The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Whatever Gets You Through the Night part 13

By T. MaskedWriter

“They saved Hitler’s cock. And stuffed it in Mengele’s sock.
They saved Hitler’s cock. Now it wants to talk!
Now it’s starting to get hard! I found it in my backyard!
Every night it kills a dog! And now it walks the night in fog.”
—Angry Samoans, “They Saved Hitler’s Cock

Lady Maria Louisa Francesca de San Finzione woke to the sounds of vomiting and gunfire. She’d gone to sleep to escape what sounded like a woman being gang-raped outside and woken to chaos beyond the walls of the shack, unable to get past iron bars to see what was hapepning.

Her head immediately snapped toward the two of David Igazi’s soldiers who’d had their AK-47s trained on her since Great-Grandmama had woken Maria from deep sleep. It was something La Contessa had used her powers to instill in the girl: To fall unconscious if she was taken against her will and remain so until Helena woke her. A precaution against kidnapping. Anyone who took her would find a letter about how to contact Contessa Helena de San Finzione with their demands and anyone who found her in that state to call for their reward. La Contessa would absolutely use The Thing to insure which. Nothing could be gained from harming Maria in that state. And raping her would gain them nothing but more of La Contessa’s wrath. The letter made this plain as well. In all four languages of San Finzione plus Money.

The last thing she remembered before screaming at the men beating Stavro to stop was a bag going over her head before falling into pleasant dreams, so the suggestion did its job. When La Cont… no, she was Great-Grandmama now… when Great-Grandmama woke her, Maria learned that her kidnapping had been to lure La Contessa to Uongo and Igazi’s camp for reasons she didn’t know, but involved La Contessa’s rumored ability to control minds. Maria knew this to be more than rumor. They’d taken everything from her; she didn’t have her watch or phone to know the time and if the guards knew any of the languages Maria spoke, they didn’t respond to her attempts to talk.

Now, she could see through the doorway out of the shack that had been converted into a prison cell that it was dark. And she could hear growing commotion outside. Her guards seemed content to remain at their post with their guns trained on her, ready to pull the triggers on David Igazi’s order.

She huffed with the frustration of a princess awaiting rescue, because that’s what she was. The frustration turned to shock when, over the panic, confusion, and gunfire getting louder, she thought she’d heard Igazi’s voice shout “KILL THE,” followed by two shotgun blasts.

Like her great-grandfather during The War, the Royal Bloodline was entirely down to Maria to one day rebuild. The guards hadn’t heard the call over the shotgun blasts, but the sound of running footsteps told her that she wasn’t going to do it. Great-Grandmama could carry on the Royal Line, but the last blood heir to the throne was about to die a captive princess. Only the knowledge that these were likely her final moments prevented Maria from laughing out loud.

The door opened. The bald Englishman entered.

“Oi, wankers!” Maria heard in the voice of the bald Englishman who’d brought her food and asked how she was doing earlier. She tried to ask him questions, but all he’d said was that it wasn’t a good time. He’d seemed like a nice man, despite his appearance. Was he going to be the one who executed her? She’d figured the two men with the assault rifles would have the honor.

The Englishman pointed his large revolver at one of the two men. His call caused them to turn away from Maria and look at him. That gave the Englishman the half-second he needed to put a .44-round through each of their heads. Her squeal of surprise rather than delight was muted by the gunfire.

“Sorry I didn’t have time to warn ya to look away, Your Princessness.” Nigel Mander said as he stepped over to the guards’ bodies and fished for the key to Maria’s cell.

“What is happening?” She asked Mander, though she didn’t know his name yet, so he was still The Englishman to her.

“Well, it’s like this, Princessness.” Mander explained as he unlocked her cell. “I got lofty goals, me. The kind a kid from the East End ain’t ever gonna get by puttin’ on a suit and kissin’ arse up the corporate ladder.” He opened the door and let Maria out as he began searching the guards again for a phone. He’d HAD La Contessa’s satellite phone until she used her power to convince him to give it back. He’d planned to find a way to slip the phone to her so she could call the cavalry before she did so. Now he needed a second one with which to call the first to plead for his life. “I knew how to do bad things, so that’s the way I’ve gone about it.”

Mander motioned for Maria to stay where she was as he hid in a shadow. He knew that if he was seen from outside, the soldiers invading the compound would shoot him in an instant. He continued as he found a phone in one of the corpses’ pockets.

“And I’ve done plenty OF those bad things, but none of ’em ever involved hurting innocent girls until I signed on with these rotten tossers. I’ve wanted out for a while now.” He patted the jacket pocket with the letter. “Her Countessness gave me some words to think on and I’ve decided to take that ‘smart choice’ she’s offered. You probably ain’t seen me passing cigarettes round all day. I noticed the holes, figured she had a plan; decided to help.”

Maria looked out the door. Now that the Stealth part of her rescue was over, the Ultimados were in open combat with Igazi’s remaining men outside.

“I can go out there.” Maria told the Englishman. “I will tell them that you helped me.”

“I’d greatly appreciate that gesture, Princessness.” Mander said with a smile, producing the crumpled piece of stationary he’d been re-reading in secret every chance he got. He dialed the number. “If you’d just give me half a tick to talk to yer Gram and ask to not get shot, that’d be lovely.”

“Hello?” Came La Contessa’s voice on the other end, obviously only answering the call out of shock and reflex.

“Is this Contessa Helena de San Finzione?” Mander asked, motioning for Maria to step out first, as he could hear her voice from outside the shack at this distance.

“Yes.” A stunned Helen replied.

Mander realized that she’d have heard the gunshots and might assume that Maria was already dead. He gestured to her that it was probably a safe moment to emerge.

“We’ve not been properly introduced. My name is Mander. I got your letter. I’ve always wanted an island.”

After Maria was clearly visible in the moonlight, he tossed his gun and the phone out the door, then put his hands up and stepped forward.

* * *

Because Jerry Scott was demonstrably guilty of “Being Willing Party to Conspiracy to Commit a Direct Crime Against La Contessa Herself;” he and all co-conspirators had voluntarily declared themselves Enemies of San Finzione and forfeited all of her legal protections. His suicide and last words, combined with what they’d gathered to this point, amounted to a Confession of Guilt. No warrant would be needed for La Policia to blow the hinges off the front door of Jerry Scott’s single-bedroom house and start going through his life. Having secured the perimeter, Prefect Martin LeGrasse had been awaiting Generalissimo Ramirez and D.I. Allaine’s arrival to give the go order. The three of them stood behind his car for cover.

“Proceed with caution, Prefect.” Luc suggested. He nodded confirmation. “Scott was willing to die to evade capture. That worst-case scenario aside, fanatics like him tend to be obsessed survivalists. Dreaming of a race war that will allow them to live out their Rambo fantasies and that their guns will somehow save them from drones, tanks, and helicopters. That everyone thinks they’re fools drives their persecution complex and fuels the fantasy of ‘the government is coming for my guns any second!’ They believe themselves capable of winning that scenario; fantasized for years of the day They TRY to pry HIS guns from his cold, dead fingers! Lethal boobytraps are a very real concern.”

LeGrasse confirmed his understanding and gave the Go order. Once SWAT entered, K-9 units followed to sniff for traps or bombs. The gathered neighbors outside the barricades jumped as one, then another, then a third shotgun blast blew off the hinges and the door fell open. SWAT cleared the living room; bomb squad on standby in case they were needed. Luc gave a cigarette to Ramirez since they had time. He offered one to LeGrasse, who politely refused.

“Where are your people, Luc?” Ramirez asked as they waited to be told it was safe to enter.

“The studio.” Luc replied. “We found one plant; Dietz could have more. The time for subtlety is over. This is now a manhunt.”

“Scott wasn’t a plant, though. He already worked for the studio back in America.”

“Oui, the wrong word to use. ‘Inside Man,’ then. Scott kept his beliefs suppressed, he probably sought out the company of fellow closet racists; people he can hang out with after work and freely discuss hating those who are different. Some of them may have relocated to San Finzione as well; and it’s no fun keeping all your hate to yourself.”

Ramirez nodded agreement as he took a drag. He moved in closer to the other two before commenting. LeGrasse stood and took in their words.

“Like before,” Hernando said. “Too many people for La Contessa to screen each one. People like Scott wouldn’t have gone through the same extreme vetting as executives and those likely to interact personally with her. Si, some poker buddies may have also slipped past the process.”

“Oui. Now, imagine you’re Scott. A stranger in a strange land where your beliefs are a bubbling cauldron that you’re forced to keep a lid on whenever you leave the house. So, you overhear a co-worker muttering something racist. You get a quiet moment with them and in your own subtly racist way, sympathize with their plight. Maybe you’ve got a tale of when one of ‘them’ thought they were as good as you just like what happened to that person. Now you’ve got someone you can TALK to about these things! You end up doing something after work. Playing poker like you suggest. Golf, fishing; something ‘just you and the guys,’ where the big guns can come out. So, you upgrade to blatant slurs and everyone laughs. Now you have found a tribe!”

“Oui.” LeGrasse agreed. “From there, it’s only a couple more beers to go from ‘someone should DO something about them’ to ‘WE should do something about them.’ One or two more from there to ‘Enough talk! LET’S go do something about them!’”

Ramirez had told him before they met that this was how Luc thought. LeGrasse concluded.

“Only two outcomes from there: Go commit a hate crime or, preferably, keep talking about it and drinking until you’re too drunk to do it.”

“Oui.” Luc agreed. “Reality hits, they remember that they’re no longer in America and Sheriff Bubba will not be there to write it off as ‘boys will be boys;’ so, it is just drunk talk. Now, remember, you are still Jerry Scott in this example. Those little drunk talk almost-hate crimes are the only almost-outlet you have. In fact, it’s probably you who convinces the others to stay here and continue drinking. Because if you’re this enthused about it, it’s probably a bad idea. The three of us already have some thoughts on what we’ll find in there: Nazi memorabilia, swastikas, propaganda from white power groups. More than likely, a lot of guns. If he was a reader, the subjects will not be difficult to imagine; we won’t find any Shakespeare. Now, imagine that out of the blue, Heinrich Dietz or someone representing him reaches out to you! He has some killing to do in San Finzione, and you’ve been reading his name online and in chat groups for so long that he’s one of your Nazi heroes! And he’s coming to YOUR city? You’ll finally get to be party to a REAL hate crime; a murder, no less! So, the next time you’re all drinking and playing poker, and the same old ‘we should go beat up a minority whom we outnumber’ conversation comes up …”

LeGrasse got it.

“Now, not only are you living your fantasy, but you get to brag to ‘the guys’ that you’re friends with a famous Nazi killer. They just TALK about wanting to kill Jews and you’re DOING something about it! How do you NOT shoot your drunken mouth off to the guys? How do you NOT boast about how you know THE Heinrich Dietz? The Ministry of Science has Scott’s phone. Once they crack it, there should be a few other names I’ll be wanting to speak to.”

Ramirez added a thought.

“How they found Adolf Eichmann.” He answered. “His son bragged to his girlfriend about what a famous Nazi his father was. She told someone.”

They watched as the dogs were brought in. The sounds of a struggle came over the radio and LeGrasse grabbed one and demanded to know what the fuck was happening. All three men drew guns and ran toward the sound of barking dogs inside.

* * *

La Policia found two boobytraps inside the house. Scott had put a spike trap on his bedroom door so that if it wasn’t opened carefully, a board with many long nails hammered into it would drop down and hit whomever opened it in the face and upper body. One of the basement steps had also been replaced with balsa wood. If anyone put their weight on it, the stair would collapse and drop them onto bare rebar and shards of broken glass below. A rottweiler with a scar across its throat silently attacked a SWAT officer when they reached the basement. Animal Control took the dog and paramedics on the scene treated the officer’s wounds and the situation was over before they made it from the Policia barricade into the house. They’d stopped and put their weapons away now that they weren’t needed.

“The dog didn’t bark before attacking.” LeGrasse commented as they now stood on the porch. “The barking was all our own dogs.”

“No. And he never will.” Ramirez answered. “A heartless trick that I sadly encountered more than once on operations for El Squadra. Drug cartels, warlords, the particularly vicious and paranoid; they will sever the vocal cords of attack dogs so that they no longer bark and alert intruders. By the time someone hears the dogs coming, they’re already upon that person and the screams do the job of alerting you.”

“Sounds like the tactic of a Nazi.” Was Luc’s only response. LeGrasse shook his head and had none.

The three men entered the living room, finding it neat and tidy.

“I expected more of a mess.” Ramirez remarked.

“Not this room.” Luc replied. “This is where he’d receive any ‘ordinary’ guests. Where he did things that the neighbors might see.”

“And ‘what would the neighbors think’ ALWAYS matters!” LeGrasse added.

“Oui. It’s fortunate that he had no wife or children; their lives would have been hell. The hints at his character are subtle here. A copy of ‘Triumph of the Will’ in the DVD rack, appropriated Celtic/Viking runes. Bet he wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference.” He walked over to a rack of CDs and pulled one out to show the others. “Only the most well-known racist of American artists, as I expected. This.” Luc picked up a copy of a publication called “14 88” with a space between the two numbers to make it clear that they were separate numbers rather than “1488.” “The bedroom trap most likely functioned as a security blanket or night light while he slept. Still worth checking. However, the basement, I imagine, will be more revealing. He had a trap and a dog on it, he must have something down there.”

“Fourteen. Eighty-eight.” Ramirez muttered, listening but also studying the magazine’s title.

“’14’ refers to ’14 Words.’” Luc explained. “A popular Nazi screed. H is the eighth letter of the alphabet, so ‘88’ is Nazi code for HH: Heil Hitler. They cracked the Enigma code because Nazis so often ended their commniques with an HH.”

“My money,” LeGrasse added. “Is on the basement being a weapons cache. If he didn’t bring his own guns from America, he’d have found a way to get some here. Not as easy as in America, but this is the country that armed the populace for war with surrendered Nazi guns. They’re not illegal, we simply have well-reasoned restrictions. Thinking on your earlier comments about drunken poker buddies, Generalissimo, perhaps one of them stays late drinking after the others have gone. It’s just the two of you drinking and hating, probably slurring out how you two could still go vandalize a synagogue, but being too drunk to do more than…” He slipped into a slurring drunk American accent. “Shaaay, you sheem cool. Wanna shee my gunsh in the bashement? Watch thoshe shteps.” He dropped the tone. “And that’s when you show him ‘With this stuff, we could really teach them a lesson!’ By then, you’re too drunk to make it back up the stairs you’ve boobytrapped, so you spend the rest of the night playing with the guns and thinking ‘Maybe someday.’”

They agreed. LeGrasse looked over at the television.

“Some violent video games over there.”

“Which tells us nothing.” Luc replied. “Though the media would have us believe so, it is a cherry-picked argument. Many people enjoy violent video games; I am one of them. And no real people whom I have ever shot were not shooting at me first. Our generation grew up on Bugs Bunny and the Road Runner, and I’m willing to bet that neither of you know someone who was killed by pre-meditated falling anvil either. The last ‘Grand Theft Auto’ game sold 90 million copies. If video games caused people to be violent, the whole planet should be dead now. Entertainment is always a convenient scapegoat because no one seriously defends it and it gives parents something to blame besides their own parenting. In the 1950s, it was comic books. In the 1960s-80s, music and cartoons made children turn bad rather than poor parenting. Now it is video games.”

Luc shook his head.

“It is a distraction.” He told the two men. “And it is working. The basement will be the real find, and that’s where we should be going.”

* * *

The rigged step down to Jerry Scott’s basement was marked with crime scene tape. The three stepped over it and made their way down to the room lit by a single bare bulb.

Tool racks lined two of the walls with outlines of where tools were to be returned after use. A welding torch and acetylene tank stood in a corner, the mask hanging from it. A long workbench dominated a third. Bomb Squad technicians were going over Scott’s unfinished projects on the bench to see if anything could be learned from what he’d been working on. A spiked dog collar on the floor at the bottom of the stairs with drying blood around it was attached to a chain that reached down a short hallway to a red door that had been opened by SWAT; who’d confirmed that the weapon stockpile was in that room.

It was the décor of that wall that caught their attention the most. The left side of the doorway bore the Nazi flag they’d all expected. Other decorations on both sides of that wall were reproductions of German propaganda posters from the same period. Several were portraits of Hitler painted into historical scenes common to those posters. One had his face peeking out of a suit of armor on a white horse with its front legs kicking up; a knight going into battle. Another showed him as a proud Viking warrior, complete with the horns that Vikings didn’t wear until Wagner glued them onto some helmets.

The hall to the red door was lined with similar posters depicting the President of the United States also painted into famous patriotic American scenes. At the terminus of the chain, where it was bolted to the wall by the door, food and water dishes sat.

“One might think this is some kind of torture room.” LeGrasse commented. “If Scott hadn’t worked in maintenance. You were right about the basement being more telling, Luc.”

Luc gave a tiny smile as Ramirez offered his thoughts, looking over at the trap that would have awaited whoever stepped into it if they hadn’t spotted the slightly differently colored step.

“The dog chain only goes to the bottom of the stairs.” He observed. “If you’re unwilling to shoot a dog, your only option is to retreat back up the stairs. In your struggles to get away, you’re thinking about the vicious animal in front of you rather than the trap you passed a moment ago and are backing into.”

Luc’s main interest seemed to be Scott’s choice of wall decorations. He stood at the base of the stairs, where he could see down the hallway, and studied it.

“I presume the gun room is behind that red door?” Luc asked. LeGrasse nodded and he turned his attention back to the hall. “Scott fancied himself something of a decorator. A telling motif, don’t you think?”

Ramirez stood next to him and tried to see what Luc was seeing. He looked down the hall at the posters lining it.

“Nazis tend to regard him as the Second Coming of Hitler.” Hernando mused.

“Oui.” Luc answered. “A deliberate aesthetic choice.” He gestured to the WWII images on the wall in front of them. “Here is the past.” He then gestured into the posters along the hallway. “And down this hallway is the present, leading us to…”

“A big dog?” Hernando asked. The three men chuckled before he answered seriously. “Safeguarding the future behind the red door.”

“Oui.” Luc replied. “Most of this room doesn’t tell us much right as we enter. We know Scott worked in maintenance; a full workshop in the basement is to be expected. We know he was, as you said upstairs, ‘sufficiently vicious and paranoid’ to plant traps in his home and do such things to an animal. We know that he built things in his home. He was probably the one who retooled the van. Or they borrowed his workshop. He’d have been too busy at work to show them how to hide their compartments better.” He turned to one of the technicians and asked, “Has a safe been found?”

“Yes, Detective Inspector.” The Bomb Squad tech replied. “In that room.” He pointed down the hall.

“I see. Has it been checked for traps and opened?”

The man nodded his head affirmatively.

“It was wired, sir.” The technician replied. “With a kilo of C-4. We took care of it. We found more in it. It’s clear for your inspection.”

“Rule of three?” Hernando asked. Luc nodded. He turned to LeGrasse to explain. “He had the false step trap in this room and the dog in the hall. There was almost certainly a third trap on the safe. There may be more in the bedroom, but likely not. That door trap on the bedroom would only get the first person who tried to enter; give him enough warning to pull out a gun kept at hand. These are people to whom guns matter more than lives, you will at least find a large pistol or shotgun in the bedroom. Probably more hidden around the house.”

The three proceeded to the red door.

* * *

Beyond the door, they found what Luc was anticipating. More valuable Nazi memorabilia than was kept in the workroom sat in display cases along three walls. Luc frowned at an empty container of Zyklon-B on one of the shelves.

On the fourth wall was what all of them anticipated. Guns of various ages and models dating back to the War. Organized like the tools in the other room to show where they’re to be put back. LeGrasse noticed that half the outlines were missing.

“No other guns have been found yet?” Luc asked as he studied the outlines of the missing weapons. LeGrassse confirmed Hernando’s statement that other guns were being found stashed around the house. When Luc got down to the pistols, he laughed and pointed at it.

“Browning HP.” LeGrasse smiled in agreement. He explained to Ramirez. “When the Nazis invaded France, they graciously allowed the workers at the Browning factory to keep their jobs, but now make guns for Germany. La Resistance sabotaged so much of their own work that a War-era Browning with German markings; especially Nazi ones, is more likely to kill the shooter than whomever they’re shooting at. Someone took one. It probably had a neat Swastika on it. There’s at least one whom we won’t have to worry about if it comes down to a shootout.”

“Someone?” Ramirez asked. “Scott didn’t take them himself?”

Luc faced him.

“If Scott had taken any these guns off the rack for himself, our encounter at the studio would have gone differently. His first reaction upon seeing you was to run. If he’d had the ability to take a hostage or make a stand, he’d have done so. Cyanide is one thing; going down guns blazing, heiling Hitler is another. No, recall what I said earlier. Dietz was a hero in his eyes.” He gestured over to a photo of Dietz printed from the internet. “His hero’s come to town with some killing to be done, and it was hard enough for Dietz to smuggle himself and his team into San Finzione, let alone bring weapons. He’d HAVE to acquire them here!”

“So, he turns to loyal fan Jerry Scott. Who’s only happy to donate some to The Cause.” LeGrasse concluded.

Ramirez looked at the outlines to try and see if he could recognize the guns that had been removed from the walls.

“Sturmgewehr 44.” He told them. “Considered the first real assault rifle. They were only issued to SS officers in the paratroops. An old widow turned one in at a gun buyback. A collector spotted it for what it was, returned it to her, and told her that the only way her husband could have brought one home would have been if he’d killed an officer and taken it off the body himself. And that it was worth at least thirty-thousand American dollars.”

“Yes, some historic pieces.” Luc agreed. “But if Dietz came here to arm himself and his men, he only took a few of the vintage weapons and went for the more modern.” Luc pointed out the outline of a Luger Parabellum P08. “The murder weapon was a Luger, no?” LeGrasse confirmed Forensics’ findings. “And note the distinctive shape of an Uzi also missing.”

“That’s where Scott’s sense of irony ended.” LeGrasse offered, pointing at it. “Israeli weapon; Uziel Gai was Jewish.”

Luc nodded agreement, then turned his attention to the large floor safe that had been left ajar for him.

“We now know that Dietz is not just armed, he’s as well-equipped as he could get. And then there’s this.” He bent down and opened the safe the rest of the way. His eyes widened at what he saw. He dragged the large wooden box with American military markings out by one of the two ropes that flanked either side and opened it.

“That is what the bomb tech said would be there, correct?” LeGrasse asked.

“Oui.” Luc replied. “It says so on the box. He neglected to tell us that most of the contents were missing.”

“Those come in boxes of twenty-seven,” Ramirez informed the two. “The bottom layer is full, that’s nine. Three on top of the nine for a total of twelve. One on the safe leaves fourteen unaccounted for!”

“He HAS to have had it smuggled!” Luc said as he stood. “The box may not have been full when he acquired it. We know he used one on the safe itself. Maybe traded a block or two for something like the Sturmgewehr. Whether he gave Dietz any or not; and we have no reason to assume he didn’t part with at least some of his, what’s left is enough to destroy a good portion of the block. We’ve only found the one detonator, but Scott could easily have made more!”

The three of them stared down at the wooden crate.

“Non.” LeGrasse agreed. “San Finzione has not experienced a bombing campaign since the War. And then it was our own, against Schell. Now, we are a Tourist Nation. Except for the Nessuno Family, almost everyone is an innocent victim waiting to happen!”

“And now Dietz may have enough to start one.” Ramirez said, taking out his phone and getting no signal in the underground room. “I must alert La Contessa at once!”

Luc closed the box and they followed him to find a signal. Because they knew what they’d find, but the label on the box meant that all three men had important calls to make. Leaving the room with the partial box that read “C-4, 27 Kilos.”