New Flash Fiction

[benchilada]

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.

            “Mudda,” he proclaims, pointing at my ceiling, “fuckas!” then runs for the stairs. One “mudda” for his left foot, a “fuckas” for his right.  Thirteen of each and I hear him kick open the door above me. A girl whose voice I haven’t heard before screams and drops her white Russian. Pretentious Artist Who Only Speaks in Metaphors actually says “Well, I never!” and Vodka Voice manages to get out a half-hearted “HEY!” before Lo shouts at all of them.

            “You shut the hell up! God damn, it’s bad enough that you keep me up so late on a Tuesday night, but arguing about what? If Hitler had lived? Muddafuckas!” It is only when swearing that Lo Wei’s accent really comes out.

            “Adolph Hitler died in early December, 1948, in outer Mongolia. He was thrown by his horse and struck his head on an iron pot of boiling rice, breaking his neck instantly!” I hear the clinking of a bottle and try to guess what Lo is pouring for himself before he continues.

            “In the bunker, he had two-dozen special infantrymen waiting to assist him, twelve American sympathizers to the Nazi cause and twelve Russian counterparts. They were all wearing authentic, properly-weathered uniforms and carrying the right firearms,” he proclaimed, pouring himself another drink. “Their purpose, which they fulfilled excellently, was to determine whether it would be the Yankee or Soviet army that would finally overtake the bunker. When it was determined that the Russians were nearly there, the American soldiers all changed to Nazi uniforms, burned their American soldiering outfits, and were shot dead by the fake Soviets.”

            “Hang on,” says Big Breasts, “this is bullshit. I can’t believe you just bust in Jeff’s door and start feeding us this conspiracy theory garbage!”

            “The Fauxviets soldiers then marched outside with Hitler in tow, his hair and moustache shaved, a blond wig atop his head and Coke-bottle glasses on his nose. In his place stood Maury Sienkowicz, a short Jew who had perfected self-loathing by cultivating himself as a perfect look-alike for der Fuehrer.”

            Lo pauses, as though daring anybody to interrupt him again.

            “The Soviets shot Sienkowicz and set his body alight. The bones would later be taken to the KGB vaults, where a steel Star of David that had melted onto the sternum would confound forensic scientists and historians for decades. Adolph was smuggled to Mongolia, and on the way had his face scarred by rough stones and cut with blades to disguise his appearance. He lived in a small village called Hwang Liu until the incident I mentioned when I first came in. He had learned to fish, farm, and was in the early stages of exploring Buddhism when he passed away.”

            Nobody speaks for a few seconds, but I hear the floor creaking beneath their nervous feet.

            “What,” asked Laughs Like a Girl quietly, “about Eva Braun?”

            “She had left him two months earlier, and been replaced by an Austrian whore who resembled Eva if you squinted and hit yourself on the head. Now,” continues Lo, “find something quieter to argue about, or I swear I’ll be back, and one by one you’ll all choke on my yellow cock.”

            I jam a chair under my front door’s knob to brace it in place, turn the volume up on the Home Shopping Network, and finally fall asleep to the words “cubic zirconium” and “this really is a steal tonight…”

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