Ordo Endo: The Order of the End!

By S. Lindsay Graham

If you hunger and thirst for truth, or at least its leading edge, and are intrepid to dare go where few venture, there may rest just beyond your reach a manifest destiny far above and beneath what a simple understanding might render. If you sense ‘tis so, this trilogy of novels might very well be just right for you. Or if you merely suspect the nightly news may be giving you a spin-dried, distorted version of the truth, and that there are stories too important and drastic to be unfolded to the general milieu, this is certainly for you.

A fresh, young Duke in London finds himself suddenly thrust into a vortex of an impossible nature, surrounded by these world ‘movers and shakers’, their unfathomable plans made suddenly quite real and in fact, impending. He’s pressed to decide who he is and what he believes, and must act decisively upon this self-discovery and somehow survive it, as these present-to-near-future events loom menacingly upon the darkening horizon.

And however wrapped in fictitious characters, the background information is actually factual and most certainly searchable. Future events no one can depict with any ironclad certainty. And I’d never claim to be a prophet. Nevertheless, by their actions of the past and operations in the present, the modus operandi within the dark conclaves of these powerful men have conscripted a set of possible scenarios. From these possibilities, certain likely scenarios are emerging. It is my goal, while presenting an engaging, fictional story, to assist the diligent reader in preparing circumstantially, physically and moreover, spiritually, as a bulwark against the maelstrom breaking, even now, upon us all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Aug 31, 2016
• ISBN: 9781483580319

Book preview

Jefferson

Chapter One: Long Live the Duke

A morning sun broke, shooting shafts of light through the still grayness.

‘Twas Brillig, Rodney!

Aye, ‘tis Cap’n, Rodney nodded, guiding the Rolls out of the cobbled driveway of the four-acre, gentile country estate and toward the inner city.

All mimsy in the wabe, or some-such nonsense.

Beware, the Jabberwocky! Rodney responded in kind with a grin.

So you’re familiar with that poem then?

Yes sire, Rodney answered over his shoulder, We read it in secondary school and I still remember snippets of it.

A fun read, I must say. And I always thought I’d like it if a ‘tumtum tree’ were real. Sounds like the fruit of it would be tum-yummy.

Nursery rhymes for adults, I call it, sire.

Indeed, Rodney. Quite brilliant actually, using nonsensical words to create a sense of a hyperextended world. You kind of know what he’s talking about.

Ah, yes sire. Surreal. There’s art in that isn’t there?

Indeed. Surreal. Very good, Rodney. Sort of a subterfuge of communication. Like what I’m often required to do, but in reverse.

How so, sire?

Well, I speak sensible words to appear to be saying something. But it’s designed to only appear to make sense. It’s called diplomacy. Creating impressions of a desired bent so as to sway without saying too much, you see.

Ah… yes, I see your point. Very good, sire.

No, actually, it isn’t Rodney. Not at all.

Oh. Sorry to hear that, sire.

And I’m sorry to have said it. But there—my moment of honest confession for the day!

Fredrick eased back into his plush seat, stretched, yawned and nodded toward the burly man across from him. Morning, John."

Morning sire, John greeted, returning the nod as Fredrick picked up and leafed through some back pages of yesterday’s paper. He’d taken to some rather fanciful rumination of late, and as the carriage rolled toward the inner city, he felt a creativity unfolding, so he reached into a compartment, taking out a notebook:

Ben had struck for the ninth time, he wrote, Good old Ben, slipping surreptitiously back into dumbstruck silence, leaving the city to carry on as though nothing had happened. Like a sentinel over all the silent passing of life, striking out his tally, his toll… a Robin Hood of sorts, stealing from the ‘haves’ their precious moments, leaving only traces resounding into the vaporous, empty air…

In fact, the Duke had taken to writing his memoirs, and had developed a habit of thought for waxing eloquent. He pulled out a pen to capture the inspiration, scribbling down his soliloquy in the margins of the paper, adding to this: Taking from all living souls and giving only to the yawning, limpid air, Ben had struck his exacting toll over the city, and predictably no one alive could stop him from striking again and again. Would there be a tenth? Sure as the day and life itself.

He put down his paper, gazing out upon the verdant lawns glistening fresh sunlight in the late, nine o’clock dew, over the yawning, gentry’s estates rolling brillig through the winding countryside, then morphing into subdivisions of mini-estates, their supporters having whisked off to earn their spindly day’s keep.

A day unlike any other, Duke Fredrick said, as though lost in reflection, A day as never has been, nor ever will be.

Yes sire, John agreed habitually. Agreement with his former employer had been the unexpressed part of his job to fulfill.

As they drew into the heart of the city, the Duke returned to his habit of reading snatches from yesterday’s newspaper back pages, his silent repose of reading, while the scurry of the London streets lay mute, insulated in the Rolls chamber. Against that near-silent backdrop, John couldn’t help asking, Was that a prophecy, milord?

Hm? the Duke looked up, reorienting to the moment.

What you just said, sire? About the day being unlike any other.

Ah…. yes, Fredrick smiled, then almost to himself, he said, Why, yes… I suppose it might be. Or maybe a hope. Or perhaps an omen of sorts. John, as though supposing it to convey some encrypted knowledge beyond his immediate grasp, nodded.

Duke Fredrick lowered his paper. I perceive your perception, John.

Sire?

You are a detail-oriented man, I believe. I suppose it has to do with your line of work. I can’t imagine what it would be like to do your job.

No one can, sire. It’s a case of extremes.

Yes, I can only imagine how tedious it might be to be ever ready to spring into action, doing by all outward appearances what might seem so little for so long, yet ever on a vigil on a more or less intense level, vigilantly looking, anticipating…

Yes, sire. Most of it’s hidden. It’s a matter of being ever at the ready, not letting up for a moment. Like a spring coiled up, ready to let loose.

How do you keep that up without a let-down? The tension must really build up.

At times, yes. It’s a challenge. But I have to keep my edge, or I’m not doing the job. I just keep reminding myself that if I’m not keyed up, always ready to get into action, I’m no bloody good.

You’re the best, John. You came highly recommended.

Thank you, sire.

The burgundy Rolls limo made its way into the heart of London, Big Ben towering above, and pulled up in front of Le Bistro Délicieux, making its diurnal grand entrance, greeted by the wooden planted pots lining the sidewalk eating area, their offerings, bursting an ebullient blush of spring colors, Duke Fredrick jotted a couple lines as they pulled to a stop:

Yellows popping against deep purples, greeting every eye hungry to feel reborn, pouring their visual love upon the fresh, dewy spring morning. The patrons, sitting at their outdoor tables, convivial in the early sunlight, exuded warm discourse over the newborn hope of day.

Ready, sire? John, the burly bodyguard asked.

Oh, yes. Just had to catch a fleeting thought. Here I go.

John exited as if surrounded by some unknown, urgent purpose, made a quick, habitual, three-sixty-degree survey before opening the Duke’s door.

Duke Fredrick Lambert ll eased out of his seat and onto the cobbled street. Dressed casually in earth-toned corded pants and a light sweater, he stretched arms upward, drawing deep the fresh, spring air, smiling in the faint warmth of the veiled-over sun. Looking every bit the picture of a middle-aged history professor on holiday, with a most pleasant, insouciant aura fostered by an inbred notoriety, he strolled around tables, greeting friends and admirers, fully and genuinely in his element.

The ‘blue bloods’ witnessing it might have concluded his manor to be a little too casual, as though carrying with him a determined effort to remain fully oblivious of the proper distance expected someone in the position he held. Such was the tacit understanding attending his station, an unspoken air of entitlement and propriety which must be maintained-- a lofty air of supremacy, a natural, inherent right, his duty to carry high and uphold. As such, there was some rumored concern prevalent among his aristocratic peers of a vague, ‘unbecoming’ conduct bordering upon a breach of this understood, unwritten rule. Position possessed expectations, gentle strings to the grand puppetry of the Royal Family.

As for him, it was no iconoclastic gesture to be immersed in the ‘commoner’ world. For although conventional wisdom had since time immemorial determined it ‘reckless’ (as some had openly accused him) to be so regularly exposed to the ‘commoners’, he was at the same time quite aware in fact that he was happily not of royal blood. So he was a ‘commoner’ himself, truth be known. His progenitor lineage had been passed down by appointment of Queen Victoria in the late 19th century, her official favor having been garnered for the valor displayed in battle on the high seas by Commodore Arthur Lambert, his great grandfather.

Regardless, there were those of royal blood who had more than intimated directly to him that it demeaned the station afforded him to comingle with what many of them call the ‘riff-raff’. Yet, contrary to their disapproval, he relished being around the everyday hubbub and flow, immersing himself in his happy, hap-stance family of Londoners, and it was this convivial availability and genuine affability which had in itself formed so much of the affection held for him by so many Londoners. Pure grace were his motions among them, effortlessly casual, fit for the day, fluid as a visual melody, natural as a serene meadow, regal without pomp, generous as unguarded wealth in the sharing, free-flowing, gusty-fresh as a Longfellow poem in motion.

G’day milord, the barista owner nodded, his welcoming, convivial face radiating warmth.

Beautiful morning, Albert.

Aye, indeed.

Your triple berry scones look scrumptious today.

Just out the oven, sire. Sidewalk? Alfred asked.

Dunno, the Duke said turning, eyeing the tables, Looks full.

We’ll bring a table from inside. No problem at all, milord.

That would be smashing, the Duke beamed, and those do look tempting.

The triple-berry scones? Fresh baked ten minutes ago, sire. Should I heat one up again?"

No, cooler is fine.

And John’s usual?

Yes, please, said John, scrutinizing the crowd with dark, darting eyes.

And for Rodney?

He’s trying to break the habit, John explained, Blood sugar or some such.

Duke Fredrick liked the outdoor seating, whenever the curmudgeons in charge of cloud formations allowed. John dutifully brought over the London Times, handing it to him as the table was being relocated. Sitting down, the Duke read the front page story: Jordan Summit Over Palestine Nation Resumes.

Hm. Summit talks. Another freshly-hatched duckling to be thrown against the wall, right John? The greater their problems, the more they need us.

If you say so, milord, was John’s distant response as he continued to eye the crowd and street for anything out of sorts.

The Syrian refugees had been pouring across the Jordanian border by the thousands, sustained and sheltered by national and humanitarian relief. But as their numbers ballooned, the government was feeling the pinch between the strain on their government coffers and unrest in their ‘tent cities’ on one hand, and the international pressures to continue giving them sanctuary and relieving their basic needs on the other.

Maybe you and I would do well to visit Jordan in the near future, John.

Yes sire, John dutifully agreed.

These little junkets had been becoming more and more frequent. While tending to the occasional social and official affairs of state at home, he’d managed over the years to have spent many short-term relief efforts in such places as the outskirts of Istanbul and Calcutta, the genocidal ravages of Darfur in the Sudan, the ravages of Haiti, as well as the slums of Nepal and Bombay.

Ever lived in a tent, John? he asked.

Never have, milord.

Short-term, we adjust.

How short, sire?

Days. Maybe a week or two.

I know you’re serious, milord, John said with a hint of amusement, but… seriously?

The Duke laughed at his response, John would later recount.

Duke Fredrick Lambert ll had courted the support of dignitaries, from heads of state down to provincial officials and local chieftains, co-opting compassionate celebrities, galvanizing relief organizations and campaigns in both Europe and abroad to address the need where needed most. Now he was casually courting his body guard into a tent smack in the middle of a Middle East hotbed of strife and hardship.

John would recount years later how amazed and full of admiration he’d been for someone in his lofty position to be so seamlessly lowly-minded in his high pursuits for the common man. How rare a trait to be found in the higher echelon, he would later attest of his former employer, Duke Fredrick.

Glad to be of assistance, milord, he sincerely remarked.

Wunderbar! the Duke exuded. He’d been told of John’s steely resolve and knew he would gladly go, if needed.

Yes, the report regarding his new bodyguard was that, worse-case, he’d take whatever ‘bullet’ of duty the job should require. That was the essence of the strange employment he’d chosen as part of an exclusive, uncelebrated fraternity of men wherein self-sacrifice was considered merely part of the job.

Beyond this, although still new to his employer, John had already conveyed his admiration and devotion to the man Time Magazine had been considering to honor as their Man of the Year. John would later describe his new employer as being as good as good gets. Yet the Duke characteristically had always cast off any such iconic aggrandizement, defraying all high praise and publicity with his typical shrug and the dry, unvarnished response, Now don’t I feel special.

As the scones and freshly brewed dark-roast cappuccinos arrived, a sudden gust picked up. It sent a chill into the air and ruffled leafs of the newspaper.

We might have done as well to have stayed inside.

Just the edge of early spring, milord.

Yes John. And the foretaste of things yet to come.

John cocked his head slightly. More prophecy, milord?

Oh, not really. But in a general way, I suppose, Duke Fredrick said somberly, his head turning skyward. Then taking a robust fill of the morning air, he declared, But good God in heaven, I do love the changing of the seasons!

As I, milord, John said with a smile, Truly a beautiful day.

A day above all, John… glorious and wonderful.

As they ate their scones and enjoyed the coffee, John’s eye was habitually peeled on every passer-by, every car that slowed. His job, his duty, his life.

This is very good, John.

Never had it, sire.

You ought to try this next time. This triple-berry…

He flinched, his body twisting slightly.

Something wrong, milord? John asked.

No it’s just…

Is it the scone?

No, it’s… I just felt something.

Where, my Lord?

He put his left hand to the side of his chest. Right about here. Maybe a muscle spasm. But sharp.

Sharp?

Like a pin prick. Just a sharp little jolt.

When did you last see a doctor?

About a month ago. He gave me a clean bill of health.

Well, it’s probably nothing then, sire. I get little things like that at times.

Hm. Well, it’s new to me. I have a workout room at home you’re free to use, John. It has a separate entrance. I’ll give you a key.

Well that’s very kind of you, milord. I promise I won’t abuse that privilege.

I’m sure you won’t, John. Your character references…

The Duke’s hand shot to his heart. His breathing suddenly deepened.

John leaned forward ready to act. What is it sire?

John…

Yes milord?

His breathing grew heavier still. I think I’m having a heart attack!

His body-guard jumped to his feet, and wrapping a brawny arm around Duke Lambert’s torso, lifted him to his feet and hurried him toward the limo. Within a few steps, the Duke’s feeble strides trailed off into dragging feet. Piling into in the back seat with him, John shouted, The hospital NOW!

Rodney the driver hastily backed, then pulled out hitting the accelerator, as John slammed the door shut. Taking out his cell, John hit the speed dial hoping to catch a nearby EMT unit. We need the nearest EMT to Whitehall and….

We’re approaching Horse Guards! Rodney informed.

On Whitehall near Horse Guards, John relayed. The voice on the other end informed that there were no EMT units closer than St. Thomas’ Hospital.

We’ll be there in less than five minutes, Rodney assured, flashing headlights and beeping his horn frantically to clear traffic.

But the Duke’s lungs and heart were giving out. He pulled his body closer, both hands clutching John’s coat lapels. Looking up with frantic eyes, his breathing now made through wheezy gasps of a heavy, raspy sound: Haaaaag!

What? John leaned closer, caught between the wheeze of escaping air and the Duke’s starkly livid eyes. Was this a desperate word or simply the sound of lungs burning for more air?

Hang on milord! We’re almost there! John tried to assure him.

Suddenly found at the doorstep of death, still grasping John’s coat in sheer desperation, gasping air, they crossed the Westminster Bridge, only two or three minutes from the ER at St. Thomas. Time Magazine’s future ‘Man of the Year’ hung trembling like a fragile leaf in a cold, blustery wind.

As they turned off the throughway, he took one last desperate heave for air and held. Frozen there in that eternal moment, his stark eyes released their grip, slipping beyond to a place where time could no longer help or hinder.

John cried out-- Oh God!

Duke Fredrick Lambert ll, the momentary horror etched into his eyes now frozen forever beyond, his final feeble gasp had dissipated into one last, vaporous haaa…

They drove on in stunned silence. The hospital made it official, declaring him D.O.A., recording the time at 9:49 am, March 13th, 2015. He was forty-eight.

Although not of royal blood, he was so regarded by the people that all the pomp of royalty was afforded his funeral. A full-dress military affair, guns blazing, the horse-drawn cadre made its reluctant way down Churchyard to St. Paul’s Cathedral, where his open coffin sat open under the rotunda for two days as thousands of Londoners streamed into the nave and paid their respects. Snippets of the ceremony ushering him into the afterlife were shown around the world, as thousands sent in their heartfelt respects and prayers. Many who knew him best, mourned his passing. Family members and close friends paid respects with inconsolable grief. None were more devastated than his eldest son, Fredrick lll, a senior at Cambridge. He was a mere twenty-one tender years at the time.

Two: The Invitation

Just a little over a year later, Fredrick Lambert lll, a recent Cambridge graduate, fresh from his coronation ceremony and crowning by the Queen Mother, the Duke’s firstborn heir to his station was now about to make himself known to a group which had been quite prominent in his father’s life. Now of age and station in succession, completely in accordance with the by-laws of this organization simply called, The Order. He was being considered as a member, since the baton was to be passed generationally to the first-born male in descendant perpetuity, as the ‘frameable’ parchment, a formally embossed, gold-gilded invitation proclaimed. It was signed, "Henrique Von Rosskind, Chairman".

His mother had given her nod, substantiating it with the words that this organization could do him much good, although giving a taciturn admission of regret that there was a pertinent notebook she was to give to him which, to her regret and chagrin, had apparently been lost in her hasty move into downtown London following her husband’s untimely demise.

Father had rarely mentioned anything of this ‘Order’ business, he’d told his wife, Melissa.

Sounds just intriguing enough for investigation, Melissa encouraged, saying, If it was good enough for your father, I’m sure it’s worth your looking into it.

So it was that a young Fredrick Jameson Lambert lll, fresh from earning his degree at Cambridge in the humanities, and just recently conferred by royal appointment and ceremony as the new Duke, found himself walking into an opulent Brussels mansion nestled in the subtle, serene hills overlooking the city.

His excitement was fueled in part by some apprehension as to what to expect, since his father had seemed so very tight-lipped concerning it. Although he’d been inducted into the Masons at Cambridge in his freshman year, he scarcely could have imagined what lay ahead of him in this secretive conclave. What was he therefore to expect as his introduction to this clandestine body of billionaires (as his mother had termed them)? What were their guarded secrets and reasons for them? Even she seemed somewhat mystified as to the nature of it.

As intriguing and invigorating as learning some of the Masons’ vows, rituals and inner-workings had been for young Fredrick at Cambridge, how would all these inner-workings work out in the real world? Whatever he’d seen as merely semi-serious-rituals-in-passing had seemed little more than silly hazing rituals. Even the solemnity of their goings-on seemed veiled over with a wink now and then, as if by daylight it would all prove mere window dressing to a ruse, a magical mystery tour of the fringes of higher education. If there was more to it than it appeared, he reasoned he’d likely spend the rest of his life perpetually second-guessing himself were he to refuse at least a weekend spent investigating it up close.

Would this gathering of the premiere, elite families of the free world, together for their periodic, strategic updates and further planning be like a reunion of familiar faces revisiting his fond childhood remembrances? Would they be a cascade of glimpses back in time…sublime vacation settings, gatherings, full of vaguely familiar, kindly faces smiling down approvingly upon him…faces he scarcely knew beyond their smiles doting over a small child?

And what lay beyond all the intriguing footnotes to history and secret handshakes and encoded commands of the Masons? He knew there was perhaps some sort of a link from the Masons he’d experienced to these men, but that entire school introduction had seemed little more sinister than watching Harry Potter or playing Dungeons and Dragons. Innocent, right?

Well, he bought the plane ticket, boarded the craft, arrived, leased the vehicle, made the drive, and for better or worse, with his ‘golden ticket’ for an inside look at the very crux of world affairs safely tucked into his father’s attaché, he stepped into the lavish lobby of a most exquisite, ageless mansion masterpiece. He tried not to appear too much in awe as he entered the cavernous lobby and gazed upon the tapestry, the masterpieces on every wall and inveterate, priceless class surrounding him. His steps resounded off the white marble like echoes of ageless transit into a realm befitting royalty. This crown-jeweled, centuries old mansion, the vanguard of an everlasting, other-worldly opulence overlooking Brussels, he was soon to learn, had long been the setting for the masterminds of the world. Chieftains of industry and banking, (social engineers his mother had termed them) from time immemorial had met there in conferring their mega-business, overarching the entire destiny of the nations.

Ah, yes, the honorable Lord Duke Fredrick Lambert the third, the uniformed desk clerk smiled obsequiously giving a half-bow, We have been so looking forward to having your grace blessing our establishment, milord.

Somewhat taken aback by such a rich reception, Fredrick managed, Well, I’ve been very much looking forward to my visit, and I’m quite sure I will enjoy it.

I certainly hope so, milord, and if there’s anything we can do to make your stay here more pleasurable… anything at all, please don’t hesitate to ring down.

Yes, I will, sir. Thank you.

As the porter led the way up to his room, he ruminated upon the two words that remained lurking around the darker corners of his mind in echoes: the words, anything and pleasurable resounded in faint echoes of tantalizing caution as to what he could only imagine. Still, lest his idle thoughts sweep him away, he assured himself with some militant resolve that he was on task these next three days, and there would be simply nothing at all for him to even imagine.

How true that would prove. His imagination could never have guessed.

Here we are, milord, the porter said as he swung the door open. His complimentary room was immense and outlandishly appointed. Original paintings centuries old graced every wall. Everything seemed ageless, yet perfectly preserved. He noted to treat his family next visit. Melissa would especially adore being treated like the Queen’s envy, as she was fond of saying. After taking care of the porter in what he calculated to be a suitably generous manner befitting a Duke, he hit the speed dial.

Darling, I’ve arrived here safe and sound. The flight was quick and pleasant, and you should see the bedroom they provided me! I’d like you out here for the next meeting. You and the kids. You could even bring Anne along to see to their needs, as there’s a large, separate bedroom. Well, I’ll call tomorrow sometime and let you know how it’s going. I miss you all… hugs and kisses to the puddin’-heads. I’ll hopefully catch you tomorrow. Bye for now… love you, dear.

He walked over and opened up the French doors to the veranda.

Comforted by the peaceful twilight city below, h sat on the balcony, comforted by a full, complimentary bottle of Grand Marnier and Amaretto.

How’d they know?

No moon… perfect. I’ll make my own. He walked back to the wet-bar, put equal parts Marnier and Amaretto with ice cubes in the shaker, worked it over to a chill, and poured the strained concoction into a cocktail glass. Full Moon down the hatch-- he proceeded to drain the glass like it was his mission, going instantly for a second batch.

Returning to his seat on the balcony, he resolved to slow down a bit into his second glass. He eased back again into his chair, the cool, still, moonless night sweeping in a faint veil over the placid scenery below, it all seemed perfectly well-suited for a relaxed rumination. The little lights below dotted the deepening twilight like a thousand diamonds on a broad, bejeweled diadem, resplendent, regaling over all the world.

Quaint little town from here, Fredrick mused, his glass nearing a refill. He wanted more of the earnest scotch, so he poured it unadulterated over ice, savoring the deep, rustic gold as he gazed through the ice at the lights morphing into an artful, golden glaze… a most pleasant blur. He felt more stately than ever before, more entitled and perhaps more certainly something than….

Than what? …Special? Yes, that’s it.

It was a comforting thought. He’d spent all those years striving to arrive somewhere. Was this it? He couldn’t help marveling at how sudden this status had been granted him. Although as a Duke in waiting all those years, the privilege of that future station had been dampened to an extent by the pressure of making respectable grades at Cambridge, along with the concomitant, relegated expectations and obligations his new title would carry, the imposition of which he’d already anticipated (given the grandeur of the royal coronation), would be a mantle requiring some considerable heft of duty.

He thought of the nervousness he’d endured at the coronation ceremony. How it had seemed as though it would never end, as though everyone were slowing down time just to test his endurance. He wondered whether he could learn to carry the weight of it for a lifetime as effortlessly as his father had apparently done.

The swag can hold sway, but the way can be weighty, he mused. Grabbing a pen from his shirt pocket, he wrote it down on a napkin.

Clever lad. That’s what his father had called him years ago. He’d forgotten all the particulars surrounding that statement. It had stood alone as a byline for the striving. Something to be upheld. Though being seen as clever, he’d discovered, can in itself be a burden. It left so little room for common idleness of thought. How he loved those momentary junkets to the whimsy of his playful mind. He poured more Marnier and lifted it to the night:

To self-play and tomorrow’s brighter day, he silently toasted the chill of night.

Tonight he’d be allowed a rhymey little uncleverness or two. Now doing some serious work on this bottle of mind-glaze, he would allow even vapid little nothings to go unnoticed. He now sat on of the very epicenter of the world, where all was allowed as befitting his privileged station.

The pinnacle of all… he gazed at the stars appearing above him. Pinnacle, or is it to become the precipice? All the ‘movers and shakers’ with whom he would have the unimaginable privilege to be comingling over the next few days were legendary. The Rockfords. The Rosskinds. All the industrialist megalithic family heirs—all here! Reflecting with amazement that just a few months ago he was a mere undergrad at Cambridge, about to receive his degree in humanities, he downed his half-melted ice and added more scotch.

As he swallowed a bold gulp, he felt a twinge of apprehension. All the lavish surroundings notwithstanding, he wondered if he had any more idea than anyone down there in their sleepy little burrows as to what was about to be conjured or conspired on the heights overlooking their fair city in the next few days.

After slipping another several degrees down the inebriated slide, his eyes glassing into a pleasant blur, he sank slightly deeper into his chair. Seems peaceful as a dream. How comfortable and wonderful it all seems. Then it occurred to him so odd that the words, ‘seems’ and ‘seamy’ should have such differing meanings. Perhaps they’re only distant cousins, thrice removed. Or perhaps they only seem to be so distant. How freeing it was to have the leisure and pleasure of drinking himself into such a pleasant, good night.

Ah, the solitude of odd thoughts, he whispered into the stillest night, wondering if it was as clever a saying as it sounded, his thoughts melting with the ice into a slumped version of who cares? The inner warmth of the booze comforted him against the chilled, still, silent night. What awaits? This question was swallowed up in the comfort of knowing he could know only the immediacy of tonight. This night stands still. Let it all await. The Duke has spoken.

Another half-pour over the cold, crystalline rocks later, having slumped himself into a false insulation against what felt must be an unusually cool, mid-May night air, he retired inside. Fumbling with scotched, inept fingertips to free him of his tie, shirt, belt, pants, shoe laces, he took to kicking shoes off resolutely to different parts of the room. Then he all but fell into the perfectly enwrapping bed and the softest pillows, with dreamy visages of Melissa and his two dear children. They were all the anything he would ever need. They were the very definition of pleasurable. He slept like a saint, a soused one nonetheless.

Three: Obama Nation to Ruination

At exactly the time appointed the next morning, Fredrick walked down through the lobby, down a hallway and into a spacious, stately, somber room, wherein more than a dozen men, for the most part already seated, eyed him with a certain disinterested interest as he took his seat in a large, comfy-cushy, leather chair. A quick glance rendered that most were older than his father had been.

The person closest to him, a mere arm’s reach to his left and slightly ahead of him, glanced over his shoulder with an acknowledging nod. He looked mid-to –late fortyish, and was perhaps the closest to Fred in age. His receding hairline topped with thinning blonde hair was turning a premature gray around the temples. He seemed a pleasant, slightly plump, round-faced man, his hazel eyes propped slightly even rounder with thick wire-rimmed glasses. He was wearing a frumpy, untailored gray suit, seeming overlarge in places, tight in others, with a white office shirt, secured about his ample neck with an unadorned gray tie wrapped hastily into a large, sloppy knot, presumably in haste and without a single fashion care. Gaming a guess, Fred assessed him a good fit for either a bookkeeper or door-to-door sales peddler.

This overtly unimpressive man was to become Fred’s over-ample, watchful, unofficial, company-man ‘fetch-dog’ retriever.

The room was rather lacking in light, dark except for dimly-lit highlights around the room and of course the spotlight trained on the podium. With the patriarchs and representatives in attendance of what he would learn were the original thirteen generational ‘blood-line’ families, a main-framed hulk of a man stepped toward the podium. He was apparently in his early and quite vigorous seventies, his square-featured face pocked and creviced with the ravages of a life Fred could only imagine to have been spent over-spilled with worrisome caution and angst, and slathered over in habitual vice and at times with wanton abandonment. He was Chairman Henrique Von Rosskind, presiding.

Velkommen, his deep, husky voice resounded, It is a pleasure to see you all again. I trust you had a pleasant trip, a good night’s rest and a most satisfactory breakfast.

Ah, Breakfast. Fred resolved to setting the alarm that night.

"We have much to cover over the next few days, as our age-old plans are now coming into fruition quite rapidly, on schedule and as planned. As the old saying goes, the closer to an event, the more time compacts. The plan remains intact generally, but with a few new wrinkles, which we’ll see as this weekend unfolds. This will call for our timely responsiveness and I’m confident we will make the right adjustments in our thinking and planning so as to implement them as close to seamlessly as possible. Our C.O.s are as always, overlooking our capabilities.

Now, before we begin, I would like to introduce you to our newest potential member, our late, dearly beloved comrade Fredrick’s son, Fredrick the third, who’s just graduated at Cambridge with a degree in the humanities. I trust you’ll find most of us are conducive and coalescent with humans.

There was a smattering of subdued mirth around the room. And I hope you don’t mind us calling you ‘Fred’ for short, as we use our more convivial names in each other’s presence, and called your father as such. He always affectionately referred to you as ‘my young Fred’.

I don’t mind at all, sir. I acquiesce to those who knew him and hold dear my father’s legacy.

Well said, my young Fred. He was a bastion of goodness… a man among men.

He was indeed.

We sorely do miss him, but we shall take consolation in knowing that his legacy will live on in you. I’m sure he is now looking down upon you approvingly. ‘Well done my son,’ he must be saying right now, beaming with pride.

Thank you, Mister….

Mister Chairman will do, my son. My formal name is Henrique Von Rosskind. My closest friends call me Henry. But here at these meetings, my formal title is Mister Chairman.

Fred was taken aback internally. ‘My son’? Yet he dutifully replied, Yes, Mister Chairman.

And Duke Fredrick, one crucially important thing remains, and that is that you take your solemn Masonic vows very close to your heart, mind and soul. It must now be so much more than mere words—it must be your absolute duty to uphold. Your vow of secrecy must be upheld above every other concern. You must guard your tongue like your very life depended upon it. Is that fully understood?

Yes, Mister Chairman.

And do you swear to uphold absolute secrecy to all our proceedings and every single word spoken at this conference and henceforth, of every word spoken by our members, be they here or elsewhere?

Yes, Mister Chairman.

You have heard his vow! shouted the Chairman.

WE ALL AFFIRM! the members dutifully responded.

"Very good. Now that introductions have been made, let’s get on with the business at hand for this morning. As a quick recap for our potential new member, now that our unwitting ‘auxiliary’ in the femme movement has fulfilled our design like a glove stretched over our clenched hand, impalpably softening the male populace of America into being willing to move away from their militaristic insistence of arming themselves, we’re nearly ready to step up our false-flag operations with some larger hits.

"As Obama readies the military by having them weeding out the weaker elements, we’re about ready for those shooter events to be calling for the immediate confiscations to begin. Our media, in swaying the public into relinquishing their guns and relegating the militant hold-outs as extremist enemies of state, will picture them as hulking into their burrows light frightened, vicious little burrowing animals. They will be portrayed as the true dangers to societal peace and calm. And when the time comes, our operatives in office and in the media will appeal to the citizenry to report these criminals for defying the law. They will be rooting out the last of the resisters to our design. Of course, this has been a long-haul case of increments, shaping the fabric of America this past century. Now the gun owners are seen by most city-dwellers as the culprits.

"In fact, our plan was in place a full century before it was stated in the Communist Manifesto, almost word for word. The erosion of their familial structure, the propagation and elevation of entertainment, the deification of celebrity, encouraging idolatry, discouraging fidelity, glorification of the material, denial of anything overarching and absolute, the get-it-now spending and dependency upon our financial structure to uphold the wildest expenditures, to irresponsibly run up their indebtedness to a manageably unmanageable level, and now in this last stage, to strip individual rights and every means of defending those rights for sake of national security, and to make the state the end-all-take-all…. all this has and is being accomplished, gentlemen!"

The members applauded. This round-faced, wire-rimmed man nearest him leaned back slightly and said, Not bad for bankers, what? A dumb-struck Fred managed an acknowledging nod and wondered why he had.

These are their goals throughout the ages? Eroding society?

"Of course we all know the idea with the guns wasn’t to get them from the law-breakers, but from the law-abiding citizenry. That’s being accomplished, as Jade Helm is being carried out there in as quiet a way as possible, presently with a tightening of the gun laws, as the country is being readied for the economic collapse and the anvil to fall on America, according to our schedule. Mop-up will be ducks on a pond, fish in a barrel. And to briefly catch you up, Fred, we’re about to enter our last staging.

Yes, we’ve worked our magic in stages. We’ve of course always gained ground through a common enemy. Wars serve our purposes very well, but the threats of war can be just as effective with not nearly the messiness. Case in point, building up one new threat after another, after the World Wars, from the fifties through the eighties, we wanted the Americans obsessed with the Communist nations. Then it was the terrorists. On 911 we had our terrorist premise to start taking away their Bill of Rights. And then came the ‘rogue’ nations (aka, nations of concern"). And now, due to the calamity and threats of all this mayhem we’ve brought to American shores, they’ve been persuaded to gradually give up their individual freedoms for more security. The last bastion of their freedom will of course be the relinquishing of their personal self-defense. Their guns must and will go.

"Meanwhile, moving along, once the American continent is in Russian and Asian hands, we have the final vista—the final act: the arrival of the Bad Aliens."

The Bad Aliens?!

Yes, and I know this is coming as though out of a cannon toward you, Fred, and your mind is exploding with new questions. But just take it all in and your mind will adjust and start making sense of all this, alright?

Yes sir. So there really are aliens then?

Yes Fredrick, definitely. They are from another galaxy, but they’re inter-dimensionally mobile as well. And they can astral-project to a speed much faster than the speed of light anywhere within the cosmos from another dimension. Yet they operate within the confines of their body-pods, wherein they have certain restrictions, and must operate within those parameters. The EMC-squared parameters of energy, speed, mass and time. But make no mistake of it-- they are entities far, far advanced from us and we are their emissaries, paving the way for our mutual rulership of this world.

But don’t you already rule this world?

Yes, we have partial rulership. Soon it will be universal and absolute.

Well, I must say, I must have a lot to learn.

There were some smiles seen, chuckles heard. Yes, well, we will be enlightening you as we’re able. Just take it in as you’re able, and eventually, everything will fall in line.

"But you say they’re bad aliens?"

"Not really. They will play ‘good cop, bad cop’ for their little pre-arrival drama. Gets the natives relieved and welcoming when the ‘good aliens’ win out, you see. It will introduce the last step in our upgrade, which we’ll be explaining as we go.

Now then, most of you will have scanned over the syllabus ahead of time and know that one of the primary purposes of this meeting is to forge out a plan for this final chapter in preparing for and welcoming our Celestial Overseers, along with empowering our ‘Big-O’ in making his transition from the U.S. Presidency to the global stage. And as we’d discussed, we will have the honor and duty of voting in the final figure for our depopulation recommendation. Then of course, we will be going over the upgraded scoring grid we’ll be using in assessing the selections of our systematic purges.

Purges?

Yes, we will be voting later today on the final depopulation figure for the planet. Our C.O.s… that is, our Celestial Overseers insist that this be carried out during this conference. They will have us deliver a final figure from us by no later than this afternoon.

Fred couldn’t believe what he was hearing. They’re going to vote what the depopulation number would be? As in killing vast numbers of people? Voting on how many? Did I hear right? Maybe they meant population control. Certainly these men aren’t mass murderers!

Now as for the mood prevalent there, the initial tidal swell of enthusiasm for our ‘Big-O’ in 2008 has been morphing into a cankerous, bitter social upheaval. They’ve long been primed for martial law. First there was the Oklahoma City bombing, which was the foot in the door, introducing counteractive security measures upon the citizenry. Then 911 enabled the Patriot Act, stripping patriots of some rights for safety-sake. Then to deepen the hole, the NDAA.

We can do it here in Europe eventually with a financial collapse, exparte any jihadist attacks, in my opinion, Mister Chairman. Their cancer here is already at a fever pitch. Why do we need more and more of them here?

Again, not to beat a dead horse here, Armand, all our bail-outs have conditioned their people to expect that we’d support all their insane spending ad infinitum. In fact, it’s quite ironic that their everlasting confidence in us to come to their rescue has become our burden to overcome. And again, Armand, without debating what is now a moot point, let me point out that people in today’s world expect even the direst economic conditions to go full-cycle back to normal.

But we know this attack on the finances will be absolute in America. It won’t merely be a dip in the currency—it will be a confiscation—a bail-in on all the bank deposits! It should be absolute and final, right?

"True, but your main concern is what