Haitian Bliss.

I called him in. After years of living under assumed identity in Eastern germany, living on blood and borrowed time Eichman came. He came hungry for death and I had it. In serious serious amounts. Not for him. For the damn jews.

And the blacks among whom I had been living. Little did he know that Jesse Owen was my hero and my studies qabalistic. That was not where they ended though and that was my hook, line and sinker.

We met at the airport. I had my doctors bag with me and he his. We swapped and he saw inside mine some syringes and some leaflets and one tape by Lenie Riebenstahl. Inside his where all the secrets of the Thule. Gleaned by dark necromancy from the dead bodies of Adolf Hitler and Goebbels and all the others. For they did not share with the white angel for his methods where like mine.

Suspect. We went to a house on a hill, with mist surrounding it of which the locals said that those who came in never left..

Over a cup of nice tea, generally sprinkled with candied sugar we shared a nice chat over the local weather. Over Auschwitsch. For the Russians didn’t bomb it, nor did the other allied. Why, but for that smoke that covered all the agony up. Black filthy greasy smoke. Eichman joked.

I laughed. He knew…. I didn’t.

The smoke…. used to be human.

As Eichman’s body lay slumped over the chair I smiled. I had learned something all those years ago… when I myself was but a simple Medici. For the cup I poured out off had a simple little button… it did the following.

Pressed… poison.

Not pressed… nothing but good pure coffee.

I dragged him down, knowing that his undead self like mine would not stand the poison too long. Once down in my basement I strapped him into my chair. Electric as it was. And then waited… with a nice cuban cigar in my hand and a smile on my face.

20 minutes later he woke up. And demanded in angry german to be let go.

“What is this scheisse, du schweinhund!”

“My joy, you nazi bastard.” went I.

“I may have killed a few people, being a nice member of my ancient blood line but I draw the line at your kind off work.”

What Eichman did not know, was the following. He was strapped to an electric chair with enough amphetamines in his system to go over his pain limit seven times. Then I started.

First I turned up the juice to my battery… and then I opened his bag… and took out the knife he had used on all his jewish victims. I placed it on his neck, and said, you will beg for this but it will never happen.

Then I placed the knife on his arm and cut deep. All along the fore arm. Then I got pincers and opened up the skin.

And then opened up a vat of battery acid and generously poured it into the wound. Then I cut his left arm and did the same. All the while he held his mouth. But I could smell his faeces in the air of the room.

And I chanted ancient formulae, gleaned from the Torah… Seeing him jump a bit more every time. Then I turned up the juice and this time I stabbed him in the left leg and opened a large gash all along it. And again came the acid. And again the smell of faeces. Then I did the same with his right leg. And smiling, asked him, in german, “You think that was it?”

He nodded.

And then I got the salt.

Three days later I was finished. What was left of Eichman was nothing more than a bubbling heap og human offal, not that much change really.. He still spoke though. The knife he said… Be kind…

A decade has gone by and I still feed him, cold smiles and electricity.