Arun D. Ellis's Blog, page 34

The book 'Uprising' will be FREE for kindle/PC download from Amazon until Sunday 20th May 2018

Extract below:

Cramming the last piece of toast into his mouth Terry Jones grabbed his jacket and left his apartment for the office. He’d had the option of a high-rise within walking distance when he was first assigned to Relocations; his reasons for turning it down had seemed sound; cost = astronomical, space = minimal. Now, and not for the first time, he wished he’d taken it. That morning he’d set his alarm earlier than usual in the hopes of beating the rush hour traffic, problem was he never really managed to keep to his schedule (poor time management or lousy schedule?) and he found himself, yet again, bumper to bumper and yet again, late for work.
Brian Olsen made the final adjustments to his tie, jacket and hair before leaving the men’s room and heading to his desk; all the while diligently maintaining an erect 6ft 6in posture, a copy of today’s Times clamped under his right arm, his brief case gripped firmly in his right hand, and as he strode he repeated his mantra over and over in his head ‘today I will excel, today I will exceed all expectations, today I will excel, today I will exceed all expectations….’

Rain Morgan, stared at the free drinks machine for a few moments before selecting a cappuccino with sugar. Her actual name was Rainbow Sunset, her mother having one her odd moments, but she preferred Rain. She was quickly joined by Debby Jenna and Phillippa Djukovic; just time for a quick debrief of Phillippa’s date with Simon Brookes from Finance.
Peter Illyffe, the divisional manager for Relocations 1, left his office and headed for the usual 8:30 briefing in meeting room 3, aka the cupboard due to its lack of size and windows. His staff fell in behind, a well-rehearsed troupe, that is everyone except Terry Jones who was still driving fruitlessly round and round the car park.

The room filled quickly; those lucky enough to get in the door first grabbed a seat at the table, Peter at their head.

“Morning everyone,” he said, to which there were the usual responses of “morning, morning Peter,” a few nods and coughs and a silky “morning, Boss” from Brian, tall even when sitting down. “No Terry, I see?”

This too was greeted by the usual responses, initial silence, then embarrassed coughs or ums…. followed by a clear and unequivocal “he’s not in yet, Boss” from Brian. Peter made a note in the top corner of his meeting notes, as usual.

“Ok, everyone got a copy of today’s agenda?” general nods everywhere, “good, ok – item one then – the recent merger with Alderson’s. As per our meeting yesterday morning I’ve checked up the line and can confirm that Alderson’s Relocations are being wound down and we will ‘inherit their workload’.”

“Relocations are being relocated.” Phillippa’s quip was not altogether unexpected; there were a few groans.

“Thank you Phillippa,” said Peter.

“How big a workload we talking?” asked Rain.

“Approx half again our existing workload,” replied Peter.

“Will we be getting more staff?” Rain again.

“No,” said Peter.

“But how are we meant to cope with that?” asked Debby, saying what the others were thinking.

“By ‘working smarter’,” Brian jumped in, borrowing one of Peter’s ‘phrases of the moment’, “and if some people spent less time at the coffee machine talking then we’d get a lot more done.”

“Who’re you on about?” demanded Debby, realising too late that by asking the question she had singled herself out. Peter made another note at the top of his meeting papers.

“Moving on” said Peter, sounding tired, “there will be a further meeting at 2pm today with the team from Alderson’s so we can ‘manage the handover’ smoothly. Rain and I will attend that. Another quick point, the company will no longer be providing free drinks.”

There was a collective gasp, then “Why’re they changing it?” asked Debby, “I mean we’ve had free coffee for years now.” For some reason her mouth seemed to be working overtime this morning, in the absence of Terry it could be deemed she had assumed his mantle.

“As you all know we’re facing ever ‘stiffer competition’ out there, which is one of the reasons we’ve been merged with Alderson’s. The Efficiency Department has identified that the company could save almost £100,000 a year by moving to a ‘pay for your own’ drinks environment.”

“Can we bring a kettle and make our own drinks?” asked Phillippa.

“No,” replied Peter, “that would mean providing kitchen facilities – an added expense.”

“What about a flask?” asked Brian.

“Flasks are OK,” said Peter, flashing him a grateful smile.

“If you can drink anything from a flask,” muttered Rain.

“Everyone, now, come to order, please.” Peter was becoming irritated and the strain of not showing it was telling on his stress levels. At that point Terry opened the door and slipped into the room, “Ah! Mr. Jones, glad you could join us.”

“Sorry I’m late,” said Terry “couldn’t find anywhere to park.”

“There were loads of spaces when I got here at 8:00,” said Brian.

“I got held up in traffic,” offered Terry, his expression hopeful.

“Then might I suggest you leave earlier,” replied Brian, “we all make the effort to be here on time, it’s only ever you who’s late.”

“Thank you, Brian,” Peter interceded. “OK the final point, we’ve had a report from C.I.T, the Counter Intelligence Team,” he elaborated, staring pointedly at Phillippa over whose head most things of import were known to sail, “that we have a ‘heightened terror threat’ as a result of our merger with Alderson’s.” He waited for the information to sink in then continued by way of explanation, “Apparently we’re now the 3rd largest provider of labour resource in the EU so it makes us an even bigger target.” Phillippa looked on the verge of tears, possibly at being singled out for the stare, the rest were demonstrating variously dismay or affected disinterest but no-one spoke. “So everybody please ‘stay alert, stay vigilant’ and re-watch the compulsory DVD ‘Terror and Counter Terrorism’. Remember, ‘we’re all in this together’ and it’s up to each and every one of us to …‘keep the workplace safe’.”

Terry winced; he was convinced that Peter’s insistence on speaking in inverted commas and quoting the company watchwords at every opportunity had a damaging effect on his psyche.

“Did anyone see the news this morning?” asked Rain, too brightly. “There was an explosion in the town centre.”

“Yeah,” chipped in Debby, “near Macheson’s.”

“They said something about 20 casualties,” Rain added, “it’s awful”.

“Did they say who it was?” asked Terry.

“It’s a bit early for that kind of info,” snapped Brian.

“I dunno,” defended Terry, “they sometimes give a warning.”

“That’s the Red Freedoms,” said Debby, “the Black Hands don’t give a warning.”

“Which could imply the Black Hands,” said Terry, settling in for a natter on the merits and demerits of one terrorist organisation’s way of doing business versus another.

“OK,” interrupted Peter, forestalling further chat, “Any questions?”

“Parking,” said Terry, opportunistic as ever, “when are they doing something about parking?”

“As we said yesterday and the day before and, oh yes, as we’ve been saying every day in all these months since you joined us, they aren’t going to do anything about the parking, thank you, Terry.” Peter stared round the table, lingering on Phillippa, as if daring any more utterances.

“When are they going to fix the tower clock?” she asked, making a sterling effort to fight back tears.

“And they aren’t going to fix the clock, either, Phillippa. As we’ve already said it will cost too much to repair. Any more questions?”

Silence.

“Good, back to work all of you, except you Terry, if you could just stay back a minute.”
The others filed out of the room and closed the door behind them.

“You were late again Terry.”

“I know but it was the traffic….”

“Traffic is not an excuse, Terry,” said Peter, “you should know to factor that in to your plans. Also, as I recall, Human Resources offered you an apartment close by when you joined us, a much sought after facility that had only come available due to the unfortunate demise of your predecessor.” He fell silent, possibly in recognition of human frailty and the fact that the previous occupant had thrown himself ungratefully off the 7th floor balcony of the much vaunted facility. “You are paid to be here between the hours of 8:30 and 5:00. It’s up to you to get yourself here on time.”

“Yes,” said Terry, for once recognising a time when the less words said might be the better.

“Everyone else manages to be here. I have to come from further away than you so I leave earlier. Brian always gets here at 8:00.”

“I know,” Terry murmured, humbly, while thinking 'yeah but Brian hasn’t got a life…'

“And he doesn’t leave his desk until 5.45 whereas you are packed and out the door by 5:10 if you can get away with it.”

Again, Brian hasn’t got a life …“I always do my hours…”

“Do you want to see your clocking in sheet?” asked Peter. Terry ducked his head; he knew what it would show. “The thing is Terry, it’s not working out for us; I think we need to move you on.”

Terry grimaced “I’m sorry Peter, I promise I will get here earlier in future.”

“I’m afraid it’s too late, Terry, Galaxy has already collated your data and raised it with Human Resources. They’ve spotlighted you and put in the transfer request.”

“You mean I’m already on the List?” asked Terry. “That was quick.”

Peter gave him a look; he was a strange one and no mistake, “Should come through in a few days. …Obviously you can’t be on site when it comes through, that would create a conflict of interest so your employment with Peter Brookes will be terminated this morning.”

Terry placed his head in his hands; his date with Cathy in Finance had just gone down the pan.

“I’m sorry, Terry but you knew your stats were in the system. It was only a matter of time before Galaxy highlighted you. You know the drill; it’s out of my hands.”

“I know, I know,” said Terry.

“I’m afraid I have to escort you off the premises.” Terry nodded. “Straight from this meeting.”

“Right now? Don’t I get to say goodbye to anyone?”

“Afraid not, you will be clocked out …” Peter flicked through his paperwork, “5 minutes from now. Sorry but there’s nothing I can do.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Terry, “I know how the system works.”


Happy reading, hope you have a good week.

Cheers

Arun


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The book 'Uprising' will be FREE for kindle/PC download from Amazon until Sunday 20th May 2018

Extract below

Community Leaders

Three days later a group of community leaders from lower Boro, Southside made their way to a small community hall; 30 people give or take and each one had received a personally delivered verbal invitation, issued in the name of Donald Snr. Terry had insisted on all wards being represented and had borne impatiently the resultant delay. He’d been given the low-down on the leaders, including a vivid description of the one woman in the group; Irene, widow of one of the most feared men in Boro whose viciousness paled now besides the rumours that surrounded her name.

It was 19:00 hrs by the time the last one was seated. Jimmy had posted his brothers and several of their mates at the various doors; a dual purpose was served, keeping the selected in and the interlopers out. The community leaders understood the risks of such a large meeting and their attendance indicated implied acceptance, but the added burden of knowledge concerning the chip’s locator facility was known only to Terry, Don and the others.

Terry had positioned himself on the stage behind a lectern; a shield, a leaning post and a symbol of authority. Don was seated in one of the chairs in the row behind him, with Lawrence and Dave, stand-in father figures protecting Donald’s boy, positioned solemnly on either side of him. Eric was in the audience, his choice. Sandra had been persuaded to stay home, to be there in case Donald turned up had been Don’s argument, stoutly supported by Terry. He looked out over the assembly, thinking again how glad he was that Sandra was out of it, if this went wrong, it could go seriously wrong. Then he spoke his voice betraying none of this concern, “Gentlemen, and Irene, thank you for coming,”

She acknowledged the personal salute with the barest flicker, some in the audience nodded, others sat stony faced, and all wondered who Terry was.

“You’ve been invited here to talk about the future,” said Terry, “but before we can do that I have to raise a rather thorny issue, that of informants.”

“Where’s Donald?” demanded a large black man in the front; he’d caught Terry’s attention at the start, not just size but demeanour singled him out, this must be the feared Ice Man of whom he’d been told.

Moment of partial truth… “Donald’s not here yet,” said Terry

“Why not?” demanded a small wiry man from a few rows back, “and pardon my French, but who the fuck are you?”

“My name’s…” began Terry at which point Don stepped forward.

“It’s okay,” he said, “most of you will know me and for those who don’t, I’m Donald’s son.”

“So?” said someone.

“My dad would vouch for Terry,” said Don, “if he was here.”

“Well that’s dandy,” said Ice Man, “but not good enough.”

“It’ll have to be,” said Terry, “that is, until Donald gets here.”

“Where is Donald?” demanded the wiry man, getting into his stride.

“Late,” said Terry.

The room was filled with blank looks.

“Look,” said Terry, “you’ve all been invited here by people you know and trust, and Donald would be here if he could. You all know each other and you know Don or most of you know Don, so there should be no real problem.”

“If there is,” said Ice Man, “you’ll be the first to find out about it.”

“I’m sure I will,” said Terry.

“Okay,” said Don, “just give us a chance to explain, that’s all we’re asking.”

There was no reaction from the group so Terry chose to ignore the silent hostility and ploughed on, “First,” he said, “I’d like to tell you a story and I’d appreciate it there were no interruptions until the end, if that’s ok.”

“No it’s not,” said Ice Man, “I didn’t want to be here. I’m not about to sit here an’ let someone I don’t know talk at me.”

“Well,” said Terry, “that’s understandable but please, if you bear with me I think you’ll like what I have to say, eventually that is.”

“I’m with Ice Man,” said someone else, “this is a shit thing you got me into, O’Connell.”

Jimmy jumped in, “Listen, you might not like being here but this needs to be done, things need to be said, we ain’t none of us gettin’ nothin’ outta the way things run round here and it’s about time we did something about it.”

“Is that right?” said Ice Man, rising to his full 6’ 6”.

“Okay ‘Ice Man’,” said Terry, “we can all see how big you are but what are you doing for your community? How are your people coping with the shortages?”

“I’m doing just fine,” said Ice Man, “ain’t no whitey gonna try and slip into my territory and take over.” Having said his piece he folded himself back onto the chair.

“That’s not what this is about, Ice,” said Don, “it’s about all of us acting together, to change things.”

“Ah, this is a waste of time,” said someone from the back of the hall, rising to leave, “you ain’t gonna change nothin’. It’s been like this for years and it’ll always be like this.”

“Sit down Jake,” snapped Jimmy as Brendan readied himself to bar the exit.

Terry thought quickly, recalling the bios he’d been given. If memory served, Jake controlled a small ward, not mission critical; he could use him as a test case. “It’s okay Jimmy, if he wants to leave, let him, at least we’ll know which side of the fence he’s on.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” demanded Jake.

“It means the sinks are crawling with informants,” said Terry, “and anyone who isn’t interested in changing things for the better is more than likely an informant.”

“I ain’t no informant,” said Jake, “and I’ll kill any man who says I am.”

“No one’s saying you are an informant, but,” said Don, turning his hands up in the classic questioning pose, “if you’re not interested in improving things then it’s a bit sus.”

“Sit down Jake,” said Ice Man, “first we’ll hear what little whitey has to say and then if we don’t like it,” he paused for effect, “we’ll kill him.”

Jake grunted a bit, then nodded and sat.

“Okay,” said Terry, “let’s begin at the beginning shall we, where this war really started.”

“War?” demanded someone, “What war?”

“Please, gents,” said Don, “just listen.”

“Yeah, but you said there was a war,” said the same voice, thin and reedy, anxiety paramount.

“He didn’t mean between us, Tim,” said Eric, turning in his chair to look at a young man three rows behind him, “just listen and you’ll see where he’s going.”

“Give me a chance; all of you” said Terry, “please.”

There was a brief silence.

Then “We’re listening whitey,” said Ice Man, “but we ain’t patient types.”

“Okay,” said Terry, “the beginning then. Back in the 80’s,”

“Are you taking the piss? What the fuck do you know about the 80’s?” said someone.

“Look,” snapped Terry, “The world outside your little ghetto is turning to shit and if you really want to change things for your community now’s the time to jump on board.”

“That’s cute, whitey,” said Ice Man.

“Well, you might think so, but it doesn’t seem so cute to me, whilst you people are stuck here, barely scraping a living, d’ you have any idea how the rich are living? How much they have? How completely different your lifestyles are? They live like gods and you live like slaves so listen up, ‘cause this is a wakeup call.”

Ice Man stared at Terry for a full 30 seconds before leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms, “I ain’t no slave … and the clock’s tickin’, so get on with it, white boy.”

Terry waited a few seconds, “Okay, so we’re back in the 80s with Thatcher. I know everyone’s heard of Thatcher, hell one of the streets here is named after her, but what she did to this country takes some understanding so I’d like to run through it again so we can see how they achieved all of this,” He waved his arms, indicating all of them, the small hall, their small lives. Those gathered moved restlessly in their seats, some nervously, some irritably and some he noted, rather aggressively. Jimmy nodded to Paddy to move closer to the most restless group …all known bully boys. “Okay, first things first, Thatcher wasn’t the architect; that dubious honour belongs to Keith Joseph, Thatcher was a believer and a credible mouth piece.”

“Keith Joseph? Why’s he got two Christian names?” Sean hissed at the person nearest him who happened to be a Muslim, obvious to anyone but Sean, and one clearly not pleased with the assumptive reference to the infidel’s religion.

“Keith who?” whispered Don to Lawrence.

“Bit before my time,” said Lawrence, “no idea how Terry’s heard of him.”

“Probably his posh education,” sneered Dave, by no means a ‘Terry’ convert, and having taken a seat on the stage only in support of Donald’s son.

“Thatcher and her cronies told British workers that they weren’t competitive enough and then created the right circumstances for British industrialists and entrepreneurs to close their factories and businesses in Britain and then reopen them in poorer 3rd world countries where costs such as wages and rents were nonexistent,” said Terry, passion trembling in his voice.

He’d vented and decried the whole concept to whoever would listen throughout his adolescence. This was the first time he’d tried it out on a real audience, sod’s law it had to be one so hostile.

“The intention of economists at the time was that the private sector would create or develop a service based economy in Britain.” The room was quiet, all eyes on him. He took a sip of water, ‘Christ why am I doing this? “The rich invested in what was termed at the time ‘emerging markets’, namely, companies being set up in the 3rd world by western industrialists and Corporations.” He stood upright; he’d been leaning over the lectern as he spoke, trying to get his message across and putting his whole body into it. “The idea was that the west would invent, the third world would build and the western worker would buy.”

“Yeah, we get the idea,” said a female voice, the infamous widow “and we know already.”

“You should do,” said Terry, looking out across the room, trying to locate her “but somewhere along the way you’ve learned to live with it rather than resist the unfairness of what occurred.”

“Who’re you to talk?” said Jake, “what d’ you know about what we’ve learned to live with? Who the fuck is he, anyway?” He directed this at Don.

“Look please,” said Don,” If you’ll just bear with us for a bit longer.”

“Keep going,” said Ice Man, “I want to hear what you gotta say.”

Terry nodded, “So that was the plan they sold to the people…that the west would ‘invent’, the 3rd world would ‘build’ and the western worker , employed in the service industry which replaced the manufacturing base, would ‘buy’. Now, whether it was meant to be permanent or they had other long term plans, we’ll never know… but what we do know, and what should’ve been clear at the time, is that the ‘private’ sector didn’t create enough service based industry jobs.”

He took another sip of water, he didn’t like public speaking and his throat was painfully dry, “So people were out of work, not enough buying going on….to fill the gap the government created public sector service jobs, all governments did it, right or left; they had to reduce unemployment, to create demand for other services, to increase spending power, maintain the number of consumers for these goods being made in the 3rd world.”

The room came alive at that moment, throat clearing and murmurs of what? Dissent? Agreement? Terry couldn’t tell. Neither could Jimmy who made himself more visible and pointed organizing fingers at the door guards.

“Yeah, they created the national debt that we’re still paying off,” shouted someone,

“All of this was designed to make sure,” continued Terry, raising his voice against the catcalls now emerging from the crowd, “that the industrialist and the investor had their constant return of interest.” He paused briefly, ‘this is a nightmare. How’m I ever going to convince these people that they’ve been had.’

“You got this all wrong.” shouted someone else.

Don and Dave were on their feet; Lawrence still seated was making ineffectual calming hand gestures.

“What’s he on about?” hissed Sean to Brendan.

“Fucked if I know,” said Brendan, “I just hope he knows what he’s doing.”

“What d’you mean?”

“You been paying attention?” asked Brendan.

“Yeah.”

“Well, he’s pissed off just about everyone in the room, and if he don’t put it right there’s gonna be an awful ruckus.”

“So?” said Sean, “we can handle it.”

“Idiot,” said Brendan, “c’n you count?”

Sean scanned the room, “I’m not scared of any of these fat fucks.”

“Good,” said Brendan, “then you fight ‘em, all of ‘em.”

Ice Man stood up and signaled to the room for silence, and then he sat down again; an unexpected ally.

Terry took heart and continued, “In the end, a service based economy, shops, restaurants, hotels, holidays, is vulnerable to collapse when there’s a recession and that is exactly what happened, with the great banking disaster of 2008.”

He started to pace, coming out from behind the lectern and moving from one side of the stage to the other, his stride lengthening as his confidence grew. “I’m not going to go into the ins and outs of how the banks lost all the money, I’m just going to say that it put huge pressure on the world economies and governments when they were already exposed…most of them, just like the UK, had spent a lot on creating jobs that didn’t bring any financial return by way of Gross Domestic Product. The net result was that the economies of several countries collapsed and a desperate period of austerity began for all, except….”

He paused and took a drink before continuing, then recommenced his pacing, “It wasn’t actually austerity for all. It was austerity for the likes of you and me. The seriously rich are seriously rich still. The industrialist still had his factories in the 3rd world and the investor still had his money in emerging markets, all they had to do was find a new consumer for their products …which they did.”

Ice Man started to nod his head almost imperceptibly; it was not wasted on Don and the others.

“They made money more available to the workers in the 3rd world so they could become buyers as well as builders” he was almost shouting now, “Western governments told their people they’d over spent on their credit cards, bringing this recession on themselves” he paused, and then he did shout, a controlled burst of fury “but this was a lie.”

He checked the room, he had their attention. He softened his voice “The industrialists and investors wanted to maximize their return, so they put all their funds into the 3rd world. The result was massive unemployment and poverty in the west, western governments raised fewer taxes, and to top it off those same governments reduced the taxes for the rich, scared of the threat of them leaving if they didn’t.”

He walked over to the lectern and leaned against it, needing its shelter and all his energy for the finale. “Governments, like the UK government, hid behind ‘austerity measures’ to reduce services for the masses, like libraries and refuse collections, to privatise the NHS, to cut social benefits and scrap free public education, then they forced up property prices and cut out social housing.”

He glared round the room, his anger at the conspiracy fuelling the tirade. “You’ve all heard of the Occupy Movements? Ordinary people taking to the streets to protest peacefully about the 1% who own everything? People willing to stand up for the rest of us against the system and its weapons; pepper sprays, tear gas, water cannon, rubber bullets…”

“Yeah, we heard” Jake stood up and spoke, looking round at his fellow leaders, rallying support, “and where are they now? In prison, dead, destitute…”

Terry looked down from the stage and met his eyes. He nodded slowly, “Yes …they were crushed, deliberately and coldly crushed in the tidal wave of anti-terrorist laws brought in to combat so-called atrocities on our streets.” He lifted his arms “As was Colin Carpenter and the rest of the Independents, who were trying to achieve a fairer society using democracy, trying to occupy the political space…yet the real atrocity is here and now, in Boro and places like it all over the world, where hundreds of thousands of people, millions of people, are condemned to live their lives in squalor and penury while the world’s 1% still lives in obscene luxury.”

He stopped talking, took a deep steadying breath, wondered briefly if he was insane, and then continued, “They drove the poor to places like this; fenced them in, no way in or out without a pass, ghettos. The mass of the British people now live in places like Boro…I know this for a fact…” final pause, “because I used to work in Relocations.”

The hall erupted. Chairs overturned as their occupants leapt to their feet, a few were sent flying towards the stage. Jimmy and Paddy waded in, fists flying as some of those nearest the stage leapt on to it, trying to get to Terry. Dave happily gave as good as he got, standing back to back with Don who was enjoying himself for the first time since his dad’s disappearance.

Lawrence disappeared; physical violence had never been his strong point. Terry cleared the stage swiftly of the most ambitious attackers, a motley crew of barrel-bellied bullies who were used to size being important. He had the look of someone prepared to defend a position for hours if needs be and gradually the number of takers lessened.

It took a good fifteen minutes for tempers to cool and for people to settle down enough so that individual voices could be heard. By that time Sean and Brendan had cut a swathe through the section of the crowd who’d been luckless enough to sit their side of the hall. One of these had been Eric, apparently unrecognized in the mêlée and now unconscious on the floor. It was another twenty minutes before Terry felt able to reclaim his position at the lectern. The chairs had been righted and people who could sit comfortably were doing so, those more appreciably damaged were leaning against the walls and some, like Eric, had stayed down.

Ice Man had remained aloof from the fracas. He stood and made sure he was seen, “We’re gonna sit here a little longer, and you get to finish your little lecture but you better have something good at the end of it ‘cause if not, that little confession of yours is gonna cost you big time.”

“Fair enough,” said Terry, “but to be honest, I don’t really get why you’re all so upset with me, considering most, if not all of you, are informers.”

There was a collective intake of breath as Don moved swiftly to Terry’s side, “you can’t call them informers,” his voice a hiss.

“That’s not a thing for you to say,” Ice Man’s control was slipping, “and you’re asking for it, saying such a thing.”

“Come on, we all know you’re informers,” Terry persisted, shrugging away from Don, “you know it and I know it, the only ones who don’t know are your followers.”

Jake made a lunge onto the stage, Terry sent him flying backwards with a front push kick, resuming conversationally “Look, we can all end up fighting again but that’s not what this is about, we’re here to work together and find a real way forward.”

Don tried again, “you won’t get anywhere calling them informers.”

“Why not,” said Terry, “they are; how else you think their little empires run so smoothly?”

“They don’t have to be informers for that to be the case,” said Don, “look at dad and how he ran things.”

Terry looked at him without speaking, sighed then turned back to the audience, “Listen,” he shouted, reaching to the back of the room “I know you’ve just been trying to make things work for your people, trying to work out a set of rules with the pigs, trying to keep things calm in the ghettos to keep the riot squads out but that hasn’t worked, all that’s happened is they’ve left you here and swelled the size of the ghettos.”

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” yelled a voice from the back.

“Don’t you get it? You’re as much victims as anyone who’s ever been sent here, you’ve not been rewarded for your loyalty, with a big house, money, beautiful women fawning over you...”

“That’s what you fink” said the same voice, nursing a black eye and a grievance.

“He’s seen your Brenda, Mike, he must’ve.” laughed another.

Terry grinned but continued quickly, “you live here, with the rest of us, in a ghetto and you have probably lived here most of your lives. Some of you’ve had children here…but what are you getting out of the deal? What are you getting for your years of loyalty?”

“Quiet everyone,” yelled Ice Man, “as for you” he gave Terry a long, hard stare, “you’re talking yourself into a nice early grave, whitey.”

“He keeps callin’ him ‘whitey’, ain’t that racist, Brendan?” Sean whispered hotly into his brother’s ear, for once apparently thinking before he spoke.

“Sean, shut the fuck up” the subtlety evidently wasted on Brendan.

“Yeah, don’t I know it,” said Terry, “the authorities want me dead, you guys probably want me dead and if I don’t win you over, one of you will make certain that I am dead. So yeah, I’m taking a very big risk here but I’m prepared to do that for a better life, for a better way, for me and my friends. All I ask is that you let me finish.”

Ice Man stared at Terry for what seemed an age but was probably only a few seconds, and then he nodded and sat back down.

Terry continued, “What you might not know is there is more than one place in the UK called Boro” he stopped, waited for it to sink in, then continued, “there are three; Boro; Boro 2 and Boro 3, each with a total population of 5 million. Boro is a Triplet city.” There was a shared intake of breath and a shuffling of feet, but no-one spoke. “There are other cities, Liverpool, known as ‘the Pool’; Manchester aka Mancs, Newcastle or ‘Toontown’; all of them ghettos and all of them Triplets.”

He looked behind him at a noise from Don who shook his head quickly; he was just as appalled as the rest of them.

Interruption over, “The M4 corridor is now the UK’s dividing line; anything north of the line is a ghetto. Meanwhile the nouveau riche, those who belong to the new global aristocracy, the super rich, they all live south of the line, below the M4 corridor, in luxury.”

He pointed south for effect, “they have everything you can only dream of and it’s all financed by dividends from manufacture and sale in the 3rd world. They don’t need us anymore and that’s why the government doesn’t look after us, why there’s no investment in UK manufacturing.”

Ice Man rubbed his chin, “You claim to know a lot about us but we don’t know nothing about you ‘cept you claim to have worked in Relocations.”

“He did,” said Don, quickly defensive.

“There’s more to it,” said Ice Man, “no-one who just worked in Relocations would know all that.”

“You’re right, Ice Man, there is more.” Don and Dave leaned forward in their chairs, Lawrence put his head down, grimly awaiting this next revelation, “I’m Special Forces and I’m trained to infiltrate and destroy.”

Jimmy responded with a loud burst of amused annoyance, “I knew it, yer bastard!” He gestured to Paddy, “see, he’d never of taken us otherwise.”

Sean’s loud; “I told you he was a liar” was hushed swiftly by Brendan’s elbow to the gut.

Don and Dave looked shocked; Lawrence sat still and silent.

The community leaders, each of them an informant as Terry had said, all of them government plants, were equally stunned. What was going on? Why had the government sent a Special Forces operative to brief them like this?

“Were you sent here to tell us all this?” asked Ice Man, “or are you rogue?”

“Both,” said Terry.

“Which means what, exactly?” demanded Don, recovering and angry.

“I was sent here to contact community leaders, the government informants here” he waved his arm to indicate the whole group, now sitting as if pinned to their chairs. “I was to monitor the situation on the ground.” He paused and turned to face Don,

“However, I’m also rogue - I’m a member of a group trying to overthrow the current regime which is driving our country into the ground and destroying the lives of the vast majority of its people.”

“Are you accusing my dad of being an informant?” demanded Don.

“It is what it is,” stated Terry, “ask your friends here, they know.”

“What in hell’s going on?” demanded Eric, conscious now, having missed all but the last 5 minutes of the proceedings.

“This sounds well dodgy,” said Jake.

“It is,” said Ice Man, “Quiet everyone. Quiet. What are you up to, whitey?”

“You’ve got to listen to me and think about what I’m saying.” He broke off and stared out at the angry faces. “The state is meant to represent the will of the people, the will of the majority of people but today it only represents a few thousand people, everyone else is either ignored by or is a slave to the system. That’s it. That’s all there is. Whatever you were promised in the past, whatever you’ve been promised recently, none of it is real, none of it is ever going to happen, you are always going to be here enforcing their code and if you should ever question it or ask for your pay off… they will kill you.”

“And how do you know that?” asked Ice Man.

“Because I’m the man they’d send,” answered Terry.

Even Ice Man felt the need to get involved this time; he made it as far as two feet in front of Terry before a turning kick to the head floored him. The rest of the activities took place over him and next to him and he was quickly joined on the floor by a few colleagues who’d not taken heed of the warning afforded by his prone position. The fighting was over quicker second time round; Jimmy and Paddy were faster off the mark and isolated the worst troublemakers, Sean and Brendan’s side of the hall still hadn’t recovered from the first bout and most were too damaged to join in at all, others with a bit more energy threw a few punches but their hearts weren’t in it. The vocal arguments went on for a bit and then after some sub-debates, a bit of shoving and pushing everyone was back in their seat.

Recovered from his brief flirtation with unconsciousness, Ice Man took up Terry’s spot by the lectern, “Okay, okay” he said, flattening his hands in the universal signal of calm, “I don’t like him any more than you do” rubbing the side of his head as he spoke “but it seems to me he got a point. We been stuck in this shit hole for 20 years grubbing out a living and I don’t see anything changing, we still gonna be here another 20 years time.” There were murmurs of assent all round him and much nodding of heads. “I don’t like the idea that some fat banker is sitting on his arse laughing at us, thinking we too stupid to know what’s going on, that don’t sit well with me at all.” More nods, “but if we act, then we all gotta go the same way ‘cause if just one of us sings the wrong tune this place be crawling with Feds and we all be dragged out an’ shot.” He glared at Terry and then back at the crowd, “I don’t mean to get shot, so if anyone thinking to sell us out, he better know we’ll find out an’ when we get him he take days to die.”

“We’re all in this together,” shouted someone, “we all gotta make an oath.”

“An oath is good,” said Ice Man, “and it better be on the bible.”

“Not everyone’s religious, Ice,” said Jake.

“Don’t matter, they sell us out, we get them, the pigs hate this shit as much as us, they won’t take much persuading to come over, anyone does sell us, we get to them,” He tilted back his head, raised his eyes to the ceiling and opened his palms, “and they face the Lord or me.”

Terry walked to the lectern “Remember it won’t just be us in Southside, we need to spread word across the whole of Boro and to the other ghettos so there’s a general uprising.” There were shouts of agreement, “and remember, the people who have jobs and work within the system, the ones working to keep the rich and the ghettos in place are so heavily in debt and so screwed by their workloads that they will join us.”

“But can you be sure of that?” asked Eric.

“Oh they’ll join us, they might be slow off the mark because they don’t look outside their tiny bubble, but they will, once we make it clear to them that they, the workers, are serfs to a system, that their debt is the yoke that holds them, once they realise the reality they will rise with us.”

“They will rise,” intoned Ice Man.

“And remember,” said Terry, “We, the people are the state. So the 1% who have seized control of the nation and its money, they’ve committed an act of treason, treason against the people is the same as treason against the state.”

Don, Dave and Lawrence surrounded Terry, “We need to talk,” said Don.

“I know,” said Terry, but first we need to see this ends smoothly or we’re all dead.”

“We need to talk,” said Don.

“Okay,” said Terry, “tomorrow.”

“No, now,” said Don.

“Tomorrow, we gotta make sure this all ends well here tonight or else everything is lost.”

“You got a lot of questions to answer,” said Dave.

“Not really,” said Terry.

“Tomorrow?” said Dave.

“Tomorrow,” said Terry.

≈ ≈

Superintendent Bill Travers opened his emails. There was one marked high security. He opened it and entered his password. The message told him that over 30 local community informants had been gathered in one place with a number of known transgressors. He was instructed to resolve the issue. “What the fuck does that mean,” he muttered, “resolve the issue?”

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Cheers

Arun


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Preface

November 1973

"David, tell me what went wrong."

David Elazar, Chief of General Staff sighed and shook his head.

He faced the speaker, his leader, Golda Meir, the Prime Minister, and raised his hands, a plea for her forgiveness, "It was close this time, for Israel and her people, we came close to total defeat."

"I disagree, David," this said robustly by the man standing by the window, his back to them both. Moshe Dayan, Minister of Defence making a, not unexpected, defence of his own strategy. He continued, his voice raised, "They made gains yes, but they were never going to win, and in that event, we always had the nuclear option."

Elazar shot back quickly, although his voice was still soft, "I don't know how you can say this, how could we use this option? This nuclear? The world would have turned its back on us. I say that without Sharon's victory all would have gone against us."

"Besides which," said Golda Meir, "the world doesn't yet know about our nuclear capacity and it is our policy to ensure that situation remains for as long as possible."

"Exactly," said Elazar.

"We won," said Dayan, his voice heavy with disdain, "because we were always going to win."

"If you had....." began Elazar.

"Gentlemen, please," the woman interjected quietly; out-ranking them both, she had no need to raise her voice, "the war is over."

Both men turned in deference to their Prime Minister as she continued smoothly, "I have been speaking with some of our main political and economic supporters and we are in agreement, the conduct of the war has lessons for the military and those lessons will be learned."

She looked meaningfully at Dayan, then continued with scarcely a pause, "Our concern and the concern of future leaders should revolve around the global impact."

"Israel has reasserted herself," said Dayan, steadfastly ignoring any implied criticism about lessons to be learned, "we are still a powerful, global force."

"I have to agree with Moshe," said Elazar, his voice betraying how unlikely a scenario this was, "although we came close to losing, we are still here and the world has learned to recognise the superiority of our forces, if not our tactics."

Golda Meir persisted, "There is a bigger picture, one that I have been forced to encompass in my thinking. Here in Israel we were not so aware of the effect of the OPEC sanctions, but in the West and in Europe particularly, I am told the impact has been quite devastating."

Both men shook their heads; the impact on the West a small thing compared to the fate of their beloved country. Elazar spoke quietly for both of them, "It is Israel that nearly died."

"Of course that is true, David, however, I am told the consequences for the West were extreme, and therein lies both our weakness and our strength."

Dayan and Elazar looked confused.

This time it was Moshe Dayan who spoke, "We won this war. By the time they try again we will be so powerful that they will be slaughtered in the deserts."

"I am not talking of another war," said the Prime Minister, her voice steady and resolute. "We are weakened by the threat the OPEC countries hold over the West, can you not see that? When OPEC reduced oil production it brought the West to their knees; power cuts, inflation, strikes. A myriad list of reasons why the West will one day turn its back on Israel."

"Then we need to ensure our intelligence is of a high standard," said Dayan, "assassinate any who are planning to attack us or affect oil production."

Golda shook her head. Her smile was tolerant of the fiery man, nonetheless her voice took on a firm, lecturing tone, "Peak Oil is the term given to the efficiency of the world's oil wells, Moshe. When maximum efficiency is reached in every field and world demand exceeds supply then we will be in the situation recently experienced where shortages will begin to influence Western political decisions related to the whole of the Middle East."

"That sounds like a nightmare scenario," said Elazar. "No right-minded leader would risk his premiership for the sake of another country. It's the end of Israel."

"It's not imminent, David. We have decades before that point is reached so we have time to plan."

"What do we do?" demanded Dayan, "We can't put oil where none exists. We can't sit here and wait for that day."

"It is simple, Moshe. Before it becomes an issue we must have destroyed the capability of our enemies to wage war. Furthermore, we must control their oil fields. That way we ensure our allies remain such."

"The world won't allow us to do that," said Elazar.

"No need, David, we will get an in depth report in the coming weeks but the thinking is that we get the Americans and the UN to do it for us."

"How? Why would they do that for us?" asked Elazar.

Golda smiled, "It is feasible if we think along the following lines; America allows its people to hold dual citizenship, yes?"

She waited for their nods of agreement before continuing, "So over the next 20 to 30 years we must ensure that as many Israelis as possible rise to positions of power within the US political and economic establishment. Once we've achieved that we will be able to dictate their foreign policy."

"Impossible," said Dayan.

She ignored his interruption, "We must ensure that there is an Israeli lobby group in every western democracy. We must back all sides in an election, that way whoever wins will be beholden to our supporters."

"Now that is possible," said Elazar, his expression musing.

"Imperative," she said, "if Israel is to survive."

"But even America cannot declare war on the Arab nations, the world wouldn't stand for it," said Dayan, "the Russians would go to war over it."

"All things are possible," she demurred, "as long as we make sure that America is seen as the victim and any response is by way of self defence."

"This cannot be done," said Dayan.

"It can be," said Elazar, "if approached from the right angle."

Golda Meir continued firmly, "We must gain complete control of the media, both Hollywood and their news outlets."

"That way we could pull all the strings from here," said Elazar. He was pacing now, excitement in his voice.

"But how do you make the US appear a victim to the entire world?" asked Dayan, "She is a super power and no-one can possibly hurt her."

"People will believe what we want them to," said the Prime Minister, her voice steely.

Elazar agreed readily, "It's worked in the past. We just need a workable plan, one that is adaptable to any situation."

"And one so unbelievable it will never be questioned," added Golda Meir, "for the bigger the lie...."

"The more they will believe it," said Dayan.

Hope you have a nice week

Cheers

Arun


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Descent 10

Louis had been disappointed but not surprised to find that Jenna had reported back to his mother that he was 'gaunt, wired and twitchy'.

As a result, he'd had the maternal telephone lecture about falling asleep in front of the PC or with a book in his lap not being the same as getting a proper night's sleep. When she'd threatened a visit if he didn't promise to be more sensible he'd complied with alacrity and got himself to bed at a decent hour. That he'd needed the help of a few shots to achieve release from a busy brain was neither here nor there.

In the grip now of an alcohol-fuelled deep sleep, he was dreaming; groaning and threshing about, the movements not sufficient to wake him.

"Herr Hitler," he said, not at all surprised to see the man alive and well.

He looked around, saw a field, flower beds, tables and chairs and benches and a few other people scattered round. No-one seemed to notice Hitler or that Louis was wearing pyjamas or if they did they were making a good job of hiding it.

"Hello Louis," Hitler said affably. "How have you been keeping?"

"I'm good, thank you," said Louis, a little confused; this was not how he had imagined him speaking, "do I call you Adolf, or Hitler or the Führer?"

"Most people call me the Führer. I allow some to call me Herr Hitler but you can call me Adolf, like my dear friend August."

" Kubizek?" said Louis.

"How are your studies, Louis?" asked Gampy Jags, appearing from behind Hitler.

Louis started, he hadn't been aware of his great grandfather, but there he was, strong and upright, resplendent in black SS dress uniform, "Christ, Gampy, you'll get us arrested!"

"All will be fine, Louis," said Gampy, "just listen to the Führer."

"Thank you, Oberleutnant Jaeger," said Hitler, "but I wish to speak to Louis alone." He smiled benignly, waiting until Gampy Jaggs had retreated some distance before saying, "I always did find all that ceremonial shit tiresome."

Louis responded tartly, "From the film footage I could've sworn you loved it."

"Ah," said Hitler, leaning back, "that was Goebbels, he liked the look of the thing."

"But you loved the power?"

"Tell me Louis, wouldn't you want the power to change things for the better?"

"For the betterment of whom, precisely?"

"Ah," said Hitler, brushing the question aside, "that's Mr. Churchill and the Jewish cabal that surrounded him talking. I made Germany a country worth living in."

"Mein Kampf is riddled with anti-Jewish stuff and it's in all your speeches. You planned to deprive them of their wealth, and their power and ultimately exterminate them."

"Sometimes you have to say things in a certain way to get the attention of the masses," said Hitler, smoothly. He started to walk away, "You shouldn't believe all the rubbish from your Mr. Churchill or that gangster, Roosevelt."

Louis rubbed his head, ran after him, "Where are you going? Why am I wearing pyjamas?"

Hitler ignored the question, saying instead, "The British and Americans made fun of my moustache, said I looked like that fool Chaplin but I used to have a bushy moustache, it came right out both sides, luxuriant and strong, but then one day the gas mask didn't seal and the gas got in. It was almost fatal. From then on I trimmed my moustache like others in the trenches. But what would Churchill or that cripple Roosevelt know of the trenches? I ask you, is this the mark of a fool or a badge of courage?"

"Why am I wearing pyjamas?"

"Here, take this." He watched as Louis shrugged into the beige trench coat with its abundance of epaulettes and storm flaps. He said, his voice musing, "One thing they did get right, I did come from the masses. Before the war I, like them, was poor and often starving, struggling to make ends meet."

"Yeah okay," said Louis, fiddling with buttons, "so you blamed the Jews, I get it."

"Silly boy, not the individual Jew, but the Jewish economic system that the world was slipping into, thanks to the rapid growth of the world's banking elite."

"Right," said Louis. Properly clothed he was now looking for an escape route.

An ice-cream vendor arrived next to him. The man seemed unsurprised to see them.

Hitler looked delighted, saying with a smile, "Two 99s."

"Oh yes!" said Louis, thrilled in spite of himself.

"£5.60 mate," said the ice cream man.

"You know me?" asked Hitler, winking at Louis, who was attacking his flake with gusto.

"Of course, Charlie Chaplin."

"So you'll know I'm good for it, put it on my slate."

"Is that Stalin?" asked Louis, ice cream on his nose.

"HA!" snarled Hitler, turning to glare at the heavy set man, "He turns up everywhere I go, won't leave me alone," he waved a fist, shouted, "I'll kick your fucking head in, commie bastard." He plunged his face into his ice cream, lifting it up to see Stalin twirling his moustache and summoning two surly-looking men to his side. He muttered an aside to Louis, "Let's move on a bit."

"Er, Adolf," said Louis, pointing to Hitler's moustache, "you've got some...um...ice cream."

"No distractions, Louis," said Hitler, tossing his cornet aside, "listen to me. It's important for you, for your country and your memory of Gampy Jaggs. Before and after the war Europeans lived in poverty but in Germany in 1918, we were desperate. Do you understand? Can you even begin to imagine what it was like for us, the country had been betrayed by the Jews...."

"The stab in the back," said Louis. Reluctant to throw his ice cream away he was trying to eat it without being seen. He muttered through a mouthful, "You made that up to cover your embarrassment at Germany's defeat."

"Not at all!" snapped Hitler, "World Jewry had contrived to defeat Germany so they could steal Palestine with British help and what of us, their victims? Our industries robbed of their produce, our mines confiscated, our land reduced, our empire given away to the British and French, our army reduced to 100,000 men whilst our enemies maintained forces in the millions right on our borders. Our navy was scuttled, we had no air force, we were weak and vulnerable to attack and the constant economic bullying of the old allies..."

"Er... .ice cream," said Louis, pointing under his own nose to demonstrate the position.

"The French invaded the Rhineland and stole our coal in 1923, the Poles were looking at stealing more land from us, the Czechs were pushing us around, everyone was taking what they wanted. We had an impossible national debt, that could never be repaid in a single lifetime... and we did not start the war. Do you understand our frustration, Louis?"

"Cakes for sale!" A woman was standing in front of them, a tray of cakes held out in offering.

"Ah! Cakes," said Hitler excitedly, "Ja! For me and for my good friend, Louis."

"Er..we're not, we're not...friends," said Louis, waving his hands.

"Cream buns," said Hitler, eyes crinkling at the thought, "ja, two. Put them on my tab."

He took a huge bite and the cream spurted out. "Germany was on her knees, Louis," he said, his cheeks stuffed full, "then recession hit and even more Germans were thrown out of work."

"It was the same for other countries, though," said Louis, staring at his own cake, wondering how to eat it without cream popping out from all sides.

"People were dying of starvation. Tens of thousands of German men committed suicide because they could not provide for their families, housewives became prostitutes. Our society crumbled, while rich Jews and American bankers were making a fortune out of our distress."

"I get the picture, you were suffering," said Louis, entranced by the blob of cream on Hitler's nose, not wanting to draw attention to it for fear of annoying the man.

"It all came about because of the Jewish banking system, Louis," said Hitler, "do you see?"

Louis decided to lick the cream out of the cake first, that way he could control how much cream came out when he bit into it.

"NO!" shouted Hitler. Louis jumped, almost dropping his cake. "No, Louis, not like that. Bite into it, enjoy the whole experience. This licking, it separates the tastes, you get no blend."

"But...urm...er" stammered Louis, "I'll get cream on my...er...nose."

"No matter your nose, how will you ever know the full pleasure if you lick out the cream?"

"Bite into it, boy," thundered Gampy Jags appearing from nowhere, "obey the Führer."

Louis did as he was bid and got cream on his nose.

"It tastes better, ja?" He didn't wait for an answer, instead returning to the subject in earnest, "Germany was destitute, trapped between two ideologies; Judeo-capitalism was robbing the country blind and the Russian Communists crushing us beneath a common uniformity."

Louis, was still struggling with his cake, "Where did I put my 99? I can't remember eating it!"

Hitler continued undeterred, "My aim was to free my people from the Jewish economic yoke, and drive out the Bolsheviks from Berlin. That was my aim Louis, my only aim."

"You wanted to conquer the world."

"That was the accusation the Jews put into Mr. Churchill's mouth. They didn't want to lose their power, their control of all of the key posts and jobs, all the money. Ordinary Germans had been ruined by the war and the recession. Only the Vons and Jews came out on top."

"Why didn't you wage war on the Vons then?"

Hitler looked affronted, said, "They were German, Louis. I believed they would put Germany before their own self interests. All I wanted was to bring Germany back to her former glory."

"How does that fit with invading Czechoslovakia and Poland?" demanded Louis.

"Again they have obscured the truth; the Poles had a plan to invade Prussia as far as Berlin and all we had to protect ourselves was a pitiful army of 100,000 men."

"But you invaded Poland," said Louis, wiping the cream from his nose.

"They were killing Germans, we had daily reports of new casualties, the Poles were goading us into war. I had no choice, was I to let the Poles go on murdering Germans? Would Mr. Chamberlain have let any foreign power murder Englishmen without reprisal? I think not."

"Well, that's as maybe," said Louis, "but you resorted to war instead of negotiation."

"I had tried to negotiate, but as soon as Rydz-Śmigly got Mr. Chamberlain's ridiculous treaty he would not listen. Who can blame him? If I had had such a commitment from the British Prime Minister then I too would've tried to win the world."

"I need the toilet," said Louis, crossing his legs awkwardly.

"Answer me this, at the turn of the twentieth Century Europe was wholly Christian and followed the word of Jesus, ja?"

Louis nodded, "I really need to go now."

"And now very few Europeans follow Christ, is that true?"

Louis scrunched up his face. It seemed important not to let go of his bladder at this point.

"But a lot of people still believe in God, is that not right?" pressed Hitler.

"So?"

"Jews do not believe in Christ, Louis," said Hitler, "they have killed European Christianity but left God as the supreme power. Ergo, they have killed Christ a second time."

Louis awoke with a start, extricated himself from his duvet, tumbled out of bed and rushed to the toilet, 'Fuckin' 'ell,' he thought, 'I've gotta lay off the Hitler stuff....."

Cheers

Arun


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Descent 7

Louis sipped his tea and continued to channel hop. He allowed himself a moment to reflect on the old man's passing, aware that had the revelations of the past few weeks not been made then he would have been in full mourning. However, the knowledge had been given to him and couldn't be taken back; that it had been done on his great-grandfather's instructions and apparently in the belief that he would understand was just an added irritation. He didn't understand, he was angry and confused and ashamed.

He rubbed his head in frustration, he was descended from Nazis and he couldn't get rid of the notion that evil had come down through the family line to lodge in him.

Admittedly apart from a bit of shoplifting (and who didn't do that) and a drug dabble (ditto) and ok, he'd tried to kill himself but the family thought it had been a mistake so that didn't count, and anyway it was all years ago, so apart from all that, he'd done nothing to concern his family or friends, especially Jenna.

He shivered; they did not know him as he knew himself; he knew what he was capable of and where his darkest thoughts could go.

His phone buzzed, a text from Jenna.

He allowed himself a few moments to contemplate taking comfort with her. He could see her face, both troubled and caring, warm eyes, soft lips and for a moment he wavered. He wanted to be with her but the last time they'd met up he could talk of nothing but his mixed up feelings.

She'd not been as supportive as he'd hoped when he'd explained his need to search out evidence of the Holocaust his great-grandfather had challenged him to find. Nor did she appreciate his need to find similar evidence to refute all the old man's ramblings about pre and post-war conspiracies to stifle the 'social revolution'.

On the other hand, she'd supported his original plan to burn the folder and put the whole thing out of his head; that he hadn't done either of those things was a source of conflict between them that he couldn't handle right now and had no intention of revisiting anytime soon.

He ignored the text, sipped his tea and changed channel yet again.

The post clattering through the letter box broke through the immobility that had seized him. He snatched at the cardboard, ripping it open to reveal the book he'd ordered. He stared at it; to his mind, one of the most dangerous books ever written, one that professed to explain Hitler and the Nazis; clearly revisionist. He felt odd just holding it; somehow defiled. He was convinced he had been put on some surveillance list the minute he looked it up on line.

He sighed and sat back to read.

He hoped the book would be bunkum; easily dismissed to the file marked 'revisionist nonsense' that he was trying to compile. He had worked out a methodology to make his task easier; read until an outrageous claim was made and then check the claim either on line or on his bookshelves. He had been convinced he would find evidence to debunk the assertions but thus far he had only found evidence in support.

This book proved to be more of the same and three hours later he was still reading; finally he yawned and let the book slide from his lap, he wanted to read more but he was dog tired.

He pinched his cheeks, got up and splashed his face with water from the sink, did a few half-hearted stretches and resumed the task, deciding on an internet search to find an interview with the author, discussing his book. Ten minutes later he started to search elsewhere, the book might well have been intensively researched but the author was sending him to sleep.

He found several other revisionist videos and watched them over and over. Something in them, the very concept of what they preached left him feeling uncomfortable after every viewing.

He stood up and stretched, grabbed his coat and went for a walk.

He returned with a food stock that should hold him in good stead for the next few days while he continued his research. He made short work of a Belgian bun and a can of coke, then slumped down in front of his computer, flicking through until he found a traditional video on the causes of the war.
He watched with quiet satisfaction as frenzied, hysterical Germans, dragooned into lines along the roadside, saluted the megalomaniac dictator. The video had a backdrop of satanic music and the commentary was one he could relate to; Hitler deceiving the masses with tricks like 'Strength through joy' where he bought their loyalty with cheap rate holidays and cruises. It rattled through the same old stuff about how he reduced mass unemployment by building roads, once again buying the loyalty of the masses.

Louis found himself relaxing; his long-held beliefs re-energised as he watched. This fitted what he knew from extensive reading, that Hitler was a control freak, a pervert whose love life was a farce, a man who was obsessed with his mother and couldn't form proper relationships, who as a young man formed an obsession with a young girl, was virtually a stalker, hanging out on street corners with Kubizek, the homosexual. Who later in life totally controlled his niece Gellie until she committed suicide to escape him, then he latched onto Eva Braun. He was a controller of people, a master manipulator and this video proved it. Louis hadn't been aware of how much this revisionist junk had been bothering him.

Louis sighed, closed his eyes and fell asleep.

One hour later he woke with a start, a question thumping in his brain. His sleep hadn't been restful.
He had a test he wanted to conduct and he set to it at once. He watched five minutes of the traditional video he'd fallen asleep in front of, then he watched similar scenes on a revisionist video.

Finally, he turned the sound down and watched them again; without volume they were identical.
Both videos showed thousands of happy Germans all frantic to shake Hitler's hand and they weren't brown shirted party members, these were all ordinary Germans; old men and women, working-age adults, young women and young children.

He rested his fingertips on his forehead, his thoughts racing; stripped of the music or talk overs there was nothing to influence his interpretations. He was left to make his own conclusions of what he was seeing on the screen.

'If they loved him this much then maybe there was something in what he said, in what he and the Nazis offered the ordinary German people.'

He let his thoughts go where they would, conjuring a revolutionary system that encouraged people to work together and for the nation...and supposing it worked, got the German people back into employment when every other western economy remained on its knees, no work, soup kitchens and the like.....

He burst out, his voice loud in the quiet flat, "I need to listen to original broadcasts, hear it for myself. Fuck it, why didn't I learn German?"

He grabbed his cup, rinsed it out in the sink, switched on the kettle, threw a tea bag in the cup. 'So where do the Jews come in?'

The kettle boiled.

Louis poured the steaming water into his cup, his brain still racing, 'surely not? Churchill didn't pursue the war just because the National Socialist philosophy was taking hold? That would be insane, waging a war over conflicting political philosophical outlooks?'

Cheers

Arun

amazon.co.uk
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Helter-Skelt...

amazon.com
https://www.amazon.com/Helter-Skelter...

The book 'Helter Skelter' will be FREE for Kindle & PC download from Amazon until 29th April 2018

The Handling

Gareth scanned the room, eyes settling on a dark-haired young man sitting on a stool at the bar. He'd put on a bit of weight since last he'd seen him, broadened across his shoulders but, no doubt about it, it was Louis. Gareth took a deep breath, lowered his shoulders and relaxed his face into amiability, effortlessly becoming younger, less than he was.

"Hey you, long time, no see," he said, smiling and lowering himself onto the adjacent stool.

Louis glanced up, a frown creasing his forehead. He wanted no company. His face cleared when he recognised the man, "Dave," he said, "hey, good to see you."

"Mutual, I'm sure," smiled Gareth, surprised to find he meant it, "it's been a while."

"So, where've you been?" Louis' mood, always mercurial, had changed completely.

"You know I'm not supposed to tell you that," said Gareth, finger to his nose.

"Of course," said Louis, disappointed.

"Iraq." This was said with a conspiratorial wink.

"I thought we were out of there."

"ISIS."

"Wow," said Louis, admiration widening his
eyes, "pretty scary."

"They're just men like the rest of us."

"Yeah, of course," said Louis, "but I meant all the beheadings and stuff."

"Fear tactics, in a stand up fight they're just men."

"Yeah, yeah," said Louis, unable to let it go, "but if they catch you?"

"No-one would let themselves be taken alive, not now anyway."

"Right," said Louis, with a nod, "are we winning?"

"It'll never end. Too many sides, no clear objectives and too much money to be made." Louis' face was a question mark, causing Gareth to add, without thinking, "It's all about profit and the oil at the end of the day."

Louis tried to look like he knew what Dave was talking about and failed miserably.

"How've you been anyway, Louis?" asked Gareth, getting off dangerous ground quickly.

Louis sighed and sipped his pint, "Not good, my great grandfather died recently."

"Sorry to hear that," said Gareth, again a genuine sentiment, "pint of Fosters, please mate," he said, addressing the hovering barman, "what about you?" to Louis.

"No, thanks, I'm good," said Louis, covering the top of his glass, "I've gotta get home."

"Oh, come on, you're not going to make me drink alone, after all I don't get back much."

"No, sorry Dave," said Louis, "really can't stay long."

"Okay, no worries."

They sat and sipped their pints.

"Listen," said Louis, "I haven't told anyone this, no-one knows, only family, but my Gampy, he was a fucking Nazi."

Gareth tried to look suitably shocked and thought he pulled it off.

"Yeah, fucking SS," hissed Louis, too loudly, "death's head and all that."

It was clear that Louis had been at the bar for a while.

Gareth went for a neutral response, testing the water, "Compared to some of the things we've done in the name of democracy, I guess the Nazis were small fry."

"What?" said Louis. This was unexpected, support from an outsider, someone like Dave who knew things. This might be worth hearing.

"Some of the things we've done," said Gareth, leaning in, lowering his voice, "you wouldn't believe. I've seen grown men crack under the strain and I'm not talking no powder puffs."

Louis was hooked; excitement in his eyes.

"Real fucking hard bastards, Louis. If there's a hell, that's where I'm headed."

"No shit," said Louis, finishing his pint. He made no move to leave.

"You sure you won't have another one?" asked Gareth.

Louis pretended to think for a second, then, "Okay, but just a quick one."

∞

Louis fiddled with the key to his flat, by now seriously incapacitated, his voice thick, "You sure you won't come in?"

Gareth wanted him safely inside the flat, then he was off to write his report and get the Colonel off his back. "No, I'm good, kid," he said, "I've got to go, people to see, you know."

Louis nodded slowly, eyes owlish, "Okay, I'll see you again though, eh? And thanks for the....stuff," he said, patting his pocket.

"Oh, no worries, make sure you use them judiciously." He saw the blank look, "carefully," he amended.

∞

As he walked away Gareth texted the Colonel promising a report on his desk in the morning.
His instructions had been 'to employ all means necessary to get the subject to a place where he would happily act as a weapon' and 'to raise the Jewish question and the war'. He'd been supplied with a reading list and, there was no other way, he would have to work through it if he was to get Louis to the place the Colonel had described. He had no material of his own so the only option was back at the office, in the archives.

∞

He swiped his pass and walked in through the doors.

"Can I help you?" The question came from a bespectacled, wizened man, wrapped in a cardigan that had seen better days. He always pretended not to know any of the agents.

No point in arguing the toss, Gareth said, "I'm looking for anything you have on the build up to the Second World War."

"Downstairs, at the back," said the man, turning away, job done.

Five minutes later Gareth found himself down the darkest end of the filing system. He flicked the light switch and after a stuttering few moments, a couple of 40 watt bulbs flickered into life. To no noticeable effect. He switched on the torch on his phone.

Two hours and dozens of box files later he had several small folders laid out on the table. He'd ticked off most of what had been on the prescribed reading list and added a few more for luck.

The first folder, marked Lt Col T E Lawrence, he'd selected out of idle curiosity. He flicked through birth, early service records, time in Arabia fighting the Turks, his friendship with Moseley, the planned meeting with Hitler; that had been of particular interest. Why would a British war hero want to meet Hitler?

His interest was piqued when he read Lawrence had died in an accident on his motorbike; swerving to avoid two boys on bicycles on a road he knew well. The subsequent rumours of a black car and MI5 murder squad, possibly acting on Churchill's orders intrigued him further as did the later suicide of one of the witnesses, a Private Catchpole.

He shrugged, he had work to do; reaffirming that plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose was not part of his brief, he knew nothing ever changed.

He opened the folder marked 'The Protocols of the Elders of Zion' circa 1905, Russian origin, author unknown, suspected to be a fake, designed to smear the Zionist community. There was a section on the many pogroms in the 'Pale' which he knew to be modern day Lithuania, Belarus, Poland, Moldova, Latvia, Ukraine and parts of Eastern Russia.

These took place in 1905, subsequent to Russia's defeat by Japan in the same year, although pogroms were a fairly regular occurrence in Russia at that time.

He flicked forwards through the folder, there were more details on the Jewish hierarchy, a section on Theodor Herzl and the founding of the Zionist Organisation by the Zionist Congress; the primary function of which was 'to gather funds from Jews around the world with the practical intention of influencing political, economic and cultural leaders to support the creation of a Jewish homeland'. He found this very interesting; apparently Herzl had initially been offered Uganda by the British Government as a possible home for the Jews but he had rejected it.

He opened a box file about WWI. He was instantly intrigued.

It stated in simple terms that the causes of WWI were diverse; French desire for revenge for the defeat of 1870 and the subsequent loss of Alsace-Lorraine; Serbian desire to assimilate all the Serbian peoples in the Austro-Hungarian Empire; Austro-Hungarian naivety and military weakness; Russian expansionist aims in the Balkans; German belligerence; a weakening British economy when measured against a growing German economy and, finally, a weak willed Liberal cabinet in Downing Street intimidated by Churchill 'in all his war paint'.

Gareth made a disgusted noise in his throat; Churchill was a favourite of his and it annoyed him when people took cheap shots at the dead. He sucked his teeth, conceding the point that Churchill was alive when this particular report had been written.

It struck him that all of these things taken singularly would've been enough to have caused a political and military crisis, let alone aggregated. However the report categorically stated that all European leaders had resolved many similar conflicts in the past without major cataclysm. It further stated that all parties were acutely aware of the disastrous consequences for them all should any disagreement be allowed to escalate to an all out shooting affair; in essence it had always been in their own best interests not to go to war.

He read on; 'but there is a now a new power on the world stage, as yet underestimated by the leaders of nations. This power exists outside of the normal boundaries that separates nations and keeps them divided. This new power crosses all borders yet works only for the one objective, the creation of a new Zionist state. For the Jews to gain a homeland anywhere in the world the existing population or power that controls the desired territory must either be bought or crushed. It is the belief of this agent, on evidence of supporting documents herein enclosed that certain Zionist leaders in the media, economic community and political spheres incorporated in the whole sphere of the European theatre have conspired to exacerbate relations between the powers with the objective intention of weakening them and ultimately bringing about the collapse of the Ottoman Empire in the region of Palestine. The Balfour declaration is the fruit of this ambition.'

He lifted out the rest of the files in the box, looking for the supporting documents, but found nothing.
He frowned and tossed the folder aside. He then fumbled through the other folders spread out on the table and settled on the one marked 'Magda and Haim'.

He opened it and was surprised to see a wedding photograph of Joseph and Magda Goebbels pinned to the left hand side of the top page. He peered at it, and recognised Hitler in the background. Pinned to the top right was a yellowing photograph of a young man in round spectacles, someone he didn't recognise. He unpinned it from the page; the name pencilled on the back was Haim Arlosoroff. He was interested to read that Magda's mother had been married twice, the second time to a Jewish businessman named Richard Friedlander. Magda had taken his name, and aged 17, become friends with a Jewish refugee by the name of Lisa Arlosoroff, sister of Haim, the young man in the photograph.

Gareth sat upright, this was interesting.

Apparently Magda had an affair with Arlosoroff, she knew he was an ardent Zionist and attended meetings with him. He went to Palestine, they lost touch, he met someone else. She married the industrialist Gunther Quandt. There was a footnote: Magda's son by this marriage went on to become one of the richest men in Germany after the war; family owned Daimler-Benz and BMW. Gareth checked the wedding photo, there was a young boy with them, presumably he was the boy in question.

Gareth shook his head and puffed out in disbelief.

He read on: Magda had an affaire with the nephew of the US President Herbert Hoover, divorced Quandt and married Goebbels.

"Bloody hell, she gets around," he spoke aloud into the room.

He sipped his tea; apparently Arlosoroff was the leader of the Labour Zionists and believed that Jewish settlement in Palestine could be achieved peacefully with the co-operation of the indigenous Arabs and with the support of the British. Here he fell into conflict with the new group called the Revisionists lead by one Vladimir Jabotinsky. The Revisionists believed even more forcefully that if the Jews were to get a homeland then they would have to take it by force and they did not believe in any form of conciliation with the Arab community. There was a further note to read Appendix iii 'The Iron Wall'.

He rubbed his eyes and breathed in deeply before continuing to read.

Apparently the Zionists no longer trusted the British who they believed had reneged on the spirit of the 'Balfour Declaration'. In 1933 Arlosoroff went to Germany. Through his connections there, possibly helped with an introduction by Magda, he managed to achieve the Ha'avara program whereby German Jews could transfer some of their wealth to Palestine, via the circuitous route of purchasing German agricultural equipment, thereby facilitating Jewish immigration and settlement into Palestine.

He was interested to read that Arlosoroff was subsequently murdered, possibly because of his beliefs; the three suspects were known Revisionists believed to be acting on the orders of Jabotinsky.

Gareth discounted the alternative, that the Nazis were involved. It didn't seem likely that having just agreed a process of ridding themselves profitably of their Jewish population they would kill the author of the plan.

He reattached the photograph before closing the file.

He ferreted amongst the other folders he'd pulled out; interested by one marked 'Churchill conflict of interest' and in brackets below [family's Jewish financial backers]. He rubbed his ear, he felt this would irritate him even though he'd read somewhere about the support that Churchill received from the Jewish community in the so called wilderness years.

He read on, he wasn't prepared for what he found. Randolph Churchill had been bailed out by Rothschild for years so the family owed a debt of honour in that direction. Apparently Winston Churchill had been an alcoholic, a gambler and had been personally bailed out by Bernard Baruch and Sir Henry Straksoh, see footnote; Strakosh had been the main source of info re German re-armament for Churchill's campaign in Parliament.

He read on, there were unsubstantiated accusations of Churchill's homosexuality. Jesus, if any of this was ever publicly known, that would make him highly susceptible to blackmail. It can't be true. How did he ever attain such high office?

A little voice in his head answered the unspoken question: if he was owned by the wealthy then that might explain a thing or two, like why he pressed for war in the first place and why he kept on fighting after Dunkirk, why he squandered Britain's wealth and sacrificed the Empire for the sake of Zion.

He cast a cursory glance at two other folders he'd taken out.

The first covered the bombing of the King David hotel, 22nd July '46, organised by Menachem Begin, leader of the Zionist group Irgun, latterly Prime Minister of Israel, in which there had been 91 deaths; 28 of them British. The second covered the attack by the Israeli air force on the USS Liberty, 8th June '67; 34 Americans had been killed and 171 injured.

He tossed these back into the box as irrelevant to his current agenda and he had more than enough for his immediate needs.

Cheers

Arun

amazon.co.uk
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Helter-Skelt...


amazon.com
https://www.amazon.com/Helter-Skelter...

The book 'Helter Skelter' will be FREE for Kindle & PC download from Amazon until 29th April 2018

Descent 7

Louis sipped his tea and continued to channel hop. He allowed himself a moment to reflect on the old man's passing, aware that had the revelations of the past few weeks not been made then he would have been in full mourning. However, the knowledge had been given to him and couldn't be taken back; that it had been done on his great-grandfather's instructions and apparently in the belief that he would understand was just an added irritation. He didn't understand, he was angry and confused and ashamed.

He rubbed his head in frustration, he was descended from Nazis and he couldn't get rid of the notion that evil had come down through the family line to lodge in him.

Admittedly apart from a bit of shoplifting (and who didn't do that) and a drug dabble (ditto) and ok, he'd tried to kill himself but the family thought it had been a mistake so that didn't count, and anyway it was all years ago, so apart from all that, he'd done nothing to concern his family or friends, especially Jenna.

He shivered; they did not know him as he knew himself; he knew what he was capable of and where his darkest thoughts could go.

His phone buzzed, a text from Jenna.

He allowed himself a few moments to contemplate taking comfort with her. He could see her face, both troubled and caring, warm eyes, soft lips and for a moment he wavered. He wanted to be with her but the last time they'd met up he could talk of nothing but his mixed up feelings.

She'd not been as supportive as he'd hoped when he'd explained his need to search out evidence of the Holocaust his great-grandfather had challenged him to find. Nor did she appreciate his need to find similar evidence to refute all the old man's ramblings about pre and post-war conspiracies to stifle the 'social revolution'.

On the other hand, she'd supported his original plan to burn the folder and put the whole thing out of his head; that he hadn't done either of those things was a source of conflict between them that he couldn't handle right now and had no intention of revisiting anytime soon.

He ignored the text, sipped his tea and changed channel yet again.

The post clattering through the letter box broke through the immobility that had seized him. He snatched at the cardboard, ripping it open to reveal the book he'd ordered. He stared at it; to his mind, one of the most dangerous books ever written, one that professed to explain Hitler and the Nazis; clearly revisionist. He felt odd just holding it; somehow defiled. He was convinced he had been put on some surveillance list the minute he looked it up on line.

He sighed and sat back to read.

He hoped the book would be bunkum; easily dismissed to the file marked 'revisionist nonsense' that he was trying to compile. He had worked out a methodology to make his task easier; read until an outrageous claim was made and then check the claim either on line or on his bookshelves. He had been convinced he would find evidence to debunk the assertions but thus far he had only found evidence in support.

This book proved to be more of the same and three hours later he was still reading; finally he yawned and let the book slide from his lap, he wanted to read more but he was dog tired.

He pinched his cheeks, got up and splashed his face with water from the sink, did a few half-hearted stretches and resumed the task, deciding on an internet search to find an interview with the author, discussing his book. Ten minutes later he started to search elsewhere, the book might well have been intensively researched but the author was sending him to sleep.

He found several other revisionist videos and watched them over and over. Something in them, the very concept of what they preached left him feeling uncomfortable after every viewing.

He stood up and stretched, grabbed his coat and went for a walk.

He returned with a food stock that should hold him in good stead for the next few days while he continued his research. He made short work of a Belgian bun and a can of coke, then slumped down in front of his computer, flicking through until he found a traditional video on the causes of the war.
He watched with quiet satisfaction as frenzied, hysterical Germans, dragooned into lines along the roadside, saluted the megalomaniac dictator. The video had a backdrop of satanic music and the commentary was one he could relate to; Hitler deceiving the masses with tricks like 'Strength through joy' where he bought their loyalty with cheap rate holidays and cruises. It rattled through the same old stuff about how he reduced mass unemployment by building roads, once again buying the loyalty of the masses.

Louis found himself relaxing; his long-held beliefs re-energised as he watched. This fitted what he knew from extensive reading, that Hitler was a control freak, a pervert whose love life was a farce, a man who was obsessed with his mother and couldn't form proper relationships, who as a young man formed an obsession with a young girl, was virtually a stalker, hanging out on street corners with Kubizek, the homosexual. Who later in life totally controlled his niece Gellie until she committed suicide to escape him, then he latched onto Eva Braun. He was a controller of people, a master manipulator and this video proved it. Louis hadn't been aware of how much this revisionist junk had been bothering him.

Louis sighed, closed his eyes and fell asleep.

One hour later he woke with a start, a question thumping in his brain. His sleep hadn't been restful.
He had a test he wanted to conduct and he set to it at once. He watched five minutes of the traditional video he'd fallen asleep in front of, then he watched similar scenes on a revisionist video.

Finally, he turned the sound down and watched them again; without volume they were identical.
Both videos showed thousands of happy Germans all frantic to shake Hitler's hand and they weren't brown shirted party members, these were all ordinary Germans; old men and women, working-age adults, young women and young children.

He rested his fingertips on his forehead, his thoughts racing; stripped of the music or talk overs there was nothing to influence his interpretations. He was left to make his own conclusions of what he was seeing on the screen.

'If they loved him this much then maybe there was something in what he said, in what he and the Nazis offered the ordinary German people.'

He let his thoughts go where they would, conjuring a revolutionary system that encouraged people to work together and for the nation...and supposing it worked, got the German people back into employment when every other western economy remained on its knees, no work, soup kitchens and the like.....

He burst out, his voice loud in the quiet flat, "I need to listen to original broadcasts, hear it for myself. Fuck it, why didn't I learn German?"

He grabbed his cup, rinsed it out in the sink, switched on the kettle, threw a tea bag in the cup. 'So where do the Jews come in?'

The kettle boiled.

Louis poured the steaming water into his cup, his brain still racing, 'surely not? Churchill didn't pursue the war just because the National Socialist philosophy was taking hold? That would be insane, waging a war over conflicting political philosophical outlooks?'

Cheers

Arun

Amazon.co.uk
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Helter-Skelt...

Amazon.com
https://www.amazon.com/Helter-Skelter...

The book 'Helter Skelter' will be FREE for Kindle & PC download from Amazon until 29th April 2018

Descent 10

Louis had been disappointed but not surprised to find that Jenna had reported back to his mother that he was 'gaunt, wired and twitchy'.

As a result, he'd had the maternal telephone lecture about falling asleep in front of the PC or with a book in his lap not being the same as getting a proper night's sleep. When she'd threatened a visit if he didn't promise to be more sensible he'd complied with alacrity and got himself to bed at a decent hour. That he'd needed the help of a few shots to achieve release from a busy brain was neither here nor there.

In the grip now of an alcohol-fuelled deep sleep, he was dreaming; groaning and threshing about, the movements not sufficient to wake him.

"Herr Hitler," he said, not at all surprised to see the man alive and well.

He looked around, saw a field, flower beds, tables and chairs and benches and a few other people scattered round. No-one seemed to notice Hitler or that Louis was wearing pyjamas or if they did they were making a good job of hiding it.

"Hello Louis," Hitler said affably. "How have you been keeping?"

"I'm good, thank you," said Louis, a little confused; this was not how he had imagined him speaking, "do I call you Adolf, or Hitler or the Führer?"

"Most people call me the Führer. I allow some to call me Herr Hitler but you can call me Adolf, like my dear friend August."

" Kubizek?" said Louis.

"How are your studies, Louis?" asked Gampy Jags, appearing from behind Hitler.

Louis started, he hadn't been aware of his great grandfather, but there he was, strong and upright, resplendent in black SS dress uniform, "Christ, Gampy, you'll get us arrested!"

"All will be fine, Louis," said Gampy, "just listen to the Führer."

"Thank you, Oberleutnant Jaeger," said Hitler, "but I wish to speak to Louis alone." He smiled benignly, waiting until Gampy Jaggs had retreated some distance before saying, "I always did find all that ceremonial shit tiresome."

Louis responded tartly, "From the film footage I could've sworn you loved it."

"Ah," said Hitler, leaning back, "that was Goebbels, he liked the look of the thing."

"But you loved the power?"

"Tell me Louis, wouldn't you want the power to change things for the better?"

"For the betterment of whom, precisely?"

"Ah," said Hitler, brushing the question aside, "that's Mr. Churchill and the Jewish cabal that surrounded him talking. I made Germany a country worth living in."

"Mein Kampf is riddled with anti-Jewish stuff and it's in all your speeches. You planned to deprive them of their wealth, and their power and ultimately exterminate them."

"Sometimes you have to say things in a certain way to get the attention of the masses," said Hitler, smoothly. He started to walk away, "You shouldn't believe all the rubbish from your Mr. Churchill or that gangster, Roosevelt."

Louis rubbed his head, ran after him, "Where are you going? Why am I wearing pyjamas?"

Hitler ignored the question, saying instead, "The British and Americans made fun of my moustache, said I looked like that fool Chaplin but I used to have a bushy moustache, it came right out both sides, luxuriant and strong, but then one day the gas mask didn't seal and the gas got in. It was almost fatal. From then on I trimmed my moustache like others in the trenches. But what would Churchill or that cripple Roosevelt know of the trenches? I ask you, is this the mark of a fool or a badge of courage?"

"Why am I wearing pyjamas?"

"Here, take this." He watched as Louis shrugged into the beige trench coat with its abundance of epaulettes and storm flaps. He said, his voice musing, "One thing they did get right, I did come from the masses. Before the war I, like them, was poor and often starving, struggling to make ends meet."

"Yeah okay," said Louis, fiddling with buttons, "so you blamed the Jews, I get it."

"Silly boy, not the individual Jew, but the Jewish economic system that the world was slipping into, thanks to the rapid growth of the world's banking elite."

"Right," said Louis. Properly clothed he was now looking for an escape route.

An ice-cream vendor arrived next to him. The man seemed unsurprised to see them.

Hitler looked delighted, saying with a smile, "Two 99s."

"Oh yes!" said Louis, thrilled in spite of himself.

"£5.60 mate," said the ice cream man.

"You know me?" asked Hitler, winking at Louis, who was attacking his flake with gusto.

"Of course, Charlie Chaplin."

"So you'll know I'm good for it, put it on my slate."

"Is that Stalin?" asked Louis, ice cream on his nose.

"HA!" snarled Hitler, turning to glare at the heavy set man, "He turns up everywhere I go, won't leave me alone," he waved a fist, shouted, "I'll kick your fucking head in, commie bastard." He plunged his face into his ice cream, lifting it up to see Stalin twirling his moustache and summoning two surly-looking men to his side. He muttered an aside to Louis, "Let's move on a bit."

"Er, Adolf," said Louis, pointing to Hitler's moustache, "you've got some...um...ice cream."

"No distractions, Louis," said Hitler, tossing his cornet aside, "listen to me. It's important for you, for your country and your memory of Gampy Jaggs. Before and after the war Europeans lived in poverty but in Germany in 1918, we were desperate. Do you understand? Can you even begin to imagine what it was like for us, the country had been betrayed by the Jews...."

"The stab in the back," said Louis. Reluctant to throw his ice cream away he was trying to eat it without being seen. He muttered through a mouthful, "You made that up to cover your embarrassment at Germany's defeat."

"Not at all!" snapped Hitler, "World Jewry had contrived to defeat Germany so they could steal Palestine with British help and what of us, their victims? Our industries robbed of their produce, our mines confiscated, our land reduced, our empire given away to the British and French, our army reduced to 100,000 men whilst our enemies maintained forces in the millions right on our borders. Our navy was scuttled, we had no air force, we were weak and vulnerable to attack and the constant economic bullying of the old allies..."

"Er... .ice cream," said Louis, pointing under his own nose to demonstrate the position.

"The French invaded the Rhineland and stole our coal in 1923, the Poles were looking at stealing more land from us, the Czechs were pushing us around, everyone was taking what they wanted. We had an impossible national debt, that could never be repaid in a single lifetime... and we did not start the war. Do you understand our frustration, Louis?"

"Cakes for sale!" A woman was standing in front of them, a tray of cakes held out in offering.

"Ah! Cakes," said Hitler excitedly, "Ja! For me and for my good friend, Louis."

"Er..we're not, we're not...friends," said Louis, waving his hands.

"Cream buns," said Hitler, eyes crinkling at the thought, "ja, two. Put them on my tab."

He took a huge bite and the cream spurted out. "Germany was on her knees, Louis," he said, his cheeks stuffed full, "then recession hit and even more Germans were thrown out of work."

"It was the same for other countries, though," said Louis, staring at his own cake, wondering how to eat it without cream popping out from all sides.

"People were dying of starvation. Tens of thousands of German men committed suicide because they could not provide for their families, housewives became prostitutes. Our society crumbled, while rich Jews and American bankers were making a fortune out of our distress."

"I get the picture, you were suffering," said Louis, entranced by the blob of cream on Hitler's nose, not wanting to draw attention to it for fear of annoying the man.

"It all came about because of the Jewish banking system, Louis," said Hitler, "do you see?"

Louis decided to lick the cream out of the cake first, that way he could control how much cream came out when he bit into it.

"NO!" shouted Hitler. Louis jumped, almost dropping his cake. "No, Louis, not like that. Bite into it, enjoy the whole experience. This licking, it separates the tastes, you get no blend."

"But...urm...er" stammered Louis, "I'll get cream on my...er...nose."

"No matter your nose, how will you ever know the full pleasure if you lick out the cream?"

"Bite into it, boy," thundered Gampy Jags appearing from nowhere, "obey the Führer."

Louis did as he was bid and got cream on his nose.

"It tastes better, ja?" He didn't wait for an answer, instead returning to the subject in earnest, "Germany was destitute, trapped between two ideologies; Judeo-capitalism was robbing the country blind and the Russian Communists crushing us beneath a common uniformity."

Louis, was still struggling with his cake, "Where did I put my 99? I can't remember eating it!"

Hitler continued undeterred, "My aim was to free my people from the Jewish economic yoke, and drive out the Bolsheviks from Berlin. That was my aim Louis, my only aim."

"You wanted to conquer the world."

"That was the accusation the Jews put into Mr. Churchill's mouth. They didn't want to lose their power, their control of all of the key posts and jobs, all the money. Ordinary Germans had been ruined by the war and the recession. Only the Vons and Jews came out on top."

"Why didn't you wage war on the Vons then?"

Hitler looked affronted, said, "They were German, Louis. I believed they would put Germany before their own self interests. All I wanted was to bring Germany back to her former glory."

"How does that fit with invading Czechoslovakia and Poland?" demanded Louis.

"Again they have obscured the truth; the Poles had a plan to invade Prussia as far as Berlin and all we had to protect ourselves was a pitiful army of 100,000 men."

"But you invaded Poland," said Louis, wiping the cream from his nose.

"They were killing Germans, we had daily reports of new casualties, the Poles were goading us into war. I had no choice, was I to let the Poles go on murdering Germans? Would Mr. Chamberlain have let any foreign power murder Englishmen without reprisal? I think not."

"Well, that's as maybe," said Louis, "but you resorted to war instead of negotiation."

"I had tried to negotiate, but as soon as Rydz-Śmigly got Mr. Chamberlain's ridiculous treaty he would not listen. Who can blame him? If I had had such a commitment from the British Prime Minister then I too would've tried to win the world."

"I need the toilet," said Louis, crossing his legs awkwardly.

"Answer me this, at the turn of the twentieth Century Europe was wholly Christian and followed the word of Jesus, ja?"

Louis nodded, "I really need to go now."

"And now very few Europeans follow Christ, is that true?"

Louis scrunched up his face. It seemed important not to let go of his bladder at this point.

"But a lot of people still believe in God, is that not right?" pressed Hitler.

"So?"

"Jews do not believe in Christ, Louis," said Hitler, "they have killed European Christianity but left God as the supreme power. Ergo, they have killed Christ a second time."

Louis awoke with a start, extricated himself from his duvet, tumbled out of bed and rushed to the toilet, 'Fuckin' 'ell,' he thought, 'I've gotta lay off the Hitler stuff....."

Cheers

Arun


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Descent 11


"Okay Adolf, you canny old bastard."

Louis was at his book shelves, rummaging. He had taken to referring to Hitler by his Christian name ever since his dream, feeling as if he'd been given permission. He was also speaking out loud, something he had been doing more and more, "Let's just check out your racial theories, shall we? I know just the place to start, Jesse Owens. Let's see, you wouldn't shake the black man's hand, or so legend has it..."

He stopped abruptly, scowling, then his glance fell to the piles of books on the floor, seeing them as if for the first time. He knelt down and continued rummaging, "now... 1936 Olympics, got to be here somewhere."

He sat back, dispirited.

He did have rather a lot of books; some he'd accumulated over several years, a few had come in courtesy of Dave, still more had been coming in the door fast and furiously over recent weeks. He had not disposed of the packaging that the new ones had come in and this added to the general disorder. "I'll have to alpha sort this lot one day, but not now..."

He reached for his phone and speed dialled Jenna.

"Hi babe," he spoke over her excited cries, "have you seen my Nazi Olympics book?"

"What?" Her voice was instantly frosty.

"My Nazi Olympics book." Her icy tone had not registered.

"I heard you, Louis but seriously, that's the first thing you say to me?"

"What's wrong?" He leaned over to dig about in one of his stacks, "Who's upset you?"

"Louis, we haven't seen each other for a week, doesn't that mean anything to you?"

He stood up, she had his attention, "Sorry Jenna, I've just been so busy studying."

"Rubbish Louis, you're still researching your great-grandfather's folder."

'Oops,' thought Louis, 'busted.'

"Louis?"

"Yeah," said Louis, not realising he had been expected to say more.

"LOUIS!"

"Sorry, I know it's been ages," he spoke hastily, fearing a visit, "but I've been studying babe, honest. I changed my thesis, combined the two...look, I'll try and get to see you tonight...."

"Oh, don't trouble yourself, not for my sake," said Jenna, trap laid. She waited for the protestations, the promise to turn up come hell or high water.

Louis was about to do exactly that but he spotted the book he had been seeking, 'YES!'

"Well?" pressed Jenna.

"Cheers babe," said Louis, a smile on his face, as he hung up.

He grabbed the book and stumbled over to his desk, searching the index for Jesse Owens, found the bit he wanted page 227 item 17 and read through the paragraph, 'Owens was the recipient of more adulation than any other athlete had received from the German crowds.' And what's this? Jesse Owens claimed that 'When I passed the Chancellor he arose, waved his hand at me, and I waved back at him. I think the writers showed bad taste in criticizing the man of the hour in Germany'.

"No, fuck!" wailed Louis, "FUCK!"

His head drooped, he waited a few seconds then turned the page, it went on, 'Hitler had congratulated several German and Finnish winners on the first day but as the day ended he left early and didn't shake the hands of the American high jumpers, two of whom were black.' "Hmm, now I have you Adolf, you lying bastard, that's more like the racist we know." He read on, 'Count Baillet-Latour, president of the International Olympic Committee, sent a message to Hitler that he was only a guest of honour and should either congratulate all of the winners or none, so Hitler chose none. So it is unclear whether he would've shaken Jesse Owens' hand or not.'

Louis dropped the book, "You're a right dodgy bastard Adolf, kept everything under a shroud of mystery. Would you or wouldn't you have shaken Jesse Owens' hand? Damn you."

He got up and paced, telling the room, "And, as if that wasn't enough, Owens returned to segregation and poverty in the US, forced to earn a living racing horses." He sighed heavily, said, "A country where they were still lynching blacks not to mention keeping the Indians on reservations. Fuck, this is so messed up."

His phone buzzed, he checked, it was Jenna. He ignored it, he had bigger fish to fry. 

∞

Louis tossed and turned unable to sleep. Hitler was trampling through his thoughts; so many questions and no way of gaining any answers.

He kicked off the duvet and rolled out of bed. No point trying to sleep; he might as well get back to his research. He reached for his jacket and pulled out a small packet of pills. This time he had insisted on paying Dave. He popped one into his mouth and dry swallowed.

He waited until the immediate and familiar buzzing had quietened down, waited for the surge of creative energy, the second stage of the process that came when the chemicals fully hit his bloodstream.
He'd noticed a slight lag in the timing of the surge, a longer period of the angry buzzing, and was wondering if he'd got a bad batch. It was more likely that he was growing impatient.

While he waited he stared at the ceiling, his thoughts wandering back to a time in his early teens, when he had struggled with the meaning of life. The circularity of these thoughts had thrown him into mental turmoil. He had little recollection of that time in his life but for the residual feeling of frantic panic.
The chaos he was feeling now was reminiscent of the confusion he had experienced in those dark days.

He had been told by his mother that he had sat staring at the walls for weeks on end, so desperate had he been to resolve the issue of where life had come from and how it had evolved. He knew he had been 'referred' for treatment with a Dr Stephanovich and with that recollection came the memory of his 'therapeutic friend' the one that Dr Stephanovich had conjured for him to help break the cycle, the friend that was meant to bring him back from the depths of his mind.

Louis shuddered at the memory; it had worked but there had been consequences.

Where Dr Stephanovich had created a pleasant cuddly Koala Bear figure and called it Milo Louis' mind had turned it into a ghoulish zombie-like creature that wanted to kill his parents. It had taken a suicide attempt to bring him out of that and he certainly had no desire to return.

He stared at the wall and tried to conjure Hitler's image. Nothing. He tried again, nothing.

He flopped down and swiped his tablet into life and started interrogating the internet for more revisionist videos. On the wall of his living room he now had three pictures of Hitler in various poses.
That was another reason he didn't want anyone round his flat; he'd have a hard job explaining them away. He'd spent so much time studying them and
Hitler that he now more or less knew every expression that the man had, or at least every televised version.

"This is insane," moaned Louis, as he finished another video showing how the holocaust could not have happened, "how could this be?"

"You just have to look, Louis," said Gampy Jaggs.

Louis woke with a start, although he couldn't be certain he'd been asleep. The video was still showing the credits but he was sure he'd heard Gampy's voice.

It was all getting too much for him; he was researched out, he knew everything there was to know about the revisionist claims, he knew all the revisionists' names, all their theories. He knew all the counteracting arguments.

His mind was awash with numbers and stats and Zyklon B and camp names and Poland and who declared war on who and when and what this leader and that leader meant by this or that but it was all a jumbled mess and none of it seemed to help him to a satisfactory conclusion.

He got his coat and walked out of the flat; fresh air would clear his mind.

He stopped, he was in the middle of the cereal aisle in a supermarket. He frowned, he had no memory of going in the shop, of the roads leading to it.

"Psst!"

He looked around, the aisle was empty but people were walking past at the bottom. He looked over to the nearest shelf, there was a picture of Hitler on a cornflakes box. He squinted, got up very close. 'Really? Hitler? On a box of cornflakes?'

"Cakes," said the face on the box. It sounded like a demand.

Louis slapped his cheeks, hard. Christ, he was hallucinating.

"Cakes," the demand came again.

"What are you doing here? How did you get here? Just go, before people see you," said Louis, waving him away, "are you even here? Am I here? Is this another dream?"

Just then two small children ran past, their mum close behind. She tossed some cereal boxes in her trolley, smiled at Louis and marched on.

Louis swallowed, looked back at the cornflakes box, no Hitler, he gulped, wiped his sweaty brow and made his way to the cake aisle.

He woke to find he was back in his flat. Or perhaps he had never left? He was holding a book, no longer reading the words, they were a blur.

It struck him that no matter what he read or where he looked he couldn't actually find any factual evidence that the holocaust as described ever happened. Of course, there were plenty of pictures of Jews with their suitcases, having their names written down at desks, getting onto over-crowded freight trains. There were pictures of gaunt people in rags, starving and probably dying of typhus which, although horrible in itself, was not proof of gas chambers.

"Fucking hell Gampy! Why couldn't you have been normal? Why did you have to saddle me with this?"

His voice sounded odd to his own ears, as if he was in a large, empty space.

"I need you to understand Louis," said Gampy.

"Yeah of course," said Louis, without thinking.

"It did not happen and I want you to be the one to tell the world."

Louis went over it again in his mind, desperately trying to be fair.

There was plenty of witness testimony and hearsay but never of the gas chambers only of the treatment that individual Jews had received from their prison guards. Whenever it came to the gas chambers themselves the so called witnesses always said something along the lines of "And of course they were sent to the gas chambers," and then, when pressed on the details, they said, "Well I never actually saw them go in myself but we never saw them again and the flames were always burning at the top of the crematoria." If he did find a witness testimony it was so outrageous that it would surely have been inadmissible in any court of law.

"No-one will listen," said Louis, still conversing happily with his dead Gampy, "All the revisionists are ruined; if they're not in prison for denying the holocaust then their careers are well and truly fucked."

"But I need you to be brave, Louis, like we were."

"You hid it from me, and from the world, you weren't brave," snapped Louis.

He waited several minutes, then, "Gampy?"
Silence.

"Gampy?"


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Descent 10

Louis had been disappointed but not surprised to find that Jenna had reported back to his mother that he was 'gaunt, wired and twitchy'.

As a result, he'd had the maternal telephone lecture about falling asleep in front of the PC or with a book in his lap not being the same as getting a proper night's sleep. When she'd threatened a visit if he didn't promise to be more sensible he'd complied with alacrity and got himself to bed at a decent hour. That he'd needed the help of a few shots to achieve release from a busy brain was neither here nor there.

In the grip now of an alcohol-fuelled deep sleep, he was dreaming; groaning and threshing about, the movements not sufficient to wake him.

"Herr Hitler," he said, not at all surprised to see the man alive and well.

He looked around, saw a field, flower beds, tables and chairs and benches and a few other people scattered round. No-one seemed to notice Hitler or that Louis was wearing pyjamas or if they did they were making a good job of hiding it.

"Hello Louis," Hitler said affably. "How have you been keeping?"

"I'm good, thank you," said Louis, a little confused; this was not how he had imagined him speaking, "do I call you Adolf, or Hitler or the Führer?"

"Most people call me the Führer. I allow some to call me Herr Hitler but you can call me Adolf, like my dear friend August."

" Kubizek?" said Louis.

"How are your studies, Louis?" asked Gampy Jags, appearing from behind Hitler.

Louis started, he hadn't been aware of his great grandfather, but there he was, strong and upright, resplendent in black SS dress uniform, "Christ, Gampy, you'll get us arrested!"

"All will be fine, Louis," said Gampy, "just listen to the Führer."

"Thank you, Oberleutnant Jaeger," said Hitler, "but I wish to speak to Louis alone." He smiled benignly, waiting until Gampy Jaggs had retreated some distance before saying, "I always did find all that ceremonial shit tiresome."

Louis responded tartly, "From the film footage I could've sworn you loved it."

"Ah," said Hitler, leaning back, "that was Goebbels, he liked the look of the thing."

"But you loved the power?"

"Tell me Louis, wouldn't you want the power to change things for the better?"

"For the betterment of whom, precisely?"

"Ah," said Hitler, brushing the question aside, "that's Mr. Churchill and the Jewish cabal that surrounded him talking. I made Germany a country worth living in."

"Mein Kampf is riddled with anti-Jewish stuff and it's in all your speeches. You planned to deprive them of their wealth, and their power and ultimately exterminate them."

"Sometimes you have to say things in a certain way to get the attention of the masses," said Hitler, smoothly. He started to walk away, "You shouldn't believe all the rubbish from your Mr. Churchill or that gangster, Roosevelt."

Louis rubbed his head, ran after him, "Where are you going? Why am I wearing pyjamas?"

Hitler ignored the question, saying instead, "The British and Americans made fun of my moustache, said I looked like that fool Chaplin but I used to have a bushy moustache, it came right out both sides, luxuriant and strong, but then one day the gas mask didn't seal and the gas got in. It was almost fatal. From then on I trimmed my moustache like others in the trenches. But what would Churchill or that cripple Roosevelt know of the trenches? I ask you, is this the mark of a fool or a badge of courage?"

"Why am I wearing pyjamas?"

"Here, take this." He watched as Louis shrugged into the beige trench coat with its abundance of epaulettes and storm flaps. He said, his voice musing, "One thing they did get right, I did come from the masses. Before the war I, like them, was poor and often starving, struggling to make ends meet."

"Yeah okay," said Louis, fiddling with buttons, "so you blamed the Jews, I get it."

"Silly boy, not the individual Jew, but the Jewish economic system that the world was slipping into, thanks to the rapid growth of the world's banking elite."

"Right," said Louis. Properly clothed he was now looking for an escape route.

An ice-cream vendor arrived next to him. The man seemed unsurprised to see them.

Hitler looked delighted, saying with a smile, "Two 99s."

"Oh yes!" said Louis, thrilled in spite of himself.

"£5.60 mate," said the ice cream man.

"You know me?" asked Hitler, winking at Louis, who was attacking his flake with gusto.

"Of course, Charlie Chaplin."

"So you'll know I'm good for it, put it on my slate."

"Is that Stalin?" asked Louis, ice cream on his nose.

"HA!" snarled Hitler, turning to glare at the heavy set man, "He turns up everywhere I go, won't leave me alone," he waved a fist, shouted, "I'll kick your fucking head in, commie bastard." He plunged his face into his ice cream, lifting it up to see Stalin twirling his moustache and summoning two surly-looking men to his side. He muttered an aside to Louis, "Let's move on a bit."

"Er, Adolf," said Louis, pointing to Hitler's moustache, "you've got some...um...ice cream."

"No distractions, Louis," said Hitler, tossing his cornet aside, "listen to me. It's important for you, for your country and your memory of Gampy Jaggs. Before and after the war Europeans lived in poverty but in Germany in 1918, we were desperate. Do you understand? Can you even begin to imagine what it was like for us, the country had been betrayed by the Jews...."

"The stab in the back," said Louis. Reluctant to throw his ice cream away he was trying to eat it without being seen. He muttered through a mouthful, "You made that up to cover your embarrassment at Germany's defeat."

"Not at all!" snapped Hitler, "World Jewry had contrived to defeat Germany so they could steal Palestine with British help and what of us, their victims? Our industries robbed of their produce, our mines confiscated, our land reduced, our empire given away to the British and French, our army reduced to 100,000 men whilst our enemies maintained forces in the millions right on our borders. Our navy was scuttled, we had no air force, we were weak and vulnerable to attack and the constant economic bullying of the old allies..."

"Er... .ice cream," said Louis, pointing under his own nose to demonstrate the position.

"The French invaded the Rhineland and stole our coal in 1923, the Poles were looking at stealing more land from us, the Czechs were pushing us around, everyone was taking what they wanted. We had an impossible national debt, that could never be repaid in a single lifetime... and we did not start the war. Do you understand our frustration, Louis?"

"Cakes for sale!" A woman was standing in front of them, a tray of cakes held out in offering.

"Ah! Cakes," said Hitler excitedly, "Ja! For me and for my good friend, Louis."

"Er..we're not, we're not...friends," said Louis, waving his hands.

"Cream buns," said Hitler, eyes crinkling at the thought, "ja, two. Put them on my tab."

He took a huge bite and the cream spurted out. "Germany was on her knees, Louis," he said, his cheeks stuffed full, "then recession hit and even more Germans were thrown out of work."

"It was the same for other countries, though," said Louis, staring at his own cake, wondering how to eat it without cream popping out from all sides.

"People were dying of starvation. Tens of thousands of German men committed suicide because they could not provide for their families, housewives became prostitutes. Our society crumbled, while rich Jews and American bankers were making a fortune out of our distress."

"I get the picture, you were suffering," said Louis, entranced by the blob of cream on Hitler's nose, not wanting to draw attention to it for fear of annoying the man.

"It all came about because of the Jewish banking system, Louis," said Hitler, "do you see?"

Louis decided to lick the cream out of the cake first, that way he could control how much cream came out when he bit into it.

"NO!" shouted Hitler. Louis jumped, almost dropping his cake. "No, Louis, not like that. Bite into it, enjoy the whole experience. This licking, it separates the tastes, you get no blend."

"But...urm...er" stammered Louis, "I'll get cream on my...er...nose."

"No matter your nose, how will you ever know the full pleasure if you lick out the cream?"

"Bite into it, boy," thundered Gampy Jags appearing from nowhere, "obey the Führer."

Louis did as he was bid and got cream on his nose.

"It tastes better, ja?" He didn't wait for an answer, instead returning to the subject in earnest, "Germany was destitute, trapped between two ideologies; Judeo-capitalism was robbing the country blind and the Russian Communists crushing us beneath a common uniformity."

Louis, was still struggling with his cake, "Where did I put my 99? I can't remember eating it!"

Hitler continued undeterred, "My aim was to free my people from the Jewish economic yoke, and drive out the Bolsheviks from Berlin. That was my aim Louis, my only aim."

"You wanted to conquer the world."

"That was the accusation the Jews put into Mr. Churchill's mouth. They didn't want to lose their power, their control of all of the key posts and jobs, all the money. Ordinary Germans had been ruined by the war and the recession. Only the Vons and Jews came out on top."

"Why didn't you wage war on the Vons then?"

Hitler looked affronted, said, "They were German, Louis. I believed they would put Germany before their own self interests. All I wanted was to bring Germany back to her former glory."

"How does that fit with invading Czechoslovakia and Poland?" demanded Louis.

"Again they have obscured the truth; the Poles had a plan to invade Prussia as far as Berlin and all we had to protect ourselves was a pitiful army of 100,000 men."

"But you invaded Poland," said Louis, wiping the cream from his nose.

"They were killing Germans, we had daily reports of new casualties, the Poles were goading us into war. I had no choice, was I to let the Poles go on murdering Germans? Would Mr. Chamberlain have let any foreign power murder Englishmen without reprisal? I think not."

"Well, that's as maybe," said Louis, "but you resorted to war instead of negotiation."

"I had tried to negotiate, but as soon as Rydz-Śmigly got Mr. Chamberlain's ridiculous treaty he would not listen. Who can blame him? If I had had such a commitment from the British Prime Minister then I too would've tried to win the world."

"I need the toilet," said Louis, crossing his legs awkwardly.

"Answer me this, at the turn of the twentieth Century Europe was wholly Christian and followed the word of Jesus, ja?"

Louis nodded, "I really need to go now."

"And now very few Europeans follow Christ, is that true?"

Louis scrunched up his face. It seemed important not to let go of his bladder at this point.

"But a lot of people still believe in God, is that not right?" pressed Hitler.

"So?"

"Jews do not believe in Christ, Louis," said Hitler, "they have killed European Christianity but left God as the supreme power. Ergo, they have killed Christ a second time."

Louis awoke with a start, extricated himself from his duvet, tumbled out of bed and rushed to the toilet, 'Fuckin' 'ell,' he thought, 'I've gotta lay off the Hitler stuff....."

Cheers

Arun


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