The Power of Twelve

by William Gladstone

  As the images started to fade, the Thirteenth Apostle remarked, “This is the life of Inéz Cusumano, the wife of Jim Cusumano and the owner of Chateau Mcely.”

  “I see why William the Pen has shown me these images,” Lily said. “I identify with her sense of beauty and her commitment to preserving beauty in all aspects of her life. I am sure we will be able to happily cohabitate in her human form and collaborate to overcome the negative thoughts of the Illuminati.”

  “I am glad you concur with the choice of Inéz Cusumano for your walk-in on Earth 769,” commented a pleased Thirteenth Apostle. “Now let’s see who William the Pen has selected for Harold’s mission.”

  Once again the lights flashed and the purring hum began. Images appeared of a ranch in Texas, a university with Gothic buildings, a pilot flying a military aircraft, a young man in an inebriated state being pulled over by state troopers for driving under the influence, many parties with many different young women, a more sober, slightly older version of the young man now attending baseball games in the stands as co-owner of a major sports team, then images of the White House and then of an election, of a man reading to small children being pulled away by Secret Service agents and shuttled to a bunker surrounded by security of all types, of many addresses to the nation, of appearances on naval ships and camps throughout the world, and finally of a man out hunting rabbits in a meadow in Texas.

  Do you believe that George W. Bush or any American official had advanced knowledge of the terrorist attacks that occurred on September 11, 2001?

  “You have just witnessed scenes from the life of George W. Bush, son of President George H. W. Bush and, like his father, former president of the United States,” the Thirteenth Apostle explained. “He was born into the Illuminati but was always a reluctant participant in the events that shaped his era. I believe that he will cooperate with you, Harold, and his access to other members of the Illuminati will be invaluable.”

  Harold laughed out loud. “I have never paid much attention to the events on planet Earth 769, but I would often eavesdrop, so to speak, on some of George Bush’s speeches. He always made me laugh. He seemed to be such a buffoon. Hopefully, I will be able to laugh with him and not at him as I have until now. I am sure we will not only be effective in changing the negative thoughts of the Illuminati, but that we will have some laughs along the way.”

  “Then it is settled, but this is no laughing matter. By taking on this mission, you are each putting your life in danger. Should you fail and Earth 769 be destroyed while you are on the planet, you will not be able to reincarnate on Naranjada,” the Thirteenth Apostle warned. “May you each have success in your mission, and may we reunite here again in less than ninety days, knowing that the future of the known and unknown universes is once again secure.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  SKULL AND BONES

  WHEN GEORGE W. BUSH attended Yale University, he often wondered why he had even bothered to matriculate. He had no interest in books and rarely followed the intellectual conversations of his classmates or instructors. He was mostly bored and wishing he had been allowed to attend one of the Texas state universities. At least those schools had girls and people knew how to party. Yale was not only an all-male school at the time, but a school that focused on academics and took the “training of future leaders of America” a little too seriously for George’s taste. Plus, he could not always escape the eight a.m. classes, and George was not a morning person.

  The one bright spot for George had been Skull and Bones. Skull and Bones was a secret society that had its own unique rituals. Only the elite of the student body were “tapped” to join, and it was impossible to even be nominated. George never understood the criteria used to select new members, but he had been told by his father, who had also been a member, that as a legacy he would automatically be tapped. Since his legacy status had gotten George accepted at Yale in the first place, it did not seem odd to him that he would be selected to join Skull and Bones as well.

  George never forgot the day that he was tapped. It was a cold November day, his freshman year. He had enjoyed the early fall weather of September and October, gone on a few road trips to nearby women’s colleges, including Vassar, Smith, and Mount Holyoke, and survived the midterms for his gut courses. He started walking back to his dorm room on the Old Campus from his last afternoon class, having been lost during a discussion of William Faulkner’s Absalom, Absalom! As he pulled his coat around him, he groaned, “Oh, great, now it’s not even light anymore when that damn English class ends. Cold and dreary. That’s New Haven for you.” All of a sudden he was tackled and pushed to the ground by three upperclassmen he had never seen before. The three had timed their charge so George was thrown into a bush next to the stone path that bisected the Old Campus.

  At first George was alarmed, but all three of the upperclassmen were laughing as they helped him to his feet. In unison they shouted, “George Bush, you have been tapped! Meet us in the alcove of the Sheffield Library tonight at nine p.m. for your initiation. Don’t be late.” As suddenly as they had appeared, the three took off, laughing as they darted through the gates of the Old Campus back to wherever they had come from. No one else was walking by during their charge at George, and no one else heard George’s invitation. Clearly this was a planned “collision.”

  “Hot damn,” George thought, walking back to his dorm room. “About time. Maybe now I can start having some fun in this dreary old place.”

  And fun he did have. Skull and Bones had its own private building in which none of the university rules applied. Admission was via password, and there was no need for checking IDs at the door. The drinking age was never enforced at Skull and Bones events, and George was not limited to keg beer like he was at mixers and socials at normal fraternities. Skull and Bones events included champagne and any mixed drinks he could imagine, no cutoff limits. Bills were sent to his family back in Texas, and they gladly paid, knowing George was now hobnobbing with the rich families who had created Skull and Bones and whose children, like George, were intended to carry on the tradition of “ruling America” with perhaps an iron hand but also with plenty of self-indulgent fun.

  While a member of Skull and Bones, George formed friendships with the sons of the most powerful families in America, but neither he nor the fellow members of Skull and Bones ever discussed politics or the work of their families or why it was imperative that membership remain secret. It was just a given that you would never betray a fellow member and that if ever called upon you would assist a brother in any and all ways possible. For George, the “house” was a place he could go to let off steam and relax and indulge his desire to drink as much as possible.

  Only many years later, when George had become sober and accepted the responsibilities of entering the family business of politics in Texas, did he learn how valuable his Skull and Bones friendships had become. If his campaign needed a few extra million dollars, a phone call or two could be made to his “brothers” and the money would magically appear. For George, it did not seem odd in any way. He had come to rely on his brothers while at Yale to help him fabricate papers to get passing grades on his courses and to assist him in avoiding the normal rules of the college. So bending the rules to keep his campaign coffers filled seemed natural as well.

  George never asked who the founders of Skull and Bones had been or who really decided who became a member. George would often be invited to tap other students while a member himself, but he never questioned who or why someone was to be tapped. He just knew that each new member’s initiation ended in a celebration with lots of booze, practical jokes, and a little hazing of the new member.

  George’s Skull and Bones friendships were among the closest he ever made, and they lasted right through his presidency and after. Whenever he had a barbecue, his Skull and Bones buddies would be first on the invite list, and even if they were traveling in other parts of the country, most of them would arrange for their private planes to fly in for the da
y to reminisce and enjoy some of the finest barbecue in Texas. Like today. And one of the old friends who had flown in today was Arnold Wheeler.

  Arnold had been one of the three upperclassman who had “tapped” George that day on the Yale Old Campus, and Arnold had directed most of George’s activities while a member of Skull and Bones. The friendship had grown over the years, and George trusted Arnold without hesitation.

  The bell signaling the start of the barbecue rang, and George addressed the small crowd. “I truly welcome all of you today. We have a special treat from our barbecue pit master for you. In addition to some of the finest beef you’ve ever eaten, today we have some fresh venison from a deer I shot myself just two days ago. Eat up and enjoy yourselves. It is great to be among friends and family on such a beautiful afternoon.”

  George set to work on his own plate of beef ribs and venison, and as he was finishing, Arnold Wheeler came up to him and asked, “George, can you spare a minute? We need to talk.”

  “Great to see you, Arnie.” George greeted him, beaming with sincere pleasure. “Don’t worry, all the major ranch and farm owners are here. They expect to meet with you in the den after the barbecue.”

  “That’s great, George, but something else has come up that we need to discuss.”

  “Sure, Arnie buddy, just let me polish off this last bit of barbecue and we can get right to it.” George smiled, finishing his last bite of venison with gusto.

  Wiping his mouth with his napkin and putting down his plate, George stood up to follow Arnie toward a small group of trees two hundred feet away from fellow party attendees, a place where they could speak in private.

  Arnie started without any preamble. “George, my business partners have a problem, and we need your help.”

  “Anything at all, Arnie, just let me know what I can do,” George replied.

  “We’ve heard you are participating in this Project Wake Up being organized over in Europe. Is that true?” Arnie asked.

  George could have guessed that Arnie would not be pleased by this. “Well, my mom insisted I take a call from Jim Cusumano and his buddies just a few days ago, but all I did was say I would help. I haven’t actually done anything yet. Is there something about Project Wake Up I should know about?” George wanted to be very clear where he stood. “Believe me, if you don’t want me to participate, that is not a problem. I really have no taste for all these meetings and plans. Just give me the word and I will find a way to gracefully back out.”

  “No, no, to the contrary, George. We want you to participate. We just want you to participate for us and not for the project. We are not sure we want this Project Wake Up to succeed, and we need someone on the inside who can keep us informed as to the developments of Project Wake Up. Someone we can trust. Someone like you, George,” Arnie explained in the calmest of voices, without a hint of anything sinister or inappropriate being asked.

  Without hesitation George confirmed, “You can count on me, Arnie. Just let me know what you want me to do and consider it done. I’ll even fly over there to Jim’s Chateau if that’s what you need. I owe you, Arnie, and it is a pleasure to be able to help you in any way I can.”

  Arnie patted George heartily on the shoulder. “I knew I could count on you, old friend. You have been a faithful servant to your country, and now you will be a true servant of the world. We cannot let these do-gooders alter the course of history. Project Wake Up needs to take a nap,” Arnie concluded with just a trace of malice.

  As they walked back to the serving station, George affirmed, “Whatever you need, Arnie, whatever you need. Now let’s get a second helping of that barbecue. If you haven’t tasted the venison yet, you really should. I’m not sure how our pit boss does it, but I swear this is the best barbecue in the entire state of Texas.”

  “Best barbecue in the world, George, best barbecue in the world,” Arnie confirmed as he and George helped themselves to more meat.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  THE BELCHING BUSH

  WHEN GEORGE WENT TO BED the evening after the barbecue, he had severe indigestion. He apologized to his wife, Laura, as he explained why he would be sleeping in the guest bedroom down the hall. “I am so sorry, honey, but I just could not resist Anthony’s ribs, and the venison was the most succulent I have ever eaten. I think I had four helpings, and all with extra sauce,” George lamented.

  “Oh, it’s OK, George. I just wish you would be more careful of what you eat,” Laura comforted him. “I really do worry about you. We are not kids anymore, and you need to control your appetite.” She gave him a motherly look that made him feel better. “I love Anthony’s cooking just as much as you, but promise me next barbecue you will just have seconds and not fourths.”

  In reply a loud belch emerged from deep within his stomach. George winced and meekly confirmed, “I promise.”

  Laura kissed him on the cheek, avoiding the poisonous smell of the belch, and patted him on the back. “I do appreciate you sleeping down the hall. It does keep me up when you belch and pass gas after a day of overeating like today.”

  “I’m really sorry, honey. I’ll be fit as a fiddle come morning,” George reassured her.

  A few hours later, George was sleeping in the guest bedroom and found himself waking up from a dream. In the dream, Arnie Wheeler was beating him with a straw broom and making fun of him, shouting, “Shoo fly, don’t bother me, shoo fly, don’t bother me!” while brushing George away as if he were a giant gnat.

  George got up to visit the bathroom and returned to bed. Yet he kept tossing and turning, unable to sleep. “What the hell was that dream about?” he kept thinking. “Why would Arnie treat me like an insect, and what is so important about this Project Wake Up that I might have to go to Europe to keep tabs on it and prevent something from happening? This was all fine and good when I was in Skull and Bones, but it just seems like a lot of unnecessary drama at this stage of my life.” He immediately took back that thought, not wanting to voice it even to himself. “Friends are friends, though, and I owe Arnie. If it hadn’t been for him I would have never graduated from Yale, let alone become president of the goddamn United States.”

  He continued to ponder the dream, not quite asleep, when suddenly he felt a tap on his shoulder.

  George bolted upright on the bed and turned around, but no one was there. He sat on the bed, wondering if he had had another dream or had actually felt that tap. Then he felt another tap on his shoulder, this time stronger than the first.

  “What the hell? If someone is in this room, show yourself right now!” he cried, but when he turned on the light he saw clearly that he was alone.

  He turned off the light and tried to go back to sleep. Some time passed and he was not sure whether he was awake or dreaming when he felt another tap on his shoulder. “Forget it. I’m not turning around. This is just a sign of my indigestion. Leave me alone. I need to fall back to sleep,” he groused to himself, certain he was having another dream. But then came a second tap, and then a third and a fourth and a fifth.

  George didn’t know what to do. He sat upright in bed and turned on the light again. But no one was there. He went back to the bathroom, took some more antacids, and inspected himself in the mirror. Except for the gas and irritation throughout his belly, he felt pretty good, and he sure liked what he saw in the mirror. “I’m not aging too badly,” he thought, and then, talking to himself in the mirror, added, “Except for overindulging in barbecue, I have been following Laura’s orders and keeping fit. With the good genes I inherited from my father I may live to be a hundred or more.”

  “A hundred and twelve, if you want to be precise,” a voice blurted out with a chuckle.

  “What was that? Did I just say one hundred and twelve?” George asked himself.

  “No, I said one hundred and twelve,” the voice corrected him. “That is, if you continue to take care of yourself and limit yourself to seconds and not fourths at future barbecues.”

  “Laura, is that you pulling
a prank here?” George asked, smiling but alarmed by how strange this was.

  “No, I’m not Laura,” the voice responded. “My name is Harry and I’ve come a long way to visit with you. You need not be scared. I mean you no harm. I just need to borrow your body for a few months so we can work together to solve the problems created by your friends, the Illuminati.”

  When George looked in the mirror he saw a bright golden orb above his right shoulder. “Laura, cut it out. This is not funny,” George spoke to the orb.

  The orb spoke back. “Believe me, I am not Laura. On my planet they call me Harry the Hilarious, and I’m about as harmless as an enlightened being can be. I mainly just like to tell jokes. Would you like me to tell you a couple of dumb blonde jokes I recently heard?”

  “Is this for real?” George exclaimed.

  “Real is relative,” the orb answered back. “But on your planet, in this time and space configuration, I would definitely say this is for real. Anyway, while you’re deciding if I’m real or not, let me tell you a couple of jokes.”

  George was sure he was still dreaming and had just added sleepwalking and hallucinations to his dream state. Giving in to whatever the heck was going on, he replied, “Sure, tell me your jokes.”

  “I am not an expert on the culture of your planet, but I have been told that you have a tradition of thinking blond men and women are less intelligent than non-blond humans, so I hope you will enjoy these dumb blonde jokes I just learned,” the orb started.

  “Generally, dumb blonde jokes are just about blonde women and not blond men, but since you are just part of my dream, I’ll cut you some slack. Go ahead,” George interrupted, almost starting to enjoy his “dream.”

  “This first joke takes place in California, I think in a home in the Hollywood Hills. A beautiful blonde woman has just moved from Georgia and has lived in California for only two weeks. She is cooking breakfast when she gets a phone call and becomes distracted. Suddenly there is a grease fire in the pan where she is cooking bacon, and a flame touches the curtain, setting it on fire. The blonde is not paying attention, and before she knows it the whole house has caught fire. She screams into the phone, ‘Marla, my whole house has just caught fire, what should I do?’ Her friend Marla tells her to hang up and call 911. The blonde does as she is told and is soon on the phone with the emergency operator.