Not that same old speech Again?
The scene, my bedroom. My wife’s away–something appears sitting on my bed.“Who? What the hell are you?”
The mysterious vision with a black smear under his nose speaks. “I was sent here at random. That’s how they treat me now, the greatest man in history.”
“Oh God,” I mutter. A bad dream–shouldn’t have eaten the old chicken leg. “Leave my bedroom. Get the hell out!”
“I told YOU,” he yells. “They send me around randomly. I have no say. I work with whatever I get.”
The nerve of this apparition. Okay, I won’t freak. “Don’t you yell at me!” I bark back. “And what’s with this Nazi, freaking costume party get-up? You’re out of luck here, ghost. I’m not buying whatever your selling.”
“Oh? I’ve swayed far stronger than you.” His smirk gets even more repulsive. “Tell me, are you satisfied with politics the way they are now? Eh? See, I can speak your Canadian and your sloppy, faux Yankee lingo.”
“For one thing, I’m an American veteran, retired in Canada, and if that’s your depth in culture, you’re a joke of a specter.”
“Culture? You are in a false culture. Your white Aryan race is poisoned by outsiders who are steeped in anti-loyalist doctrine. Stealing your jobs, twisting, and rewriting your laws. Only the strong can survive against the challenge from impure, inferior lineage. If you wish to live, then you must unite and...”
“Stow it, Tiny Hitler. I don’t need your tired speech. Your philosophy is dead, and incidentally, so are you.”
“The apparition suddenly drops his facade. “Well, there are many other voices. I will reach them. There are others here I can work on. You will see. You will see.”
“Who, Sadat in Syria, there’s a sad pick? Putin? He’s not your type, too sneaky and quiet. Kim Jong-un? Nah, he’s small potatoes. Who?”
Tiny Hitler doesn’t reply.
Then it hit me. “Oh, now I get it. It’s Trump, isn't it? So you think he’s your next savior? Well, I got sorry news for you, he’s not going to listen to you. The man’s nothing but a narcist, looking for praise. He has no philosophy, no patriotism to his country. You came here looking for a Ceasar, and you got Nero, a classic egomaniac.”
Tiny Hitler raises his hands in exasperation. “This Trump has power in his speeches. I know that I can speak thru him. I have such high hopes for him, but they only let me work with people at random–all nobodies like you. They have blunted me.”
“But that’s not really it either. You have no sway anymore, do you? You are passe. Only small groups of misfits listen to you now. Besides, your hope for Trump is lost. He actually supports Isreal. His daughter is married to a Jew. She’s Jewish.”
Tiny Hitler is now starting to fume up. “No, Trump can be turned, I can use him, he has the power. You do not know the power, I have it, and what I can achieve with it.” He shakes his finger at me. “I've changed world history, you ignorant, pathetic little Putz!”
Well, that did it. The bastard wants a fight. He’s got it.
“Yes, you changed history. You caused the worst war in centuries, millions died, but know this,” I got up and stood before him. “You murdered six million Jewish people in your vile attempt to eradicate them from the planet, but many escaped. They lived on. You are the one who failed and was crushed.”
He retreated, his voice squeaky defensive. “No. No. I didn’t fail. If I hadn’t got that bad weather in Moscow, my Panzers would have crushed the Russians; they all would be dead. I did not fail. It was bad luck.”
“No, it was your failure all the way. Not only in defeat, but know this. The surviving Jewish people fled south to the middle east. There they unified into a small but powerful nation and built their own homeland. Directly or indirectly, you caused that. You, Adolf, are responsible for the creation of the independent Jewish state of Israel.”
Tiny Hitler’s vision was starting to flicker, like a faltering TV screen. His arm suddenly shot up in a Nazi salute. “Achtung!” he yelled. “No, lies, all lies. Not true. Why must I have to hear that over and over?” Suddenly his face turned ashy pale. “Oh no, I’m fading, I’m fading.” Finally, he slowly dissolved into oblivion. Then gone.
Well, I’m thinking, guess he’s heard that before. Hmmm, ten-minute visit, dead 75 years –wonder how many times that would be?