by G. Zotov
The other man sipped his whiskey. “It’s nothing new, unfortunately. That’s exactly what Mein Kampf says about the Finns and the Spanish in their respective versions. And you know what I think, Sir? I think it was the right decision. When I last was in Chinatown, I saw there stacks of the Führer’s portraits they’d just had delivered from China. The portraits weren’t exactly slant-eyed, but… going in that direction.”
Both laughed. “A slant-eyed Führer! That’s a first. Right, what are we going to do about the monument?”
“Just buy a shedload of all-purpose cleaner. Should be good enough for our bronze Untermensch.”
“Okay. You can’t imagine how busy I am. Dictator McCain is in Tokyo for a briefing while the Japanese ambassador in California is here on vacation, enjoying Cuban beaches. You shouldn’t wince. It’s true that not many in Los Angeles like it, but our young republic wouldn’t have lasted long without the support offered by the Nippon koku. Who else can we stick with? The Japanese are infinitely smarter than the Third Reich’s leaders who have gone loopy with their idea of world domination. Japan’s reasons for joining in the war were perfectly normal. They wanted to make some money. Do you remember Emperor Hirohito’s first address To the Population of the Former United States of America? They closed car making plants and TV factories, they banned American filmmakers from Hollywood. And what do we see now? Everybody’s driving Nissans and Mazdas, buying Panasonic televisions, eating sushi and watching Godzilla movies. Political occupation is nothing compared to the economic one.”
The other man flicked his lighter. “I’m not saying anything, Herr Gauleiter, Sir. Even though Dictator McCain can’t control all of California, this is still a true independence from inferior races. I love seeing Los Angeles streets filling with white people. We did the right thing shipping Negroes back to Africa. So what if there is lack of workforce? Any farmer can go to an arbeiter market and hire himself a few Chinese. Still, people complain. As in, this Independence isn’t worth a hair off Odin’s sacrificial goat; it would be so much better to just surrender to the Mikado, becoming a Japanese province. True, it would require taking Japanese names and complying with Japanese traditions, like wearing kimonos and such. But at least they offer political stability and high wages – as well as low crime rates. Which would allow us to finally get rid of neighborhood militia units.”
The other man drew on his cigar. “You’re absolutely right. But I’d rather put all the Independence critics on a cattle train and send them directly to Kansas. Let’s see how their Semitic reasoning helps them against wild tribes. The Far West is worse than Africa, did you know that? When the US was broken apart in the sixties many cities found themselves outside of official state limits. They’re completely cut off. No hot water, no electricity, no Geiger counters. Their only argument is an StG-44 automatic. Poor bastards hunt possums and feral cats for food. Here, it could have been the same! At least California is safe in the daytime. Ah, that’s something I meant to ask you. Do you know what happened in Chinatown last night? The Shogunet is flooded with videos of a huge flash in the sky. It looked like a powerful bomb explosion. What do you think it was, terrorists?”
“I wish I knew, Sir,” the other voice betrayed regret. “The special services arrived at the site within twenty minutes. No signs of any explosives have been found despite the fact that the buildings’ walls at the epicenter were covered in soot and part of the tarmac had melted. We tend to think it might be a meteorite impact, something like that.”
“What about the CCTV?” the other man sounded surprised.
“With due respect, Sir, we have no cameras installed in that particular neighborhood. It’s pointless.”
More sounds of drinks being poured out were followed by a pause and a knowing meaningful clink of glasses.
Chapter Two
Coca Cola
Los Angeles, North of the Hauptbahnhof (Central Station)
THE SUN’S BLINDING MY EYES. It feels almost like home from home: 105 degrees at least. We walk down a street thoughtfully lined with palm trees. At any other time, I’d have admired their grace and had my fill of camera shots like any normal tourist should. Still, I’m not in the mood at the moment. The city reminds me of Moskau with its charred skeletons of burned-out cars lying everywhere. The only difference is, they’ve only been burned very recently – not eight or ten years ago like they had been in Moskau.
Shop windows are protected with steel shutters. The shops are all closed, every last one of them. A large banner stretches across the road from one row of palms to the other, fluttering in the wind. Upon it, a blond Californian in a black uniform shakes hands with a Japanese soldier.
A slogan below says, The Führer’s ideas guide us toward the rising sun! Its red lettering has faded in the heat.
I’m thirsty as hell but you can’t get water anywhere here.
I look in front of me. A white skyscraper looms right ahead. It resembles one of those towers that top wedding cakes. Unbelievable. I never thought I’d ever see it with my own eyes. The 1933 King Kong movie, black and white, made by Merian Cooper and Ernest Schoedsack. The one in which the giant gorilla climbs this very tower and battles the biplanes attacking it[xxiii].
The film was banned already fifty years ago: both directors turned out to be of Semitic origin, but you could still download it from one of the Shogunet pirate sites.
“I’m admittedly a bit tired of our constant relocations,” I croak, addressing Olga.
She shrugs. Even now, in her charred kimono and sooty geta sandals she’s still capable of attracting half the stares in Los Angeles. Admittedly, their stares aren’t particularly admiring. You can tell that the locals don’t like foreigners. A teenager in a Stetson hat points his finger at us in a gun-like gesture. What a sweet kid. In moments like these you realize you should actually have bought a gun. You can never be too careful in a strange city.
I’ve plenty of yen in my pockets, but both my Walthers have been confiscated by the late Major Onoda.
I stop in my tracks. I’m thoroughly fed up.
“You’re going to tell me everything,” I inform her in as many words. “Today. Otherwise, I’m not following you anymore. You’re very welcome to stay here and enjoy palm tree views for the rest of eternity. Me, I’m going to ask how to get to the Moskau consulate in LA so I can go there and surrender myself to the Weltgestapo. It can’t be worse than knowing that I must have taken some LSD cut with cocaine and washed it down with some trippy mushroom brew. After the abolition of capital punishment, I don’t think anyone would bother strangling me in my cell. They might ship me to Africa – well, I don’t mind. I’d rather eat wild rice and sleep in the jungle listening to the monkeys’ screaming than turn to ashes on one side of the globe only to immediately resurrect on the other. So I’m sorry, Fräulein, but this is my last question to you…”
She stares down at the battered tarmac. Roads here leave a lot to be desired.
I heave a sigh and look up into the blue sky. “Just what I thought. Have a nice day. Only…”
Who said that drama effects don’t work anymore?
“Give it a break,” she interrupts my soliloquy. Her voice is sad and lifeless. “I’ll tell you everything today, I promise. You of all people deserve to know the truth. One word of warning, though. If you decide you don’t like my story or if you as much as claim that I’m out of my mind…”
Excellent. She said it herself. Now I can give her a piece of my mind. “Why would I want to do that?” I shift my gaze to the rows of whitewashed, steel-shuttered little houses in the old Spanish style. “I was there when you burned half the Uradziosutoku garrison to a crisp, then soared up into the clouds only to disintegrate into nothing. Do you think you can still surprise me? Even if you turn out to be Garuda, the God of birds, or Buddha’s latest reincarnation – go ahead. I have no problem with that.”
She hears me out, then gives me an indifferent nod and kicks off her getas. As in, information receiv
ed loud and clear. She patters on barefoot, wincing from the scorching hot tarmac. She looks exhausted. Still, she keeps looking around herself with interest.
Three blocks later, she tut-tuts. “That’s not how I imagined America to be,” her dilated pupils make her look like an owl. “Not what they say on Shogunet forums: like, California is the safe haven of democracy, they have two political parties there, nothing like our Nazi dictatorship. And what do I see? Scorched earth piled up with garbage. The shops are all shut. The roads are empty. Not even a cab in sight. Did you see that billboard over there? It’s advertising the Last Survivor TV show where a Chinese is being hunted by farmers’ dogs. Is this what a democracy is supposed to be?”
I can’t control myself any more. I double up, guffawing, choking and gasping with my own laughter. Black spots dance before my eyes. Had this been Moskau, they’d have already diagnosed me as a mental case and sent me to the SS psychiatric isolation block.
“I just love it!” I struggle to speak. “Two political parties, the pinnacle of democracy! The sheer idea would blow up any totalitarian brain trying to embrace it! You’re worse than a child, really. Two Californian parties that normally keep rotating every election, the National Socialists being relieved by the Social Nationalists and vice versa. One party has a logo with a swastika facing right, the other with a swastika facing left. But what difference does it make if the whole political game of this puppet theatre takes place backstage? The Japanese ambassador moves the local politicians like chess pieces. That’s exactly why they got rid of the NSDAP in Russland. Every election this party – do you know that it was nicknamed the Stiffs and Cats Party by Shogunet users? That’s because it often included dead politicians and even animals in its election lists to make sure that every election it garnered 100% of all votes. What’s the point voting, then?”
She grabs her head with both her hands. A painful groan escapes her lips. “My God, what is it with this horrible world? There’s nothing good about it at all!”
Big day for her today. An eye-opening day. “I might agree with you for a change,” my parched sandpapery tongue scrapes against my palate. “Apart from the God part, that is. There is no God. Admittedly, our world is a failure. Why? Because every time you start dreaming of conquering it, you should ask yourself: is Papua New Guinea part of the package too? How about the Congolese malarial swamps? Or Haiti with its yellow fever that made short work of the Napoleonic troops? It’s a bit like a toddler trying to swallow a watermelon whole. The ultimate carve-up of the globe between its two superpowers failed to include the world in its entirety. You can’t station a garrison in every backwater. Now California is different: the Japanese need to retain their control of Hollywood. Movies are more important than oil rigs. If denied entertainment, the masses will riot. The Führer too should have limited himself to Europe and the Western part of Russland up to the Volga River. Extra conquests breed extra problems.”
She seems shocked by my words. All her painful distress is gone. “You speak like a Forest Brother,” she chuckles. “Is this the effect I have on you?”
“In your dreams,” I hurry to add. “I’m just a level-headed patriot of the Reich. Allow me to use mythology to explain. If some dragon unthinkingly swallows a fat princess whose body exceeds the size of his stomach, he’ll suffer from heartburn and indigestion. But he can’t do anything about it: firstly, because there is no medication that could help him and secondly, because any attempt to disgorge the said princess would cause his stomach to burst. In which case-”
I stop mid-word. Great Odin, have you really heard my promise of a sacrifice? That’s right! The steel door of a shop opposite is ajar!
Not waiting to be invited in, I push the door handle and barge inside.
A shotgun’s muzzle is pressed to my forehead. A large lady with her hair in rollers spits heartily at my feet,
“Freeze, motherfucker! What the hell you doing here?”
“Sorry, lady, er, Frau!” I don’t understand a word of their wretched Anglo-Saxon tongue so I switch to German, “I just saw a gun on your shop sign. I’d like to buy a gun and something to drink. Or maybe a drink first and then a gun. It’s up to you.”
“You two Aryans?” she asks in German with a thick American accent without lowering the shotgun.
“Have been for quite a while,” I assure her.
“Show me your racial IDs,” she demands half-heartedly. “Or piss off back to Africa.”
Unhurriedly I reach into my jacket’s inner pocket and produce a plastic ausweis sporting the holographic logo of the Racial Department. The card confirms my Aryan descent back into antiquity, including my blood group and results of the DNA test. All normal people (as opposed to Lebensborn graduates) also have the names of their parents and grandparents listed on theirs.
The woman shoves the card into a reading slot on her cash register, then silently mouths the data. You can tell she used to skip her German classes back at school, probably getting drunk with other girls in some seedy cellar instead. Or they could have even smoked, seeing as smoking isn’t illegal here.
Finally, Lady Rollers cracks a listless smile and lowers her gun. “Odin’s priest! Sorry, Sir, been a bit too quick on the draw. Your broad, is she Aryan too? Arright. You never know, you see. Racial laws are strict here. You sell a gun to a non-Aryan, you spend the night at the station. At the polizeirevier, I mean. What kind of money you got? Californian dollars, Russisch marlo or yen? New models can’t be bought with dollars. They’re not popular here anyway.”
“I’ve got yen,” I say matter-of-factly.
The woman’s face turns crimson with pleasure. “Excellent, Sir!” she presses a button. The steel shutter behind her back slides up, revealing a large display of weapons. “What would you prefer? An StG, a Panzerfaust… or how about an MG 42?”
An MG 42 is a machine gun from the times of the Great Battle. A 250-round belt, fires up to 1,500 rounds per minute. It can take out this whole block, easy. Oh no, thank you very much. I don’t need a beast like that. Now an StG, that wouldn’t be so bad. It will fit into my bag quite nicely, too.
The woman takes it from the display and offers it to me. I take this fine creation of Hugo Schmeisser and check the action. The weapon smells of cordite. The gun is second-hand which means it’s already been zeroed.
The woman meets my sideways glance. “Five grand,” she grumbles. “I can make it four for you.”
I don’t think so. Gun trade is legal in California. Sooner or later we’re bound to find what we need. The shop owner is brazenly trying to rip off the Aryan tourists who have chanced to walk through her door.
I haggle mercilessly. After I make a motion toward the door, she drops the price to two grand.
I thumb through the bills sporting the portrait of the Emperor Akihito. Just think that only before the Great Battle the American dollar was considered a currency to be reckoned with! Now it’s worth less than the paper it’s printed on. Here in California, three cities print their own dollars with a variable exchange rate. The San Francisco dollar is slightly more expensive than its LA counterpart. All vendors are also obliged to accept reichsmarks because of the law which forces them to recognize the Third Reich’s currency.
“I also need three Cokes… make it four,” I say cheerily as I lay the StG into a duffel bag (included in the price). “Chilled, please. Head-numbingly cold.”
The woman opens the rusty door of a dilapidated post-apocalyptic fridge. Inside, bottles are lined up in serried soldier-like ranks. Her fat fingers scoop up four Cokes.
“This is original stuff, none of those fakes you can buy at other places,” she proudly informs me. “See this red rising sun on the cap? Made at the Nagasaki factory in Japan.”
I just love how the Japs did it. Having won the war, they simply confiscated the trademark and moved production to the Nippon koku. Taking Coke out of America is a bit like ripping its heart out. No wonder the country has gone to the dogs.
I e
mpty a bottle in one swig. She’s right: it’s the same familiar tang. You can’t confuse this chemical taste with anything.
“Many thanks,” I say in English, using a phrase I still remember from school. “Can I make a phone call?”
“The lines are down,” she scratches her oily head. “Ain’t had no phone for a month. The power comes and goes. I have a generator to power the fridge. Had to scrap the TV. No point keeping it.”
Judging by the smell coming from her house coat, they haven’t had hot water for the last two hundred years, either.
I turn to Olga. “Is this how you’d like to live?” I ask her in Russlandish. “This is democracy in all its beauty, so praised by the pro-Western Schwarzkopf faction. And that’s if we forget that two thirds of the guerrilla fighters are Bolsheviks. I’d love to see you transported to Stalin’s era. If the Völkischer Beobachter is anything to go by, this so-called “holy man” used to have his meals made with children’s flesh. Apparently he was into black magic and fashioned voodoo dolls out of human skin. How I envy you. You’re in for quite a few revelations still. The Schwarzkopfs love to idolize their own fantasies.”
She preserves a sullen silence. We walk out of the shop, choking on the hot dry air.
“Where to now?” she pretends she hasn’t heard my last words.
“To the city center,” I sling the bag over my shoulder. “Meiji Hotel. I have this old Lebensborn mentor of mine who lives there. Dr. Sorokin, from my orphanage days. About five years ago he contacted me over the Shogunet and left his address. He said I was always welcome. I had no idea then I’d ever come here. He works for Dictator McCain now, studying the anti-aging serum. He has access to all of the Lebensborn’s electronic archives. So now I’m gonna ask him who the hell this Herr Loktev is and how he manages to shapeshift into me. Plus I’m gonna ask him what makes this man so impervious that even four slugs can’t send him on a trip to Valhalla. I suggest we look for a cab or at least a bus. We can’t walk all the way to the center in this heat. Besides-”