Pussy and Stanley watched the two golfing gods waging war on the golf course—dueling with their philosophies of power. On the fourth hole, Hitler hooked his ball into the woods.
Gregson swung easy, and put his ball into the short grass.
Hitler was mumbling to himself about Jews, while he looked for his ball. Pussy went to help him.
“This is our chance,” Stanley said. “We can run for it!”
“I don’t think so—We have to beat Hitler at his own game.”
“But he’ll kill us, no matter what we do—He’ll probably torcher us, if he loses.”
“Something Hitler said, stood out to me—He has balls! What if he didn’t?”
“Are you saying, what I think you’re saying?”
“We castrate the Fuhrer, and he won’t have the power to dominate! Do you still carry a pocketknife, Stanley?”
“I do—it’s a Swiss Army Knife—But why not kill him?”
“Because, it will be like toppling the Empire State Building, and the Past won’t like that—it’ll push back—but if we just cut the power…”
“We take away his potency.”
Then Hitler bounced back. His golf ball flew out of the trees like a rocket, and landed on the green. It was a miracle shot! Again, he holed-out for birdie. On hole 5, Hitler hooked it, again.
This time, he was on the beach! But Hitler loved the beach. He played from the sand, the way he played from the short grass. He wore sunglasses, just to show off—and Gregson thought it was over—all he could do was make par, but then, divine intervention, or bad luck, or black magic intervened. Hitler got the shanks!
Hitler swung. “Damn!”
Again. Hitler swung. “Damn!”
His ball kept going right. It wouldn’t go straight—until it looked like Hitler had lost his mind. No matter what he did, his ball didn’t go where he wanted it to go. Then he picked it up, and the game was over.
“Pussy, give me a par on this hole,” Hitler said. She wrote it down on his score card.
“That’s cheating!” Stanley complained. Hitler leveled his Luger at Stanley’s heart and pulled the trigger. The scientist dropped like a bag of potatoes.
“Cadies are consumed with the rules!” Hitler said. “There are no rules—only what I make them to be. Now, tell me Gregson—what are my future flaws?”
“You should’ve never picked a fight with the Russians, sir. And rather than hesitating at Dunkirk—you might’ve gone all the way.”
“You say I hesitated? That’s not like me.” Hitler took studious notes on the back of the red almanac, and while he was writing, Gregson swung for the fences, knocking the Fuhrer flat on his ass.
“I hate to do this, sir” Gregson said. But he quickly removed the World Almanac and Hitler’s watch. Then he grabbed Stanley’s Swiss Army Knife, and opened Hitler’s pants.
“Pussy—you’d better look away,” Gregson warned. He quickly cut, and then reached into Stanley’s pocket for his vomit bag. Gregson dropped the oysters in—to go.
“Would you drive me back to Hitler’s house?” Gregson asked Pussy.
Pussy didn’t dare refuse the Fat PI. When they got back, there was a package waiting on Hitler’s doorstep, marked FRAGILE. Gregson was too curious not to look inside. It was an ancient cup, made for a carpenter.
“Is this what I think it is?” Gregson asked.
“Let me get you some wine,” Pussy offered. She poured, and Gregson drank. He felt invigorated. He felt like he would never die.
“Well—I guess this is where I leave you, Pussy.”
“Take me with you?”
“Sorry—but my friend is trying to hook me up on a blind date, and I can’t leave him hanging with two females. Perhaps, in a different time.” Then Gregson twisted his watch, and was history.