Note: This is a fiction.
And so there was the Nazi Puncher: stuck in an ornate old castle with a raging storm outside, strapped to a steel slab, a giant laser-spike looming over his head. Were his days numbered? If so, was the number one? Or was it LESS?
“You’re probably re-examining your whole life, aren’t you, Nazi Puncher?” said his captor, a hulking figure dressed in a suit of armor and a velvet cape. “You’re probably ruing the day you crossed swords with WOLFGANG, THE DARING BARON.” On this cue, lightning flashed and thunder cracked, and it lit up the room for a short moment. In this instant, the Baron got a good look at the Nazi Puncher’s face. And he saw:
“Defiant to the end, I see!” the Baron shouted and lifted his sword high for emphasis. “It matters not! For very soon I will have the pleasure of bringing this deadly LASER SPIKE down through your forehead! Have you nothing to say for yourself in this, your last moment of life!”
The sound of the Nazi Puncher’s breathing filled the room. It was slow and deep, and it told of a barely controlled rage that was building inside of him. Finally, he said:
“You make me so angry.”
“Oh, is that so?” said the Baron, smugly, “And is that…”
“SO ANGRY.” The Nazi Puncher quivered with rage. “SO VERY ANGRY.”
“Haha, you make a disgraceful spectacle of yourself,” said the Baron, though his voice cracked a bit when saying this.
“People like you just make me want to vomit,” continued the Nazi Puncher, “You’re never satisfied to ruin your own life with hate, but you have to corrupt the rest of us with your own weakness of spirit.”
“Oh come now, don’t be so dramatic.” Baron Wolfgang chuckled half-heartedly. But just then, something crashed through the window, and landed in a chorus of snaps and taps.
“Who’s there?” demanded the Baron, and the snapping-tapping moved towards him. “Identify yourself, trespasser! You have invaded the home of the great Baron Wolfgang von Hauser, and you will surely meet your doom as punishment.” Suddenly, the baron’s sword was no longer in hand. “What!”
“Up yours,” said a new voice, and it was follow by a new cacophany of snaps, taps, claps, snips, and cartoonish German-accented screams. Finally, a light came on. On the floor was the half-dead body of Baron von Hauser. Standing next to the light switch was a hunched and reddish man who had very unusual hands – pincers actually. He used them to cut away the Nazi Puncher’s restraints.
“Thanks for the help, Crabman. You’re one in a million,” said the Nazi Puncher.
“No problem,” replied Crabman, who promptly skittered away.