R.? It’s hallucinatory. It’s about a fallen soul who fell deeply into power, succumbed and surrendered to it.

    I think it’s about that power that’s been with us a long time. Might makes right. Jimmie Rogers wants his money owed him from Morris Levy who doesn’t like that idea. So the “police” pull him over one night and he can’t remember what happened after that. Fractured skull. The “President” herein could have walked away from that rooftop meeting and declined that prosecution. He’d never have become president, though. Probably wouldn’t have gotten the knockout blonde. Maybe just a small city lawyer with an average wife.

    That kind of power is old but there’s something much older than that and it’s becoming new again. People are tired of the soul-rot and the compromise and the creaking imbalance of energies in this world. Maybe it’ll take a few generations. Maybe a dozen or more. The “secrets” are spilling out into the open. Matrix revealed. A bunch of scared children with truncheons in their meaty little fists. “If he’s your friend, the political highway is open.” A tired old line…

  4. AJ says:

    You have not commented on Austria jail for the unvaccinated!!
    Also Germany, Australia!!

    Uk reported on first death of omicron flu.

    Those here know all these fake new flu discoveries are just the common flu. But still 50% plus of populations are fooled and complacent.

    This is why the forced vaccinations and jail for the unvaccinated. Always fear and terror needed to control free independent thinking people. Hope world revolt happens and all these criminal tyrants and supporters are sent to meet the GOD they don’t believe in.

    • Drone King says:

      “Always fear and terror needed to control free independent thinking people. “

      Fear is a driving force in Nature (along food and sex). Hitler did not pull it off, Goebbels did.

      Remember, from that cold January 30, 1933 day to Gliwitz radio station false flag incident, is only six and a half years. By first week of 1939 Einsatzgruppen were rounding up people and mass murdering in forests.

      Reichstag fire just happened less the a month after taking power.

      There is a good bio detailing how he managed, correctly titled “Goebbels. Mastermind of the Third Reich”:


      And yes, Bayer AG was one of the sponsors and major beneficiaries. It employed dr Mengele at KL Aushwitz.

  5. Roundball Shaman says:

    “A President Meets the CIA Machine”

    If We The People really want to have say in who is running our government… instead of voting for a President shouldn’t we be voting for who is CIA Head?

    Also, we vote on who gets to be CEO of Big Pharma Cartel Companies, Big Oil, and mass State corporate media outlets?

    And one more thing. We The People get to select who can enter the election?

    Yeah, just another dream.

  6. vakzine macht frei says:

    This needs updated with Pfizer subtitles: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=5p8wTOr8AbU

    it only works if you do not understand spanish

  7. Alcheminister says:

    Julie Beal recently wrote a sort of sarcastic article, poking fun of the supposed “evidence” regarding sars-cov2.


    It’s an interesting article if you consider what’s said, some interesting comments too.

  8. L Garou says:

    “Very superstitious, writings on the wall.”

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