The Dramamine has kicked in. What have I got to lose? I hear good things about Dramamine. How did I get here? I’m in the office. I’m sitting on the desk and I just know Obama has wiped his bare black ass all over this seat. Remind me to get the place deep cleaned.

Das pizza-gutten comes and delivers the pizza, but when I open it, vas is das. No pizza. Instead, there is a film canister. We put the film on and we see an alternative world. One where victory is ours. In America, blacks and schoolchildren are slaughtered. Gays are mocked and beaten. The workers are crushed. Trade unions destroyed. Socialism is a dirty word. The whole world is under the heel of Nazi bankers and corporations. Disinformation is everywhere. Eva holds my hand. If only this could be our world, she says.

What the fuck is Hillary doing here and why the hell is she naked? She looks like a plucked chicken, or maybe a turkey. Hey big boy, dreaming about me again. How about a quickie? I look down and shit, that pussy has teeth. Rows and rows of teeth. Those teeth snap and snarl. Come on big boy, how about it. My dick shrinks and shrivels. I won’t take no for an answer. She moves towards me, and I edge backwards. My penis detaches itself and drops to the ground. It lies there like a snake or worm, like a maggot, and then starts to burrow into the earth. Get away, little Donald, I say. But it’s no good; Hillary squats and does her pelvic floor exercises. Her labia move like the jaws of a digger and she excavates the earth faster than my penis can burrow its way. There it is, exposed, and Hillary’s toothed vaj snaps it up like a bird pulling a worm from its burrow. A few quick gulps and her vaj has devoured my penis completely. It’s only a dream, it’s only a dream, I keep telling myself. Don’t worry, big boy, it’ll grow back soon. How about a kiss.

I have had a dream, a nightmare. Churchill has snuck into the bunker and is standing before me naked. He is like a plucked chicken. He is dancing back and forth and his tiny member is even smaller than my own. I feel bile rise to my throat. It is sad; we could have been great friends. We have so much in common. He could have kept half the world if he had only allowed me the other half. Now the Americans and the Russian will have it all between them.

I wake up in a cold sweat and check down the front of my shorts. I’m both relieved and disappointed. She should be in jail. I should have her locked up. Why is she free to haunt my dreams? I know all about her and her emails and stuff. Vlad told me all about that, and what he didn’t tell me, I just made up. I hate her. Why does my dick always fall off when I think about her naked? Why does that damn woman have to wear trousers? Why can’t she know her place? Why can’t she be more like the bitch? Okay, bad example.

I am sitting by the gramophone. There is nothing better in the whole world than the sound of a fat German woman singing Wagner at the top of her voice. Tears fall down my cheeks. How brave is Brunhilda? How fearless? Fat Germans are so noble. She sings about killing Siegfried. Gotterdammerung is my favourite. It gets me every time. Breathless, I wait while she sings. Eventually, the recording ends. Play it again, I say. Himmler is sleeping.

The bitch is still playing on her phone. Why the hell can’t she put it down? Give me that, I shout and reach out to grab it, but she slaps me on the wrist. I looking for message from Vlad, she says. Why, what do you think he’s going to tell you? One day, he let me kill you. Are you being sarcastic? No, she says and keeps playing with the damn phone.

The Red Skull comes up on the screen. The moon base is ready for you. All you need now is Von Braun to fire you up here in the V3 rocket. We have everything ready. I am so happy I clap my tiny little hands together. Eva is singing with joy. Hail Hydra, we say. Any day now, the swimming pool will swing ‘round and let the rocket fire me to the moon.

Look, she says, dick pics from Vlad. She turns the phone so I can see. She’s always going on about how they used to hang out in high-school. Vlad is standing and I’m pretty sure that thing is fake. Why is he sending you that? Maybe him lonely. The phone pings; a new message. Vlad say it be cold November. What the fuck does that mean? It’s always cold in November.

Von Braun has come and is talking to me about what he needs to finish the secret weapon. Why is it not complete now? Nearly, mein Fuhrer, nearly. What do you still need, I ask. Passage to Sweden and four bars of gold bullion.

Last night, Dad visited me in a dream. He was dressed in his Nazi uniform and was driving a tank. Heil Hydra, he said as he popped out of the gun turret. He must be so proud of me. Never weaken, he says. As if I would. I can still remember those words he told me on his death bed. The words I have always lived by. Always remember, he told me, to ask yourself: what would Rommel do? Somewhere, I still have that Nazi uniform. I can still fit into it.

A postcard comes from Hess. Best wishes from Scotland, wish you were here. There is a picture of two Scottie dogs like Negus and Stasi. He is imprisoned by the Duke of Hamilton. They have been out shooting stags. April in Scotland is very nice, he tells me. And haggis is very good. Earl Mountbatten has come to play cards a few times. He describes a highland dance called a ceilidh. The swirl of the kilts and drone of the bagpipes, the taste of good whisky. Sometimes I am glad to be in my bunker.

I get changed out of my PJs. Time for walkies. Come alongm my little poppet, says the bitch. Why is no one cheering? I wonder. We go to church, she says. Is it a Sunday? When we get across the lawn, the church is closed. I knew it was not a Sunday. The bitch tricked me. Where is she, even? Someone bows to me and hands me something. I don’t what it is, but I hold it up. It burns, it burns. What the fuck it that? I ask. The Holy Bible, Mike says. What the fuck is that? I ask. Never mind, it’s personal.

Bad news, mein Fuhrer, says Himmler, the Russians have taken Auschwitz. Aush-whatz? I ask. Auschwitz, replies Himmler again. I have no idea what you are talking about, I say. You know, where we take the Jews to be gassed. Where all the melted gold teeth come from. I look at him. I never ordered any such thing. I commanded that all Jews should go to the promised land. The happy land, you said, Himmler interrupts. I should really have him shot. I love and respect all men, I tell Himmler, especially Jews and Negroes. Himler does not reply. What is wrong with your eye, Eva asks. Nothing, I tell her and wink at her again.

Black lives matter, do they; shit. What about my life. My life is way better than any black man’s life. I’m a very important person. Do they even know how hard my life is? I have had the hardest life of all. So hard. I have to make all the important decisions. Mike is always asking me things, and Jared too. That fuckwit can’t do anything for himself. Now the bitch is doing something weird with her hands. What the fuck is that? I ask. I play world’s tiniest violin, she says.

I can’t believe Benito is dead. He was never much use, and his Italian fighters were no better than American GIs. But still, it is shocking and disrespectful. To hang a man upside down with piano wire. Shocking I say. I will not let it happen to me. I will win this war yet. Stalin will feel the weight of my good German boot. And soon I will release more U-boats to sink every ship in the Atlantic. I will fire V-2 bombers and reign down fire on London, Moscow, and Washington. Von Braun will not let me down.

Someone is asking me questions. What happened to your stupid wall? What happened to your great recovery? What happened to drinking beach? What happened to injecting sunshine into your veins? What happened to MAGA? I was being sarcastic, I tell them, very, very sarcastic, so, so sarcastic. The bitch looks up from her phone. I do not think that word means what you think it does, she says.

We should build a wall, I tell Goebbels. We should build it very high so that they cannot come over it. It will keep the barbarian hordes at bay. Brilliant idea, mein Fuhrer, you are always so brilliant. It is true; I am brilliant. A wall will keep them out. Phone up the builders, I tell him. I will make them pay for it. Build a wall, I chant, build a wall. But Goebbels says they can come out and give me an estimate next Tuesday. That will be too late, I scream, too late.

I am standing by a box. Open box quickly, the bitch says. I try, but there are numbers that I need to press. Quickly, she says, before too late. Blackmens are coming. They will kill us all. I start counting 19640514; nope, not my birthday. 725510022; nope, not my address. 0000000000; nope, not my tax return. What is that code? Without it, I can’t keep America safe by bombing Michigan and California. Those bastards will vote for Biden and then it will be all over. Think, think, think. But I can’t remember. The bitch is on the phone. No use. Will try later. Jared takes the box away.

Stalin has phoned again. He is laughing and then he says, I hope Eva likes black cock. I’m going to hand her over to the Americans once we’re done, and every negro is going to take a shot at her. By the time they’re done with her, she’ll be singing Zippa-de-do-da and making Aunt Jemima’s pancakes; oh lawdy, yes she will. Stalin has no manners, but then again, he is a Slav.

Obama is a shit golfer. I know more about golf than anyone. When it comes to golf, I am the expert. The caddy drops me off next to my ball. First tee. I stand and look down the fairway. Thankfully, the air is still and my hair stays in place. I take a swing, a perfect swing. I’d like to see you beat that, Kim Jong-un. This is how a real leader plays golf. It is flying straight down the middle. The security guys all cheer. It is going to land right on the green next to the pin. Until…what the fuck. Somehow, the Koreans have made a gust of wind and now I’m veering off course. Damn, damn, damn, I’m back in the fucking bunker.

Deutschland, Deutschland uber alles, I sing at the top of my voice. It will be fine, my darling, I tell Eva. A love like ours has left the world burning. I hand her the cyanide pill. I will not let a subhuman Slav or an American negro touch your perfect white body, I promise. Blondi pushes his nuzzle into my hand. He is such a good dog. I smile and shoot him in the head. Then I pour gasoline over him. Eva is convulsing and jerking on the floor. I find it surprisingly arousing. I consider one last time. But I can hear the Russian scum firing nearby. I will not let Stalin mount my ass for his soldiers to ride. Goering has promised to dispose of us in a secret spot that no one will find. It is time. No one can say I am not brave. I am fearless. And my hand is not shaking.


For all installments of “Dreams of the Red Skull,” click here.

Previous installments:

  1. Part 1