Epilogue

When Gregson got back to the future, it felt like his body bounced back. He felt fat again, and it felt good.

“Here’s Dorian’s watch, sir—and the almanac.”

“Sweet Jesus, son—is that all you have for me?”

“And Hitler’s balls in Stanley’s vomit bag. He didn’t make it back.”

“Who’s Hitler?”

“You mean—you don’t know?”

“Tell me…”

“He almost became world dictator during World War II.”

“World War II?”

“This is a bit much for me, sir” Gregson said.

“Well—your psych profile told us you can handle the hurdles of time travel. By the way, what happened to Stanley’s watch?”

“I must’ve left it in the past, sir.”

“Nobody will know what it can do. Suite up, Gregson! You need to rejoin those women in the river! You’ve only been gone for 25 minutes.”

There was a POP, and a beautiful woman materialized.

“Who’s this?” Weathers asked.

“This is Hitler’s Pussy. Let me introduce you.”

“Pleased to meet you, mam. I’m Cornel Weathers.”

“How high of a ranking officer are you?” Pussy asked.

“High,” Weathers said. His shoulders snapped to attention.

“Well—I think time has stuck me to this one.”

“Do you know how to swim?”

“Sure, I do,” Pussy said. I even have a suit on, underneath my silks.”

“It doesn’t look like you have one on,” Gregson said.

“My birthday suit, silly.”

“Let’s go to the river, and I’ll drive.”

“So, do you have a girlfriend yet?” Pussy asked.

“Not exactly.”

When they got there, they swam upstream to the campsite.

“Look what I caught!” Gregson said.

“Where have you been?” Murphy asked. “And who is that woman?”

“I prevented World War II, delivered Hitler’s balls in a to-go bag, and this is my Pussy.”

Murphy’s jaw dropped, and the girls were offended.

The End

Chapter 12 Hitler’s Golf Game Goes to Hell

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.”

“Exactly.”

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.

“Damn!”

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.

Chapter 11 Hitler’s Destiny

On the third hole, Hitler launched his drive 50 yards farther. His power was coming from somewhere. Gregson noticed it, like the sun going behind cold mountains—magical and mighty, transcending humanity—ever more dangerous, because it only cared about power.

“Fuck society,” Hitler said. “A society at peace, is a society not worth having.”

“Everybody is trying for the quiet life,” Gregson said. “It’s a life I can’t stomach.”

“Why?” Hitler asked, intrigued.

“People are trying to be the same. Their houses are the same—their clothes are the same—their mannerisms, and tastes are wholesale. They go to university, and they golf like they have arrived, but they don’t dominate anything. They don’t explore what they don’t know. They are afraid of being different.”

“You sound like me,” Hitler said. “A society at war, is a society where great men can salute each other.”

Gregson knew he was going to lose against Hitler. The man had strength. They got onto the green in regulation, and Hitler sunk his 30-foot putt.

“How do you do that?” Gregson asked. He two-putted for par.

“I have the power of hermits and priests, running through my blood,” Hitler said. “You know, Gregson—you remind me of me. I can’t kill myself. We think the same. I am three-strokes in the lead, so you will have to tell me my mistakes in history—otherwise, I won’t be able to conquer the world.”

“Your problem is, you want to make the whole world the same—you want to make people the same—you will do it through war—and you will bring about what you hate.”

“I’ve never thought about it that way,” Hitler said. “But we all have a destiny, whether or not we recognize it. Our lives are written in stone, and I have a need for power.”

“Do you believe the past can be changed, if time-travel is possible?”

“That would be my present,” Hitler said. “And nobody is going to change my destiny, but me.”

Chapter 10 Inside Hitler’s Head

“Damn—I killed the head pro, before he could pack my beer. Where’s the ice?” While Hitler was looking for the beer, Stanley’s trigger-finger began to itch.

“Not yet, Stanley,” Gregson said.

They walked to the first hole with their clubs. “These babies better get the job done.” Gregson pulled the driver from his bag, and swung it like a sword. “I’ve got to get inside Hitler’s head—it’s the only way to win.”

The PI teed-up, and launched his ball down the fairway. Hitler was right behind them, smoking a long cigarette. He plugged his tee into the ground and flicked his smoke into Gregson’s face.

CLICK. Hitler’s ball was short, but in-play. “I’ve got to increase my drive!” He lamented.

Both of them got onto the green in regulation, but it was Hitler who sunk his putt from 20 feet away, making birdie. It broke right, then left, and right again. Only someone possessed by magic could’ve made that putt. Gregson made par. It was the putter, stolen from a Scotsman, that gave Hitler the confidence to pull-off the impossible.

“Why do you want to conquer the world?” Gregson asked.

“Whatever we do in this life, is an expression of who we are. Most people don’t do shit—and guess what?”

“Okay—so, you need to prove your manhood?”

“Why is that a question?”

“But doesn’t a man press-up against the world, and discover his limitations? To not recognize his defeat, is to be defeated in a larger arena. Why compete, when he knows he will lose?”

“Because, he always believes he will win. He always plays to win. He does not look to the past to confirm his future—he looks to the future to confirm his past. He is limitless—he won’t accept any other truth but that.”

“That’s bordering on hybris.”

“To be humble—is to know your place. People with propriety don’t get very far.”

They played the next hole—a short par 3, and Hitler holed-out his putt. “Birdie again,” Hitler said.  He was indeed, a superman, consumed with Nietzschean belief. Gregson only got par.

“The reason you keep coming-up average, is because you think average,” Hitler said.

“Don’t you think that your thinking, is a bit beyond your doing?”

“It should always be that way. You will be criticized and laughed at, and called arrogant, but your dreams should always exceed your drive. Nobody will believe in you, until you do it. And then, everybody will say, ‘We always knew he could do it.'”

“But what if you don’t do it?” Gregson asked.

“The only difference between insanity and genius, is success,” Hitler said. “And I am willing to play the game.”

Chapter 9 Gambling with Hitler

“That’s the first hole,” Hitler said. “We tee-off a mesa, into a valley of death, but you will fear my evil. Let’s check-in to the pro shop.” They got out of the Alpha Romeo next to a building that looked like a bus station. When they opened the front door, the bell jangled.

“Can I help you, gentlemen?” The head pro asked. He was bald, wearing black sunglasses. Obviously, an Englishman.

“18 holes—for two.” Hitler said.

“Will you be walking or riding?”

“I’ll be riding. Pack a cooler with your best beer.”

“How about your friend?”

“He can walk.”

“Are you sure? It’ll be a scorcher.”

“I’m sure—as sure as my name is Adolf Hitler!”

“German—eh? We beat you boys in The Great War!”

“It’s not over—till it’s over!”

“Come on, man. Of course, it is! Do you need any balls or tees?”

“I’ve got plenty of balls,” Hitler said. “I could use a few tees.”

“Okay. Give me your money.”

Hitler pulled his Luger, and painted the pro shop with his brains. “Intelligent,” he said. “Very intelligent. You see how the grey matter, mingles with the red.” After admiring his art, Hitler left the pro shop. “If only I could put some money on this game.”

“Why don’t we gamble for life and death?” Gregson suggested.

“You don’t have any leverage. You are going to die, regardless.”

“But what if I did?”

“Go on…”

“I know you stole the World Almanac—and it works. Not a bad way to make a few bucks, am I right?”

“Go on…”

“Well, money isn’t everything. It can buy power, but not all the way.”

“What are you driving at?”

“You almost become world chancellor, but you make several blunders, that force you to swallow a lead pill.”

“What kind of expert are you?”

“From the future.”

“The possibility of traveling into the past…” Hitler said in a far-off voice. “I could steal rare antiquities, that would enhance my power—recover the Cup of Christ, and melt my enemies with the ark of the covenant! What year did you come from?”

“Only if you win, will you find out!”

Chapter 7 Playing Golf with Hitler

It felt like prying, to ask Pussy about murder, but Gregson knew it was necessary to look into her dark psyche, to find skeletons hidden there. He put his hand on her shoulder, and she flushed.

“Don’t touch my Pussy!” A voice shouted out of the shadows. Gregson wasn’t sure what to expect—a lesbian lover? The tenor was tiny, and full of steel. A little man walked out, from behind a statue of a cat licking her paws. He had a Charlie Chaplin mustache and an arrogant gate.

Gregson immediately noticed his Luger, staring him down, like death.

“Now—I might be a failed artist at painting, but I can paint your brains on the wall like a genius.”

Gregson didn’t doubt his genius. Stanley was standing next to him, trying to be an invisible coat-hanger, but it wasn’t working.

“What’s the matter? You don’t say anything?”

“I’ve already met your Pussy. My name’s Gregson.”

“Adolf. Forgive me, but I don’t shake hands. I don’t know what to do with you.”

“You could let us go?” Stanley suggested.

“That’s out of the question. Both of you need to die—I just don’t know where to sort you—garbage or recycling?”

Gregson glanced around the room like a mouse, cornered by dozens of cats—desperate to find a way out. There it was. Adolf, in Scottish golfing gear, wearing a checked cap and knickerbockers, resting his putter on his shoulder, like the emperor of the world.

“You play the greatest game?” Gregson asked.

“If you mean, politics, I am creating my own party. It will be a third reign of power, like the romans, with the blood of gypsies running in the streets. The world will die to hear the sound of my name.”

“Actually, I was thinking about the game of golf. Do you play?”

“I don’t play. I win,” Hitler said.

That Time of the Month

The Pro Shop was dimly lit, like the men were hiding from their wives, or something worse. The cigar smoke haze, was like the monster fog, outside, floating between the fairways, like ghosts.

“It’s a blood moon tonight,” Mike said.

“What does that mean?” Ken asked.

“It means, she’s on the rag,” Bill offered.

“Who’s on the rag?”

“Your wife,” Bill said.

“I’ll kill you!”

“No, you won’t.”

“If you boys want to take it outside, I’ve got a pair of pistols,” Mike suggested.

“A duel on the golf course?” Ken asked.

“What better time, than a blood moon?” Mike said. He was the head pro, and distinguished in his dress. He wore a sweater and jeans.

“Romantic—why don’t you play poker, instead of playing with each other,” Greg suggested.

“You just want my money,” Ken said.

“I can’t argue with that. How about your wife?” Greg asked.

“You want my wife?”

“Take it easy—she’s a little bit big for me, but I know you’re a slob, and she keeps your house as neat as a pin. I need a housekeeper, and if I need something to bang, well…”

“I’ll kill you!” Ken said.

“Humf—argueo—lick—balls.”

“What’s that Billy?” Greg asked.

“I think he said, ‘Are you going to lick my balls?'”

Billy put down his cards. He had a straight-flush. His throat cancer made it so he couldn’t talk—three packs of cigarettes a day for 30 years. He won the pot, and nobody complained—it was only a couple months before he took the lonely walk into the dark. He puffed on a cigarette, while stacking his chips.

“Billy—how’s your experimental treatment coming along?” Mike asked.

“Icks gowes hard and soft.”

“What?”

“I think he said, the nurses get him excited.”

“Oh—he deserves it. The blood moon has nothing to do with that time of the month,” Mike said.

“What?”

“Werewolves have been breaking-off flagsticks on the number 6 green the last couple of nights—I didn’t want to scare you guys from work.”

“There’s no such thing as werewolves,” Greg said. He took a drink, like he was trying to convince himself.”

“Why don’t you go for a walk under the red twilight, and find out?”

“It’s too cold, and besides, we’re playing poker.”

“I’m game, if you are?” Ken said.

“Bill finally came out of the restroom and zipped-up his pants. “Did I hear that you guys want to kill the werewolves tearing up the number 6 green? If we go, I’m taking my lever-action Winchester rifle. It’s an exact replica of the one Jimmy Stewart used in that movie, Winchester 73′. Plus, I’ve cast silver bullets. Shouldn’t be a problem to take down one or two of those hairy beasts.”

The guys looked at him. Bill wasn’t that far-off. He had hair on his chest, and wore red suspenders.

“I’ll get the pistols,” Mike offered.

“So, we’re really doing this?” Greg asked. He was skinny, and scared of everything.

“As sure as werewolf shit,” Ken said. “Don’t get bitten, but above all, don’t get dead.” They walked out of the shop, loading their guns.

“I’ve got a crossbow in my car,” Ken said.

“What, are you crazy?” Bill asked

“Why?”

“Only crazy people have crossbows—you see it in the movies. They’re all serial killers. We should call you Crazy Ken,” Bill suggested.

“I like the sound of that.”

“Why are we doing this?” Greg asked.

“The werewolf is the ultimate predator,” Bill said. “When I take him down, I become the ultimate.”

“You take too much testosterone,” Mike said. “Are you still on testosterone replacement therapy?”

“Sure, I am. After 60, I was tired of seeing the little guy, tired—needed to invigorate him, if you know what I mean? The problem was, Betty wasn’t ready for him—I have to warn her one hour in advance before the torpedo mission. I feel like the captain of a U-boat, passing through the labyrinthian abyssal, sinking mother cargo.”

“Okay, Captain Nemo.”

Billy took-up the rear. He was coughing, and a dead give-away.

“Billy, why don’t you light up,” Greg suggested. “Here, use my lighter.” He bent down, and lit Billy’s cigarette. “Okay, the beast should be right around the next dog-leg right.”

But when they got there, all they saw was fog.

“Nothing,” Greg said. “I told you there would be nothing.”

“You told me?” Ken asked.

“I told you.”

“You told me?”

“I told you.”

“God, you guys. It sounds like you’re in second grade.”

Both of them grabbed a pistol, and paced out the yardage. “Bill, will you be my second?” Ken asked.

“Mike, what about you?” Greg demanded.

“Both of you are idiots. Why would I want to die because of your stupidity?”

Just then, the bushes moved behind the water hazard, and a lycanthrope creature, jumped into the moonlight and bit Billy.

“Shoot that thing!” Mike said.

Bill fired—rapid fire. Crazy Ken shot the beast in the eye with his arrow. And both pistols found their mark in the werewolf’s chest.

“Now, we have to bury him,” Bill said.

“Where are we going to do that?” Ken asked.

“How about the sand trap?”

“As good a place as any. Should someone say the last rights?”

“I don’t know that we can do that—the werewolf is cursed by witchcraft.”

“How’s Billy doing?”

“He’s turning. Look at the hair growing on his chest.”

“He has more hair than me,” Bill said.

Billy grew claws and fangs. His body transformed, and then turned back into a man.

“I guess he’s okay. He didn’t get enough werewolf in him to make a complete transformation, or maybe the cancer stopped his cells from mutating. Should we go back to the pro shop and finish our game?”

“I think I’m going home to my wife. I feel like you guys are animals, and I need a woman’s touch,” Ken said.

Next week, Billy went into the doctor to get his blood tested. It came back negative for cancer cells, and his testosterone was through the roof.

“You said, you got bitten by a werewolf, on the golf course?” The doctor asked.

“Yeah,” Billy said.

“And I thought I’d heard all the golf stories. I need to get-out there and play more.

“Just don’t do it on a blood moon,” Billy suggested.

“That’s when a married guy needs to get out and play the most golf. It’s that time of the month.”

The End

Chapter 1 Samantha the Substitute

Samantha slid her pink panties on, and snapped her matching bra in the back. Max was watching her, with his big brown eyes. Samantha bent over, and he put his paws on her buttocks.

“Stop that!” She said. “Can’t you see that I’m late for work?”

It was September, and teachers were already falling like flies. They got these dark circles under their eyes, and couldn’t go to work. Samantha was never sick. She had milky skin and strawberry blonde hair. She reached for her golden makeup case, and painted red roses on her lips, smiling, and then kissing the mirror.

“Jeff—you son of a bitch, I’ll get you for what you did.” She looked at his black and white photograph—a stud, with literary looks, and a football chin.

Samantha slipped on her black skirt, and tied-on her red vest with frills. The boys would love it. Was she showing? Just enough. Not National Geographic, but not Sunday church either.

Samantha spent days trying on shoes. She wanted heels, but not the kind that punished her feet. She wanted spikes that would punish a man, if she needed a tactical weapon. Samantha stretched on her nylons, as they flowed out of sight.

Max grabbed her legs with his claws.

“Those aren’t for you,” Samantha said.

“Meow.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll bring you Tuna Fish for dinner, and a bitch, if you can stop marking your territory—otherwise, the balls must go.”

“Meow.” Max ran under the bed.

“Well—I’m sorry sweety, but I’m entertaining men. I can’t have my house smelling like a litter-box.”

Samantha grabbed her purse, and surveyed her living room before she left. Max jumped onto the piano bench, and started to play. He had mischief in his eyes—like he was going to punish her for what she said, but Samantha didn’t have time to lock him in the bathroom.

Her cell phone rang…

“Just a minute—I bet it’s Margery.”

“Samantha, darling—have you found a man yet?”

“Oh, Marge—I don’t think I’m over Jeff. He’s doing so well without me—it hurts.”

“Love kills, honey. You need to find a cowboy and get back up on the horse. Have you read the Feminine Mystic—it’s the book I told you to read?”

“Well, not yet—not exactly?”

“It will teach you how to use your pussy to have power.”

“Marge—I’m going to be late for class—and I’m not sure that I buy into all that feminist crap.”

“Talk to some teachers—they’ll set you right. Honey—you had so much more potential when you were temping at the hospital. Don’t you want to marry a doctor?”

“I just want to marry a man who loves me.”

“Wake up Samantha—it’s the 21st Century!”

“Sorry Marge—gotta go. Bye.”

“Wait—were you going to come over and water my flowers?”

“Oh—that’s right. How long are you going to be visiting the vortex in Utah?”

“Until I feel the vibrations—all throughout my body. If you don’t have a man—spirituality is the next best thing, and Todd has muscular hands too. He gives me massages after my vision quests. It’s an 8-hour spa, with cucumbers and a molasses spread.”

Samantha got into her red Mercedes and turned on the butt warmers. “School starts in 15 minutes, and the substitute can’t be late.”

“Bye Dear.”

“Kisses.”

Samantha hung up. Put it in reverse. Put it in drive. And then broke the speed limit. She wasn’t going to be tardy.