Vee Hate Ze Wiggas

The doorbell rings, my friend Muhammed is standing at the door, looking handsome in his Hugo Boss SS uniform. He adjusts his shirt while standing tall and proud, then salutes me as soon as he sees me.
'What do you want?' I say as I rub the stubble on my chin.

'We have a wigga in custody, sir. Your presence is required immediately, Commander.'

I sigh and ask him to come in. We both remove our uniforms, pack them away neatly into our rucksacks, and make the trek across the ghetto neighbourhood to the warehouse. Once there, we find a quiet spot where we once again don our SS uniforms.

The warehouse was full with about fifty officers, composed of all races and walks of life. In the centre of the space, was a young white male in his early twenties, shaved blond hair and blue eyes. He was tied to a wooden chair with duct tape and gagged.

'Ungag him!' I order.

A couple of officers obediently and hurriedly remove the gag. He begins shouting obscenities, so I whack his leg with my cane to silence him.

'You are disgusting.' I say in my best German accent.

The wigga starts writhing in his chair and shouting, his spit flying across his face. 'This is fucking racism man, you oppress me muthafucka, ain't fucking right man!' He spits at me. I hit his leg again.

'Get the chainsaw!' I order. Joey, who's day job is a tramp, scurries away and returns almost immediately holding the requested tool.

'Zis is I chainsaw.' I cooly said to the wigga, as I point to the machine. 'It is zery usevul vor cutting through human flesh.' The wigga screams, bouncing up and down in his chair. I bash his leg and he becomes quiet. 'Vee vill untie you, but if you do not comply, vee vill slowly remove your limbs, vun by vun...' I pause for dramatic effect, 'Do you understand?' The wigga nods compliantly.

The wigga is untied and I order him to stand up. I continue, 'Vee vill make you a usevul member of society. You vill learn to valk and talk.' An officer draws a chalk line on the floor. 'You vill valk along ze straight line along ze floor, with your back and legs straight. If you fail to do zis, then your legs vill be deemed useless and vee vill cut zem off.' I pause once again for dramatic effect, 'Do you understand?' He nods. 'Begin valking!' I shout.

With all the grace of a supermodel who has toured the world's catwalks, the wigga proceeds carefully along the chalk line. 'Zere gut!' I reply, applauding a dull clap in my tight black leather SS gloves. 'You vill continue to valk zat vay wiv ze grace of Grace Kelly, from now on, or vee vill find you and cut of your legs!'

There is the sound of sobbing from the corner, it is the wigga's dried up and wrinkled crack whore. The sound of a truncheon against flesh and bone abruptly ends the noise.

I dab a hankerchief across my lips. 'Now you vill learn to talk!' I pull out a blade from my pocket, and hold it's gleaming edge into the light filtering down from the glass skylights, 'othervise, vee vill cut...' I make a slashing action with the knife, '...off your lips.' I grin evilly.