By Michael A. Kechula
When the New York Transit cop moved to the next subway car, the skinhead with a swastika tattooed on his forehead approached an old woman. She frowned and waved her hand as if shooing a horsefly.
I approached him and asked, “What’s your problem?”
“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,” skinhead said, as he munched 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.”
“I knew him well,” I said, pointing to his picture of Adolf Hitler.
“You knew the Fuehrer?”
“Yes. Actually I still do.”
“Bull crap! 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’m 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,” I said. “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 glorious symbol is emblazoned on your forehead?”
“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 keys on my cell phone. “Hello, mein Fuehrer. 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.
“Yes, mein Fuehrer,” he said. “I’d gladly lie, cheat, steal, and kill for you.” After listening a few moments he added, “I’d consider it a great privilege to risk my life for the glorious Reich. What would you like me to do to advance your holy cause?”
Skinhead listened a while longer, then bid goodbye to his hero. “This is awesome!” he said. “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 Hitler. It’s too dangerous. The 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. He says they remind him of his triumphal entrance into Paris in 1940.”
“Don’t people recognize him when he shows up in public?”
“No. Long ago he had plastic surgery. We better leave now. We don’t want to keep him waiting.”
We went outside 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 thing descending from the night sky. The impact knocked skinhead to the ground. Before he could react, fangs 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.”
“You’ve done well. In fact, you’ve earned a bonus. Expect to see two extra mice on your dinner plate, tonight.”
I found myself salivating, as I headed for the subway to snare another skinhead.
- - -
Michael A. Kechula's flash fiction has been published by 126 magazines and 35 anthologies in 6 countries. He's authored two collections of flash fiction tales: "A Full Deck of Zombies - 61 Speculative Fiction Tales" and "The Area 51 Option and 70 More Speculative Fiction Tales."
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