The Scarlet Letter
Volume III, Number 2 | December 1995
The Redemption of Adolf Hitler, Part II
By Fr. Catfish-Seahorse
Sam Clemens was laughing his ass off. He climbed a tree, hook the snow from its branches. He jumped forty feet into the air and landed in the top of another tree. He hopscotched all around that side of Mt. Shasta in twenty foot bounds. He stood on his head in the snow.
"Gautama, I think perhaps Sam is cured of his indigestion," said Jesus.
"Yes," answered The Buddha, "so it would seem. But don't you think Sam is getting a little carried away now? I mean, I laughed, too. I laughed for five whole minutes. I laughed until my belly shook. But it seems that Sam is overdoing it a little."
"You have to allow Sam his fun. Being President of the Lemurian High Council is an awesome task, so when he has the chance to engage in a little of his perverse recreation, he goes for the gusto."
Clemens sprang a hundred and fifty feet into the air and landed on top of The Buddha's head, where he did a little pirouette, then floated gently to within inches of the ground. "We did it!" he exclaimed. "Dog my cats, we did it! Little Adolph will be so confused he won't know whether to squat or stand when he goes to piss!"
The three congratulated themselves on the professional manner in which they'd handled the deflection of Hitler's transmigration beam.
"All for one, and one for all!" shouted Jesus. "This is better than watching The Beverly Hillbillies!" They joined hands and danced around in a circle.
Finally, Clemens calmed down a little. "Well, let's not forget who we're dealing with. Our little transvestite is still more dangerous than your average rattlesnake. We have to keep a constant watch on him. Let's go look into my crystal ball and see what he's up to."
They floated up the mountain on a flying carpet they'd borrowed from a Sufi saint and soon reached the entrance to the Presidential Quarters, a large hole in the snow which reached into some other dimension, known only to Lemurians and certain choice saints and divinities.
Clemens led the way into a spacious chamber, bumping his halo on flail-sized replica of a nineteenth century steamboat.
"Damn!" he swore. "This place is getting so cluttered up with junk I ought to set fire to it and move into another apartment."
They positioned themselves before a large crystal ball. "Hibble bibble work and scribble," Clemens intoned, "let's all view young Adolf's trouble!"
Soon a picture appeared in the crystal ball. This is what they saw:
* * * * *
A distressed Hitler sat on a waterbed in a body he had not meant to be in, dressed in clothing he would not have worn in his kinkiest dream. He grabbed his wig, hurled it to the floor. He reached into his purse and pulled out a Kleenex and dabbed at the tears streaming down his face.
I should have listened to Mother. I should have been a dog catcher, he thought.
Finally, the full implications of his situation sunk in. Hitler began to bawl, to scream, to pray, to curse. He fell to the floor and assaulted the carpet with his fists and feet. He threw a regular tantrum.
At length, he began to get control of himself. "I know this body's personality will always influence my actions to a degree," he said aloud, "but this is ridiculous. I must remember my training. I must learn to override this body's programming enough to function in this society"
How did I come to my present circumstances, he wondered. Ah, it must have been those damn Lemurians.They must have deflected my transmigration beam. So they think they're funny, huh? Well, I'll fix them. I'll request a recall, then return in a form complementary to the monster that I am.
He began to set up a telepathic link with his sector commander. "Delta Zero Eight this is Delta One Four, over."
A weary voice replied, "One Four, Zero Eight, over."
Hitler began to explain his situation to the commander, but was cut short.
"Shut the hell up and listen, you little incompetent. The High Council is well away of your situation. Some of them got quite a chuckle out of it. But it was almost unanimously decided that you are to continue with your mission in your present form, We don't have time to be beaming your hither and yon, in and out of various bodies.Thjs is a combat situation. Under the circumstances, you must complete your mission as a fag. That is all. Don't bother me again. Zero Eight, out."
Hitler sat for a while in stunned silence, then began softly to weep. Finally, he wiped his eyes, blew his nose on his sleeve. "Well, if that's the way they want it," he thought,"that's the way I must play it. Nobody ever said Adolf Hitler was a quitter, or if they did, it's just because they didn't know me. This damn body just gives me one more reason to want to see this world destroyed." He rose, went to the restroom and splashed cold water on his face. He sat down on the sofa to make devious plans, mascara trickling down his nose.
The ringing of the alarm clock announced that it was time to rise. Hitler had a flashback, thought he was hearing an air raid siren. He sprang from the bed, looking wildly around, jumped into the closet. Then he recognized the sound for what it was and emerged, tangled in a couple of evening gowns. He smashed an unabridged dictionary down upon the clock, scattering it into its major component parts. "Damn chatterbox," he snarled.
He switched on the tube and tuned in to Good Morning America. Joan Lunden was interviewing a Hitler scholar about the newly discovered Hitler Diaries. "They're fakes," the scholar said.
"They're not fakes!" screamed Hitler. "Can't you read, you infernal dolt! Who else but the Fuehrer could have produced those masterpieces?" He picked up the set, threw it out the window, where it narrowly missed the head of Anita Bryant, who had come to clean up San Francisco.
Hitler consumed a goodly portion of Scotch for breakfast. Thus fortified, he donned his work clothes and went to make hamburgers.
He arrived at the burger stand a little before eight. He put on his apron and began to form patties from ground beef. Suddenly, he was grabbed from behind. Something began humping him. Vigorously.
Hitler screamed and tore loose from the vise-like grasp. He had made a thorough inventory of Scott Jerome's memories, so he quickly recognized his assailant, Jud McEnroe.
Jud was his co-worker. And Jud was as queer as a three-dollar bill.
Hitler instinctively flung a hamburger patty into Jud's face. He backed up against the wail, quivering.
"What the hell?" Jud exclaimed. "I didn't mean to scare you that bad, Scott."
Jud approached Hitler, his hand outstretched. "Let's kiss and make up."
"Don't come near me you... you fag!" Hitler growled.
Jud stopped in mid-stride, shocked. "That's not what you said the other night. Scott, what's wrong? Listen, Bill doesn't mean anything to me, it's just that I..."
With an anguished yell, Hitler charged past Jud and ran out into the street, chucking his apron as he went. He didn't slow down for five blocks.
Hitler moped about the streets of San Francisco all day. Sometimes, when he would meet an unusually fine male specimen, he noticed a strange sensation in his loins. Finally, he had to face the fact. Through no fault or desire of his own, he was trapped in the body of a fag. And like it or not, he had a mission to complete. There must be a way for a transvestite to come to power in this world, he mused. There must be.
Hitler went back to his apartment and made a satisfactory dinner, then tried to relax with a friendly bottle of Scotch. He was trying to keep his hand from straying to a Playgirl magazine on the coffee table when a rushing, mighty wind coursed through the room. And at that moment, Samuel Langhorne Clemens flew through the window on a broomstick, his long white hair trailing behind him.
"Got a shot of whiskey for a weary sojourner in the wilderness?" Clemens asked.
"Who...who are you?" Hitler gasped.
Clemens parked his broom, stepped down. He drew himself up regally, and announced in solemn tones, "I am Samuel Langhorne Clemens, often known as Mark Twain, President of the Lemurian High Council. And you , I believe, are Adolf Hitler, would-be world ruler and cosmic loser. Am I correct?"
"Yes... no! I don't know!" Hitler wailed.
"That's typical," remarked Clemens. "About that whiskey..."
"There's some Jack Daniel's somewhere in the kitchen," Hitler mumbled.
Clemens disappeared into the kitchen and emerged a moment later with a bottle. He hefted it and tried a sip. "Aaarh! Cuts like a file. That stuff ought to kill worms and keep you from picking your nose."
He raised the bottle again and swallowed half it's contents in one tremendous gulp. "So how does it feel to be a fag?"
"Don't you know?" came the rejoinder.
"Well, I'm glad to see you've retained your sense of humor." Clemens made himself at home in an easy chair. "Perhaps you are enjoying your fate. If so, my visit is in vain. But if you want to be released from the body of Scott Jerome, all you have to do is swear allegiance to the Lemurian High Council and agree to go to work for us. Admittedly, you are a child in terms of your ability at cosmic espionage, but we might be able to train you to be of some use. We could give you a new body and a new mission, we could make you into a useful citizen of the cosmos instead of a worthless hog. How about it?"
Hitler glowered at the unperturbed Clemens. "Smarty-pants.You think you're something.You Lemurians think you've got all the brains. But let me tell you, buster, in this war between you guys in white hats and we who favor dark, the odds are on our side. Darkness shall triumph! And when we do, you people will be banished to the outer darkness of total chaos. Ultimately, Samuel Clemens, you and your kind will be destroyed!"
"Tisk, tisk. Shiva doesn't ever tell you boy's any more than he has to, does he? You can't win this war, any more than we can. This little game is set up so that neither of us can win. All we can do is maintain some sort of balance. Sometimes Shiva wins, sometimes we win. But if either of us were to win some sort of ultimate victory, the game would be ruined and nobody would enjoy it anymore. Why, nobody could even pretend to play it anymore! But that is all idle speculation and doesn't mean doodly-squat, for it is a cosmic law that ultimate victories are impossible.
"It is important to remember, however, that we who serve the Forces of Light must always maintain a slight edge. We are permitted to win more victories than you, we are given a little more power than you. That is not necessarily a sign of favoritism on the part of the universe, it's just the only way to maintain balance. Study the history and laws of the universe.You'll see."
They sat for a while in silence. Finally Hitler replied, "If what you way is true, the Earth could still be destroyed. Maybe the Forces of Light have won their fair share of victories in the universe for this eon. Maybe Shiva is destined to win."
"Maybe so," Clemens agreed. "But I don't think he can win with the help of a transvestite. Do you?"
Hitler sprang to his feet. "He can win with the help of Adolf Hitler! Adolf Hitler could win if he were trapped inside the body of a dog!"
"Would you like to be a Doberman or a Pekinese?" Clemens mildly inquired.
"I grow tired of you, Samuel Clemens. I want you out of my apartment! Now!"
"You're always such an entertaining host, Adolf. I hate to leave, but it is getting late, all me if you change your mind. And remember: Big Brother is watching you!"
Clemens took another gargantuan swig of whiskey, sprang upon his broom. "Aiyee! I am the Wicked Witch of the West!" he shouted. The alcohol was beginning to take effect, his broom weaved all around the room as he sought the window. After he bounced off the wall a couple of times he found the desired opening and flew cackling into the San Francisco night, bottle in hand. Hitler heard the crash of the broom ramming a street lamp, failed to hear Clemens shatter a department store winder, as the Lemurian was by that time far removed from Hitler's apartment.
Hitler stared out the window for a long time. Then he took a valium.
* * * * *
It was October. Adolf Hitler, looking for all the world like Scott Jerome, Chairman of Transvestites United Against Everyone Else (TUAEE!), made his way to the podium. It seemed that the crowd he faced must consist of all the Queens in the world. He adjusted his brassiere, tugged at the fold of panty lodged in his crack.
These past few months have certainly been trying, he reflected. I have had to submit to so many indignities. Canvassing all the transvestite bars, getting cornholed nearly every night, becoming a dope fiend. But it has all been worth it. The scars from the whippings on my ass are beginning to scab over and I'm starting to enjoy some of the milder exploits. And today, finally, I will begin to put in motion my plan for the destruction of the Earth. I know I can convince my fellow transvestites that everyone else hates them. I know I can stir up a rebellion, that I can lead a transvestite party to victory in all the elections. I know that soon the United States will be ruled by men in drag. And I know that I will be the President. And as the President, I will order the button pushed that will plunge the world into a nuclear inferno.
"My fellow transvestites," he began, "I stand before you today not as a man, not as a woman, but as a man in women's clothes, one who is tired of being looked down upon by the rest of society, one who is tired of being discriminated against, one who has grown tired of the odious label fag."
"It's not easy for the straight world to imagine what we creatures who are born with a penis as well as a desire for the opposite gender's clothing must endure in the form of hatred, distrust and persecution. That is because they are the ones who hate us, they are the ones who distrust us, they are the ones who persecute us. They are abnormal.
"So the purpose of this gathering is to bring us all together in a spirit of brotherhood, that we may put aside our differences and assume our rightful place as the rulers of modern society.
"It is my desire to see transvestites placed in positions of power throughout the land, both on the local and national level. Only by a fair representation in government can we hope to achieve true liberty for our superior breed of man."
The crowd began to cheer wildly. They were certainly impressed, these transvestites, with their leader's desire for fairness. Everyone present felt a warm glow of love for Scott Jerome.
Hitler felt a strange buzzing sensation inside his head. "What kind of drugs did I do last night," he wondered. He suddenly felt dizzy. "Whatever I took, it seems to be trying to take advantage of me. Let's see, I got something from a little white-haired dealer who, now that I think of it, bore quite a resemblance to... Samuel Clemens! Oh no!"
It was too late. The drug began to take hold of Hitler, made him have flashbacks, made him say things he hadn't meant to say. It made him think he was addressing a party of Nazis.
"I want to be President of the United Sates. I want you to call me the Fueher. I want to nuke Russia. I want to destroy the world. Zieg Heil!"
An ominous silence crept over the crowd. Finally a little Jewish Queen spoke up. "I'm not sure we should trust this man!"
Hitler saw the Hebrew, recognized the breed. "The first thing we must do is to purify our party! That person who spoke against me," he pointed an accusing finger, "seize him! Kill him! No one of impure blood will be allowed a voice in the Party!"
"Who the fuck are you, anyway!" screamed the Jew.
"I am Adolf Hitler! I have come to destroy the world! I hate Jews! Zieg Heil!"
"Yo momma!" the Jewish Queen was having a fit, threw a dildo at Hitler, hit him in the eye. "If I ever catch you in an alley I'll go to work on you with a corncob!"
The rest of the transvestites had by now begun to feel a certain anger at Hitler, believing they had been made fools of in the eyes of the rest of the world. Some of them smashed the TV cameras that had been covering the event, while the others closed on the podium with the intention of beating Hitler to an unrecognizable pulp.
"Come near me, oh my disciples!" encouraged Hider. "Come unto me that I may bless you!"
The crowd closed around the podium, washed over the stage like the sea at high tide. And Hitler went under, submerged by that sea, like a wino caught unconscious on the beach. And when the storm abated, only the torn and crumpled and bloody form of a transvestite remained to tell the world that the Anti-Christ had walked the earth.
* * * * *
Hitler awoke amid birdsong, evergreen fragrance and sunlight. "Where am I?" he asked himself. "I know that I am dead; those transvestites meant business.Wait a minute, I'm not in Hell, there are no flames, no pain. And I'm sure I wouldn't be allowed in Heaven. Logically speaking, then, I must not be dead. BUT WHERE AM I?"
"Good morning. Care for a cigar?" The voice belonged to Samuel Langhorne Clemens.
Hitler sat up. Sure enough, there was Clemens, sitting on a large rock polishing his halo.
"You... Clemens! Where is this place? Why have you brought me here? I thought I was dead!"
"Well, in another few instants you would have been dead. But we managed to pull you out right after you got mangled while there was still a little life left in you. So we brought you here, to our holistic clinic on Mt. Shasta, and performed a healing on you.You'll be okay as soon has you've had a shot of Scotch!"
Clemens reached inside of his robe, pulled out a flask and two glasses. He poured a drink for Hitler and one for himself.
Hitler tasted his drink. Cutty Sark! These Lemurians weren't such bad folks, after all.
"As to why we've brought you here," Clemens continued, "we want you to go to work for us. I must admit, you do have a certain flair, a certain air about you, that could prove useful someday when we need to send a prophet down among the mortals. Of course, you'll need retraining. You'll have to study cosmic history, cosmic law, advanced prophecy, signs and wonders. And, of course, the Lemurian Code of Conduct. But I have no doubt you'll excel in your studies and make us all proud of you.
"See those two fellows over there?" Clemens pointed toward a large pine tree, where two beings were engrossed in a game of chess. "That one with the advanced paunch is Gautama Buddha; the other is Jesus Christ. The cosmos is full of fellows like that, who are always running around working miracles, spouting off prophecies, gathering disciples, trying to point the way to an advanced state of being. The trouble is, as guys like that lead underdeveloped beings to a higher Truth, they simultaneously retard their own growth. For you see, there are an infinite number of states of being. As a creature becomes fulfilled in one state of being it finds that it is time to move on to the next. But guys who volunteer to stay behind to help those less developed must continually put off their own further enlightenment."
Clemens fired up a stogie and smoked for a while in silence. Finally Hitler spoke.
"So you want me to become a prophet on the side of Light?"
"Maybe. We think you have the potential. But the road will be long and fraught with danger and difficulty. And we won't turn you loose on the world until you've completed your training and been purged of all negativity. But we're willing to take a chance on you. We have to find replacements for Jesus, Buddha and others of their breed. We have to give them a rest."
Hitler considered. There was no way he could return to the Shiva Corps. He had failed in his mission and if he tried to return, would probably be sentenced to an eternity in the karma mines, producing bad karma for beings who had not yet transcended karma. Besides, the High Lord Himself had declared that he didn't care doodly-squat what happened to his servant. There was, apparently, only one choice.
"What about this body?" Hider demanded. "I don't want to have to prophesy in the body of a transvestite. I've had enough of that for one eon."
"We'll take care of that. We'll put you into the chassis of your choice. We happen to have on hand a very ugly specimen with a funny mustache.
"I'll take it!"
* * * * *
Scott Jerome awoke after a very strange dream. He had dreamed something about Adolf Hitler..., let's see, what was it... no matter. Reality is what counts.
"This new apartment suits me," he thought. "Leaving San Francisco and coming to Ft. Walton Beach, Florida was certainly a good idea, but where did I get the idea? I don't even recall the trip to Florida. No doubt about it, I'm going to have to lay off the drugs for a while."
He took a shower, then went out to look for a job.
* * * * *
The High Lord Shiva sat on an asteroid between the orbits of Mars and Jupiter, contemplating eternity. Well, the good guys have won again, he thought. I suppose it was about time. I didn't really believe the Universe would let us perform any more acts of mass destruction upon the Earth, anyway. But a god has to try.
He yawned, began meditating upon his next move in the cosmic game of chess. "Let's see, there is a fair chance of getting an edge over the Forces of Light in the Clouds of Magellan..."
And high up on Mt. Shasta, Adolf Hitler played hopscotch in the snow.