Benefit of Supremacy

The Benefit of Supremacy

         
         Otto Frankfurter eagerly scratched his ideas on neatly stacked paper, unaware though he might finally finish his novel, he would not survive the evening. 

         His work carried a weight one expected of a task given to a man of his standing.  Though his orders did not come from the Fuhrer himself,  Otto approached the task with as much diligence as tho it were the case.  He did not doubt Hitler knew of his triumphs and continued support.  He suspected, in fact, writing this novel might be some test.  As a journalist, he received much accreditation which he later used to earn a position writing accounts of Nazi heroes to be used for recruitment purposes.  His humble belief that his work was responsible for vast growth in support among the German youth could now be substantiated.  He was to write a novel which illustrated the vast opportunities for those right-thinking men considering taking up arms for Hitler’s noble cause.  Of course he could think of no better example of a loyal, humble, relate-able hero than himself.

         Otto set his pen on the desk, reaching for his pipe.  While packing premium tobacco in the bowl, he surveyed his office with both admiration of the notable accommodations afforded him and anticipation of what full recognition of his potential might warrant.  Laying on the table was his freshly oiled Luger P08 pistol.  A fine device with which he made the might of Germany felt by many seeking to oppose progress.  He admitted he could not be sure of one person he actually killed, but knew he likely hit someone on those occasions he fired in the enemy’s direction.  He, being beyond noticing the death of such weak individuals, would not lower himself to gawk at his own handy work.  Besides, if ever the occasion arose to put any dogs down he knew he could count on the swift justice of this weapon.  He kept it beside him while he labored, feeling more comfortable with a fully loaded fire-arm in his proximity.

         He found the fire to be lacking and lifted from his seat, enjoying the stretching of his tired muscles.  Tonight he planned to finish his novel.  The last chapter proved to be troublesome.  The accounts of his successes, or at least the successes of some soldiers he once interviewed rewritten to appear as his own, required a superb ending.  He submitted it might be dishonest to write acquired heroism; for a lesser man, anyway.  When tasked with a job this important one must be resourceful.  He also knew he could persecute any traitors who challenged him for acts of heresy.

         Otto reached for the poker after adding a notable amount of wood to the already blazing fire.  He prodded haphazardly while considering how to end his masterpiece.  Perhaps he might indulge in a bit of fiction.  A bit more fiction.  This novel had purpose, after all.  Ends do justify the means, especially when the future of the Nazi party and Hitler’s continued success rested in large part on his shoulders.  A few embers freed themselves from the confines of the fire place, going unnoticed by Otto as they landed on the carpet.  Yes, he decided he possessed the required sense of story telling to produce a truly fantastic ending to his work of art.

         A feeble knock on the door announced the impending entry of his new servant boy.  Otto called for the child to enter.  The door lazily swung open despite great effort by the youth.  The boy struggled to maintain a grip on a large decanter full of dark caramel colored liquid.  Keeping his eyes to the ground, he walked across the room, placing his burden in its proper place before quickly turning and heading back towards the door.  Otto called for him to halt.

         The boy froze, trying not to appear as frightened and awkward as he felt.  Otto stiffened his back and spoke with authority.  “My supper, where is it?”

         Otto’s lip curled at the whimpering voice which crawled from the child’s mouth.  “It shouldn’t be long, Sir.”

         “I Should think not!  At this point, I might do better hoping for an early breakfast.  See that you make better effort to be prompt in the future.”  Otto leaned just enough to loom over his servant.  “Be mindful that you are easily replaced.”

         The boy nodded, unable to stop himself from glancing towards Otto’s Luger.  Light glinted off the pistol’s barrel in a mocking way.  Otto noticed the boy’s reaction and how quickly he looked away from the weapon before making several retreating apologies.  Yes, a proper respect, which was to say fear, of a well attended gun.  He sneered as the boy exited, feeling he put the little piece of filth in his rightful place.  Keeping the weak mindful of their position was both important and enjoyable.

        Otto poured himself a drink before repacking and lighting his pipe.  He paced, drinking and puffing his way into a creative process.  He kept returning to one thought.  As a child he received no small amount of bullying.  If only he could show his younger self the man he became.  He was a powerful leader of minds creating important work under the admiring watch of Adolf Hitler.  He imagined himself going back in time to stand up to the knuckle dragging brutes of his youth.

         His novel would inspire millions.  In fact, he didn’t think it unreasonable to imagine a future built on his example.  The power of his words combined with the distribution abilities of the Third Reich could soon spread his notable influence across the world.  He only wished he could find his childhood enemies and torture them for not seeing his greatness.  Actually, perhaps they had foreseen his power.  That could explain their actions.  Obviously, they knew enough to be afraid of him, even if they didn’t fully understand their fears.  Otto laughed at the simple mindedness of those who attack, out of fear, what they do not understand.  How weak and insignificant they must feel.

         Ever since Hitler invaded Poland Otto knew his destiny would be bright.  Though he was not surprised to find himself now enjoying the benefits of his efforts, he marveled at just how well he predicted his own triumph.  Of course, being knowledgeable of one’s might is a requisite of success.

         Once again a slight knock sounded on the door.  Otto, annoyed with the distraction, called for the child to enter.  The servant pushed open the door, this time struggling with a tray on which lay Otto’s supper.  He waited for instruction, unsure where Otto might want him to place the meal.

         Worm, Otto thought.  “What are you waiting for, foolish boy?  I do not relish the idea of eating a cold supper.  Place that on the desk next to my work and wait outside to collect the tray.”

         The child quickly obeyed.  As he sat down the tray, he again took notice of Otto’s Luger.  The cold metallic object which existed to serve only one purpose lay still, but somehow called to him.  He looked away, hoping Otto hadn’t noticed.  He removed the lid from the plate and filled a glass with wine before his eyes shifted to the cutlery on the tray.  Here sat a another cold metallic object.  A slim knife lay next to the fork in its silent unassuming way, waiting to be used.  The boy looked away again, hurrying to exit the room before he took a step he could never take back.

         Otto sat at his desk, diving into his meal.  He realized he hadn’t eaten anything since mid-day.  He hadn’t noticed how hungry he became while working on his novel.  He dipped bread into a delightful cabbage soup, cramming large chunks into his mouth.  He chewed only the exact amount to make the food swallow-able.  He picked up the knife and sliced a piece of kielbasa before jabbing it towards his stomach.  Otto worked his way through the meal with slicing, cramming, chewing, and drinking when he needed something to make it all go down.  He burped as he caught the remaining sausage juice with the bit of the bread.  He saved one large piece of the kielbasa for last.  He always tried to save some of the most tasty thing for the last bite.

         He abandoned the knife and fork, using his hands to force the sizable amount of sausage in his mouth.  Grease ran freely down his chin as he chewed.  He swallowed.  He swallowed.  Otto swallowed.  He could not swallow the sausage.  He reacted calmly, placing his hands on the desk.  When he found he could not cough or breath he panicked, jumping from his seat.  He slammed his fists on the desk before making a frantic swiping motion which threw the tray across the room and sent his papers flying into a burst which filled the air.  The kielbasa lodged itself in his throat, refusing to budge, refusing to relent in its fatal pursuit.

         Hearing the noise, and fearing he missed some cue to enter, the boy pushed open the door and entered the office.  The sight which greeted him was both horrific and confusing.  Otto stumbled around in what might have been a drunken dance.  With one hand on his throat, he waved the other above his head as though trying to give some signal to a distant person.  The boy watched as Otto’s face turned purple and he fell to his knees.  He couldn’t help himself.  The child ran to Otto’s side, pausing a moment to note the plea for help in his oppressor's eyes before proceeding to kick him repeatedly.

         Otto Frankfurter died, as a terrible understanding came to him.  This was the ending of his novel.  The hero, while beaten by a child, was choked to death by a malevolent Polish sausage.