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They say I am dead. That I will never haunt the world again. That I shot myself in a bunker in Germany sixty years ago. What they don’t know is that I had a long-hidden twin brother who actually was the one who died, and that I learned the secrets of eating right and exercising. I have lived to see the ripe old age of 120. They also don’t know where I’ve been hiding, the one place no one has thought to look: Sentinel Island. From the smallest of the Andaman Islands, I shall attempt my comeback.
For years, I thought I was off to a good start. I smacked these foolish islanders into a steely, unforgiving discipline. I have trained them to make unmotivated attacks on all outsiders. And though they have never met a Jew or Frenchman, they assure me that if they ever do, they will growl menacingly.
But despite the inroads I’ve made with these people over the last sixty years, I have a long way to go to convince them to invade Poland.
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With the island’s population at only around 125 people, I always knew that conquering the world from this base of operations would be difficult. But I was confident that we could overcome the odds with superior technology. Tragically, our Andamanzer prototype battletank met with an untimely end, when pandas came and ate the bamboo supporting its turret. I don’t even know what pandas were doing here, since they are not an endemic species.
My attempts to create a new Luftwaffe ended with a similar disappointment. Teams of five islanders would assemble, and the four on the outside would heave aloft the man in the center. Once airborne, the plan was, he would use his wings to flap to great heights, from which he would drop coconuts and fronds on the startled and doomed enemy. But it turns out that four islanders do not have the combined thrust of a Messerschmidt engine. Most of the experiments resulted in embarassingly-short flights and skid burns, and pandas ate our remaining bamboo wings.
Seeing the failure of technology, I wrote many books in the style of Mein Kampf, hoping that stirring propaganda would instill in these people a desire for world supremacy. Perhaps I could replace technological superiority with righteous fervor. But there were several problems with this. Firstly, that they are non-Aryan. Secondly, that they cannot read. Thirdly, that, to them, Sentinel Island is the world, and they already dominate it. And lastly, that pandas ate my manuscripts.
I tried to fan the flames of their anger and resentment by installing some as S.S. officers and making others wear identifying marks, but this proved impossible as they do not wear clothes to modify with patches. I have been told that clothes were attempted in the past, but mysterious four-legged monsters descended from higher altitudes to eat them. Worse still, the S.S. officers refused to greet their inferiors with loudly-barked orders, but instead continued partaking in the traditional Sentinelese greeting-fuck.
Now frustrated and short of ideas, I have hatched one last ploy. I planned to create a camp to inter the weaker islanders, to set them apart as an example, and motivate the remaining few by fear alone. But I am dubious about this plan’s odds of success, because of the sudden disappearance of the camp’s bamboo guard towers. I probably don’t need to tell you what happened to those.
So now, as my empire’s strength wanes, as the hour grows more and more desperate, I feel we must turn our wrath and fury against the real enemy here…
…the pandas.
