WILLIAM Grace Powers amenstop productions WILLIAM 2015 GRACE POWERS Powers Publishing P o w e r s P u b l i s h i n g Vancouver, Canada www.helpfreetheearth.com First published in Canada 2009 © Grace Powers, 2009 All rights reserved The right of the author of this work to be identified by the pseudonym, Grace Powers, has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patent Act 1988 All rights reserved. This book is sold to the purchaser subject to the condition that it shall not be lent, re-sold, hired out, forwarded, copied for circulation in electronic format or any other format by the purchaser The contents of this book do not reflect the thinking, perspectives or policies of any branch of government. They are personal to the author and are offered for discussion purposes only ISBN 978-0-9685537-2-5 CONTENTS • Chapter One Children Of The Gods 1 • Chapter Two Tribulation 16 • Chapter Three Empire Of The City 29 • Chapter Four Cult Of Amen 38 • Chapter Five The Castaways 46 • Chapter Six Asses Of Evil 63 • Chapter seven Prince Of Darkness 78 • Chapter Eight Masters Of Our Destiny 95 • Chapter Nine Ascension 107 • Bibliography 121 1 CHILDREN OF THE GODS I peeked outside between the naked cherubs and the season’s greetings sign that decorated the bay window of Angelo’s hair salon. A tow truck driver was checking his watch and counting down the minutes to the 3PM ‘no parking’ deadline. I slipped Angelo a tip and ducked outside into the San Francisco drizzle. The hydraulic jaws of the tow truck jockeyed for position as I ran the hundred yard dash and slid into the driver’s seat of my airport rental car. “Close call”, I sighed, turning the key in the ignition. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a brown leather briefcase leaning against the parking meter. I craned my neck around looking for a potential owner but there was none in sight. “Should I ignore it or jump out and rescue it? Ignore? Rescue? Ignore? Rescue?” The cacophony of honking horns to my rear forced me to make a snap decision. “Rescue.” A joyless Santa Claus stood at the entrance to the Crowne Plaza Hotel jingling a string of silver bells as I pulled up to the valet parking. I checked into my room and was greeted by a bottle of wine, yellow roses and a gold embossed card that read; ‘Julie Cohen. The American Association of Clinical Psychologists welcomes you.’ I ordered a light dinner in my room, then got down to the business of rehearsing my keynote speech scheduled for the next morning at ten. With notes in hand, I stepped in front of the mirrored closet. “Why do people keep telling me I look like Julia Roberts?”, I wondered, looking myself up and down and turning from side to side. “It can’t be my nose or lips. Hmmm. The big hair maybe?”. I cleared my throat. “My esteemed colleagues. Welcome to the tenth annual conference of…”. My concentration quickly faded. Reflected in the mirror behind me was the rescued briefcase begging for attention. A scary thought popped into my head. “What if there’s a time bomb ticking away inside?” I picked up the briefcase and pressed it to my ear. Another scary thought. “Do time bombs make ticking sounds these days or are they digital? How ironic. Here I am scaring myself to death and the topic of my speech is ‘self-talk solutions’.” The briefcase was an Italian leather Brunelleschi, probably worth five hundred dollars at the very least. It had no name tag on it and the combination lock effectively killed any chance I had of finding clues that might identify the owner. “Forget it”, I scolded. “Just drop the damn briefcase off at a police station tomorrow. ‘My esteemed colleagues. Welcome to the tenth annual conference of the clinical psychologists of…’” Again, I lost my concentration as I recalled a CNN news report about a man who turned in an abandoned Louis Vuitton purse that he found on a park bench in Sausalito. It belonged to a woman sightseer who had given it to her husband for safekeeping while she visited a tourist attraction. The purse contained a Cartier watch, diamond and ruby rings and other cash and jewelry valued at over a million dollars. The husband had absentmindedly left it on a park bench. “Forget about sleeping”, I grumbled. “The nagging sleuth in me is going to keep me up all night with the who, what, where, when and why.” Maybe I’ll try my luck at some lock combinations. Who am I kidding? The odds of getting the numbers right are about as good as winning the Powerball lottery. My best hope of finding the owner is to break the damn lock. All I have to do is pry it open, but with what? The only screwdrivers on the room service menu are liquid.” My eyes zoomed in on the knife and fork on my dinner tray. “You can’t do that. That would be destruction of private property. Don’t even think about it.” I re-stationed myself in front of the mirror. “Welcome to the…” Another idea flashed through my brain. “What if I cut the stitching and open it along the leather side seam? It could always be re- stitched again without ruining it. Yes! That could work.” 1 I rifled through my suitcase and retrieved a pair of nail scissors from my manicure bag. With the care of a skilled surgeon, I carefully snipped through nine inches of stitching along the briefcase side seam, pushed my hand through the incision and blindly felt around inside. No jewels. No money. No wires or time bomb. Not even a business card. All I could feel was a book, an envelope and a bound report or something. I pulled out the envelope first and found twenty-four black and white photographs inside. I shuffled through them. They were all shots of the Statue of Liberty from different angles but with two exceptions. One was a photograph of a man standing in front of a commemorative plaque. The other was a close-up of the plaque. ‘At this site on August 5, 1884, the cornerstone of the pedestal of the statue of liberty enlightening the world was laid with ceremony by William A. Brodie, Grand Master of Masons in the State Of New York. This plaque is dedicated by the Masons of New York in commemoration of the 100th anniversary of that historic event.’ I took a close look at the photo of the man standing in front of the plaque. “Attractive. Mature. Like a model for a men’s clothing magazine. A little overweight though. Maybe he’s the owner of the briefcase?” I reached my hand back through the incision, retrieved the bound paper report and fluttered through the pages. It was a ten chapter manuscript for a book. No phone number. No address. Just the title and the author’s name on the cover page. “Antichrist 2015 by Zachary Fontana”. I thumbed through the San Francisco phone book laying on the night table. Still no listing. If he’s a known author with published works, he shouldn’t be too hard to find”. I tried googling him on my laptop. More nothings. “What if the name Zachary Fontana isn’t his real name? What if it’s his pen name or a pseudonym?” I slid my hand back inside the briefcase and pulled out a library book called Everything You Know Is Wrong. It was a collection of articles about the lies peddled by government, corporations, schools and the media. Zachary Fontana’s name wasn’t listed among the authors but the clue I’d been looking for was boldly stamped on the inside cover. Everything You Know Is Wrong was checked out of the Portola Branch of the San Francisco Public Library three days earlier. “Hallelujah. All I have to do to track down Zachary Fontana is call the library tomorrow”. My thoughts raced with endless analysis as I lay sleepless and wide-eyed in the darkness of my hotel room. “What would cause someone to forget an expensive Italian Brunelleschi briefcase, a library book, photos and a manuscript at a parking meter?” I remembered a research report that a colleague of mine had written at Yale. The report concluded that the leading cause of forgetfulness is a stressful situation that a person feels they have no control over. The stress then activates a protein enzyme in the brain which impairs short-term memory. “I wonder what situation Mr. Fontana feels he has no control over?” On came the light. Out came the manuscript and my reading glasses. 1 CHILDREN OF THE GODS Stories have been surfacing for years about the evil that lurks behind the walls of Buckingham Palace. The most persistent rumor is that Queen Elizabeth II and her offspring are aliens. There is no possession more prized to the British royal family than their genealogy charts. They treasure them above all else. Their charts are their pedigree papers which trace their royal “blue” bloodlines back to their “ungodly” roots. Over the millennia, the world’s royal families have preserved the purity of their bloodline by interbreeding exclusively within royal power circles. Why is hemophilia called “a royal disease?” Because it is caused by mixing the iron based hemoglobin of humans with the copper based blood of royals. Since the two don’t mix, laws were 2 introduced to ban marriages between royals and commoners.