It came to me in a dream. Your Thousand Year Reich is not over! The Amerikaner pig-dogs surging toward Berlin—they can be stopped! The Allied bombing raids – they can be halted! Listen to me, my dear Führer! You must have hope! There. Sit down. Have a cup of herbal tea while I explain.
It was a dream, or maybe an hallucination—because sometimes that is how the great god Wotan speaks to his Aryan children. I was in the future: in America around eighty years from now. I say it was possibly a hallucination because they had a black guy as President. Never mind that part. His domestic enemies were marching on his bunker. No, mein Führer, the enemies were not Communists. They were not quite like us either, but that does not matter now.
He was in his bunker with his High Command in the next room, just as yours is now. His Josef Goebbels was there, from The New York Times. His Hermann Goering was there, and just like us they had some bad luck fighting a two-front war. It was uncanny! Their Eastern Front was collapsing in the Ukraine. Some guy, with a towel on his head, was routing them in the Middle East. What is that? No, sir, I do not think he was Field Marshal Monty. Himmler was waiting there too, trying to run an all-powerful state security apparatus that was feared and detested.
No, mein Führer! I realise that all Germans love the Gestapo! I misspoke, so please forgive me. Let us skip that part. He had a brilliant Defence Chief, like General Rommel, but he had gotten rid of him. Just like you got, well… Better forget that bit too.
He had the industrialists around him–like our guys from Krupp and IG Farben. They wanted cheap workers, but for some reason they did not have Jewish and Polish slave-labour. It was costly for them to manufacture poison gas, and some futuristic weapon that is not invented yet—something called Doritos. So the ordinary Amerikaners lost their jobs to legalized Gastarbeiter, to guest workers, and joined the march on his bunker. Their economy was sick, mein Führer, just like…just like…well, nothing like our industrial powerhouse under the glorious leadership of our Nazi Party. Let us move right along.
So their Führer had this brilliant idea. What is that? Um, yes, of course! He was a black guy so he could not have been as clever as you, mein Führer. And, no, he certainly was not Jewish. And no Amerikaner or Britischer will ever be as tactically brilliant as members of the Master Race. Look, it was just a dream, okay? And he had this good idea—although I am sure that your idea will be better. Obviously.
He announced that all of his defeats were victories. He said that what his opponents had been fighting for, all along, was the right to cooperate with him—for the greatness of the world. He said that all of the territory captured by the Republicants—I think that is what they called the insurgents who were defeating the ruling Demi-rats—was simply so that they could work better alongside of the nation’s beloved Führer!
What the insurgents really wanted, he said, and what they had won in all of those preliminary victories, was the right to hang around with Der Führer. You know; to chill out with him in the Berchtesgaden, drink a little Riesling, play with the police-dogs, collect a few of those decadent modernist paintings that we confiscated. In other words, all they wanted was their own slice of der strudel. Business as usual.
There, like here, the reporters were all on the side of the State—his State—so they repeated his message. Many ordinary families believed it–at least a little. Most wanted to keep fighting his regime until they won, but some people grew tired of the endless putsch and counter-putsch. They just wanted their problems to end.
Meanwhile, even a few of the insurgent leaders played along. They had grown tired of the trenches, mein Führer. They wanted to ride in their futuristic Mercedes limousines; like ours with the cute little swastika flags on the front. They wanted the Waffen SS motorcycle escorts. Yes, they could have had it all if they had shown a little patience—in time, the Republicant leaders could have seized control for themselves. But they were tired too.
The industrialists played their parts, mein Führer. There was always another place available on their ruling boards for a Republicant turncoat. There was always another free business-class seat on their equivalent of a corporate Junkers Ju 52, and a spare bedroom in whatever the Americans use for a Black Forest hunting lodge. All that their Führer demanded in return was his enemies’ surrender—although he called it cooperation, or bipartisanship.
So the path is clear, mein Führer. Their General Eisenhower is part German, after all. If he shoots that lard-butt, Churchill, we can keep him in bratwurst forever! That big-mouth in the wheelchair—his name is Dutch and the Hollanders do whatever we tell them to. Besides, we can offer him a fourth, fifth, or even a sixth term in the White House. As for the Russians, they will settle for a sandwich and maybe a bar of soap—if we explain how to use it.
All the Amerikaner menfolk are tired of fighting, their women sick of building tanks and aircraft, instead of staying home and having babies! They are tired of rationing, and their will is broken. You can offer them chocolate! And an orange at Christmas! They will sue for peace.
On the brink of defeat, the future Amerikaner President demanded surrender from his enemies, but called it their victory. Once the Republican triumph was nearly certain, he called for bipartisan cooperation–but it was only his power, his policies, and on his terms.
All that you must do, mein Führer, is tell the Allies that they have won—won the right to cooperate with you, and follow your orders! Won the right to share in the glories of the Thousand Year Reich! Won the right to participate in global uniformity led by our Nazi Party; to profit from the Final Solution; to qo to Oktoberfest and ogle the buxom frauleins in their dirndls. Maybe eat a few pretzels.
Call for Minister Goebbels, mein Führer! All is not lost! What is that? How did it end? Well, I was just waking up; and it was only a dream, after all. And my memory is not good—it is all of that Allied bombing every night. Very noisy.
No, mein Führer, I am not hiding anything from you. I would never do that! Well, if you insist, either he lost anyway, and was exiled to a golf-course along with his senior Party members, or he blew out his brains in der Führerbunker. But it was just a dream! I could have been mistaken.
No! Mein Führer, you must live! Put down that pistol! Nein! Mein Führer, nein!
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