George lived to a ripe old age and died in bed surrounded by his loving family.
Since leaving office, he'd mostly lived quitely on his ranch in Texas. He was aware that some pundits blamed him for the decline of the United States economically and in terms of world power. But that all happened after he was out of office, in his opinion. Yes, the endless war against one Islamic nation after another drained the treasury and killed a generation of young people. But that wasn't his fault, was it? There were always enough die-hard Republicans around to reassure him.
When the end came, he was comfortable in his bed, Laura, the girls and his grandchildren close by. The last thing he felt was Laura squeezing his hand.
There was a bright light, and he rose and walked into it. On the other side, a taxi was waiting. George smiled. So, heaven wasn't going to be so different afterall.
As he got in, he noted that the driver looked sort of Middle Eastern. He chuckled. So, heaven had taxi drivers who don't speak English, too.
He looked down at the driver's license on the back of the seat. The man apparently had only one name: Dilawar.
"So, Dilawar, how long you been drivin' cabs here in heaven?" George asked.
The driver looked over his shoulder and smiled brightly.
"I don't drive very often, Mr. President. Only for special guests. Very happy to meet you at last."
"Really. This is a real honor for you. So, how far are we goin'?"
"Not far, Mr. President."
George looked out the window and saw a huge crowd gathering along the road they were traveling. Most of the people seemed to be dark skinned. Many of the women were wearing the hijab. Most of the men were bearded. But in amongst the foreigners, George saw men and women in American military uniforms.
"Who are these people," George asked. "Have they all come out to welcome me to heaven?"
"Yes, they have," Dilawar replied. "You should keep looking. You need to see them all."
George settled back in his seat.
"That's OK," he said. "I don't need to keep looking. It's enough to know they all came out for me."
"You need to see them all, Mr. President," Dilawar said, his voice becoming serious. "They are the people who died because of your wars."
George frowned. "They weren't my wars," he said, his mood faltering slightly. "It was Saddam's fault. We were spreading freedom."
Dilawar stopped the taxi. He turned around in his seat to look directly at his passenger.
"You shouldn't say that here, Mr. President. These people would disagree."
Dilawar turned around and started driving again. George looked out the window and puzzled at the smiles on the faces of the people in the crowd -- most of them at least.
"If I caused these people's deaths, why are the smiling?" he asked after awhile.
"They're glad you're here, Mr. President."
"I guess I didn't hurt them so bad if they went to heaven," George told himself.
Finally, they passed then end of the crowd. A single tall, robust man stood in the road ahead. He held an iron bar in one hand. The number 25,945 was written across the front of his shirt. Dilawar got out and opened George's door.
George got out and walked up to the man.
"Hi, there. I'm George. Who do I have the pleasure of ...
"I am Habibullah," he said simply.
"Well, ain't that just fine. Pleased to mean you Habib.. Hab... Um, I guess I'll just call you Habi."
"Call me what you please," the man said. He didn't sound particularly convivial. Odd that, George thought. Everybody else here seemed pretty friendly.
"So, what's that number on your chest?" George asked.
A small smile appeared on Habibullah's lips.
"It is the number of Americans who have been killed by men inspired by my martyrdom," Habibullah said.
George frowned. "That can't be right... What kind of heaven is this, anyway?"
A slow, unpleasant grin split Habibullah's face.
"It's our heaven," he said. "Nobody said it was yours."
"I don't understand!"
"Probably not," Habibullah replied. He slapped the iron bar in his hand against his thigh.
"Dilawar, my friend," Habibullah said, "You can go back to your virgins now -- unless you want to watch this, that is."
Dilawar nodded. "No, thanks," he said brightly. "Plenty of time for that later." He turned back to George. "Besides, I got my fill watching what they do to Donald, Condaleeza and Alberto around here. I'll come back and check on you later, Mr. President."
"Wait," George cried out in alarm. He didn't like the looks of Habibullah at all. "When are you coming back?"
Dilawar shrugged. "Don't know. Eternity is a long time, Mr. President. I'm sure I'll get back to see you some time or another."
"Now," Habibullah said, "let's get started."