Boot Stamping on a Human Face Forever, Or English Dignity

Chapter the First"Why do you let him hang this garbage in your café?" Martha Higgens asked. She did not know that I could hear her. "It looks awful. All of them do." She spoke of an original painting of mine, "Honor and the Value of Sweat". It depicted a field, drawn so accurately it looked as if it had been photographed. In the field stood a mouse. He held a shovel, and wiped the sweat from his brow while he worked. The mouse was drawn in the style of the late Walt Disney, partially as a tribute to his artistic vision, partly as a commentary on the current state of the world. Just as Walt had died, and his artistic vision with him, Germany had died, and with it the pride of a hard day's work. Now, people were content to laze around. Society had crumbled.Of course, Martha was a fat and stupid housewife. She was not cultured; she did not think. I did not expect her to appreciate my genius."He is an old friend," said Jonathan. He owned the café. I had known Jonathan for around fifteen years. He was the first friend I made when I moved to England. "He can make use of these walls in whatever way he sees fit.""Well, I still think you'd better take them down. They probably scare off customers." She looked in my direction. "Paying customers, I mean."Jonathan went back to reading the paper. Certainly, he would have liked to defend me, but that might have offended his customer, and Jonathan had a business to run. I understand this, which is why I did not confront Mary. This is why I did not explain to her that in comparison to the work of art before us, her own existence was meaningless. This is why I didn't explain that this painting would one day be worth more money than her family had earned in all of its generations. I was Jonathan's friend, and he was mine, and to defend my work would cause him trouble. This is why I did not confront Mary Higgens. "Besides," Mary continued, despite Jonathan's obvious disinterest. "A thousand pounds? For this? He must be out of his mind!"She laughed to herself, then realized that nobody was laughing with her, and fell silent. She noticed that Jonathan was preoccupied with the paper, and not her, so she coughed and tried to compose herself. She walked out the door, feeling quite sheepish I should think.Jonathan and I were alone in the café now, so he came to my table. "Look at this, Adolf." He put the newspaper in front of me, his finger motioned to the headline. It was in extremely large font, and took up at least a third of the page. I had read it from across the room, while he spoke to Mary Higgens, but I indulged him."Soviets Land Man On Moon," I read aloud. "Fascinating." "The moon, Adolf." Jonathan said, gazing up at the ceiling. His eyes sparkled like those of a child. "A man on the moon. And by the Reds, no less. Here I thought the Americans were sure to get there first."I'd have landed a dozen Germans by 1949 if I'd been elected.""Undoubtedly. You'd have beaten them by at least six years.""Mmm." I finished my tea, then set the saucer down. It had not been bitter enough."How was it?""Perfect, as usual."Jonathan smirked. I did not, but rather nodded. I had always held the belief that smiling made one look foolish and the thought had become more adamant when my hair lost its color."I have no money, but I have doodled on this napkin and autographed it. In the coming years, when I am recognized, you will be able to sell it and retire. I imagine this will suffice for the tea, as per usual."His smile was wider now, but did not appear entirely genuine. "Another original Hitler for my collection, eh? I'll make sure to hold onto it.""Indeed, you should," I replied and got to my feet. "Take care of yourself, Jonathan.""And you yourself, Adolf." Chapter the SecondI wore a very presentable suit. It was brown, and had a tight fit around the arms. I held a briefcase, but it was empty. The content did not matter, only the illusion of content.I was made to wait outside the office of Richard Brant: superintendent. This was a crude tactic, one I had encountered many times during my political career. I had even used it myself, albeit on rare occasion. Forcing others to wait on your pleasure is to exert dominance upon them. Dentists are known to make one wait in their lounge, which is why I no longer visit them. This tactic did not affect me. It relies on the victim to allow dominance to fall upon them, something I refuse to do. I have willpower not found in most men. As such, this exercise was a waste of both of our time. Eventually, I was allowed to enter his office; he motioned me to take a seat. I accepted and examined my surroundings. A few pictures sat on his desk, a few more hung on the wall. His wife was ugly. She looked as if she had been in an accident when she was young. At least this meant she must be a nice girl. His son had stunning blue eyes. He sat in front of a piano in one picture. I found myself feeling proud of the child, although he was not my own. I had no children. I had never found a woman as compassionate, as intellectual, as myself. There was also a vase sitting in the corner. I identified it as Chinese, and not nearly as old as it looked to be. I hate the Chinese. I am of the opinion that the Chinese are far worse than the Russians. It is only a matter of time until they turn Red. This can be guaranteed. "Well, Mister Hitler," Richard Brant began. "I've looked over your resume, but I find myself confused as to your, er, qualifications.""As I understand it," he continued, "you have not been employed for almost two decades. Why is this?""I have not been formally employed, but have lived off my art for a very long time. This alone should speak for my artistic capabilities." This was not entirely true. I took with me a very large sum of money from Germany. Although it took many years, these funds had finally began to run out."Alright. And you would like to teach art, I understand. Have you any experience teaching?""I do not. However, I believe my intellect will make up for experience."Brant did not respond. "And these," he pulled a few pieces of paper from a folder. "These are samples of your artwork?""Yes.""Well..." he folded his arms. "Unfortunately, we aren't hiring cartoonists. We teach the arts at this establishment, not children's entertainment.""What you see before you, sir, is the art of a genius that this world has not yet seen the likes of." It would be a lie to say I was not insulted, but more predominantly, I was disappointed. Disappointed that the man in charge of educating the children- who are the future of society- was too ignorant to adequately understand modern art. I gathered my portfolio and stood up. "Good day to you, sir.""Well, if you want to be taken seriously, consider shaving that moustache. You look like a comedian!"I slammed the door as I left. Even more than the Chinese, I hate Charlie Chaplin.  Chapter the ThirdOn occasion, I find myself unable to sleep at night. Sitting alone in bed, my mind wanders. I cannot help thinking of what might have been, what glory my hand might have wrought were I given the opportunity.I understand that I cannot change the past, and that it does not bode well to dwell on these things, but at night, in my bed, I sometimes cannot help it. When I was a child, I thought there was a monster underneath my bed, and that if I set my bare foot upon the floor it would reach out and grab me and I would never be seen again. I asked my father Alois to check the bed, and he beat me. He told me that I was weak, and that I should have died in place of my brothers. I did not like my father very much. I sometimes think about this at night. He died when I was not yet a young man, and I did not cry.I was a man when my mother died, but I bawled like a babe then. It was the last time I cried. She was a lovely woman and deserved much better than my father. Perhaps she deserved better than me.When I eventually sleep, I have a recurring dream. I dream that I am standing among a crowd of people, all of whom are looking to me. I then realize that I am not standing, but instead hovering. I am a full foot above the ground and no part of my body seems to be held by the suggestions of gravity. In the crowd I see my mother, and she is holding four children. I know them to be my siblings. I do not see my father, and I do not see my sister. She smiling at me and so are my baby brothers and sisters. They smile with an unconditional love and admiration. The other faces smile in awe, not love. Then I look to the sky and I see the Lord. He bleeds from hundreds of cuts around His body, which obscures His pale skin. He wears the Crown of Thorns upon His head and it causes Him to bleed into His hair, which radiates like the sun itself. He reaches out His hand and the people look to me to take it. Without hesitation, I grasp His palm and I feel a heat unlike anything I have felt before. I know, then, why I was born on Easter Sunday. I know, then, why I have always known greatness was to be Mine. My skin is no longer that of a man. It is pure gold, as are My eyes and hair. I look to the Lord, but he has gone, and I am alone in the sky. I understand that he has chosen Me, that I am now blessed with the responsibility he once held. I look down, and I touch the hand of My mother's babe, and its skin turns to gold. The infant reaches up, and it touches its tiny hand to My mother's lips. Her skin, as Mine, shines of the purest gold. My touch is spread around the crowd, first, and then the world. For some, My touch does not bless. Some are unworthy of My blessing, and are instead cleansed. The flesh on their skulls tear, and horns erupt from them covered in blood. Their tongues part and they lose the gift of speech. They begin to cry, but the pure white liquid of sorrow is replaced by a black tar and they fall to the ground. The golden race then tears them limb from limb. The vision closes as I sit on My throne above the world, looking down on a perfect world of perfect men. In My right hand I hold Excalibur, proof of My strength and nobility. In My right, the Holy Grail, proof of My divinity and all-knowledge. On My head sits the Crown of Thorns, proof of My suffrage and piety. All is good and all is as it should be.Then, I wake. Sometimes it is morning, and a suitable time for me to wake. Usually, though, it is still the dead of night, and I am unable to fall asleep again.  Chapter The Fourth (Reprise)I went to Jonathan's café to share a bit of tea only to find the door locked and the lights off. I could not see inside the building. It was ten o'clock and Jonathan was a responsible man. He would not stand to see his café closed at such an hour, when a respectable establishment would be turning a profit. I pressed my eyes to the glass window, and cupped my hands. There was no light inside the café and I saw no movement. In the reflection, I noticed a man standing on the other end of the road. He was bald and wore a long black coat. Beneath the coat was a shirt, colored as an image of the Union Jack. His lips were twisted in a wicked grin and he held a cigarette between the fingers of his left hand. He had an evil sense to him. Perhaps he thought I was attempting to break into the building. I walked to the back of the building, through the alleyway. It smelled of disgusting things, but I ignored the odors. I discovered the back door to be open. This was not correct, I thought. To leave the door open, to allow anyone onto the premises without permission, this was not something Jonathan would have done. The hallway was dark and it took me a moment to find the light. I had been here a scarce few times before, as Jonathan and I usually passed the time during the daytime, while he tended to customers. I knew of the small basement underneath the building, where Jonathan read and slept. After finding the light, I made my way down. His bedroom and study were one and the same. Some books were taken off the shelf and stacked neatly at the end of a dark red blanket. I noticed that Jonathan slept with three pillows, although he did not share the bed. Curious. Jonathan had a bad habit, I decided. He would buy books that interested him, but not read them. We had never discussed literature, and had he actually finished the books he stored here, he would have been eager to converse with a peer of some intellect. Or, perhaps, he was afraid that he would look the fool before me. I was not certain. I left the study and returned to the first floor. The hallway before me led to the main area of the building, the body of the café. Here, I knew the lights. The switch was positioned to the left of me, slightly beneath my shoulder. I illuminated the room and I saw Jonathan. He sat alone at a table in the far left of the room. It may have been the table we had spoken at last. In fact, it may well have been the same seat. I was not sure. He sat slouching, wearing his standard working clothes: a white button-up, a blue tie, and fine black pants.In his lap was a shotgun. I recognized it, or rather the italics of it. Around half a decade ago, Jonathan had shown it to me. He intended to keep it for protection, just in case a burglar chose him as a target. Needless to say, Jonathan's skull had been blown to pieces. On the table was a note. I picked it up and read for awhile. It spoke of hopelessness and confusion. It spoke of an age unfitting for man, where the thoughts of the individual were overthrown by the deafening scream of Armageddon. It did not, however, mention my name.I set the note down and walked to the front of the store. I turned the lights off and unlocked the doors I first came to. I exited the café. The bald man in the black jacket was still on the other end of the street and was still grinning. Whether he was the Devil or Death, I am unsure of to this day.I walked to my home, deciding I would begin another search for work tomorrow. For today, I would paint. Martha Higgens walked on my side of the street, toward me. She carried a bag of groceries and wore a fur coat that was much more obviously fake than she knew.She smiled as she passed me. "Good morning Adolf." she said. I returned a smile. "Good morning, Miss Higgens." I said. I continued to walk, and was struck with inspiration. I decided, then and there, that my next project would be a series of twenty paintings. They would detail, in chronological order, the events of my recurring dream. These paintings, I was sure, would finally bring me the praise and recognition that my arts deserved.