Hi guys. Which way to the topless beach volleyball?
Events have been take a turn for the würst since we were last chattering. For one thing we have had nothing during the past week escept for the wind, snow and heil here in the beautiful glorious Las Canarias islands, which have made it very difficult for us to enforce the very important bikini bye-laws or to justify to the police our determination to rub the suntan oil into recalcitrant ne’er-do-wells.
As a consequence, the vigilante squad which I have set up with Herr and Frau Mengele, and which we have call the WDS (which is short for Waffen Decency Squad) has had to refocus its energies back on to the retrieving of Herr Mengele’s set of surgical instruments, which as you are remember went missing the other week as a consequence of decadent corruption invading our blessedly crime-free island where everyone is leaving his door open or, if it is not open, it can be knackered through by using an illegal immigrant’s head as a buttering ram.
If I am being the total honest, Herr Mengele’s focus was never really deviating from the retrieving of his tools. I could tell by the half-hearted way in which he enforced the anal bleaching code on Swedish ladies without their passports that his heart was not really in it and that he was preoccupied with thoughts more close to home. Neither he nor the naughty Swedish ladies were learning anything. I was forced to tackle him over it directly, seeing as how Frau Mengele had taken the cat to the vet to get shot.
“Ja, Ja. Es ist ganz true, Señor Estímulo. This anal bleaching is child’s play. Is of the utmost urgency that I am retrieving my instruments. You really do not understand the gravity of this larceny.”
“Well, I am understand of course that your instruments were of more than a sentimental nature,” I reply, hazarding the guess. “I know that they are still of some practical use to you and Frau Mengele during the wintertime during the dark evenings by the fire when you are doing the taxidermy, the crocheting, and the Knechtschaft with the Sadomasochismus. The nights are already drawing in and therefore the time is already running out.”
He smile at me ruefully.
“Ach. The time is always running out for me. And here this is the problem. I am not I expect much long for this world, Señor Estímulo, and if my instruments are in the hands of my enemies when I die, then the consequences will be for me too terrible for me to contemplate. And not just for me. For Frau Mengele, too.”
I was touched by his concern and also proud to know such a man who would be so concern with his honour and reputation after his demise.
“Trust me, Herr Mengele. I shall do everything I can to help you get back your rightful tools. And do not despair. Even if it take till after you are dead, I shall pursue your malefactors in your stead.”
Herr Mengele closed the buttocks he had been working on and smiled sadly.
“You are a good and decent fascist, Señor Estímulo, and I salute you for it, but by then it will have been too late.” He brushed the Swede off his knees and rose to his feet. He strode across the room with all the brio of a man twice his age, and he reach up to a Prussian sabre mounted on the wall above a coat of arms. And some legs. He pulled down the sabre and headed for the door.
“Follow me,” he say.
I finished myself off and get up and quickly pursue Herr Mengele down to the beach, where he is rapidly approaching the topless beach volleyball court where, despite the inclement weather (23° Celsius, some cloud), there was some intrepid Austrian ladies attempting to sweat out the goose pimpers. Herr Mengele was approach the lady about to serve the volleyball, and as she raise her servicing arm, he is slicing it off in one swish of his sabre and it fall to the sand with a dull thunk. Needless to say, service went over to the other team.
“You see!” said Herr Mengele, while I was still getting over the initial shock. “No blood! Not a drop!” And he was of course correct. While my attention had been on trying to recall the rules of volleyball as they apply to amputation, I had failed to see that the Austrian lady was not bleeding anywhere on the sand and in fact had just picked up her arm and moved it off the court so that play could resume.
“Herr Mengele, I am notplussed. What is the meaning of this?”
“There are two lessons to learn from this, Señor Estímulo,”he said. “First of all, always keep a sharp Prussian sabre to hand for the purposes of practical demonstration. And second, being undead does not affect your enjoyment of sports.”
“Undead?” I was said. “You mean . . . ?”
“Jawohl, Mein Señor. All these peoples are zombies.”
My jaw was almost dropped. These succulent bare-breasted ladies who I have been watching for the past two years from the comfort of my daybed on my terrace through my binoculars while dressed only in my towel and aloe vera oil are not only not alive, they are also not dead! I am not sure now whether my lusting after them counts as a sin! And to think of all the Hail Marys I have said and the scourging I have done in penance. Is truly a big disgrace.
“Yes. They do not know they are dead, of course. You see, the Canaries is the perfect place in which to assemble an army of the undead. So many retired people already close to death. The hot weather to keep their bodies warm. The tedious routine and lack of mental stimulation that prepares them for an eternity of drudgery and passive obedience. So now you can understand, Señor Estímulo, why it is imperative that I get back my instruments before I die. The evil voodoo genius who have stolen them has everything that he needs in order to bring me back as a zombie after I am dead and make me into his house slave, serving him the cocktails, acting as his footstool, shaving his back, and so on. Of course, it could be worse. At least he isn’t a Je-”
I stopped him in his tracks with a raise of my palm. I suspect he was thinking I was pretending to be Hitler. But no.
“Herr Mengele, the voodoo is just a ridiculous African mumbo-jumbo superstition. Is not like it is a well-founded belief system, such as Christianity or Nationalsozialismus. Surely you would have to believe in it in order for it to work.”
“I am afraid not. Voodoo is not like acupuncture or homeopathy. It is not a spacebo. It works whether you believe in it or not.”
“Then I am appreciate your urgency,” I said, aggrieved but also aggressive. “We must marshall our forces and hunt down your nemesis.”
“I am way ahead of you. Already, as we speak, all of my long-hidden comrades from days of yore are assembling en masse with their rusty Lugers, trusty Mausers, and crusty trousers, ready and willing to do battle once again. Ah, Señor Estímulo, I can already feel the sap rising at the prospect of the forces of Fascism on the march once more.”
“No, Herr Mengele,” I said. “Is the tide has come in. Your legs are wet.”
“Ah. Ja.” He look down. “At both ends too. We had best be heading home.”
And so we make our way back up the beach, Herr Mengele moist at the thought of the forthcoming onslaught, me a little bit none the wiser.
“I must confess,” I say to him as we are crunching baby crabs under our feet on the slipway, “I am all still highly suspect about this. After all, there is nothing about zombies in the Bible, and I have always found it a thoroughly reliable guide to life and the taking of it.”
Herr Mengele shook his head indulgently and laid a paternal hand on my shoulder. It was very cold. It was the Austrian lady’s hand.
“My dear Estímulo,” he said. “they did not have the word ‘zombie’ in those days. And besides, the original meaning has been lost in translation.”
“Si. From the original Spanish,” I said.
“Indeed. But I’m amazed you have not noticed this fact. The entire plot of the second half of the Bible depends on their very existence.”
“What are you saying?” I asked, increbulous. “The second half of the Bible is the New Testament. The good bit.”
“Ja,” said Herr Mengele. “The good bit. But surely you have not forgotten how it ends.”
“You mean . . . You mean . . .”
“Yes, that’s right, Estímulo. Jesus was a Zombie!”