A Doom and Reprisal report from Ale 81 Inn field correspondent Ford Wenty
Dust and chunks of plaster rained from the low ceiling with each succeeding concussion from above. The guns had rumbled almost incessantly for weeks now. Despite the relentless assault upon the capitol the Reichsbunker had remained adequately supplied through a subterranean network of tunnels. Out of devotion to their Fuehrer, suffering all deprivations and at constant risk of their own lives, the subjects of the Reich had insured that the Fuehrer had all that she needed to carry on the fight. She had rightly warned her subjects that they all faced an enemy so insidious as to inhabit garden seed packets, gymnasiums and barber shops; and yet still the vital stocks continued to arrive. Sometimes on pallets, often only by one box at a time, but daily it came. Hairspray and cosmetic products, AA batteries, cheap white wine, SaraLee chocolate cakes, prescription painkillers and gallon ziploc bags of crystal meth. This catacomb grid had been abuzz with activity while only a handful, the innermost of the Fuehrer’s circle, were aware of those dark passages that connected to the Windsor Tunnel and beyond to a neutral Canada, should the worst occur.
The noose was steadily tightening. The Reich was beset at all sides and despite the abiding love of the folk for their leader there were now traitors in their midst. The Fuehrer still held an array of new and terrifying weapons in her arsenal, though their potential efficacy in this battle waned with each passing hour. Some decisive strike would have to come and soon, otherwise the Reich would face collapse in a few short months. Perhaps in as little as weeks. Pickelschwanz, her former Gestapo Chief, had tried to diminish the significance of the Owosso incident. All of this started because of some god damned, geriatric barber! In retrospect she now regretted old Pickledick’s execution. She was discovering that dead scapegoats pay diminishing returns.
Just days earlier Madame Reichsfuehrer had consulted with her war council. The situation on the ground was extremely fluid, reporting was varied, often sketchy and sometimes contradictory. The reality was that no one individual anywhere in the regime had a complete picture of what was actually happening. The only clear conclusion was that things were bad and not getting better. As in any repressive regime founded upon a cult of personality, fueled by methamphetamine, paranoia and hubris, these were conditions ripe for treachery. There remained, however, at least one of her ministers in whom she placed her implicit trust: Reichsminister of Wellness, Dr. Moe F. Ucker. In a brief one on one conversation after the council a critical decision was reached.
Madame Reichsfuehrer I believe we have reached that critical juncture. You know what must be done. You know that you are the only one who can. You must transmute the Water of Flint!
In the recesses of her addled mind she had always known that it could come down to this. Now, as the critical hour approached, she ruefully considered that perhaps she should have committed to this sooner. And… was it already too late? Either way it was now the point of no return.
This ancient ritual was ideally performed beneath a full moon, following the sacrifice of newborn babies and attended by blood robed acolytes. There was no time for this now. They needed to forego the traditional rites, instead substituting with hasty improvisations. Within the deepest sub-levels of the bunker an environmentally friendly LED globe was mounted to approximate the lunar orb. For the acolytes, a half dozen female employees from a local branch of the DMV were pressed into service. (You may have always suspected that the DMV was populated with nazis. Now you know.) With an adequate supply of newborns’ blood wanting, they instead strung up a couple of live wolverines, severed their heads and then bathed in the shower of blood spray that followed. Some soiled, yellow traffic vests were donned in lieu of the robes. It wasn’t authentic, but it would have to do. The most critical ingredient, the deadly Water of Flint, was. If she was able to successfully transmute it’s deadly toxins that was all that really mattered.
There has long been documentation of nazis dabbling in the occult, but seldom has there been an accurate accounting as to what extent this is true. The foundations of Reichsfuehrer Eva Goering-Hitler’s Fourth Reich are cemented in an epoxy designed in a precision ratio of neofacism and ancient witchery, perfectly balanced to insure maximum bond and permanency. Just like her own Aryan formulated genetics: two parts paranoid, murderous sociopath; one part vapid bimbo. Of all the arcane potions of the dark arts The Water of Flint is the most revered and the most feared. Few have been possessed of the necessary brain chemistry to successfully transmute it’s toxins in the quest for omniscience.
Madame Reichsfuehrer had assumed the position, reclined in a child’s blow up pool emblazoned with the Hillary 2016 logo. The pool was one of a dwindling number of campaign paraphernalia items which she had been reluctant to part with. She had never imagined it would become a prop in what was now the most crucial point in her reign. For the occasion she had selected a black mesh body suit. She’d have been better off to go with body paints, as the racy piece fell short of the desired effect. She’d been going for that retro-chic SS look, but came off more as a bloated sow wrapped in a roll of pet screen. Mentally she was prepared, though very much on edge. It had been essential that her system be purged of competing psychoactive agents for seventy-two hours prior to ingestion.
As ceremonial bells tolled to announce the arrival of the deadly elixir there were two of the faux acolytes who dared to whisper between themselves.
“Daaamn! What this crazy bitch doin’ now? Why we gotta be here for this shit?”
“Shhh! You crazy? She trying to save this train wreck! It’s the Water of Flint! It s’posed to like upload all her ancestral memories or some shit.”
“I ain’t never heard of that.”
“There been few who tried.”
“They tried and failed?”
“They tried and died.”
“Daaamn! This some serious shit!”
A beaded curtain parted and none other than Robert Reich entered, more than ever resembling another infamous deformed dwarf of nazi legend. He bore the fetid liquid in a supersized styrofoam Hardees cup, moving forward in very measured steps and taking great care not to spill a drop. As the fume filled the room her nostrils flared, her pulse quickened. As Reich finally arrived at her side she momentarily closed her eyes, drew a deep breath and awaited the words.
“If thou be a reverend mother….The Water of Flint!” Reich bowed (no need for him to kneel) and handed the cup to Madame Reichsfuehrer’s trembling hands. Keeping his eyes downcast he reverently backed away to disappear behind the curtain from whence he had come. A breathless hush fell upon the room.
The physical properties and composition of the Water of Flint are not fully known or understood. There are, of course, the critical base elements of hydrogen and oxygen, but any similarity to what you and I call water ends there. The consistency falls somewhere between quicksand and common pond scum. It’s bouquet is possessed of the full bodied swell of the Flint River in springtime, carrying as that does the heady blend of high sodium, nitrogen run-off and waste products. Upon crossing the palate it evokes subtle hints of diesel fuel and ball sweat. It was like a shit sandwich in a 32 oz. cup; an apt symbol for any choice one must make when no other options remain.
Despite the assault upon the olfactory organ she eagerly brought the cup to her crimson painted lips. This exercise was not about sating any sensory appetite. For Reichsfuehrer Eva Goering-Hitler this was a spiritual endeavor; a quest to unlock all of the genetic memory of her ancestry; a gateway to the golden path forward. She managed three solid gulps before gagging briefly, but stopped short of falling into a full blown retch. The muscle memory of her collegiate semen gargling exploits kicked in and she powered down the rest of the foul contents without pause. The foam cup, emptied and oozing residue from the brim, fell to her side. To those present she appeared to be paralyzed, pupils fully dilated and eyes glazed, unblinking.
She had not known for certain what to expect. From the little she had been told of the ritual she would have expected a more violent physical reaction. It’s poison churned inside her gut, raising her heart rate and temperature, but there was no sudden rush of memories; no sudden sense of heightened awareness. She was indeed temporarily paralyzed and after a minute she grew fearful that she had failed, that this was death. Very slowly, nearly imperceptible at first, the light began to fade from her periphery. The small cadre of DMV clerks were still visible, but as the seconds drew on to minutes they had begun to fade into vague shadows behind a shimmering veil. At one point she heard the voice of one of them, the speech distinguishable yet sounding as though heard from the bottom of a pool. “Shee-itt! Dat crazy bitch done gone ‘n died!”
The light faded further and further until she was left looking upward from the bottom of a hole. All was white and sterile, cold, clinical. She had been thrust back to her first moment of existence, the instant of her genetic fusion in the clone tank. She was looking at the very laboratory, the very moment in time at which she had been spawned. She saw it with her own eyes and her mind’s eye simultaneously, but also with the eyes, knowledge and memory of each of her three cellular donors. As all minds assumed a synchrony within her view her entire existence flashed forward to the present. She was left with the sense that no time had passed at all as her field of vision within the room cleared again. There was still a general paralysis, but as the combined psyches within her mind coalesced about the current temporal realm a peculiar internal dialogue began.
The Eva Braun within her perceived that the physical being she now inhabited was seated within a pool of some sort. Drawing upon her own memories and experience this triggered a sexual arousal in anticipation of that time honored Germanic fetish for water sports.
The Herman Goering within her perceived that there were narcotics present. Combined with her body’s seventy-two hour deprivation this threw her into a full blown morphine jones. She heard her own voice offering assurances to Goering not to worry. We’ve got a lot better shit today, Papa Herman. We’ll get you hooked up with some oxys.
Finally, the voice she had sought above all others emerged. Papa Hitler’s words came in a soothing voice. Yes, my child. I hear your pleas…You must burn down the Reichstag and blame the Russians. Burn the Reichstag….blame the Russians….burn…blame….the Russians….The voice subsided to the recesses of her own mind. They were all one mind now, but the other voices were sublimated to the background until needed again.
Madame Reichsfuehrer blinked, worked her jaws and then suffered a violent shudder. Thus delivered from her trance like state she awkwardly raised herself to her still somewhat wobbly legs.
“Whoop! Whoa! Holy shit, that was some rush, huh? Somebody better clean this shit up! I think I spooged all over. Ha! There’s your fucking Water of Flint, right? Where’s my doctor?!”
The DMV acolytes were disturbed by Madame Reichsfuehrer’s apparent drunken behavior. None were certain what was supposed to have happened here, but the consensus was that something must have gone awry. One of their party was dispatched to go and retrieve Dr. Ucker while the others remained to keep her from running off. Or worse. They were treated to a bizarre and nonsensical rant as they waited, watching their Fuehrer wading in circles through the goo at the bottom of the inflatable pool.
“The Reichstag, tag line…..line item….fire….Fire….FIRE!!!! Ha-ha-ha-haaah! Yes, I see it. We’ll burn it, yes! Burn it all down! The Russians did it, yes. They’ll all believe it too. They all love me. Except for that barber! Aaaaauggh! That fucking barber!…… Where’s my fucking doctor!?” This mantra and variations of it were repeated through several tense minutes until Dr. Ucker arrived and dismissed everyone else from the room. He draped a robe about her shoulders and tried to walk her back from such an agitated state.
“I knew I should have remained in attendence! Madame Reichsfuehrer I….”
“No Fucker…no man may be present…”
“It’s alright now. You’re alive! You’ve succeeded, Madame Reichsfuehrer! Can you see the Golden Path?”
“I see everything now, Fucker…”
“It’s Ucker, actually.”
“I know it is. Fucker. Burn the Reichstag. Blame the Russians. Do you know what that means?”
“Uhh….no? Should I?
“I know what it means, Fucker.”
“Yeah, whatever. Ucker, Fucker, Sucker….you’ll answer to pretty much whatever I call you, won’t you? Because I am the Fuehrer, Fucker. Me. Only me. I know what is best for the Fourth Reich. I am the Fourth Reich. Not some god damn judges, not some pis ant rednecks thumping their chests, not some decrepit old man who cuts hair!”
“Of course Madame Reichsfuehrer! What are your orders?”
“My orders are already being carried out. As we speak a band of treasonous conspirators are being rounded up. Ordinarily I would just have them capped on site, but these are the villainous agents of Trump and Putin. They are fifth columnists, Fucker, plotting the overthrow of the Reich, doing the bidding of reactionary forces. If I can’t have that damned barber’s head on a plate I will make an example of these miscreants and hang it about the neck of our enemies. It is not enough that my people love me, which they most certainly do I assure you. I am to be loved and feared. It is only through fear that all may love me!”
Dr. Ucker observed the manic glare in her eyes. It seemed that she was indeed someone else now. He had no idea what she was referring to and was beginning to have doubts. Perhaps this had been a mistake. He began to wonder if any of this was true. When she spoke again an icy chill shot through his spine.
“Of course it’s all true, Fucker. It’s true if I say it’s true.” Dr. Ucker’s mouth fell agape at the sudden understanding that she was inside his head. “Don’t look so surprised, Fucker. This whole thing was your idea, remember? I should have done this from the beginning. This whole omniscience thing is going to come in very handy.”
When last we visited with Governor Gretchen Whitmer of Michigan (The Barber of Owosso: a tragic opera in one act, Ale 81 Inn Doom and Reprisal report 11 May 2020), I familiarized our readers with her startling and little known back story. We provided a glimpse into the workings of the modern fascist state and the unhinged mental state of it’s so called leader. Now, fast approaching six months from our initial report, we see her glorious Reich teetering on the brink. Nevertheless, she still clutches the reins ever tighter; still clings to her delusions. The delusion that she is still beloved by the good volk of the Reich. The delusion that the science is on her side. The delusion that just because she says so, whatever “it” may be, that it is therefore true and not to be questioned. Like that famous Louis’ mocking sing-song: L’etat, c’est moi!
The hubris, arrogance and insecurity manifest in this shrieking harridan’s rule is rivaled only by that of another renowned witch, one Hillary Rodham Clinton. The only true difference between them, besides the age difference, is that Gretchen has a better hairdresser. Any criticism, any challenge to her authority is to be dispatched by denial and deflection, the facts be damned. Why ever accept any responsibility for one’s actions when this may easily be replaced with some narrative concocted to place that onus upon one’s political enemies? “Do you want to believe me or your lying eyes?”, the default rhetorical question for petty tyrants the world over. When one navigates life with a train of sycophantic lips permanently affixed to one’s posterior, is it any wonder that they should believe this? It becomes pathological.
This past Sunday Eva was the esteemed guest on Meet the Repressive, hosted by Cuck Fraud. In a rare moment of weakness she actually revealed what most of us have known from the start:
Rrriiiiiight….now it all makes sense. It really is about science after all. Political science, and poorly practiced at that. I believe that most of us have known this from the start, yet it is still stunning to hear the admission (purposeful or not) to spill from those slut-red painted lips. Now, after the risky and daring transmutation of the deadly Water of Flint, she is indeed the Kwisatz Haderach, der Fuehrer, the supreme ruler all rolled into one benign and omniscient being. She is Queen Shit of Turd Island, all alone at the top of the heap where she hopes to remain: intact and rejected by maggots.