Scene: The Reichspalatz, 12:15AM, 5 May 2020
Reichsfuehrer Gretchen Goering-Hitler had just finished a luxurious bath in mare’s milk; with just a touch of blood from the latest herd of Guatemalan immigrant children. She had discovered that the fresh blood, perhaps due to the tropic of the donors, was far more efficacious than her prior regimen of aborted fetal tissue. The soothing therapy of that bath was well earned, for she had just completed an exhausting day in the special observance of the 50th annual Statist’s Ball; a commemoration of the Kent State massacre. This year the committee had outdone themselves, featuring the sacrifice of a live giraffe (just because they could), and constitution biscuits for communion wafers. The biscuits were a first: it seems they have found that by baking bits of the constitution right into the biscuit, it saves them the time and expense of having it printed on their toilet tissue.
She had returned from the Ball at around 11:00 PM and made directly for her bath chambers. All was well in the Reich and all of her subjects had been turned in for curfew. After a rejuvenating soak she had plans to settle in for a nice, long session reviewing her Pornhub subscriptions. She was mildly startled to find that the giraffe scene had left her in such an aroused state. Shortly after wandering into some bestiality pages, Madame Reichsfuehrer was most rudely interrupted by an official sounding rap at her chamber doors. She froze at the sound and listened intently to be certain there had been. Thirty seconds later it came again.
“Oh fuck me runnin’, will ya? Seriously!?”, she exclaimed in a hiss. She arose from the bed and draped a brilliant red satin nightgown about herself, then stepped into a pair of slutty pumps in matching red. “I’ll be right there…”, she called out as she gained her balance. “This had better be fucking good!”, she thought angrily as she reached to open the door. Unless there was a large quadruped, or two well-hung Cuban dancers named Manuel on the other side of that door, she was not going to be pleased. Her displeasure was magnified many fold at the sight of Gestapo Security Chief, Fritz von Pickelschwanz. He grew stiffly too attention (in the only manner she expected him to be able) and saluted.
“Madame Reichsfuehrer! Zu befehl! I am terribly sorry to disturb, but…”
“Yeah, yeah, Pickledick…, what is it?”
“We have a small problem in Shiawassee County.”
“A small problem? You don’t come knockin’ on my door after midnight with a small problem, Pickledick! What is it? Come on, give!”
“There is a barber in the town of Owosso who has defied your authority, Reichsfuehrer.”
“Yeah? So? You know what to do. No witnesses, right?”
“Er, of course, Madame Reichsfuehrer… it’s just that…”
“Is there a point here Fritz? I’m burning some serious spank time here, okay? What is it, the media? Christ, don’t worry about them!”
“No ma’am! The local authorities already got to him.”
Madame Reichsfuehrer was growing more exasperated by the second. She formed a mocking query with her face. “Annnnnd? What am I missing here?”
The Reichsmarschal’s face grew solemn as he quietly uttered, “The local authorities issued fines, Madame Reichsfuehrer. Only fines.”
It had been bad enough to have her me time interrupted by this pathetic cuck, but this!? The odd peasant here or there to defy her orders was one thing. There were always a few, no matter what measures are taken, but for local authorities to usurp her supreme authority and issue….fines?! This bordered upon apostasy! Her countenance grew black as she glowered at the Gestapo chief. She could feel her heart begin to race, her breathing grew heavy and her temperature rose. Pickelschwanz stood still before her, nervously awaiting instructions. Several tense moments passed as Madame Reichsfuehrer slowly regained her composure.
Briefly she poked her head beyond the doorframe to cast a furtive glance up and down the hall. “Did you come here alone, Pickledick?”
“Good. Come on inside. I’m bored.”
Pickelschwanz likewise made a discreet survey of the hall before reluctantly obliging her order. After stepping in the Reichsfuehrer closed the door and turned a very audible lock behind him. He instantly began to wonder if he would be leaving this room with his ass intact. He did not have to wait long at all to find out where this would go.
“Go have a seat on that ottoman at the foot of the bed, Pickledick.” She stated nothing further until he had assumed his place, then resumed. “Although your timing could not be worse, I am pleased that you have brought this to my attention.” From the ottoman Pickelschwanz followed her movements warily as she strolled casually about the room, musing as she went. “I am supremely disappointed in you, Pencildick! Leaving your responsibilities to some hinterland Gauleiters? What find of fucking Gestapo chief does that?”
Sensing that this was about to go seriously awry, Pickelschwanz hastily blubbered the best defense he could offer. “Madame Reichsfuehrer! Please, we simply haven’t enough men to…”
“Hey asshole! I don’t wanna hear excuses! We can let these local yokels collect on traffic stops and local code violations, ok? But I am in charge. ME! You let this kind of shit fly and the next thing you know there will be a caravan of gangbangers from south of 8 mile heading out to Owosso to get their dos freshened up. Do you want that, Pickledick?”
“Of course not, Madame Reichsfuehrer!”
“Of course not. And do you know why? Because that would be anarchy! These people aren’t smart enough to make these kinds of decisions for themselves!” Madame Reichsfuehrer’s eyes glazed over, her face slowly grew into a mask of incredulity. Such ingratitude!
The lengthening silence was excruciating. The Gestapo chief kept his wary eyes upon her to remain ever alert to her capricious whims. He had just begun to summon the courage to ask for her orders when suddenly she let her satin gown slink to the floor. Instinctively he averted his eyes as she climbed upon the bed and spreadeagled herself before him; planting those blood red pumps to either side at the foot of the bed. He could not bring himself to raise his eyes beyond those shoes.
“Lemme tell ya what we’re gonna do, Pickledick. You’re gonna suck on my heels while I rub one out, then you’re gonna drive out to Owosso, burn that fucking place to the ground and kill everyone in it. Everyone but one: You will bring me the Barber!” She punctuated her final command by thrusting one of her heels into his slack jawed mouth.
I’ll spare you the further description of events which followed. Those of you with sufficiently twisted psyches will be capable of forming the visual on your own. All of the preceding narrative is true, recounted exactly as the events occurred. By the tactical use of narcotics, discreetly applied extortion and a fanatical dedication to the Gonzo ethic, this reporter has been able to obtain the truth. This truth includes some rather ugly details in Madame Reichsfuehrer’s back story, details which shall be revealed for the first time in these pages.
I am confident that most of you have determined that we are speaking of Michigan governor Gretchen Whitmer. That is the identity assigned to her current iteration, for you see Gretchen has been among us before. She is in fact Eva Hitler-Goering; the fruit of some long ago Nazi genetic experiment. By my best reckoning Gretchen must be version 6.0, but there is no way to really be certain. Apparently a group of Nazi geneticists, some real fanatical types, made some extraordinarily advanced leaps in the science in the waning months of the war. By those days it was evident to even the most diehard among them that the war was not going well. A plan was formed to create the perfect Aryan female for the purpose of repopulating the master race in some subterranean siege fortress. Genetic material was taken from Eva Braun for her zaftig physical characteristics and appetite for fellatio; from Goering for his height and penchant for flamboyant perversion, and from Hitler because…well, because he’s Hitler.
The first edition of this abomination was smuggled off by MI6 in Goering’s yacht at the end of the war. From there she was spirited away to a remote Welsh farm for further study. Those clever Windsors just can’t resist their anal retentive Germanic heritage. During the ‘50s a program was underway to see if a condensed, freeze-dried version could be developed for installation into their parting colonial possessions. Insta-tyrant: just add water and rule. While this did not come to fruition, there are a series of rather nondescript buildings sprinkled throughout Middlesex that house what might best be described as axolotl tanks, a la Frank Herbert’s Dune universe. A “clone bath”, if you will, where these gholas may be replicated again and again. So our “Gretchen” is but one of several of the same model. I’m sure that by now the Russians have likely developed their own version. It was believed at one time that Debbie Wasserman-Schulz was a Russian version, but this was easily refuted as she is obviously much too Jewish.
In every age, in every guise the Hitler gene shines strong. Whether wearing a brown shirt or a brown skirt. Being born a Buckeye it would be quite easy to chortle at the misfortune of Michiganders, but not even a Wolverine fan deserves this. In the event that the NCAA football season does come off without a hitch, I’m going to suggest to our neighbors to the north that they revise their cheer from “GO BLUE” to “GO BLOW”. This year, more than ever, it seems to fit.