Che Guevara Lives!*

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Communists are even in Paradise. Is a big disgrace!

As my regular reader will know, the southern part of the island of Fuerteventura is comprise of the province of Jandía, which is all very beautiful and mountainous and also with the long broad beaches where often are there the surfers, the windsurfers, the beachsurfers, and the bumsurfers. Also there is frequently the topless volleyball. This is the whole most best place in the Canarias Islands, and is for this reason that El Generalísimo Francisco Franco was in 1938 giving it to the Third Reichs in gratitude for all the help that it had given in the Spanish Civil War for Golf.

There was always much speculations as to what was going on down there ever afterwards, since Hitler was declare the place a no-free zone, which mean that peoples was not allowed to go there, only the military. Some was saying that all the looted Nazi gold was being stored there, others was saying that it was the place where the Nazis was creating a biological master race out of Swedish women and baboons, and still others was saying it was where Hitler go while all his soldiers were freezing to death outside Stalingrad because all the talk of cold weather was making him depressed.

Whichever one of these is true, and it may be all of them, today the peninsula of Jandía remains very popular with German holiday makers, many of whom were here during the war, and who compete amongst themselves to be the first down to breakfast in the morning (breakfast is start at 3.30 a.m.) but not leaving their towels on the deckchairs because they only do that to irritate the English, and beside which they have a very strict pecking order in Germany according to number of iron crosses won or villages burnt down. Thus it is come as no surprise for me when Herr and Frau Mengele pack me into the trunk of their car and we drive down here in order to make contact with Herr Mengele’s old comrades from the glory days of the yore.  Or is it Yorely days of gore?

“Be on your guard, Señor Estímulo,” Herr Mengele advise me as he open the trunk and waft away the fart smells. “This is not just home to the most courageous mass murderers in history. Is also the home of our biggest enemy. The Evil Dr. C.”

“Doctor C?” I say.

“Si. C. Doctor C. See.”

And he is point up to a mountainous peak in the distance which have, several hundred feet up the side of it, what appear to be a front door, but with no steps up to it.

“There is his lair.”

“There, Herr?”

“Yeah, there.”

” . . . Is a nice view.”

“Indeed,” said Herr Mengele, unable to rhyme anything with “view.” “Once upon a time it was also all belong to us. That is where we stored all the Old Master paintings and crystal chandeliers and gold candlesticks that we could not stuff into Switzerland. And when the war was put on hiatus in 1945, many of us made the strategic retreat and come here for the special plastic surgery, the facials and the reconstruction, before setting off to reconvene in South America. Many others of us fell in love with this place, however, and decide to stay.”

“Of course. Spain is a very beautiful country, especially the bits that are not in Spain.”

“Ja wohl. Of course, our numbers would have dwindled over the years, had it not been for our extensive recruiting campaign and our resort to occult practices that have kept us all alive way past our sell-by date.”

“Occult practices?” I was not like the sound of this.

“Oh, do not worry, Señor Estímulo. Is all above board and Christian. A bit of voodoo, some candomblé and santería that the boys from Brazil brought back with them. Is what is known as syncretinism.”

“So long as it is Catholic,” I said. He nod, and I felt reassured. “Tell me about the recruiting campaign.”

“Ach, Ja. So whenever one of our ideological allies was being kicked out of his country by Communist atheist scum, we would send out a message to invite the dictator here with his minions, in order to add to our reinforcements while he availed of our identity modification technology, the beautiful sunshine, and the military parades.”

“It sound very lovely. Just like Spain in the 1940s.”

“Ja. We have here all the old despots from the 1950s onwards. Pinochet is here, Idi Amin is here, Pol Pot-”

“I thought they were all dead.”

“So does everyone else. All faked. Sadly, El Generalísimo himself preferred to stay in power right until the death.  He is not here. I am sorry, my dear friend.”

“And no Mussolini either?”

“No. We can’t fake disembowellings.”

“So what of the evil Doctor C?”

Mengele hushed me and checked passers-by to see if they’d heard.

“Do not mention his name here. Even as we speak he will be massing his hordes all along the beaches because he will know that I am here to retrieve my surgical instruments. Suffice to say that we had once thought that the evil Doctor C. was one of us. When he opportunistically seized power in his tiny Caribbean country with his band of jolly soldiers and no popular organized support, we assumed naturally that he was another power-hungry sociopathic maniac like ourselves. And we were right. But when he came to visit America on a goodwill trip and we tried to induct him into our membership and told him all about the fabulous future that awaited him here, he said he had received a better offer from the Soviet Union, who had their own technology for keeping its leaders alive, well even after their death!”

“So the zombies are all communist atheist scum?”

“You have it in one, mein Kamerad. And here they come now.”

Herr Mengele was put his hands on my shoulders and turn me round to look down the beach, where I straight away see the collective breasts of thousands of topless volleyball playing zombies, escept they were not playing the volleyball any longer, so their breasts were now serious instead of happy. They were in battle formation and heading up the beach in our direction. Herr Mengele reach into the back seat of his 4×4 and pull out his Prussian sabre. Then he hand me my samurai sword.

“You have to slice off their head, Señor Manuel. Nothing else will do. And don’t let them bite you.” he rolled up his sleeves. “But first . . . ”

He leaned into the cabin of his car and pick up his mobile phone. After he say a few words of German that I was not understand, I hear a loud rumbling that shake the air, the floor, my teeth, and my knackers. Slowly, from underneath the sand at the near end of the beach, to our far right, there appear, one after another, majestic good-as-new desert-camouflaged Panzer tanks. An whole division!!

“I have also taken the liberty of calling in an air strike,” said Herr Mengele, and seconds later there was a massive WHOOOOOOOMMPPHH!!! as a missile from a modified Heinkel HE112, just like was used in the Condor Legion, walloped into the beach. Body parts and limbs and dessicated innards sprayed everywhere!!


The Battle of Jandía. Just Last Week.

And as I look out to sea, there, too, rising to the surface, was a magnificent Nazi submarine, resplendent in Nazi insignia.

“Our secret submarine base has been here all this time,” said Herr Mengele conspiratorially, as it navigate its way to shore and disgorge its contents, a whole battalion of war-tested Nazi storm troopers, all now, admittedly well into their nineties, but eager for battle and kept alive by the prospect of legalized killing and regular infusions of chicken’s blood.

“Get some, Nazis!” was roar Herr Mengele as he then wave his sabre above his head and go charging into the fray like a berserker, only with a walking frame. For me, also, this was too good an opportunity to miss. There must have been thousands of topless volleyball ladies down on the beach, all of them Communists, so I made sure to secure for myself a much better view along the top of the promenade where I could get a really good look through my binoculars. And it was while I was up there that my eye was caught (not literally. That was someone else’s eye) by the appearance among the throng of Communist zombies of the famous Che Guevara. Of course! The evil Doctor C is Dr. Castro, who only this week is appearing on television again looking brand new, like he have bathed in virgins’ milk. Everything is now being esplained.


I’m telling you, my plastination technique will make Mr. Guevara immortal!

And it was at that point that I run as fast as I could to the nearest Internet cafe to post my report which you are read only now. And the outcome is remaining in abeyance. The world is still not safe from Communism.

But don’t not worry about me, though. You will be grateful to hear that I am safe. After I make my report, I immediately and sensibly went home and have the nice strong cup of tea and a siesta. I will tell you how the battle all turn out when Herr Mengele is get home, dead or alive.  Or dead and alive.  I’m sure you will all be aroused to hear.  But in the meantime, why not tell me who is your favourite zombie and why?

* Is obviously not strictly true that Che Guevara lives, escept in the T-shirt merchandise industry and the hearts of spotty underachieving teenage boys with a sense of entitlement. Is like a zombie afterlife but without him having to make any effort. Typical!

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