02/28/2023
Category "Travel Stories / My Home Country" (Short Stories in english)
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Parody Detective Amateur Nazi Wendigo

Andre M. Pietroschek

The Obfuscated Thunderbird - The Occult Hungry Bird Theory

The Obfuscated Thunderbird: A Short Detective Spoof Featuring Aristo Bum & Stylo Punk
by Andre Michael Pietroschek for E-stories & Royal Road

Disclaimer: No warranties!

Author Note: The idea of interconnecting the Nazi German Reichsadler with the Wendigo myth, back then, was my solution to combine to horror subgenres with a streak of parody. It ain't a masterpiece, but neither is it the worst I ever had to read & proofread!

Prologue - It Keeps Happening

Winter, the year 1889:

Ezekiel Hammett and Jarod Coburn stood transfixed, hearts heavy with dread, as the sanctum they once revered twisted into a place of horror. Once men of unwavering faith and protectors of their settler community, they now felt compelled to confront the shadowy Evil before them. Trapped in the bleak canyons of the Wild West, they regretted their choice to seek shelter from the storm that led them to this moment.

The look in Coburn’s eyes told Hammett all he needed to know: his trusted foreman had chosen a path of martyrdom. Coburn was prepared to lay down his life to restore the wardstone they had recklessly destroyed in a fit of misguided zeal. This grievous error had cost them dearly, claiming the lives of cherished neighbors, beloved family members, and loyal friends. Their guilt was palpable, a heavy shroud woven from the threads of their own religious hubris.

“God, forgive us,” Ezekiel whispered, a prayer born of desperation.

“God, grant me the strength and fortitude,” Jarod echoed, his voice steady yet strained.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Coburn seized the stone block adorned with the strange eye, a symbol easily mistaken for a sinister pentagram. Yet this corrupted alternative held no sway against the Evil they now faced.

As movement echoed from the depths of the lower tunnels, Hammett braced himself, prepared to provide cover for Coburn with every ounce of strength he could muster. Both men bore the scars of loss, having seen their older brothers perish in the American Civil War, a conflict that had ended in 1865. They were mere teenagers then, but now they stood on the precipice of confrontation, lives hanging in the balance, souls yearning for salvation from a malevolence that science had yet to define.

Coburn’s faith shimmered like a beacon in the darkness. As Hammett unleashed a volley of shots against the ferocious horrors that surged forth, the power of the wardstone began to seal off their access to the grotto, though it did not vanquish them entirely.

Stragglers from the monstrous horde lunged at Coburn with reckless abandon, their rage fueled by a fanatical desire to thwart his attempts to banish them with that alien symbol of an eye. Hammett, weary and battered, found himself grappling with the brutal reality of survival.

“I’m down to my last bullet,” he declared, staring at his trusty Colt Peacemaker, its weight a reminder of the gravity of their plight.

“Thank God, the seal is restored,” Coburn gasped, a flicker of hope igniting within him.

Suddenly, Melody Hammett, a woman of grace and strength, approached her husband, emerging from the shadows of the grotto. Her touch upon the golden crucifix he wore was tender, her smile radiant as she uttered, “God, bless us all.”

But before Ezekiel could grasp the treachery unfolding before him, his beloved wife seized the revolver with a swiftness that defied comprehension, her eyes alight with malice yet still bearing the semblance of a devoted servant. In a heartbeat, she shot Coburn, the bullet piercing through his solar plexus and spine, extinguishing the life of a good man in an instant.

With a grip that would leave even the strongest wrestlers in awe, she leaned closer to her husband, her voice a chilling whisper: “Ezekiel, it is not that I stopped loving you. It is just that my hunger comes first.”

As shock coursed through him and blood stained the ground, Hammett understood that his end was nigh. Yet, in a moment of divine mercy, he bore witness to the truth: the wardstone, a silent guardian, prevented his now fiendish wife from approaching it. It was a final revelation that would haunt him even in death.

Chapter 1 - Routine Knows No Surprises

The man approaching a parked urban vehicle on a bustling city street looked like a more worn-down Lex Luthor, less comic book villain and more a hard-luck hero. He carried himself with gritty determination, a slight golden glow to his skin suggesting a life more stylish than healthy. Despite his age, his movements carried the intensity of a seasoned survivor.

As he opened the car door, he barely glanced at the contents of his pockets, checking from his coat to a concealed stash for the keys. He then unlocked the compartment beneath the passenger seat, retrieving a smartphone, an electro-shock flashlight holstered for quick access, a sleek baton, and a revolver. Fumbling to secure these items on his person, he was overtaken briefly by a shiver that marred his otherwise steely resolve. With a determined flick, he activated the still-vibrating smartphone.

“Aristo Bum, private investigations,” he announced, his voice gravelly yet authoritative.

“Dad, you didn’t leave your smartphone in the car again?” came the voice of his daughter, now known as Clarissa Books, following her marriage.

“Of course not, Clairy. I was in a meeting. We’ve got a new case,” he replied, injecting urgency into his tone.

As he stared at the smartphone, his left thumb glided across the touchscreen, his expression revealing a disdain for the very technology he relied upon. He swiped and tapped, seemingly oblivious to the passersby, inadvertently blocking the entrance with his presence.

“Clairy, it’s Dad. We have a new case, and I was in a meeting when you left that voicemail. We’ll talk later,” he asserted, attempting to ward off any maternal instincts from her voice.

With the smartphone's screen finally darkening, he tucked it into the snug pocket of his coat, designed for such a device. He closed the car door with a decisive thud, locking it securely before striding toward a nearby building.

Panting but resolute, he ascended the stairs, casting a disdainful glance at the elevator and the small cluster of office-goers waiting impatiently for its arrival.

“Lazy fools,” he muttered, pushing onward up the stairs.

The door he approached was wooden yet reinforced with gleaming silver metal. Upon opening it, the padded interior was revealed, adorned with a hastily made sign that read: Noir, Bum, and Punk - Private Investigations.

Inside, the two office assistants, reminiscent of glamorous starlets, presented a stark contrast to Aristo Bum’s rugged exterior. They flitted about the office, expertly juggling smartphones and tablets, seemingly thriving on the digital age instead of succumbing to the lethargy of prolonged sitting.

“Is the boss in?” Aristo Bum inquired.

“Ugh,” the assistants replied, their distaste for smokers palpable.

“I’m fully aware of my vices, and I have no illusions about the challenge of overcoming them,” Aristo Bum recited, making a conscious effort to mask the sarcasm in his tone.

“No, boss, he’s busy,” replied the brunette assistant.

Before Aristo could respond, the blonde assistant ushered him through one of the office doors into a typical workspace. With a swift yet gentle kick, she closed the door behind her. In a sudden, unceremonious act, she pulled down his trousers, revealing a cheap pair of shorts where his usual minimalistic attire should have been.

Unfazed by the intimacy, he refrained from gripping her head, instead resting his hands gently on her shoulders, determined to preserve her dignity. Moments passed in a hurried yet detached act, a release devoid of affection, yet undeniably human.

Both professionals swiftly retrieved hygiene wipes, ensuring cleanliness with the promise of no harsh chemicals involved.

“Stylo patch?” the blonde asked.

“Yeah,” he replied, nodding.

As she exited, he took a moment to ensure his gun and stun baton were secure before retrieving his smartphone once more, murmuring into it:

“Clairy, Dad has to work now, outbound. This phone will be business only for at least two hours.”

Leaving the side office, he moved through the main office toward the exit, taking a quick sip of coffee-to-go and accepting the Stylo patch pack handed to him by the blonde assistant, who clearly wanted him to keep moving forward.

With unwavering determination, he ascended the stairs once again, bypassing the elevator as if it were a relic of the past. Though heavier, his athleticism shone through as he hopped down the first flight, clearly relishing the physical exertion—perhaps a test of his fitness before the duties that awaited him outside.

Once more, he entered the car, grateful for the miracle of not having been sideswiped by a reckless driver, and sped off, a man behind the wheel with a penchant for adrenaline.

As he disembarked in slow motion, he approached a slim, blonde figure, undoubtedly a decade younger than himself.

“Stylo Punk,” Aristo announced, making an effort to conceal his envy of the younger man’s effortlessly cool street-artist attire.

“Aristo Bum,” Stylo Punk replied, both men sharing a subtle smile that hinted at a fleeting moment of joy, a reminder that life can be unconditionally good, if only for an instant.

“Is Noir already here?” Aristo asked, his curiosity piqued.

“In a way, yes,” Stylo replied, gesturing toward the nearby crime scene, where they had clearly been reprimanded for attempting to get closer.

“Damn it, where exactly is she?” Aristo wondered aloud, frustration creeping into his voice.

“Right on the slab for the coroner, I mean, literally,” Stylo Punk quipped, his wit cutting through the tension.

The weight of the revelation struck Aristo like a blow. Their boss had not simply sent them here; he had been murdered.

“Smartphone was in the car again,” Stylo assured him.

“Grab your patch-pack,” Aristo countered, urgency sharpening his tone.

Stylo Punk took the package, equipped with everything a man might need after a hasty morning.

“The office knew,” Aristo confirmed, the implications of their situation settling heavily upon him.

“As if the stench of nicotine, your temper, and the monotony of routine wouldn’t reveal the truth,” Stylo replied, balancing his words carefully.

“No hard feelings,” Aristo Bum acknowledged. “The assistants made their choices, and they were justified.”

The evening had descended into chaos without warning, at least from Aristo Bum’s perspective. The murder of their boss signified imminent trouble. Financial support was now at risk, a bureaucratic nightmare looming on the horizon. And more ominously, it suggested that the danger lurked not just in the shadows of the city but within their own social sphere; the motive could be tied to their very work, transcending the simplistic narratives of jealousy or street crime.

Chapter 2 - Lady Dracula Confronts the Schedule

Spending the night outside the pathology department might have seemed charming in the golden age of cinema, yet it starkly contrasted with the unromantic reality of their profession. Private investigators held no special privileges; thus, the office had scheduled the anticipated appointment with pathology without Aristo and Stylo squeezing themselves into a shadowy car.

As dawn broke, entering their modest private investigation agency felt akin to stepping into the lair of a legendary, dark vampire. The weight of adulthood pressed down on Aristo Bum, leaving no room for the melodrama of therapy couch lamentations. This was the raw, unfiltered truth of their world. [Author's Note: The author himself occasionally dances with the shadows of emo, and it is crucial to recognize that hate—especially the kind that breeds racism and violence—is indeed an emotion worth grappling with. Emos are not foolish, nor are they inherently self-destructive; they are simply deeply emotional beings navigating a complex world.]

Their assistants, usually buzzing with energy or lurking in anticipation of Aristo and Stylo's arrival, now adopted the demeanor of secretaries eager to remain unseen. With heads bowed and tucked away, they resembled timid shadows, their presence a stark reminder of the tension in the air. The bald man, Aristo, had to resist the urge to reach for his firearm, feeling as though he had stumbled into a minefield of red flags.

The agency's layout was simple: two restrooms, two smaller offices—a sunny one for the ever-optimistic Stylo Punk and a dimly lit one for Aristo Bum—and directly across from the entrance lay the larger office of the recently deceased Mrs. Noir. As he found himself unwittingly drawn into that space, a solitary coffee-to-go pressed into his left hand, he sensed Stylo was already inside, possibly engaged with a client. The possibilities were daunting—was it Noir’s husband? A lawyer? A mafia boss harboring a vendetta against them? The moment was shrouded in mystery.

A once-popular computer game had inspired the original terminology, but for Aristo, it translated into a chilling reality: “You are about to confront Death itself, embodied in the formidable form of Dr. Anison Wydelle—a politician of towering influence, the most feared woman of her era, and a commander of more assassins than it would take to wage another world war!"

Stiffened by a mix of intimidation and awe, Aristo found himself facing a slender woman, approximately 5'7", clad in impeccably tailored business attire that spoke of wealth and authority.

Despite the unease, he extended his hand for a formal greeting, deliberately avoiding any glance at Stylo Punk. Professionalism dictated that they refrain from discussing matters behind clients' backs; offending a customer was not a route to financial stability.

“Dr. Anison Wydelle, a pleasure to meet you,” she declared, her voice unwavering.

“Aristo Bum, private affairs agent. Welcome,” he replied, his tone steady.

“Please, have a seat. We take great pride in our room service, including sanitation and non-dyed fabrics,” Aristo said, attempting to inject a note of levity.

A fleeting glance of concern passed between Aristo and Stylo, as Stylo’s shock at the morning’s revelations clearly weighed heavily on them both.

“Dr. Wydelle, how may we assist you today?” they asked in unison, their voices a blend of curiosity and trepidation.

“I am here to secure my assets. The late Mrs. Noir was an unwavering supporter of my political agenda. The tragic suicide of her devoted husband must have cast a shadow over both families, and I sought to spare them further grief. Thus, I have come personally,” Dr. Wydelle responded with a bright yet resolute tone.

“We are honored, Dr. Wydelle,” they echoed, their words laced with feigned sincerity.

“You each have a six-week period to reconsider the ongoing contract. Rest assured, business will proceed as usual. However, I must insist on one minor stipulation: no more smoking in this room, whether present or absent,” Dr. Wydelle stated, her tone unyielding.

“Of course,” they agreed, their expressions revealing nothing but compliance.

“Gentlemen, my schedule is tight, and I must be direct. Forgive my bluntness. I require an update on the obfuscated Thunderbird. Now,” she punctuated her request with an air of authority.

“There was something in the media a while back, but we’ve never handled a case that mentioned it,” Stylo recalled.

“Some conspiracy nonsense, exploited by academics seeking notoriety? It’s a decades-old ruse at this point,” Aristo summarized.

“Mr. Bum, I would appreciate a bit more detail. I could almost take offense at being considered that naive,” Dr. Wydelle replied, a hint of challenge in her voice.

“Even for the most captivating woman on the planet, it remains, as I said—occult symbolism exploited by a small group of academics who once thought they could fish for fame and easy money,” Aristo clarified, though uncertainty flickered within him.

Without a hint of hesitation, Dr. Wydelle countered, “Mr. Bum, it may be easy to overlook, but a particular rant did not escape attention. Specifically, the fact that this rant referenced over twenty occult texts, none of which bore an ISBN, thus existing outside what you might consider mainstream, all published independently. The author of that rant, Aristo Bum, lived in an era devoid of organized self-publishing.”

“Yes, I understand. But you inquired about the obfuscated Thunderbird, a mere myth misappropriated, not about my expertise in occultism,” Aristo replied, bewildered by the unexpected turn in conversation.

Dr. Wydelle, the embodiment of authority, scrutinized him, needing a moment to assess her suspicions, decipher his body language, and disregard the clumsy sexism of an unassuming man. She removed her glasses and theatrically cleaned them with a handkerchief, a gesture that held more weight than mere optics.

“It could be an age-related thing, perhaps a midlife crisis,” Aristo ventured hesitantly. “It’s akin to martial arts; once youthful zeal turns to... well, something less admirable.”

Yet a creeping suspicion gnawed at him. “Dr. Wydelle, I assure you, I have no intention to provoke you. Regardless of the political rumors surrounding me, I am not allied with your competitors, nor do I wish to usurp your position. I see the woman, not merely the power and wealth she possesses. While I acknowledge I’ve had moments of... less-than-ideal attitudes, I am committed to being a loyal employee,” he babbled, trying to regain his footing.

A subtle smile graced Dr. Wydelle’s lips, a flicker of understanding passing between them.

“I believe you, Aristo Bum. In light of your honesty, I will be direct: I want you to locate that obfuscated Thunderbird and ensure it comes into my possession,” she instructed, her voice steady.

Aristo’s attention snapped to Stylo, whose reaction mirrored that of an unsuspecting victim struck by a jolt of electricity.

“I’m fine,” Stylo declared, though his eyes betrayed a hint of shock.

As Dr. Wydelle prepared to leave, Aristo called out, “Dr. Wydelle, I may need your contact information.”

Her emotionless gaze fell upon him, the air thick with unspoken tension as the two submissive secretaries, the powerful woman, and the bald man found themselves ensnared in a delicate balance.

“Of course,” she replied, handing him a small card with her details.

Aristo took it and retreated into his office, intent on unearthing the oldest files he could find on his computer.

Barely eight seconds had passed when Stylo interrupted his concentration.

“Aristo?” he inquired cautiously.

“Yeah, what’s on your mind?” Aristo replied.

“Did you... Did you just sexually harass Lady Callous, the bane of democracy, in there?” Stylo asked, disbelief evident in his voice.

“Hardly. I mean, she's undeniably captivating. Besides, it’s not like you were the chatty one in that meeting, Stylo,” Aristo concluded, the absurdity of the situation hanging in the air.

Blinking, Stylo struggled to process the revelations, the yin and yang of the moment crystallizing in the confines of their simple office. No Feng Shui was necessary; the tension spoke volumes.

Chapter 3 - A Different Kind of Detective Work

Switzerland, Hotel Seehof Davos:

A weary duo, still reeling from jet lag, approached the breathtaking façade of the Hotel Seehof. Snow swirled around them, a testament to Mother Nature’s artistry, while the biting wind whispered secrets of the alpine landscape. The astonishingly reasonable rates caught their attention, a rare find in a world often marred by the excesses of a capitalism that had strayed far from its roots.

“How did you manage to set up this meeting using just a tablet?” Stylo inquired, his curiosity piqued.

“Bounty hunter websites. Many are eager to cash in on such unconventional services,” Aristo replied, a glimmer of pride in his voice.

Their informant was an elderly gentleman, a relic of a bygone era who still understood the sanctity of a bookstore. He had devoted his life to the preservation of knowledge, embodying a neutrality that could easily be exploited—though, in truth, such moral ambiguity was a common thread among humanity. In this age of smartphones and fleeting information, it was all too easy to forget the wisdom contained in ancient texts.

Enter Karl Scheidegger, the antiquarian, book aficionado, and steadfast guardian of lore.

After twelve hours of immersing themselves in dusty volumes, the detectives finally unearthed a vital clue.

“Stylo, it’s astonishingly simple! The myth and the statue are distinct matters. With our superior keen on acquiring that statue, we now know where to direct our efforts,” Aristo declared with fervor.

---

USA, Quality Inn Navajo Nation Capital:

Oldschool: The dust storm raged mercilessly, and the forlorn inhabitants could almost hear the haunting cries of Wendigo spirits carried on the wind. Settlers, stricken with panic, feared for their beloved children as gunslingers and native scouts found themselves woefully unprepared for the divine reckoning that their avarice had summoned. Yet, even in the depths of despair and on the day of judgment, the divine did not forsake the innocent nor withhold protection from the faithful. From the heart of the desolate wasteland emerged two riders, undeterred by the tempest, unyielding in the face of impending doom. The lone ranger redeemer, Stylo Punk, and hell's most unwelcome hero, Aristo Bum, rode into the settlement on a mission ordained by a higher power.

Modern: The detectives checked into their hotel, as per routine, and hailed a cab from the airport, dragging themselves into the building, eager to indulge in the mini-bar’s offerings. An hour later, they began their familiar ritual of conversation and posturing.

“Aristo, what did Dr. Wydelle mean with that cryptic reminder about the occult?” Stylo asked.

“For our case? The Wendigo myth—often misrepresented in cheap horror films and misconstrued as mere psychiatric cannibalism—actually revolves around invoking a profound hunger through spiritual or occult means. To simplify, consider the legendary Helena of Troy or the monstrous actions of the Nazis against the Jewish people and the Roma. The desire for the statue signifies a yearning to either unleash similar chaos or to banish it,” Aristo explained, his voice steady yet filled with gravity.

“Yikes! That sounds perilous,” Stylo responded, concern etched on his face.

“Indeed. We’re dealing with dangerous individuals—deranged killers, con artists, esoteric novices, and genuine cults that lurk outside the fringes of what we might call sanity,” Aristo admitted, fatigue evident in his demeanor, as if he had faced such darkness far too many times before. The years 1972, 1941, 1902, and 1889 were but a few examples of similar occult endeavors that haunted the past.

Before they could delve deeper, their contact arrived. He emerged from his jeep, a rugged off-road vehicle, likely a remnant of military service, swiftly facilitating the exchange of data and verification of leads.

“Wow, Aristo, it’s abundantly clear,” Stylo remarked, his eyes fixed on an intricately detailed 8 billion pixel image of an ancient deerskin artifact.

“Indeed. One could say it’s merely a symbol away from Adolf's failed marriage to Josef—a broken pact as infamous as history itself,” Aristo replied, a hint of bitterness coloring his words.

“What’s bothering you?” Stylo asked, sensing the dark humor masked a deeper turmoil within Aristo.

“The lower rungs of society. Financial struggles are infringing upon my well-being and spiritual balance,” Aristo confessed, the weight of his words hanging heavily in the air.

Despite having witnessed the evidence firsthand, Stylo felt a growing unease about the mainstream narratives surrounding it. That Native American depiction on the ancient deerskin was over two centuries older than the Nazi eagle, the Reichsadler. The similarities were uncanny, yet the absence of a twisted cross on the Native American version spoke volumes about their disparate origins.

And so, the journey back commenced, each detective burdened with the weight of their discoveries and the shadows of the past that loomed ever closer.

Chapter 4 - The Snatching, No King Stephen Copycat

Jerusalem, Leonardo Plaza Hotel:

“What a magnificent swimming pool,” Stylo Punk remarked, his eyes sparkling with enthusiasm.

“I’m not fond of the heat; it poses a health concern for me,” Aristo Bum replied, his tone laced with a hint of resignation.

“We’ve been fortunate these past few weeks,” Stylo Punk continued, a note of optimism threading through his words.

“Indeed, no more thunderbird magic sermons. At least that much has been spared us,” Aristo Bum responded, a wry smile tugging at his lips.

“I’ve been sketching some pieces, planning to sell the finished works over at Punky Artworks dot com,” Stylo Punk shared, his voice brimming with creative fervor.

“I’ve endured worse than being deemed less than manly, whether in someone’s imagination or in reality, Stylo. No need to fret,” Aristo Bum declared, his confidence unwavering.

“Bikini-clad beauties wielding poisoned needle-pistols,” Stylo Punk added, his imagination igniting.

“Cocaine before breakfast, and the actors portraying us will be twenty-five years our junior. Naturally, the good guys will win the hearts of the ladies,” Aristo Bum sighed, a mixture of amusement and melancholy in his voice.

“Perhaps a time-traveling cyber-dragon will emerge to thwart the villains,” Stylo Punk mused, his mind wandering into fantastical realms.

“Indeed, and let us hope for less gutter prose, so that for once, my daughter might not feel ashamed of me,” Aristo Bum concluded, a hint of longing evident in his expression.

Six weeks prior, amidst the Native American reservation, they had envisioned embarking on a quest for legendary treasure. Yet, in reality, they were merely pawns in a game orchestrated by a woman few would regard as any less sinister than Dracula’s bride. Life had never mirrored the glamour of the silver screen; no heroic duo could outmatch the crime lords of the world or the fanatical legal collectors, nor could they sway anyone willing to be bribed or recruited. The necessity of being flawless hackers to navigate the labyrinth of modern surveillance technology loomed large over them. Their abduction to a so-called ‘non-existent’ moonbase had shattered their egos, leaving them reeling. However, their mission had reached its conclusion. They had served as mere distractions, not the celebrated heroes they had once imagined. Released from their uninvited captivity, they awoke in their hotel rooms, ready to engage in the debriefing with the office. They had survived; they had been compensated, and they had traversed intriguing corners of the globe. It wasn't the worst chapter of their lives, merely one that concluded without the glory they had yearned for. And, it seemed, their personal lives remained equally devoid of triumph. Or so it appeared.

The End

Epilogue

Wewelsburg, Germany, 2020:

Dr. Anison Wydelle wore a smile that was as complex as the shadows lingering in the room. Here, in this historic site, she found herself at a crossroads of morality and purpose. She had been summoned to confront a great malevolence, a task that sought to serve the ideals of modern democracy and rectify the grotesque crimes of the Nazi regime. It was Ken Maastricht who had extended the invitation, a chance for her to demonstrate her own redemption from the historical stains that had contributed to the Shoah and the ravages of a world engulfed in flames.

The chamber, once a gathering place for SS officers, now stood as a twisted echo of King Arthur's Round Table, a mockery of noble ideals. It had hosted the sharpest minds of the Third Reich, those who danced dangerously close to the precipice of moral decay.

As Maastricht opened a rare tome, its existence whispered among the most skeptical, and he revealed secrets that could shake the very foundations of understanding.

“I see it, dear Ken, but I urge caution. Are we certain this flaming eye is the true source of this Evil?” Anison inquired, her voice steady yet laced with concern.

“Absolutely,” Ken replied, confidence radiating from him. “I have devoted years to studying these sources. I witnessed how this symbol was appropriated in the Tolkien films, transforming it into a universal emblem of malevolence, even among those who lack insight.”

“Then what are our next steps?” Anison pressed, her determination unwavering.

Ken revealed images from his book, elaborating on the traditional use of chant and incense—details meticulously preserved in the spirit of academic integrity.

Suddenly, the sharp beep of a text message disrupted the solemnity of their purpose, a reminder of the outside world intruding upon their sacred task.

“It’s Annygret, Ken. Ensure that fascist woman knows we owe her nothing,” the message read, a harsh reminder of lingering animosities.

Ken offered an apologetic smile, an attempt to bridge the gap between their mission and the personal tensions that loomed.

“Forgive me, Anison. Lady Krampf-Knarrenklauer harbors no fondness for you.”

“I am well aware,” Anison replied, her resolve unshaken.

Twenty minutes later, the ritual concluded with the ominous eye rendered powerless, its energy dissipated like mist in the morning sun.

The dim lighting in the room evoked memories of old horror films, and it was then that Ken turned to Anison, concern etching his features. “You seem pale. Is everything alright?”

“I’m merely a bit hungry, Ken,” she replied, masking the weight of her thoughts.

Five minutes later, solitude enveloped the room. Anison found herself alone, the mortal remains of Ken Maastricht concealed within a cupboard, a silent testament to the sacrifices made in the name of their cause. With a deftness born of necessity, she transferred his data to her own smartphone via Bluetooth.

“Now that we have aided democracy in its quest, we should gather the others for a celebratory feast,” Anison declared, her voice resolute.

“Consider it done!” came a voice, unfamiliar yet filled with promise, echoing in the stillness of the chamber.

Oh, those early months, when the Alternative for Germany political party (still active & legal in 2023)
resulted in media losing nerves, dishing us paranoid tales about returning Nazi, right-wing extremism
escalating (factually, one right-wing crime on 20 left-wing crimes these days)...

I had to! I was barely back from homelessness, still missing the real people, still shocked by life being
less fun than homeless, but with a toilet & a shower and even a bed again! The woman to outmatch
Dracula, Freddy Kruger, Jason Voorhees, and all the other wanna-be evil dudes & gals! Too much for my
writing skill, but I interconnected the Nazi Reichsadler with the Wendigo Myth, Vulture Shamanism, and
similar urban legends based on even older folklore.
Authors comment

All rights belong to its author. It was published on e-Stories.org by demand of Andre M. Pietroschek.
Published on e-Stories.org on 02/28/2023.