“What’s your handicap?” Gregson asked.

“My handicap? How dare you—you mixed blood—I am an Arian, with perfect control of my abilities!”

“No—I mean, what do you normally shoot?”

“Gypsies, Jews, homosexuals, and anybody I disagree with.”

“What’s your golf score?” Gregson asked, a bit exasperated.

“Oh—I normally play in the low 70s. Although, the putter I found in a Scotsman’s grave has improved my short game immensely. Also, my dabbling in the occult has given me demonic powers. I can direct the ball with my mind. I can psychologically screw with my opponents. I can’t be defeated!”

“I say, you can!”


“Can too.”


Rather than arguing, why don’t we play to see who is the king of the greatest game?” Gregson suggested.

“Okay—but you die, afterward—win or lose.”

“Sounds good to me! Dr. Stanley will be my caddie. He knows how to stand still and keep his mouth shut. And if I pass-out from heat stroke, he can play-out my holes.”

“Pussy will be mine!” Hitler said. “She has always carried my clubs. Let me change into my golfing gear, and I’ll be ready.”

When Hitler left, it was a bit awkward. Gregson thought about running, but Adolf would’ve thought of that. No—the only way to save their lives was to beat him at his own game.

“Would the condemned care for any refreshments?” Pussy asked.

“Can you make a martini?” Gregson suggested. “Shaken, not stirred?”

“I’ll shake you up some drinks—although, it’s going to be hot out there. Dehydration will kill you, before my boyfriend does.”

“Alcohol loosens up my mind.”

“You’d better be on your game, today,” Pussy said. “Let me change, and I’ll bring you drinks.” She left the room, and the cats, hanging on the walls took-on more sinister shapes—like tigers of the night.

“Gregson, did you see his watch?” Dr. Stanley asked.

“Yeah! And we know he has the red almanac. If we’re going to escape with our lives, we need some leverage.”

“That almanac is only good, until 1930. If we tell Hitler about WWII, and his many blunders, perhaps he will let us go.”

“That is out-of-the-question. You know the future would be forever changed! I’ll kill you, before you try to save our lives!” Gregson promised.

“Why don’t I kill him, when we have the opportunity?” Dr. Stanley suggested.


“The pen is mightier than the sword.” He revealed the gold gun in his pocket.

“A pen gun?”

“.22 caliber. Many people have thought about going back in time to kill Hitler—in fact, that’s why we’re here,” Dr. Stanley said.

“So, this whole business of King Tut and artifacts was a cover-up. This is an assassination mission?”

“Yes—and we suspect that Hitler killed Dr. Dorian—or the past did.”

Pussy walked back into the living room, showing everything but her pussy. She was wearing a see-through silk blouse, and satin shorts.

“Drink up, gentlemen—it may be your last.”

“What do you see in him, anyway, Pussy?”

“Hitler is such a powerful man,” Pussy said.

“But he’s a failed artist—a vagabond—a nobody,” Dr. Stanley complained.

“You can tell things about a man. He will be great one day. It is not his political position, but his personal power—his indomitable will—his sexual…”

“Don’t tell me anymore—don’t you care about his character?”

“What about it?” Pussy asked

“Do you think he’s a good man?”

“No—but we will have the highest social status in the world one day.”

Hitler walked into the room with his golf clubs on his shoulder, looking like a Scotsman. “Ready golf—better get into my car.” He motioned with his German Luger.

Gregson sipped his alcohol, to get loose. He was about to play golf with a madman. The future, was in jeopardy. He had to steal that almanac. Gregson wondered why he always had to save the world.


2 thoughts on “Chapter 8 Negotiating with Hitler

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