THE BONUS: By Michael A. Kechula
Friday, December 16th, 2011When the New York Transit cop moved to the next subway car, a skinhead with a swastika tattoo on his neck approached an old woman. She frowned and waved her hand as if shooing a horsefly.
“What’s your problem?” I asked the skinhead.
“Nothing a few bucks can’t fix,” he said. “Can you spare some?”
“I don’t give money away. But, if you’re hungry, I’m good for a burger and fries.
“Yeah, I’m hungry. I ain’t et all day.”
“I know a good burger place at the next stop,” I said.
* * * *
“This country’s turning into a Third World toilet,” the skinhead said, his mouth full of greasy fries. “Only the Master Race can save it. Popping open a battered wallet and flashing a photograph, he added, “This is one who should be running the country. He’d shut the borders, put up a fence, and get rid of all the mongrel vermin—overnight.”
“I knew him well,” I said, pointing to his picture of Adolf Hitler, the leader of Nazi Germany.
“You knew the Fuhrer?”
“Yes. Actually, I still do.”
“Bullcrap. He’s been dead over sixty years. And you don’t look more than forty.”
“You can’t tell a book by its cover. I was his personal physician. In fact, I’m twenty years his senior.”
“What the hell are you talking about? That’d make you way over a hundred years old.”
“Correct. You see, I made a monumental discovery back in 1935. Something the world has been seeking for thousands of years—the Fountain of Youth.”
“You’re kidding me,” skinhead said.
“I can prove it. How’d you like to meet the very man whose picture you have in your wallet—whose symbol is emblazoned on your neck?”
“What? Meet Hitler? Oh, man, I’d give my left nut if that was possible.”
“Then get a knife and slice it off, because he’s alive, and living right here in Manhattan.”
I pressed a key on my cell phone. “Hello? Mein Fuhrer? Do you have a moment to speak to an ardent admirer? He’s fallen on hard times, but I think he may be of great service in your plans to resurrect the Third Reich.”
I passed the phone to skinhead.
When he pressed it to his ear, his scowl changed to awe. His slumped body suddenly stiffened. “Yes, Fuhrer. I would gladly lie, cheat, and steal for you.” After a pause, he added, “Yes, I’d gladly risk my life for the glorious Reich. What do you want me to do?”
Skinhead listened, said goodbye to his hero, and passed me the phone.
“This is awesome! He actually wants to meet me, outside. He said he’ll be here in a few minutes.”
“You’re tremendously honored,” I said. “Very few ever get to meet him. It’s too dangerous. Spectacular lies that were spread about him have poisoned the minds of billions.”
“He said he’d meet me behind the dumpster. I wonder how he knows one’s there?”
“He comes here often. He likes their French fries. Says it reminds him of his triumphal entrance into Paris after his army defeated the French in 1940.”
“Don’t people recognize him?”
“No. Long ago he had plastic surgery. Well, perhaps we should leave. We don’t want to keep him waiting.”
We went out and waited behind the dumpster.
Skinhead looked from left to right in anticipation of his hero’s arrival. Consequently, he didn’t see the black form descending from the night sky. The impact knocked skinhead to the ground. Before he could react, the form’s teeth pierced his jugular.
“Delicious,” said my Master. “The blood of these skinheads is simply divine. I’m shamelessly hooked. I do hope the supply is plentiful.”
“From what I’ve seen in this city, Master, there’s enough for years of wonderful feasting.”
“Wonderful! You’ve earned a bonus. Expect to see two extra mice in your dinner tonight.”
I found myself salivating, as I headed for the subway to snare another skinhead.
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©2011 Michael A. Kechula
