I counted 35 kills in my personal quest to get to the Rhine but my fuck-ass superior officer thought I was ‘over-zealous’ in my hatred for strangers and told me to take a break from killing.
My superior officer was a pussy – but I won’t smear his name here – he was, after all, a decorated hero in the war to end all wars (WWI) and a valuable member of the super-duper war to end all wars (WWIl).
But I think he always thought the Nazis would win, so he hedged his bets.
We can only hope Ol’ Pussy Jackson is burning in Hell now for being weak.
Though I don’t think Satan would have much to do with him.
What does Satan need with pussy ass weak field commanders?
Anyway, I was ordered to go to Spain. Southern Spain.
The only thing I knew about southern Spain was nothing. I knew they ate goat brains and pig feet but that was it.
I never knew a dance could seduce me so. Once you are in “La Trucha’s” grip you pretty much have to kill her to get out.
I spent five glorious days with “the trout” and then I had to leave and kill more Nazis.
Ol’ Pussy Jackson came to his senses and realized that the Nazis had to be killed. La Trucha tried keep me with her by threatening my life with her high-heel nail-studded Flamenco shoes. But I got away… yep… and I’m not saying what happened to La Trucha on that July night in 1944.
Fuck La Trucha! She might have been a double agent for all I knew. Fuck that bitch! As long as Nazis are alive, I must kill them.
I would have killed La Trucha – the love of my life – if she were a Nazi. I would kill my mother if she were a Nazi.
ALL NAZIS MUST DIE! Don’t try to win me over with your flamenco crap. It won’t work!
SCREW YOU, LA TRUCHA! No fish will defeat democracy!
I realize this has nothing to do with THOSE DAMN KIDS, but sometimes you have to kill others in order to kill yourself.
I’ll talk at you next week…