The Furher is being injected with Bull Semen, read the highly top secret telegram. Bernard Cribbins stared at that particular passage again trying to figure out its significance for the Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare. Was it means to which the world could get rid of one of it's most evil bastard's, was it a propaganda master stroke the equal of that one ball in the albert hall song that the boffins came up last year or was it what was usually placed on his desk, utter piffle? The report seemed even too far for this department. Sure, in the course of six years of long hard attritional warfare that had involved the murky worlds of murder, sabotage and espionage the men and woman of Cribbin's department had done some very ungentlemanly things but this seemed beyond the pale somewhat to the British. Maybe I should pass it over to the Americans, wondered Cribbins to himself.
Cribbins read on and it turned out Hitler was being injected by his personal physician with the poor creature's love making juice to make himself more sexually virile. Reading it, Cribbins did not know whether to scrunch the paper up or deliver it directly to those with a higher pay grade then himself. He was only a intelligence officer with special brief on Hitler's inner circle. Did it have any proper military use?
As he eyed what to do and longing for a brandy, he saw his immediate superior a old mad eccentric named Rudyard Hastings sorter by on the way to his own office. Cribbins quietly followed him like a lost puppy but as lost lips sank ships, it was a conversation best served man to man.
"Interesting, interesting. It does make one thing about the effectiveness of the assassination plot we have been crafting with SOE", said Hastings after Cribbins tried to explain to him the report, downing what was probably his fifth brandy of the day. Cribbins inquired what plot hastily as it might not be something he was privy too .
"Well naturally we have had plans drawn up about killing the little German Napoleon, but if you have found a explanation of why he is become so reckless and incompetent then its best to leave him as is until war's end. How long has this been going on Cribbins?", said Hastings, now leaning on the side of his mighty wide oak desk.
"Since 1937 at the earliest we think, sir. His physician, a Doctor Morrell has been injecting him with stimulants of greater and greater potency to keep Hitler going", replied Cribbins, who had gulped his brandy in two rather big mouthfuls.
"Ah do you think it explains the man then and his maddness? I have never had course to inject myself with the semen of another animal but do you think it explains the warmongering and the hatred that is buried underneath? You should know as you have studied half the rotters", asked Hasting, musing philosophically. Cribbins stood up straight out of his chair.
"I do not think so, sir. I think drugs do not excuse the monstrous things that the Nazis have done. No drug could break a human being's morality like that. Sadly only sinister thoughts on any suspecting brain can do that and we know Hitler was sprouting his warped ideas of world domination and supposed Aryan superiority long before Morrell came on the scene".
Hastings bowed his head in agreement. "Are we close to Morrell? Do you think we can turn him?", enquired Hastings.
"Not not really sir. He maybe greedy as evidenced by the medicinal empire his built up but he is very loyal to his benefactor. Our source only learnt of the facts because Morrell had began breeding a particular breed of friesan cattle. He is very well guarded about the drugs that he uses".
Hastings sighed. "Well this evidence has only one use I am afraid, for prosperity".
About the Creator
Enjoyed the story? Support the Creator.
Subscribe for free to receive all their stories in your feed. You could also pledge your support or give them a one-off tip, letting them know you appreciate their work.
Keep reading
More stories from Paul Armstrong and writers in Fiction and other communities.
The most exciting place to work
My father worked at the box factory for 40 years and told me to never end up there. It was not a profession that offered much respect. Most people assumed that anyone could make a box and assumed that’s how they are made. But there is a need in the job market for professional box makers. Somehow your fireworks, your candies and your nails need to get to you somehow.
By Paul Armstrong3 years ago in Fiction
The Silence That Follows
“Silence is not the absence of something but the presence of everything . . . It is the presence of time, undisturbed. It can be felt within the chest. Silence nurtures our nature, our human nature, and lets us know who we are. Left with a more receptive mind and a more attuned ear, we become better listeners not only to nature but to each other. Silence can be carried like embers from a fire. Silence can be found, and silence can find you. Silence can be lost and also recovered. But silence cannot be imagined, although most people think so. To experience the soul-swelling wonder of silence, you must hear it.”― Gordon Hempton
By Paul Stewartabout 22 hours ago in Fiction
Only Five Minutes
Sheriff Parker popped a tic-tac (strawberry and cream flavored) into his mouth to calm the nerves in his stomach. He looked around and saw that the civilians in the town square were either talking amicably with each other or waiting patiently for their mayor and the town council to arrive. He looked up and saw the sun shining brightly and warmly, without a cloud in the sky. Sheriff Parker looked at his watch and read the time as 2:43 pm. The solstice ceremony was supposed to start at 2:45 pm, and his Deputy just radioed him that he, Mayor Cox, and the others were one minute out.
By Rebecca Patton7 days ago in Fiction
Confessions of an Empath
The birds are chirping, and the sun is shining in a cloudless July sky. The vibrancy promises a beautiful day, but the cooing of the Mourning Dove perched on the powerlines seems to be more fitting than the lively songs of the robin flitting through the trees. The melancholic calls of the dove cloak the world in a sadness that hangs like tattered drapes.
By Alyssa Nicole3 days ago in Confessions
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.