Hitler’s Grandson
Acknowledgements: for every artist who gets labelled an “enfant terrible;” for the idiots who demand apologies and explanations from those of us who owe them Fucking Nothing; for my mom and myself because it’s her wickedly dryly sardonic sense of humor that I inherited; for myself for considering “Death Proof” Tarantino’s finest and most underrated movie, where Kurt Russell kills women after picking them up and driving like a mad man and inspiring some of my most depraved writings; and for Lars Von Trier for being Europe’s most controversial film director whose movies I watch over and over and over again, my favorite being “Dogville” where Nicole Kidman is running from her mob boss dad and seeks to redeem a small town in the Great Depression, a town that takes advantage of her kindness and keeps her as a sex slave so when her dad shows up with his mafia guys he convinces her that all that matters in life is Raw Power not “goodness” and then he and Nicole Kidman machine gun all her abusers at the end— Beautiful
“What would'st thou have a good great man obtain?
Place? titles? salary? a gilded chain?
Or throne of corses which his sword had slain?
Greatness and goodness are not means, but ends!
Hath he not always treasures, always friends,
The good great man? three treasures, LOVE, and LIGHT,
And CALM THOUGHTS, regular as infant's breath:
And three firm friends, more sure than day and night,
HIMSELF, his MAKER, and the ANGEL DEATH!”—Samuel Taylor Coleridge, “The Good Great Man”
“THAT’S THE MENTALITY HERE THAT’S THE REALITY HERE!”—Eminem, “Amityville”
“MENTALLY ILL FROM AMITYVILLE, ACCIDENTALLY KILL YOUR FAMILY STILL.
THINKIN’ HE WON’T GODDAMNIT HE WILL.
MENTALLY ILL FROM AMITYVILLE!”— Eminem, “Amityville,” one of his funniest songs
“Too much of anything is bad but too much good whiskey is not enough.”—Mark Twain
Author’s Note: I’ll be damned if this isn’t my angriest piece of writing yet
One of Francis Bacon’s ‘Screaming Popes’
Hitler’s Grandson
by Jay Burkett
He lived, he dwelled resided suspended deep in the dark furious back woods, unmolested by real estate developers like Trump and bad businessmen, in the wild north, where the trees were tall and thick as trucks, there were real California condors and bald eagles, mountain lions and cougars (if they weren’t the same thing); actual cougars not the forty-somethings preying on you and stalking you in supermarkets and wherever you worked in retail— with massive gigantic sharp craggy jutting rock formations proud in the sun warmly tenderly raking and raping the forest floor with its warm brilliant light in winter and summer with accumulative pine needles in piles of red dirt, and all that dirt and spruce you found and sweet rejuvenating scents only in the great big wild wildernesses of far northwest smoky robust and sweet and warm and reclusive American places…
“Nothing against fascism,” the guy smoked and gravelly groveled from a pipe like his favorite writer William Faulkner in his considerable attempts to be a gentleman and not a murderer of partisans and fanatics, Hitler’s grandson politely turned down the homosexual white supremacists in the north woods kindly reaching out to try and recruit him, and lionize him, recruit him to their homosexual cause killing Jews to homosexualize America for all time with superficially cool and slick and pretty fascism that “Ain’t Nothin’ Like Whiskey” like that John Lee Hooker song, and he made white nationalists scatter for the hills or the shadows of the caves up here to slither and slit their own throats with his icy rocklike American rejectionism, cynicism and indifference. He was Hitler’s grandson but he was a heavy reader of his favorite American philosopher Henry David Thoreau, and if he could laugh in his curmudgeonly clinically depressed cantankerousness he would laugh at the ultra online right who called him a “cuck.”
“Don't you know I get off on that!” he was rumored here to have said “Getting two timesd by all my girls when I’m not shitfaced and waking up in the nearest trailer park with a mean enough hangover to fuck a married heroin addict with an alcoholic husband on PCP or worse who might or he could if he would pick up a shotgun and impulsively shoot me! Yippee!”
When the word eventually got out that he was a dim descendant of Hitler Tucker was mocking the left ecstatically for making such a big deal out of it and protesting at his house every goddamned day— The New York Times and The New Yorker and every pretentious leftwing piece-of-shit neurotic self-loathing rabble rouser from New York City to Los Angeles were pleading for him at the point of a big fluffy microphone and tv cameras whiny pesky liberal media journalists, commanding him to repent and atone for his sins.
“Don’t you know how much I give to the Democratic Party just to shut the Republican Party the fuck up to stop Republicans from even thinking about banning porn and video games I watch and play all goddamn day long?” This guy growled this guy fumed and sneered choked and coughed on his supremely supercilious haughty contempt for everyone, everyone in fucking sight. And out of sight.
America’s Swift and the twenty first century’s reincarnation of Mark Twain—you could run from him but you could not hide. Piss him off, and what did you have to worry about? Him drinking you straight under the table! If you didn’t like whiskey he wouldn’t let you hear the end of it; if you worked out too much prayed too much or not enough of any of those, it was lights out; if you got in his way or even thought about it—why don’t you try being a writer or a drunk—COCKSUCKER?
No Jew unfortunately would be friends with him—it broke his heart—no matter how much he said and he was telling the truth like no man ever told the truth ever when he saw his grandfather Adolf Hitler in hell he’ll feed his goddamn balls to him. If Hitler had balls and he wasn’t a coward who just killed himself when he saw things weren’t going his way.
His grandson MEANWHILE had stashed whiskey enough to drown the Pacific Ocean and had a big mean dog; Hitler never drank not like the only Nazi Robert Ley he admired just because he was the Nazis’ biggest alcoholic. And in his spare time he painted expressionism like Ludwig Kirchner and Munch and Bacon images of himself screaming over our feckless lame limp and sordid Congress. Why even be proper and spell Congress with a capital C— DAMNIT.
How badly he wanted to take Josh Hawley a homo in his opinion just because of how pale he was and wrote a book about masculinity when he was just a politician—HA!—and force him to have kinky sex with AOC and the far left at gunpoint! Or swim noodle point! Think how a man of his kind of strength how slowly he could torture you with a swim noodle for his own great pleasure! How long it would take you to die. In a swimming pool!
Or a GYMNASIUM.
He growled. He smoked and he stewed and he blew sickening rings of smoke right around Tucker Carlson and just for that bastard’s stupid effeminately high highfalutin voice, Tucker though who meanwhile was having a goddamned field day parodying and mocking the left for demanding Hitler’s Grandson to account for the crimes he repudiated violently the historical injustice when the left was today terrorizing all the Jews!
“If you don’t get off my front lawn damnit I’m more dangerous than Clint Eastwood with a pink hand gun or a black water gun.”
All right-wingers he said were just “FAGGOTS,” and all left-wingers were just “PUSSIES” and scum, and everyone who took out all their petty pitiful grievances on women, Jews or black or white people. God had no idea the black enraged contempt it excited in his infinitely lusty hateful heart with his lust to hate.
Old goddamned guns never those cheap assault rifles; six shooters long rifles and knives! He liked dynamite too and loved blowing shit up. If you pushed him for being Hitler’s grandson, like he had anything to do or he could have any connection with The Third Reich—please. He fled and he hid in solemn stoic selfish rage and regard and neglected even to womanize, and he even farmed plankton!
Just to drink to be alone with those moody brooding lyrical self-absorbed, self-indulgent selfish thoughts of deep revulsion with America’s paranoia and pettiness; he liked to spit on the ground for no reason with enough force to kill the earth and especially all the insects in it. He was ashamed, he was guilty enough.
Goddamnit. He was disturbed enough. Disturbed by the past disturbed by his past disturbed by his own violent instincts he couldn’t shake from his fascist bloodline. If only Hitler remained a terrible artist he contemplated between stupors and clouds of growling grumpy grueling pipe smoke and the stench of his own unshowered clinically if not chronically depressed stupid smelly sweat.
He was Hitler’s grandson and he was loveless and friendless and joyless and he never had a family out of simple courtesy or decency not to descend and rain down those perverted genes out of respect for the dead and the sins of the past. He knew it wouldn’t help but he still said every now and then, “if I had it in me to kill myself, and I’ve tried, I woulda taken my own life a long time ago. Just to avoid Tucker Carlson commodifying me for his own high-voiced unmanly vulgar agenda. I have always hated attention. HATED it. Even if I weren’t Hitler’s grandson I’d be stuck here, shut up in myself a recluse a good-for-nothing goddamned shut-in. Surrounded by everyone all the cowards who disdainfully fear my black morbid moods and fiery pieceofshit wit.
“I sit here and I roost. I roost before the chickens and social security and medicare come home and come back to bite. And before the rooster crows. Goddamnit. I don’t even give chickens the chance to come home and roost. I shoot all of them dead damn it and I eat all of them raw. Just like I’ll shoot you too for giving me a hard time or even an easy time. I don’t owe you nothing. You owe me. You owe me just for thinking I owe you. I own you.”
His favorite Founders were Washington and Jefferson for hating attention too, and he envied the depths of Lincoln’s and Jefferson’s depressions, guys who liked to be alone as much as Franklin cracked him up with his drunken licentious womanizing. The only friends he permitted the stoic solid black company of were bald eagles big black American ravens, timber and diamond-back rattlesnakes, cotton mouths, puff adders and the most dangerous bears, grizzlies and black bears and fierce vicious gray wolves, and lonely coyotes. He was a one-man guardian and a watchdog of all dangerous things ideas like that freedom is a good thing like David Brooks or George Will. He loved beavers and like a frontiersman he still made hats out of beaver skins and raccoons and pinecones, and hunted buffalo with a jumbo-sized bottle of Four Roses bourbon. And despite being a solitary pipe smoker he donated to Marlboro and Philip Morris massively why to make Americans smoke again. MASA. If he campaigned for anything, it was to lift and liberate the infernal infinitesimal ban on smoking, and then autocratically imprison anyone who ever had the impulse to ban smoking in public places. The less free America became the more autocracy it deserved! He was angry enough to kill a goddamned newborn with just a scent or a whiff of second hand plastered smoke, and just the stoic enraged force of his solemn implacable ineluctable indefatigable supremely American indignation and cathartic nonviolent rage.
As his daily ritual as was his wont, he deliberately meditatively stubbed his toe as hard as he goddamned could by punting boulders literally punting them like soccer balls, fucking soccer balls and volleyballs and balls of all kinds; and because he was like a snake that grows back its skin, he daily had to cut his pinky toe off only for it to grow back not even with a shot of whiskey bourbon or rye or naiveté or anything—everything good and robust and fiery and burning and American he drank and smoked goddamned neat, no ice no water and no fucking filter.
The fentanyl addicts in trailer parks nearby where legend had it—he put out of their misery with one shot from a shotgun in the face, heedless of the big bloody mess of brains and blood it occasioned. He liked—it was his predilection—to put hopeless addicts who were addicts as in addicted and perhaps clinically depressed or otherwise very happy out of their sheer bleu cheese misery.
It was amazing how all his fans could hope to get to him and get at him with the World War One/Civil War era Gattling Gun he set up just to scare the shit out of people, and all the turrets and surveillance cameras. And did I mention the barbed wire fence, the mote the wall and the booby traps? “No Fucking Trespassing Signs”it said everywhere “Trespassers Will Be Fucking Shot and Maybe Tortured with Erasers.” “And Beware Many Vicious Dogs.”
Why the hell was it the less attention a man wanted or even deserved the more attention he sometimes got!
“YOU KNOW WHAT I DO ALL DAY IS WATCH THOSE NYC QUITS COMMERCIALS ON REPEAT WHILE SMOKING AS MANY PACKS OF CIGS AS I CAN!”
All the pretty women in full knowledge of how much he hated their damned guts were walking on water and crawling patiently over hot coals for months to get here just to have sex with him and nothing more not even a drink or a meal.
Inevitably his threatening home was becoming besieged with women such that it was becoming a harem and then he caught a lot of stupid flak for that too, all the broken hearts he sent home in cages like caged monkeys. And parrots. Toucans.
He was Hitler’s grandson, and he was all your sorry goddamned fault.