K. R. Kroenen had never been the type of sentimentality, empathy, or even romanticism, and for this reason he always found an unpleasant surprise in the post.
He sighed dully through the gas mask and threw the perfumed paper into the wood stove before he sneaked into the chair to read a book. It crunched as he placed his considerable booty on the cushion, maybe it was time again to change the sand.
Dreary, he listened to the record-player on which a record of German shitmanship (“Must I” by Elvis Presley) turned and threw a satisfied look at the shriveled paper in the fireplace.
Suddenly he jumped up and pulled the letter with the metal hand from the fire.
“Damn!” He cooed dully and wiped the sender. He had read correctly: it was a letter from the medical research department of the Thule Society.
This was certainly back on the crap of secretary Ilsa, but what helped to complain about “Ilsa” when every second Nazi-berry was called “Ilsa” in every second Nazifilm? The stupid cow (or several of them, you can never know from Ilsas!) Had already begun some approach attempts and many of the love letters came from her pen. Damn one more, now she was about to wipe him out and let him pay for the ignorance of her love affair.
He read the letter, at least he tried to decipher what the fire had left behind:
“Dear Karlchen,
**** of our company party ******* and I thought ***********
Presentation of you *********** very pleased ********** dissectionshow **********
You can do that well *********** on **************** Welcome Sparkling **********
With friend ***** regards
**** ekretariat Ilsa Pimmel ”
The latter thought of Kroenen, the name of the good Mrs. Dödel was surname, but he and Rasputin had for a long time taken a pleasure in replacing their names with much clearer synonyms for the male sexual organ.
Oh, yes.
Rasputin was already a good buddy, always to have a joke. Perhaps he was also invited to the company party, even if he was strictly speaking not a real member of the company.
Kroenen sat back in the armchair and mused. Actually, he had absolutely no gimmick on the celebration, but as one of the most important members he had to appear well. Sick was a bad thing for an undead, and he felt a bit like a pie.
He decided to go and avoid Ilsa’s company. Tired, he turned back to his book on domestic edible mushrooms and their destiny.
The company’s party was to begin at seven in the evening, and Kroenen threw herself into a shell. Quickly he had slipped into the good uniform designed by Hugo Boss, put on his hat on the turnip, and began to strut.
Rattling his breath in the cool autumn air, and if he had been a living man who had to keep his body temperature at the same level, he would probably have frozen a little.
His rigid eyes searched the dim sky for signs of rain, and he hoped for a small thunderstorm to paint the theatricality of his performance with lightnings and a pile of water.
This did not happen.
There were only a few gentle, brownish autumn leaves blowing over the cobblestone pavement as he strode toward the crowd.
“Karl! How nice that you could still come, we were already scared! “Said some important beard-bearer and handed him a welcome drink.
Kroenen just shrugged his head and poured the sparkling wine into the next planting pot. His employees were used to it, and so no one asked. Also that the drink, probably deliberately, not landed in the plant, but in the section of a certain Ilsa (of which I do not know), no one itched.
From a distance Kroenen heard the rolling R, whose frequency rose effortlessly through the rest of the voice. No, it was not Hitler, of course, but Rararasasin, who had just given a very bad Russian accent to an anecdote of the Czar’s court under Catherine the Great.
“And then, she just chatted the birch pan over the rubbish!” He laughed just now and the round grumbled. “Crime, my Frrrreund!”
Rasputin struck him hard on the shoulder, apparently he had already glowed, for the cheeks of his little cheeks had scarcely turned red.
Kroenen just nodded and moved into the actual party room.
He had to prepare his dissection show and he decided today to make a special disgrace to celebrate the day. The people were always happy when he suddenly burst the bile and the contents spread over the ground in a radius of two meters. Was always a good show.
He had done the whole thing a few times, so he did not need any instructions from the organizer. As usual, the dissecting table was placed next to the show stage, the tools stowed in a small silver case underneath.
Kroenen stood in one of the adjoining rooms on the “Privat”, and his apron and a pair of disposable gloves were gathered together. He paused.
Where was the corpse?
Surely she must have already provided someone, right?
Kroenen rummaged through all the cabinets, shelves, drawers and chests of drawers, drew plans of strange apparatuses, and even looked under his gas mask.
Not to find. The only corpse in this room, he was himself.
Confused, he went out to ask someone and ran into Ilsa. It was the same Ilsa from before, with the wet decolletee.
She blocked the way and leaned lasciviously against the wall.
“Hello Karl … the actual party takes place outside, what are you doing in here?” She purred and ran her finger over her glittering chest.
Kroenen followed the finger, which ran over the delicate skin, which was wet with pear wine.
“Gak,” he said, shrugging his head like a bird. “I’m looking for my body.”
“The dive already …”, said Ilsa and took a step closer. “I was about to move because you were so … clumsily pouring your champagne over the blouse … How naughty of you …”
Her hands now glided over the buttons of her blouse and opened the first two so that her plump stem swung out a bit.
Kroenen’s rigid eyes followed fascinated.
“I have to prepare my dissection show, so I’d rather forgive you until I find my body …”
“Oh … tz tz tz … not my dear Karl … in today’s program there is no disgrace, did not you read my letter?”
Kroenen put his head diagonally.
“Yes, but I’ve only been able to read half, the rest was burnt because I wanted to get rid of the nasty smell of perfume …”
Ilsa threw herself on his chest and breathed on his mask so that he could see nothing.
“Shall I read you again what was there?”
She took a copy of the letter from the bra (apparently she had expected the original to be destroyed) and read:
“Dear Karlchen,
I was asked to invite you to our company party on the fifth of October, and I thought you probably did not like it.
Instead of a boring presentation of you I would be very happy if we move the dissecting show on another time and drive it instead.
I’m sure you can do that well. I’ll be around seven and wait for you. You could pour a drink over the blouse at the welcome drink, and then we’ll move into the storage room.
Best regards
Your admirer from the Secretariat Ilsa Dödel ”
Ilsa grinned broadly and swung a knotted leg around his waist so she could see her suspenders.
“And that’s exactly what you did, so do not pretend you did not read the letter, you sir.”
She licked his mask, then she winked and walked jerking buttocks into the closet.
Kroenen wiped the saber off the expensive mask, so he could see something again. Then he looked quickly to the left and right to make sure that no one watched him and crept Ilsa behind him.
The evening went merrily, and no one wondered where Kroenen and Ilsa had been.
Since Kroenen seldom ate something, because after the food intake always empty the stomach empty had no one missed him at the buffet. The other Ilsas suspected that their mit-Ilsa was once again on a diet and were happy to not have to share their salmon slices with her.
Suddenly, the light went out and the strobolights fired epilepsy-inducing effects on the curtain. The latter fell, and there stood Kroenen in full gear, his head lowered and his arms spread. The crowd gasped.
He loved these performances. Glorious.
“I did not know that there is still a show show today!”, Rasputins Ilsa, who was feeding her gentleman with just a few grapes, was pleased.
Rasputin only clapped enthusiastically and cheered with.
“Such a surprise!” He shouted.
Kroenen waved his arms a few times and the inserted music pulled the tension intolerably into the length. The Ilsas nibbled with their big eyes at their cheese cubes.
Then Kroenen dragged the sheet from the dissecting table and presented the corpse.
“ILSA!” Someone shouted horrified and all the women in the hall looked around in confusion.
“What?” Someone shouted.
“Yes, look! It’s Ilsa Dödel! ”
Kroenen turned the dissecting table into the light with skill and presented the naked Ilsa, surrounded by ready-made knives, saws and other beauties.
“Now it’s really exciting,” said Rasputins Ilsa, the only one left unoccupied and seated on the lap of her master.
Kroenen raised his voice.
“Ilsa has kindly provided me her body, I quote: ‘made available to all imaginable, terrible and passionate’ and so I present the present section to one of our best collaborators!”
The crowd rejoiced again, and there was still a beautiful, wet-happy evening. It was danced, drunk, eaten the pies, pumped out the stomach and eaten more pies, and Kroenen was glad to get rid of one of the Ilsas, and chuckled at the thought of how stupid these brats were to be on a mad, sadistic, undead mass murderer. And he did not even have a penis! Hehe!