Part One: The Card Game
Flushing Meadows, Queens Borough, New York City: One week before Memorial Day May, 1968
It was evening, a warm, muggy evening in New York City.
A group of WWII buddies sat around a table.
It was your typical Queens basement, WWII memorabilia on the walls, horrific card playing dogs picture, various Union stickers and the obligatory JFK Photo.
Dealing, wearing a sun-visor was 45 year old Joe Hitler. That’s right, the real deal, the verified, validated genetic son of the Fuehrer himself. He served in WWII alright, with the independent 1143rd U.S. Army Armored Cavalry Tank Battalion from North Africa all the way through Anzio, Normandy the Rhineland all the way to Pilsen. He hated Krauts.
He had made friends on the construction site after the war with kindred fellows. On his left was Joe Tojo, son of the feared Jap dictator himself. Joe was brought to the US as an infant and raised a red-blooded, god-fearing American. He served with the Seabees in the Pacific. Across the table was Jack ‘Giacchiaomo’ Mussolini son of ‘Il Duce’. Giacomo was a U.S. Marine, who went island hopping from Guadalcanal all the way to the Jap Inland Sea.
Also at the table was Walther ‘Wally’ Guttman, son of German Lieutnant Hugo Guttman, the Jewish officer who put Hitler in for the Iron cross in WWI. Hugo served as Commo Chief on B-17’s in the ETO. Working the grill just outside on the patio was Jake Amin, older brother of Idi Amin ‘Dada’ who would later become dictator of Uganda. Jake had served as an M.P. with the British Army King’s African Rifles in Ethiopia, Tobruk, El Alamein until he was wounded in the Naples-Foggia operation in ’44.
‘Ello gents’ said Jake, in a thick proper English accent. He was wearing a NY Mets™ apron which said ‘World Best Griller’ and a chef’s hat, I’ve got Barbecue Chicken Poulet, Ribs, Steak and Hot Dogs, American style. Most delicious, my good friends.
They finished their hand. Mussolini was winning as always.
They took a time out to sit in the tiny, fenced-in back yard. They were drinking beer from can-opener beer cans and eating grilled meat, beans and cole slaw from paper plates.
‘Youse guys know dat the Memorial Day parade is on Monday not on da real Memorial Day’ said Tojo, with a thick Bronx accent.
‘Yeah it’s terrible, dey stuff it on a Monday, now I like gettin’ the three day weekend, youse understand, but it’s a little whattya call – sacrilegiousness.’ Offered Guttman with his Brooklyn accent.
‘I hoid…’ said Mussolini dat there’s a gang of hippies, dat’s right long-haired dope smokin’; America-hating commie pinko no-good hippies gonna disrupt the parade with some kind a anti-war march. We’ve had dose joiks out there in Staten Island too protesting outside da’ camp Wadsworth.’
‘Da parade is gonna come right past our woiksite too. Now I hears dat if you woik the phony Memorial day youse get time and a half. Youse all in?’ Voiced Joe Hitler.
‘We could send them quite a message old chaps. Now everyone of us has or has had a son in Vietnam. When I became an American, I swore my good fellows, that I would defend the flag like I did our old beloved King George VI and the Union Jack.’ Said Amin.
Chelsea District Manhattan the same Day, Headquarters of Yog Sothoth Liberation Anarchy Flower Front aka ‘Youth-Laugh’
The hippies sat huddled around a table eating arugula and sipping Capuccinos. Every one of them was unemployed, long-haired and each reeked of not bathing for at least a year. On one end of the table was Jason ‘Jay’ Guevara, sometime man-rapist nephew of Che Guevara, known commie-revolutionary pervert and extreme gay-liberation theologian. To his right was the child-corrupting Vladimir ‘Val’ Ilyich Ulyanov, III grandson of the bloodthirsty Soviet dictator. To his right was the bespectacled Larry Trotsky, grandson of pinko commie Leon Trotsky. Shelley Tse-Tung, bra-burning feminist daughter of the evil Chi-com mass-killer Chairman Mao and then Dave Dzhugashvili, Veteran spitting, god-hating son of Joseph Stalin, mass-killing commie Dictator and butcher of Ukraine. Joe Brigges Flournoy, dashiki-wearing, fist-pumping, old-lady mugging, grandson of 1920s Black Nationalist Curtis St. John Flennory Brigges was grilling zucchini and eggplant. They all were undergrads at either Columbia or NYU.
The moans of a young woman and a young man, kidnapped by the hairy, perverted, commie hippies could be heard from the back room. Could they be readied for more rape? For live human sacrifice to the unspeakable, fabulous Yog Sothoth?©™
‘Everyone listen up!’ Shouted Jay Guevara, youse gotta get ready for da so-called Memorial Day. Everyone got their assignments? I’m gonna be rapin’ men and spittin’ on wounded Veterans. Val, you’se gonna be attacking cops and firemens wit’ molotov cocktails and knocking over patriotic statues. Shelley youse gonna be burning flags and bras at da same time and playing satanic electrified guitar. Dave you are gonna be rapin’ and knockin’ over wheelchairs and Joe is gonna be mugging old ladies, beating up crippled kids and smashing storefronts of legitimate hard-woikin’ small business men and Bodegas. Then we’re gonna wreck da parade. Any questions?
In the corner sat Bill ‘Sancho’ Villa, Rutgers student, seemingly disaffected Vietnam Vet, grandson of Legendary Mexican outlaw Pancho Villa and secret government informant. Sancho had to free the terrified kids first, but then he couldn’t stop the hippies from disrupting the parade without blowing his cover. He would meet with his British-Ugandan NYPD handler: undercover Detective, Jake Amin, code name ‘Jeremy Arnold’.
Part 2: The Job – Midtown, May 24th
Hitler sat on the steel beam 400 feet up. He was eating the Baloney sandwich his wife Eva made for him. He was sitting next to his good friend Guttman.
“So youse gotta come to my kid David’s Bar Mitzvah in September, Joe. He really looks up to you, ya know. When he was little he would play with toy tanks and say, when I grow up I wanna kill shitty Krauts and drive tanks like Joe Hitler. No offense about the Krauts thing. Joe.”
Hitler took a swig of java from his thermos.
“I’ll be there, David’s a great kid. Your Rabbi Schlomo Ben-Schteinboim is great guy too. He was a Chaplain in the big one ya know. So by the way, I hoid’ from my little girl, Gertrude. She’s an Army nurse, stationed at Pleiku. I been worried about her. Youse know I was in Europe during the Big One, I don’t know much about jungles. I really wanted her to go to Berlin Brigade.”
Wally drop a slice of roast beef that drifted aimlessly on the winds to the street below.
“Dat’s all we needs Joe, another Hitler in Berlin!”
Everyone on the beam started laughing.
“Ya know Wally, Adolf was master of all Germany. I just want to be master of my own little house in Queens. Why would people want to mess up good American people just trying to get by?”
“It’s a sick world, Joe, a sick world.”
Meanwhile, down below at 387th Precinct.
Jake Amin was in his NYPD uniform, sitting across from a hairy, stout Mexican-American who looked like Tuco.
“So Jake, you sure no-one can hear us in here?”
Jake took a puff on a filterless Gemel Ciggara’at, a fine Egyptian cigarette.
“Too right, mate, you look like a punk I dragged off the street, Let’s keep up the charade (pronounced Shah-rod), shall we?”
Villa looked around.
“Look you said you got connections to get me that internship at Gracie Mansion. I got you good scoop. ‘Youth-Laugh’ is going to act. They had two nice kids imprisoned in their lair. I let them go last night. No-one knows that I let them escape. At any rate, the plan is on to disrupt the Memorial Day parade. There going to meet by the big rock at 6AM in Central Park right across the street from the Plaza.”
Amin offered Villa a Cigara’at. He lit it for him while Villa was handcuffed.
“We will be ready, you do your part. Now make it look good, stiff upper lip, righto?”
Amin punched Villa in the cheek knocking him out of the chair.
The officers watching clapped. Amin dragged him out through the booking area.
“You steenking, sexy, fat gringo, Limey, Yanqui copper! All power to the people! Juarez forever!”
Villa played his part perfectly. No-one suspected he was an informer.
“All power to the people motherf*&^%r!” Yelled another suspect.
Villa walked out into the fresh air. He felt his bruised cheek. Just then a slimy slice of ketchup covered roast beef floated out of the sky and slapped onto a street vendors bald head.
“F*&king construction workers! Bastards! The man yelled shaking his fist at the sky.