in oil. In the hotels, on the streets, at the dinner tables, the sole subject of discussion is oil. Congress has abandoned all other business.”
As far back as ’22 the mayor of NY, John F. Hylan, felt compelled to say: “The real menace of our republic is the invisible government which like a giant octopus sprawls its slimy length over our city, state and nation . . . At the head of this octopus are the Ruckafella-Standard Oil interests and a small group of powerful banking houses generally referred to as the international bankers [who] virtually run the Homelan government for their own selfish purposes.”
And by the early ’60s scrappy TX had essentially defected from The Homelan.
Far-flung oil empires had long depended on corporate covert operations.
But East Coast Upper Crust privilege + oil fortunes + intel = an unprecedented sense of entitlement to other countries’ resources.
And by ’64 The NYT claimed that Dallas had formed an “invisible government . . . [that ran] Dallas without an electoral mandate.”
An example of this invisible “Government” in TX is GaDoyla, founder of TX Instruments.
Tight with European oil men and Arab leaders, his career spanned eight presidential administrations.
Chummy with most of these Prezs, all of them answered to him.
His son-in-law worked with GDM on The Council of World Affairs.
GaDoyla’s son-in-law once sat at Iran’s Mossadegh’s bedside for 80 hours working to negotiate ownership of The Anglo-Iranian Oil Company.
The talks turned out unsuccessful.
And two years later a CIA coup overthrew Mossadegh.
This invisible “Government” did not like King Arthur at all.
His greatest offense, along with his reticence toward Vietnam: his stance against The Oil Depletion Allowance.
CHAPTER 12 My Dawning Sex Life Protected by Thugs
I find it hypocritical, and decisively not auto-, if your Man helps tighten your noose when you fix your alligator.
My Help and my security detail dwindled until only Aaron remained.
I was a cushy assignment, and no one dared cut any budget that’d strip Aaron of this light retirement.
So I get financed to guarantee his job security, thanks to one line in a dense packet of single-spaced five-point font in the budget of some subcommittee that no one’s secretary’s assistant has ever glanced at before stamping.
Yes, Stately Reader, The Family has come to possess security so abundant that this security detail itself—with resplendent circular logic—supports the bountiful lifestyle of The Family’s most inutile offspring, moi.
Suited men in dark glasses with ear pieces just always loitered at the perimeter of any playground we brothers toppled around.
I was eight the first time I ever spoke to Secret Service and accepted that I had always known that they did linger for our sake.
This Big Guy, This Thug, stood in position at the gate of the playground.
What depths of insecurity and self-loathing could prompt such a desperate compulsion to dedicate yourself to so total a transformation, to warp your own body so that its every detail achieves its most intimidating potential, all the labor oddly on display?
The glum monster had veins up his neck thick as fingers.
And when I forgot my lunch one day, I approached him.
He put a finger to his ear and whispered into his collar, his expression flat.
Without even glancing down at me, he unfolded a crisp bill from his pocket—50 Big Georges—and handed it to me.
He told me to see what I could get in the cafeteria, run along, I’m not supposed to come to the edges of the playground.
Aaron is soft and pokey.
It was honing my erotic manual dexterity and ear nibbles that next provoked me to directly address Secret Service.
And then our contact was suddenly frequent.
They’d insist, We’re parked right over here. No one’s looking inside your car.
Thru those steamy aerobic moonlight grapples, they guarded me while I blossomed.
I was an alligator, switchblade hard with blood.
Those guys could identify a bone by the sound of its snap.
And they guarded me so that I was free to discern and dissect the workings of the raging dawn of my sexual urges in backseats muggy as tombs, elbows and knees knocking awk as rolling over in a coffin.
My dawning sex life protected by thugs felt like I was the Division A state football champions celebrating The Renaissance.
My dawning sex life protected by thugs felt like I was The Birth of Venus in shoulder pads calling a flea-flicker play after play.
My dawning sex life protected by thugs felt like Myth, History, and the invention of Perspective driving down the field, even faking a punt.
Those were the nights I’d later recall in that SkullnBones coffin, pulling my numb and spongy King Charles with my chalky palm, narrating in candlelight for the brothers under the skin and Don Quixote.
CHAPTER 13 Re: The Bloodline
The blue blood Good Men all established their legacies by running drugs and slave-trading and strategically marrying.
But Good Men can never be Bloodline.
Every Good Man a Manchurian Candidate, none of them able to comprehend the scale of the actual project.
The Bloodline built the pyramids.
We are in The Code of Hammurabi.
We count Charlemagne and the leaders of The Holy Roman Empire amongst our own.
I’m cousins with 34 Prezs.
We are related at least distantly to every European monarch on and off the throne, kin to every member of The British Royal family.
My 13th cousin once removed is the heir to the throne.
In The 12th Century, our guy King Henry I, son of William The Conqueror, along with other lesser-known relations, was formative in the founding and unification of The UK.
And The Jesuits charged with the failed “Gunpowder Plot” to blow up The British Parliament in 1605: they would’ve been carving our Christmas suckling with us too.
And Churchill.
