Chapter Seven

Propaganda or Channeling Orson Welles

The reason Jim stayed with her and tolerated her was
because when he was around her all he ever thought
about was sex. He'd spend inordinate amounts of time
thinking of things and situations which would lead to
their having sex.

She wasn't very bright but was a fairly good passer at
appearing some what educated, a good student. After
they'd dated a few months, she'd begun the practice of
aping back to Jim the ideas and words she had picked
up from their conversations. This both pleased and
aggravated Jim. With her strange ways she seemed
to him as if she were from another planet.

She was of either German or Polish descent and very
much looked the part of either race. Thick blond
hair halfway down her back but often worn pulled up
into an unusally tight bun atop her head causing a vein
to bulge at her temple; blue eyes, but just a little too
close together; healthy, but pale complexion, small
breasts, good teeth, a swimmers build, and petite but
with a fierce combativeness about her personality
coupled with a very alluring seductiveness. Sometimes
Jim felt as if he was dating a facimilie of his own Mother,
or perhaps worse still, a Vampire.

And as their relationship did progress another side of
her had begun to appear to Jim. It was the small things
that gave her away, the white lies, the suspicious
behavior, the constant ringing of her cellphone, her name
and telephone number on a bathroom wall. And these
ominous signs had the cumulative effect of making Jim
nervous and uneasy and so he bought a pistol. 'Just in
case' he told himself. "You can't be too careful."

One night while Jim slept she did lift off his star of david
from around his neck and re-fashioned it into a crucifix
using a ball peen hammer and a bic lighter. And then
Jim knew: 'she was a welder'. But Jim didn't care because
this only made him want her more.

On some nights Jim waited for the inevitable sound of
jack boots on the stairs and the hard rapping at the door.
By now he had begun his custom of sleeping with one eye
open with his revolver nearby, especially when he slept
over at her apartment. Something out of an Edgar Allen
Poe novel.

On Jim's birthday she did prepare for him his favorite
dish: Chicken Himmler. And afterwards, a cake followed,
with something written in German upon it: Arbeit Macht
Frei. She presented him with a wallet, which to Jim,
appeared to be made of some strange material he
wasn't familiar with. Everything about her was strange.

They drank a bottle of champange and Jim told her how
beautiful her legs looked in her short shorts. He reached
over and touched one and she batted his hand away laughing.
Jim secretly began plotting on how he was going to get her
to remove the short shorts. They drank another bottle of
champagne. And when she went to the restroom Jim
did eventually mossy over to the couch and relax and
reminded himself what a lucky man was he. Fer sure.

A switch by now had sounded off signaling to Jim that a
certain portion of his brain had shut down. A state of tupor
set in, bordering on rigor mortis. A birthday party to remember
he muttered to no one in particular and thought to himself
some more about any and everything and then just stared at
the picture of Hitler hanging on the wall.

[note to author: could the above paragraph been any more con-
voluted?]


And when there did come the sound of jack boots in the
hallway and a hard rapping at the door, and to no one's
surprize, Jim did pass out upon the living room floor.