StarDestroyer.Net BBS

Something silly I've had in mind lately. Skipping along the pavement, the little girl's heels clicked in a steady rhythm. Her plaid skirt fluttered with the combined motions of herself and the gentle wind that drifted through the city streets. From the brim of her small hood, a shadow laid upon her face, shielding her from the mid-day sun. On either side of the street, shop owners sat out under the shade of their storefronts, watching those few people who wandered by. These men cast lingering glances on the girl, watching the lone child make her way to some unknown destination.

It took little time before the store shops slowly faded away. The scents of fresh baked goods and prepared fish gave way to cooked pork and pickled cabbage. Likewise, long beards and curled hair faded from sight, quickly replaced by shaved heads and trimmed moustauches. All that was in common with both neighborhoods was the lingering stares. Shadowy men watched from the alleys, their faces, arms and bodies marked with the spiraling image of their loyalty.

They watched her intently, unsure of this little, skipping girl. She was dressed in a plaid dress, with a small hood concealing her face. In her hands, she swung a picnic basket from side to side, merrily humming an aging tune in beat with the basket. While it was the appearance of a lone child drew attention before, now it was the song. It was an old fanfare, well known to the men who watched her from the shadows.

She hopped to a stop in front of a small, street side vendor. The burly, aged man eyed her curiously from his right eye, the other lost beneath an eye patch. He ran his thumb over his upper lip, scratching at the stubble that was beginning to regrow. "Heinrich Hitzinger?" the little girl said in a decidedly Austrian accent, her voice bubbling with joyful laughter.

"Yes, little one? Have you come for some Sauerkraut? Or perhaps just a bit of würste?" the man said, leaning over the steaming contents of his cart.

"No, I've come for a lolly pop." she said with a giggle. Beaming her a smile, he opened up the back of his cart, producing a bright red lolly pop on a white stick. At the center, a tiny swirl of black peered at the girl from behind its sugary shell. With a smile, she took her treat from his muscled hands.

"Is there anything else I can get for you?"

She hummed loudly, putting a finger to her lips as she thought, "Perhaps you know of a certain...Heinrich Himmler?" said the girl. Narrowing his eyes, the man leaned back.

"And where would such a nice little girl learn about such a terrible man." he said, his voice waivering ever so slightly. "And moreso, what would you want with him?"

Her smile turned to ice, leaving the street vendor remembering to days long past, "To help him start what he could not finish."

"Little girl, you are speaking nonsense. Why would you-"

"Cut the ruse, Heinrich." she snapped, an eye glaring at him from beneath the hood of her dress.

Taken aback by the sudden outburst, Heinrich watched her carefully. There was a certain edge to her tone that he had thought died long ago, a certainty of a better world. A world he'd thought lost to madness.

"Who are you, little girl?" Heinrich said slowly. Grinning, the girl slowly unwrapped her lolly-pop's clear wrapper, setting it on the cart. Biting into the shell of the candy, she threw back her hood, revealing her bright, innocent face. Her eyes sparkled like the sky, while her hair was as spun gold. However, just below her nose sat a thin, well groomed strip of brown hair.

"You may call me, The Führ-Her."

It's... Little Girl Hitler? And Himmler runs a German equivalent of a hot dog stand? THIS MUST BE CONTINUED.

Glad you liked it Vortex

Here's PART TWO
Inside of the UH-1 Iroquois helicopter, heat and sound fought one another to stifle the men packed inside. Vietnam had its own sort of heat. It was an oppressive, blistering, half-liquid heat, one a man could drown in. Each of the men sweat profusely, their bare arms and open shirts doing little to help them disperse the heat. The sweat had little time to fall free from their exposed skin, instead finding itself flung off from the heavy vibrations of the helicopter as well as the wildly rising and falling sound from the heavy speakers attached to the helicopter. An orchestra was blaring its melody above the helicopter blades as best it could, a classic piece from Wagner drifting down through the thick tangle of trees below.

Seated with the soldiers was a dark skinned man, dressed in a high collared, white suit. Across his lap sat a guitar, its body a distinctively wedge shape. His hair formed a thick, black orb on top of his head, wobbling gently with the movements of his body. Eyes closed, he quietly strummed his guitar with his right hand, carefully tuning the strings with his other hand.

Across from him, the men watched him quietly. They'd seen him before, though had little idea what he was doing here. He was famous, a celebrity even, what he was doing heading to a battlefield was beyond them. One leaned forward, largely from the urging of his comrades. Shouting above the roar of the helicopter blades and the rush of recorded horns, the man asked, "So what are you doing in Vietnam?"

His fingers stopped their strumming, eyes opening to look at the man. Unnerved by the cool stare, the soldier leaned back, glancing nervously to the soldiers on either side of him. "I had to, judge's orders." he said smoothly, closing his eyes and returning to his quiet strumming.

"Oh yeah? That's why David is here too!" the soldier beamed him a smile, motioning to one of the other soldiers in the helicopter. Glancing over to the man, the guitar player gave him a small nod.

"We'll be over the drop point in sixty seconds." the pilot called back from the cockpit. Chewing his lip, the brave soldier leaned forward again.

"I have to ask," he shouted over the helicopter blades again, "Why are you dressed like that? Where's your weapon?" Again, he opened his eyes. As he prepared to speak, the sound of bullets impacting the helicopter rang out inside the cabin. Banking hard, the helicopter swung to the side, attempting to dodge the gunfire that came from the jungle below. The door gunner opened fire, wildly spraying bullets beneath the helicopter.

Standing, the man adjusted his guitar, hauling the door open with his other hand. It was easy to hear the gunfire now, a continual rattle sounding off below and beside the soldiers. "What are you doing Hendrix? You crazy!?" one of the soldiers called out. Looking over his shoulder, Jimi Hendrix gave a small wave, saying, "Excuse me while I kiss the sky." before leaping out of the door way.

Bullets whipped past him to no avail, flying into the sky behind him. Afro waving in the wind, he placed his hands on the strings his Gibson Flying V. His fingers quickly found the proper strings, while his left hand reached down to strum his first note. Pick in hand, he played the first note. A powerful wave of sound erupted from his guitar, washing through the dense jungle.

Heavy trees were uprooted, flattened against the dense brush beneath. Several toppled over on the vietnamese soldiers hiding under their thick canopies, crushing them instantly. Those that survived faced a far worse fate as the second note was played. A second shockwave of sound blasted through the now clear area, tearing flesh from bone and pulverizing the now exposed men.

As the gunfire lessened, Hendrix began to play faster, the force of his music quickly slowing his descent. Gently landing on the toppled mass of trees and pulped remains, he stood in the newly made jungle clearing. There were others now emerging from the surrounding jungle, but Hendrix paid them no mind. Instead, he focused on readjusting the tension of his strings, quietly plucking the strings of his guitar with every adjustment.

The edge of the clearing filled with reinforcements. Vietnamese soldiers huddled behind fallen trees, laid flat on the ground, or otherwise did what they could to conceal themselves. They pointed their kalashnikovs at the still figure, waiting for the moment to fire. More and more arrived, a veritable legion of men filling in the space between the trees.

"I've gotta ask you boys something," Jimi said as he finished the adjustments of his guitar, "Are you experienced?" From every side came a resounding response of gunfire. Jimi spun on his heel, fingers working to send up a wall of sound. Bullets halted in mid air, falling harmlessly to the ground as they met the unending waves of sound Hendrix produced. Raising his guitar, he let it wail out, the mighty squeal of his guitar ringing out through the jungle.

Their ammunition expended, the men ceased firing, empty magazines dropping free of their weapons. Smirking, Hendrix slid his hand down the neck of his Gibson, beginning his musical assault again. Wherever he pointed the face of his guitar, all was laid to waste. Trees were blown away from the power of his rock, while men were turned to little more than pulped flesh, melted bodies or simply thrown back like the trees and underbrush. Nothing could escape the power he wielded. Even the spent ammunition was flung back, perforating bodies and shattering bones with more force than any assault rifle. His enemies still, Hendrix dropped to his knees, letting his final note linger over the jungle.

Behind him, there was one man remaining, a lone Vietnamese soldier. He'd hidden beneath the mangled remains of his friends and the shredded trees, managing to survive the catastrophic guitar solo. Slowly, he crept towards the kneeling man, a slender knife clutched tightly in his hand. Each step had to be made with the utmost care, lest he dare the American's wrath.

However, he could not hear the faint sound of Hendrix tuning his guitar once more, his ears bleeding profusely now, ear drums little more than a memory. Drawing close enough to plunge his blade into the man's back, he reared up, preparing to strike. Hendrix was far faster. In the blink of an eye, he had brought the guitar behind his head, resting it on his shoulders. The soldier saw with horror the way Hendrix held his fingers for a fleeting moment before his torso was turned to vapor. As his legs fell to the ground, the helicopter began its descent.

Hm, how might this be related to Little Hitler?

The Vortex Empire wrote:Hm, how might this be related to Little Hitler?

Who cares, it's just awesome!

The Vortex Empire wrote:Hm, how might this be related to Little Hitler?

All in due time, my friend. All in due time.

...


Oh my God, it's amazing!

Oh, it fills my insane little heart with joy to see you guys loving this

As requested, more Führ-Her!
“My God! I have so much to tell you Führ-Her!” Himmler gasped, his mind racing with untold acts of racial cleansing, as well as endless torch-lit parades.

“Not here, you fool!” the little girl hissed, “Somewhere safe, somewhere far from prying eyes.” The Führ-Her stroked the picnic basket in her hands, wary of any who would seek to learn of its contents.

Glancing nervously from side to side, Himmler leaned over the cart, beckoning his small master closer. Stepping closer to the cart, she watched as the older man opened the top set of doors, revealing a small platform. Lifting the small framed girl into the cart, Himmler stepped inside as well. Standing inside the cart, Himmler gripped the lever on the umbrella, pulling it down. In an instant, both were plunging down a narrow elevator shaft, the doors above them already closed.

“I want all of your men. They must all be ready. Where is Goebbels? He is instrumental in my plans!” Führ-Her roared, her high pitched voice filling the tiny elevator.

“They will be ready, however I must warn you about Goebbels…he has been captured…” Himmler said the words cautiously, doing his best not to send the Führ-Her into another screaming hit.

“Why have you not freed him yet? You should have known that he would be instrumental in any plans to create a Fourth Reich.”
She growled in a decidedly unnerving fashion for such a young voice.

“It is not so simple. The Russians have exiled him to the moon.” Himmler sighed in defeat.

“So they not only steal the instrument of my return, but our rockets as well! Thieves! They shall all be crushed beneath the boot of my glorious Fourth Reich!” she shouted as the elevator came to a halt. Before them, the doors opened to reveal a long hallway. The two of them stepped out of the elevator, walking down the brick and steel corridor.

“You must tell me, what happened? How did you escape the battle with Stalin? The last I saw was that he had begun to swing around a Tiger!” Himmler said, the images of that final day etched into his memory. They stopped at a large set of double doors, a massive swastika emblazoned on their surface.

Throwing open the doors, Führ-Her led the way into a large meeting room. Massive tapestries covered the walls, each displaying the face of a member of the Third Reich’s high command. Goebbels, Goring, even Dönitz were in attendance, even if only in spirit. There was one face missing that perturbed the diminutive leader.

“Where am I? Where is my face Himmler!” she shrieked, leaping up to grab the collar of his shirt with her free hand. Swallowing his shame, he raised a finger, pointing to the ceiling. Raising her eyes, she saw her face, her true face, staring down on her with all of its wisdom and benevolence.

Releasing her grip on his shirt, she took a seat at the head of the table, even though her eyes were hardly above the table’s surface. Taking the basket in both hands, she deposited it on the table. “You are forgiven. As such, I will tell you of my escape. You see, I may have died in my Todeslabyrinth, however my mind did not. As I laid dying, I used what remained of my sorcery, as well as the power within the Rhein Stone, to send it twenty years into the future, into the body of this little girl. For you see,” she said, leaning in with a sly grin, “Who would suspect such a sweet, innocent, Aryan girl?”

“You are brilliant as always my Führ-Her!” Himmler exclaimed as the doors at the far end of the hall opened. The Führ-Her watched with diminishing glee the men who marched into the meeting room. Some wore the old uniforms, either the sharp black of the SS or the proud brown of the SA, though they were often faded or ill-fitting. Others had no uniforms at all, instead wearing simple muscle-shirts and sporting a variety of tattoos proclaiming their eternal allegiance to the Third Reich.

Leaning to the side, the Führ-Her whispered, “Who are these men? Is this all?”

“Unfortunately yes, however, they are loyal to our cause. Many of the old soldiers were captured and executed.” Himmler replied sadly. Growling, the Führ-Her stood in her seat, watching the men as they settled into their various places. She was not the only one uncomfortable at this meeting. The men could do little to hide their apprehension at the appearance of this young child. Some even wondered if perhaps Himmler’s sanity had finally vanished.

Looking over the assembly, Himmler stood to his full height. “Sons of the glorious Aryan race, I can see your fear. You wonder why I have brought this child to our meeting, our most sacred of places. However, these doubts are unfounded! When have I led you astray? When has my leadership been anything less than superb? As such, you must trust me when I tell you that this child, this little Aryan, is our future. She will bring out the world we have struggled so hard to achieve, of this I am certain. How she will do this, I do not know, but that I why I have brought her here. The Führ-Her, shall lead us all to victory over our enemies, and shall crush the Jewish menace once and for all!” as he finished, Himmler expected something, perhaps even the beginnings of understanding, or even hope. All he faced was uncertainty.

“Brothers,” the Führ-Her began, reaching for the picnic basket, “I have brought you proof of my strength of will, as well as my strength of arm. For you see…” she opened the basket, throwing a thick bundle of hair onto the table, “I have this.”

A hush fell over the room. What lay before them was no ordinary hair, no mere beard, it was an object of terror to their numbers. It was a symbol of death and destruction to the men assembled in that room. “You…you bring us Lincoln’s beard!?” one man managed to gasp. From every man in the room came similar cries and shouts, each adding to the fear that filled the room.

“Are you insane? He’ll kill us all! It will just grow back! I can hear him coming even now!” the assembled voices shouted in near unison. Smirking, the girl reached into the basket again. From within the basket, she produced a long, slender spear head, which she pierced the beard with. Again, silence fell over the room. This was a far different silence, one of awe and wonder.

“How can Lincoln regrow his beard, if it has been sheared free by the Spear of Destiny?”

WTF

General Schatten wrote:WTF

Seconded.

An absurdist allohistorical fic?

DO GO ON!

Spear of Destiny = Spear of Longinus?

Sweet Mother of all things Holy- MOAR

I assume with no beard, Lincoln is powerless?

The Vortex Empire wrote:I assume with no beard, Lincoln is powerless?

The CIA thought it was true for Castro, why the hell not for Lincoln, too?

Anyone ready for more?
Reclining in his chair, Hendrix took a long drag from his cigarette. The canvas of the army tent did its best to keep the heat out, but it wasn’t much use. Inside, the heat from the relaxing men mingled with the jungle, the canvas serving only to trap it with the clouds of tobacco and reefer smoke. Exhaling slowly, Hendrix spied an approaching MP. The man marched across the tent, heading straight towards him. Plucking the cigarette from his mouth, he leaned forward as the MP arrived.

“Hendirx, Jimi?” the man said simply. Hendrix gave him a simple nod. “You are to report to the commander’s tent, immediately.” Sighing, Jimi extinguished the cigarette in the ash tray beside him, rising from his seat. Wordlessly, the MP led the way for the conscripted rock star. Hendrix could already tell this would be another hopeless endeavor that he would need to save the army from. As they arrived at the large tent, the MP stepped aside, holding the tent flap open.

Stepping inside, Hendrix found the interior largely deserted. Only one man sat in the room, a quill in one hand and a sheet of paper in the other. He was an older man, dressed in a fine, silk waistcoat, as well as a pair of breeches and stockings. On his collar was a small, metal pin of the American flag, marked with an eagle clutching a great serpent in its talons. As the tent flap closed behind Hendrix, the man looked up at the new comer, giving Hendrix a clear view of the man’s face. His face was rounded and soft, a pair of spectacles resting on the bridge of his nose. Although his receding hairline left him with a great expanse without hair, what hair remained was shock white and reached down to his shoulders. Glancing up from his writing, he lowered his spectacles slightly, “Jimi Hendrix, I presume?”

Nodding, Hendrix stepped towards the man, “I know you. I’ve seen you before.” Chuckling, the man pulled a green piece of paper from his coat.

“Of course, you likely recognize me from my picture.” He said with a chuckle, handing Hendrix the hundred dollar bill.

“Benjamin Franklin?” Hendrix said with a roll of his eyes. Bringing up the dollar bill, he compared the two faces. The man in the room was in far better shape than the one printed on the paper, but otherwise, the resemblance was striking.

“Is this some kind of joke?” Hendrix snapped, crossing his arms.

“I assure you, my appearance here is no laughing matter.” The man rose from his chair, drawing a handful of photographs from his coat pocket, “America needs your help, Mr. Hendrix.”

Snorting, Hendrix motioned to their surroundings, “What do you think I’m doing here?”

“No Mr. Hendrix, this is a matter of grave importance. This war, as tragic as it may be, can wait. This,” he said, placing the photographs on the table, “Can not.” Taking a step towards the table, Hendrix picked up one of the photographs. In it, a man wearing a tall stove-pipe hat stood beside a wall, his hand pressed against it to keep himself propped upright. His face was cleanly shaved, even in the distant photo, it was plain to see that there wasn’t even a hint of stubble.

“Someone has stolen Lincoln’s beard. More worrying, it has not grown back. Normally, we would have to wait but a few moments and then he would have returned to his majestic appearance. This time, there is nothing. No hair, no stubble, not even the faint hairs of a peach’s skin.” Franklin said darkly.

Carefully, Hendrix inspected the images. The other photographs showed the same weakened man. His form was hunched over, his body hardly able to support its lanky frame. In some pictures, he had to be propped up by soldiers, or against various objects, but one thing was clear: whoever was in the photographs was suffering greatly.

“And this is supposed to be Lincoln? Abraham Lincoln?” Hendrix said, throwing the photographs back on the table, “What is all this? Who are you, really?”

“I have told you the truth and nothing else. I am a member of the American Action Heroes, as was Lincoln here. However, after his beard was stolen, we are in need of a third member. He disappeared shortly after we discovered him clean shaven. Whoever has stolen his beard would be powerful indeed and we will need your help to stop whatever plans they may have.” Franklin eased himself back into his seat, resting hands on his lap.

Holding up his hands, Hendrix took a step back, “Hang on, just a minute. How are you supposed to be alive? And Lincoln too? You two have been dead for more than a few years.”

Sighing, Franklin took his spectacles off, resting them on the table beside him as electricity began to crackle within his eyes, “You see, Mr. Hendrix, mastery over lightning changes a man in rather fundamental ways.” The power flowed outwards from his eyes, lifting his hair upright, arcs of electricity flashing out in each direction. In his eyes, the intensity grew, pupils shining white from the power hidden behind them. With a flick of his wrist, a bolt of lightning flew from his fingertips, scorching a great hole in the ground.

“As for Lincoln,” he said, reclaiming his glasses, “The man is simply the picture of health, so long as his beard remains intact. As it is, he is fading quickly and we are unsure how much longer he may be counted among the living. Which is why we need your help.”

Nodding, Hendrix took a seat beside the table, “So, do you have any leads?”

Smiling, Franklin withdrew another photograph from his pocket, handing it to Hendrix. In it was another picture of Lincoln, this time sitting at the edge of his bed. On the head board, the words “We shall rise again! The Lesser People shall be expunged!” had been carved into the wood.

“At first, we had suspected Jefferson Davis had returned. However, we are now led to believe it is someone far more powerful. Our inspection of the site has revealed a powerful item was used to shave Lincoln, however we cannot be certain as to just what item would be able to perform such a feat. At the moment, we suspect it may have been a great sorcerer, though the only one who would have been able to perform such a feat would have been-“

“Adolf Hitler.” Hendrix finished Franklin’s thought.

“Quite. However, one Joseph Stalin made quite certain he was dead. It was also verified by a General Patton and Franklin Delano Roosevelt.” Franklin recalled the information easily. Waving his hand, Franklin did his best to disturb the stagnant air within the tent, “In any case, we should retire to better lodgings than these. I must say that I am not fond of this unseemly weather.”

Stepping out of the tent, Hendrix turned back to Franklin, “Are you sure Hitler was killed? He didn’t escape?”

Chuckling to himself, Franklin looked at the much younger man, “Perhaps you should ask one of the witnesses yourself.” Smoothing out his hair, Franklin called out, “Oh Delano, we could do with transportation.”

A great grinding of steel of steel rang out through the jungle, sending animals racing to escape the source of the phantasmal sounds. It roared towards them, growing louder and louder with each passing moment. Hendrix stared at the source of the sound, however he did not see trees topple, nor feel the earth shake beneath his feet as he had imagined he would. Instead, he could only mark the progress of the sound by the movement of the jungle animals.

Suddenly, a great fiery carriage erupted from the treeline, skewing to a halt before Hendrix and Franklin. It was massive, towering over the two men at nearly four times their height. Its wheels had the appearance of black fire, each serving to support a long, single cabin. At the fore of the carriage was a massive pair of wheels, each nearly the height of the carriage itself. Seated atop these wheels was a tall, slender man, dressed in a simple black suit. His hair was slicked back, keeping it free of his soft eyes. He turned back to look at the two men, the sun shining through his wavering form, “Nice to finally meet you Mr. Hendrix, care for a ride?”

...Satan? But we blew him up with an anti ship missile to the face!

Why Jimi Hendrix?

LadyTevar wrote:Why Jimi Hendrix?

I think a better question is; Why not?

Ok so, Benjamin Franklin with lightning powers, FDR with a bitchin ride, and Jimi Hendrix with sonic powers are going to fight hitler trapped in a little girls body?

What are you smoking and where can I buy some?

Think of this as half of the next part. Or the next part. Whatever, same difference If I can get my ass in gear, I'll probably have the next one up around noonish.
They goose stepped down the narrow street, a rough amalgam of skin heads, neo-Nazis and the older party members. They formed a proud parade, torches and banners held high while the old songs bellowed from throats. It was not as the old days, but there was that spirit, that charge in the air. It burned in their hearts and led them through the streets of their neighborhood.

At the fore of this procession marched its two leaders. Himmler had donned his old uniform, the silver totenkopf pins shining brilliantly in the torchlight in comparison to the inky black of his SS outfit. Each shoulder bore a polished silver skull as well, their empty eyes flickering from the reflection of any number of lights. He had discarded his eyepatch as well, allowing both eyes to view the world for the first time in years. This was no time for hiding or disguises, it was a time for action.

Beside him, dressed in a small Youth uniform was the real leader of the group. The Führ-her marched with all the pride of a rising leader, of one returning in triumph to a world that had scorned them. Her golden hair bobbed side to side, kept away from the well trimmed moustache on her upper lip. In her eyes, a fire was burning, longing to see this first step followed through.

“So, he hides here?” the Führ-her raised her voice above the crush of boots.

Nodding, Himmler stooped down, “Yes, I have watched him very carefully, even after his supposed demise. He hides among his treacherous kind, no doubt afraid of your eternal vigilance.” Himmler said with glee. Before them, that most hated of neighborhoods was in sight, looming over them with the promise of a better future.

The parade halted at the edge of their destination, voices ringing out through the empty streets. Their songs rose higher and higher, drawing concerned looks from those in windows, particularly those who had lived through this before. Old eyes looked down at the torches lingering in the street, once thought terrors suddenly springing to life.

“Himmler, tonight will be the first step on the road to our glorious Fourth Reich. It will be a time of cleansing, as well as progress.” From beneath one of her golden curls, the Führ-her stared up at Himmler. “Begin Kristallnacht Zwei.”

A broad smile spreading across his face, Himmler raised his hand high into the air. Behind him there was a ripple of anticipation, a singular desire to see that hand fall. When it did, all hell was unleashed upon the streets. The parade exploded into a furious wave of destruction and hatred, a seething mass of violence and fury. As Himmler began to charge into the fray, he felt a tug on his pant leg. Looking down, he saw the Führ-her still staring at him.

“And remember Himmler. This time, it’s personal.”

Okay that's it I'm out. Giving Jimi Hendrix, Franklin, Lincoln, and others magical powers, okay. But there's just something I can't handle about a little girl with a moustache.

Aww Schatten, you haven't even gotten to Spoiler Besides, who wouldn't love this?
At the heart of the high arched chamber, a black suited man knelt. Beside the man laid his wide brimmed hat, while a long, white scarf hung from his shoulders, helping keep the chill away from his aging body. A heavy beard clung to his chin, a set of curls hanging from his temples. His eyes were focused on the object before him.

Before him was a great glass container, its surface covered with a thin layer of frost. The glass container he knelt before was the greatest item in this hall, in all of the city. In it was far more knowledge and power than anywhere else on Earth. The chamber it resided in was far removed from the world at large, well protected from prying eyes and darkened hearts. In the protection that had been bestowed upon this chamber, there was peace. Here, two men could sit and speak at length, with only the quiet hum of the container to disturb them.

Of course, things such as this could not last. Behind him, the great doors were pushed open, the man’s assistant scrambling inside.

“You must come quick, it’s…” the young man trailed off, tears welling up in his eyes. Rising from the floor, the old man carefully lifted his hat onto his head.

“More trouble makers?” his deep voice rattled the halls. The younger man could only manage a weak nod. Scowling, the Rabbi knew it would be horrid outside. Glancing over his shoulder, he called out “I hope we can finish out discussion after this little mess.”

The Rabbi didn’t have time to wait for the response of his friend from Württemberg, his feet taking him outside of the sealed chamber. It wasn’t long before he found himself standing in front of the old synagoge, his assistant pointing to the distance. The Rabbi could hear them out there. Their hateful songs drifted over the city, replacing the usual calm of the night air. Worse still, he could hear the screams of those caught by those hateful fools.

“Call them, all of them. This is larger than anything we have faced since the Dark Times.” The Rabbi growled to his assistant. With a nod, the man was off, sprinting to find the others. There was no time to wait for his return, the Rabbi would have to move now. Leaping up, he landed atop the nearest building, the sprawling city laid bare to him. His eyes mapped out the route he would take, quickly deciding on the quickest course of action. Without a second thought, he ran towards the fires. His powerful legs catapulted him across rooftops, sending him flying into the night sky.

Every leap brought him closer to the sounds. Every bound strengthened that oppressive feeling of violence. It was not fast enough, it would have never been fast enough. He arrived to see the intruders hurling rocks and burning bottles into a storefront. The storefront erupted in flames, broken shards of glass littering the sidewalk. Thankfully, he did not hear the screams of the owners, a small blessing on this night of violence. Muscles coiling, he crouched down on the ledge of the building, watching his prey.

In an instant, he was upon them, fists and feet flying, knocking the first of the burly men to the ground. Those still standing flung their fists wildly, their untrained blows fell upon empty air. Easily ducking and slipping beneath their cumbersome attacks, the Rabbi slipped past their attacks. His own were far more precise, breaking bones and rendering muscles useless. More came, though he had no shortage of wrath for them.

Reaching into his suit, he withdrew the bladed stars he always carried for such occasions as these. With deadly accuracy, he flung the throwing stars of David at his foes. Their edges found the throats and eyes of the new arrivals, leaving them to fall to the ground, gasping and shrieking in agony. The Rabbi, however, found them more than any mere mob. This was a veritable army.

More and more came, running, screaming, waving their torches, clubs and knives. There was little they could do to the Rabbi, even with their greater numbers. They swarmed over him, seeking to overwhelm him in a flurry of meaty fists. He endured their blows for a time, hoping they would realize their error of their ways. As their blows continued, he knew they were driven, forced on by a far greater force. Collecting his strength, he threw them off, casting their broken bodies into the streets.

Readying himself for the next attackers, he found a line of men filling the street. They were more cautious, unlike the shaven thugs he’d dispatched with such ease. They wore the old, dark uniforms his people had grown to hate so much, pistols clutched in this hands. The entire line leveled their weapons at him, ready to riddle him with bullets. As they pulled their triggers, a resounding clang rose up from their line. Bewildered, they stared at their guns, the barrels neatly sliced free of each one.

Grinning, the Rabbi watched as his brothers dropped from the rooftops. They landed in the midst of the old soldiers, snapping bones and throwing bodies aside like the trash they were. Perhaps things would not be so bad, the Rabbi thought with a grim smile.

Ninjitsu-Rabbi???

I think I need to get drunk to read this.

Part six! Side note, that picture midnight? Like 90% of my inspiration for part 5.
Himmler could feel it. It tingled in his feet and hands, the merest touch of power. So much violence and hatred, it flowed into him, binding itself to his flesh and bones. With each who fell, he grew stronger. Whether it was his own men, slain by the desperate attacks of the lesser men, or his hated enemy, dragged into the streets to be slaughtered like pigs, both filled him with strength. Blood ran in rivers around him, pooling in the gutter, feeble moans gurgling from ruined throats and mouths. He walked alone down the street, his footsteps ringing off shattered windows and empty buildings. Already, his men had swept through here, though apparently they had run into trouble ahead. There was no rush though. The more who perished, the better it would be for Himmler.

His ears perked up from the sound of fine shoes on rooftops. Scowling, his hand snatched a bladed star from the air, crushing it with ease. Descending through the darkness came his foes, those bearded, black garbed men. They formed a ring around him, standing ready to strike. Spitting on the ground, Himmler stood tall, "Is this all the enemies of the Fourth Reich can muster?"

The first came at him silently, darting towards him with fists slicing through the air. Himmler took the blow to his chest without so much as flinching. Looking up in horror, the young rabbi saw Himmler grinning down at him. The old Nazi's fingers wrapped around the rabbi's wrist, crushing bone and tissue. Gritting his teeth, the rabbi tried to remain stoic, even as his life drained away through Himmler's clenched fist. Before the eyes of his comrades, the rabbi withered away. His skin shriveled and warped, receding and disappearing to reveal cracked bones. Backhanding the skeletal remains before him, he scattered the dust into the street. "Next."

Enraged by the death of their friend, the other rabbis flew at Himmler as one. They worked to hammer him with their fists and feet, striking him with all the strength and precision they had worked so hard to achieve. It was no use, their blows as futile as a child's. Himmler reached a hand out, hefting one of them up by the throat. Gloved fingers digging into the man's throat, he cackled wildly as the light faded from the rabbi's eyes.

Distracted by his conquest, he nearly missed the star aimed at his own throat. His other hand batted it aside as he released the nearly dead man. Again, the rabbis formed a ring around Himmler, watching his every move. Lifting his gaze upward, he saw the one who had nearly taken his throat out.

"You should just leave us alone, you old monster." the Rabbi said. Grinning, Himmler crossed his arms.

"I will leave you alone, once your ashes have been scattered across the world."

"Is that so?" the Rabbi dropped from the roof, landing softly before Himmler, "Go my friends, you are needed elsewhere."

Scattering to the roof tops, the others disappeared into the night, hunting down the enemies who still assaulted their people. Reaching into his suit, the Rabbi drew his menorah, extending the blades from the seven ends.

With that, Himmler charged the Rabbi. Stepping back, the Rabbi swung the weapon in a wide arc, momentarily fending off the man. Still, he would not be deterred. Again, Himmler leaped at the well dressed man, his deadly hands reaching out for him. Slipping aside the German, the Rabbi slammed the base of the menorah into the back of Himmler's head.

Howling with laughter, Himmler threw his fist into the bottom of the Rabbi's jaw. The blow sent him tumbling backwards, his blades still clutched tightly in his hand. This sacred weapon was all he could hope to use against such a monster. Landing on his feet, the Rabbi steadied himself, holding the weapon out before him. Touching his glove to the back of his head, Himmler drew his fingers back, slick with blood.

"So you've injured me. Perhaps I should return the favor."

"You should know you can't kill me. A dog like you can only prey on the weak and helpless." the Rabbi spat.

"A dog?" raising his hands up, Himmler beamed a mad smile at the Rabbi, "Or a god?"

Before the Rabbi's eyes, the slain bodies that littered the street stirred. Their limbs quavered, slowly hauling their mutilated forms upright. Friends and enemies alike stood in the street, eyes focused on him. As Himmler's laughter echoed down the street, the mob swarmed on the Rabbi.

It was all he could do to fend them off. His menorah swung out, slicing off limbs and heads, spilling entrails into the gutter. With his other hand, he smashed bones and fended off the frenzied attacks of the recently dead. As he smashed down one of the reanimated skin heads, Himmler burst through the crowd, scattering the dead in every direction. The Rabbi was not fast enough, Himmler slipping past the blade of his menorah and knocking the weapon aside. Grabbing the Rabbi's collar, Himmler forced him to the ground, the dead grabbing each of the man's limbs to pin him down.

"So, where is your god now?" Himmler hissed, his hand gripping the Rabbi's face, muffling the man's final screams.