New Flash Fiction

In lieu of my still-incomplete Gun Smith story:
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            I can’t sleep. I can hear the yuppies upstairs arguing about what would have happened if Hitler had lived. They toast with their glasses of sherry and bottles of Smirnoff Ice every time somebody makes a pithy comment. Some guy who laughs like a girl keeps insisting that nothing would have been any different, that he would have been killed before the Nuremburg trials began. A girl with large breasts – a fact inferred by her comments and how the men defer to her – says that there’s no way Hitler would have made it out of the bunker alive, that he was a kill everybody wanted a chance to claim. The guy who actually lives in the apartment keeps saying, in a voice heavy with too much “good” vodka, that on a conceptual level, Hitler never died at all.

            My door bursts open and I shoot up into a sitting position on my ratty couch. It’s Lo Wei, a Chinese émigré who lives down the hall from me.

( The Day Hitler Didn't Die continues for about 600 more words... )

benjamin
Current Music: http://www.last.fm/user/benchilada/