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Friday, August 28, 2009

I AM THE ONE

My name is Ian. I was born in Thompsons Medical Hospital, Singapore, sometime in the 21th century.

I am the last of the Hitlers.

Once there were many of us. Tens, dozens - perhaps scores, if we count those who labored in obscure unconscious Hitlerdom, the unknowing unknowable Hitlers, the Hitlers who spent their lives as garbagemen or actuaries or dogcatchers in loose uniforms and worn loafers, never knowing the brisk thrill of crisp trousers, the rough thrust of stiff jackboots.

All of us, we are brothers, brothers of peaked complexion and poor posture, of limply slicked combovers and insufficient moustaches, with shrill darting tenor and unusually robust hip flexors. We fell as ash from the sky and collected in soot in the dust and arose again as the manifestations of the Fuhrer, obsidian eyed as we erected a line down the hall of the casting agency to audition for the role of Hitler.

We were a mess of Hitlers, a terror of Hitlers, a roiling looming goosestep of Hitlers. Men are made but Hitlers are born, and where we pale and lumpy failures would have once been tailors or hatters or potters toiling alone in the dank and damp we were now born to a world seething for Hitlers, hungering for Hitlers, Hitlers in cinema, Hitlers in art, Hitlers as strippers.

And I am the last of them, the others long dead or crazy, or crazy in death, buried beneath Iron Crosses and eagles as I alone stroke a greying moustache and brood, wringing memories from the old programs and scripts crackling and crumbling to dust in my fingers, brooding and dying in the dusk, a defiant and cantankerous goosestep down the infinite and cavernous hallways of history.

I AM.

HITLER.


HEIL FUHRER. HEIL NATIONAL SOCIALISM.

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