I Ate Hitler's Head

By Stanley Bruce Carter

Sick, sexy, surreal story of a shapeshifting, head-hunting, time-traveling adventuress. A dark fantasy featuring Adolf and Eva, the Red Baron, Al Capone, the Hindenburg, a pirate, a dragon, a Valkyrie, and Highball the dog.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stanley Bruce Carter
• Release date: Apr 13, 2024
• ISBN: 9798223200055

Stanley Bruce Carter

Stan Carter lives in Bellevue, Nebraska. He has been in the newspaper business for nearly 30 years, serving as a reporter, copy editor, columnist, typesetter and paginator at various publications. He is the author of five novels published by Gypsy Shadow: "Petchy Maligula," "The Depraved Dances of Taram Zhod," "The Caskian Scandal," "The Extortions of Stiffani Voydalle" and "Kill My Husband."

Book preview

I Ate Hitler’s Head

By Stanley Bruce Carter

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2024 by Stanley Bruce Carter

CHAPTER ONE

I turned myself into a crack and wormed my way into the Führerbunker, fissuring through nearly ten feet of reinforced concrete. I expected to see Adolf Hitler lying on the floral-print couch in his private quarters with a big hole in the top of his head, his dead hand clutching his Luger, the barrel stuck in his mouth, his blood and brains splattering the gray concrete wall behind him. And Eva Braun would be leaning against him, her death-glazed eyes blue, her lips bluer, a dainty hand clasping her throat, constricted by the cyanide capsule she’d bitten into moments before.

But I must have misjudged the time slot due to clear-era turbulence. The newlyweds were still alive, doing a farewell fuck.

I should have looked away. Wanted to look away. Couldn’t look away. Had to watch Adolf’s solitary nut slapping against Eva’s squirming ass as he plunged his ball-turret gun into her Maginot Line with Blitzkrieg speed, then let out a grunt and scrambled his little sperm-Stukas to dive-bomb her cervix.

As the lovers’ passionate pants slowly subsided, I heard a distant whump! whump!, the sound of Russian mortar fire exploding in the courtyard above. A few sprinkles of plaster fell from the ceiling, pelting Hitler’s bare ass, rousing him from his sexual stupor.

Time to go, he muttered, and extricated himself from Eva’s clutches.

I watched the couple climb back into their clothes and my pulse quickened. I had a perfect vantage point for what was about to happen, since I was hiding inside a picture on the top shelf of a bookcase on the other side of the room.

(A photo of pudgy Ernst Rohm standing in front of the flame-engulfed Reichstag building, smiling from scar to scar, looking sharp in his brown SA uniform, his right arm draped around the shoulder of his buddy Adolf, nattily attired in a trench coat and Homburg.

(A year and a half later, Hitler would catch Rohm in bed with an 18-year-old storm trooper in the Hanselbauer Hotel in Bad Wiessee and pump the lovers full of bullets from an MG42 machine gun in a fit of jealousy.)

As soon as Adolf and Eva were dead I would emerge from the picture frame, change myself back to human form and draw my machete from