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 8 Negotiating with Hitler

“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.

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.