Somebody Please!!! Hurt Me!
(The Red Baron!)
by
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The year is 1935; the place is somewhere in the mountains of Bavaria, southeastern Germany. A full moon baits a ruttish wolfhound to howling for a mate. Amid a background of simulated lightning...artillery fire beyond the horizon...a castle, the von Schockenkraenken Castle, is seen perched atop a lofty mountain. A proud imposing figure...the Baron von Schockenkraenken...wearing an emblazoned swastika armband, and in the uniform of a Nazi colonel, stomps off down a winding mountain road that leads from the castle’s drawbridge, over a moat, twists and turns down toward the valley and beyond. Mimicking the colonel's ramrod strut, himself, looking more like a twisted leprechaun than a man...the Baron’s bastardized, nephew, Egore the hunchback, trails far behind his uncle. Having had enough, Egore stops to reflect on what would be a fitting military sendoff for this so pontifically military man..."Of course! A trumpeting salute!" And he turns, raises his backside, aims it at the marching-off-to-war colonel and, sending up such a flatulent salvo of wind, to his departing uncle, that it propels his own twisted little frame putt-putt-puttering up the hill back all the way to the castle. Later that evening, the baroness, in her quarters at the top of the castle’s west tower, sadly gives a last wave, withdraws from her window and the fading view of her colonel-husband. With a whirl, she tosses away her hanky, kicks off her slippers, unfurls her golden locks to the floor and, with her weighty bosoms overflowing their triple "D" watermelon-green bra, like a merry-widow, she begins humming a gay Bavarian-Gypsy tune and off dancing about her boudoir, undressing and preparing for bath, bed and new dreams. Through a crack, behind her partially open door, an eye, flashing delight, peers into the room. It’s the eye...the only good eye...of nephew Egore. Not nine months pass when...with chambermaids giggling, and the delivering doctor popping his monocle...the baroness opens her eyes to gaze upon the wondrous sight of her newborn as, held by his feet, the babe is slapped to life sporting a dangling appendage that, at first glance, looks to be a second umbilical cord.
For ten long years, the unloved baroness...smiling with anticipation...and the castle's chambermaids, still giggling and fending him off...watch as the manhood of this very precocious Boy-Baron Gunder von Schockenkraenken grows, and grows, and grows. Then, on his tenth birthday, in her boudoir, with an incredibly full Harvest moon peeking in on them from her tower window...with bedsprings squeaking, and her mountainous breasts bouncing about in her keep-sake watermelon-green bra...the baroness, full-saddle, like a roughhouse cowboy, is hard-riding the boy-baron when, her bedroom door explodes open, slams the wall and crashes to the floor, and there...back from the war...breathing fire like a dragon, stands the baron... His schlong leading the way, the boy-baron scampers out of the room, down the darkened hall, followed by...from under her bed, left leg dragging, not quite keeping up, sucking hard at his thumb...cousin Egore the voyeur, and, hot after them...medals clanking, wielding before him his knighthood sword and spewing blasphemy...storms the Baron. The voyeur is caught...struck in the head with the first downward swoosh of the baron’s sword and, now over the boy-baron, the sword again rises and swooshes down...The boy-baron twists and spins to escape... And, in the darkness, a wounded puppy yelp echoes through the corridors and off into the night.
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About the Book
A zany comedy about God, sex and guilt, as seen through the eyes of our antihero Dr. Gunder Shocker, alias Gunder Oedipus von Schockenkraenken, a dysfunctional psychotic, first generation German-American and his struggle with: bad genes; a need to get even; the not so benign game of golf; the power of his scalpel; and the scars of a traumatic childhood, tenfold more calamitous than Dorothy’s encounters on her yellow brick road to Oz. Our antihero – a captive of the genes of his late father, Herr Baron Wilhelm Mueller von Schockenkraenken, a career Nazi colonel and doctor rumored to be one of, if not, the Belsen Butchers, whose hanging fate his son now sees as his own inescapable destiny – as said, our antihero, Dr. Gunder Shocker, is a man struggling with his German heritage and first-generation-American-itis – belonging and yet not belonging – insecure in the American way, clinging to the ways of the old country, but yet, like most American doctors, intensely caught up in the pastime of golf, which he treats more like war than sport. The doctor’s one true relationship in which he is secure is with his deformed and mentally disabled bastardized Cousin Egore Schlepstein, the deformity a product of a very stressful pregnancy, the stress brought upon his mother by the baron, her brother, the disability inflicted by one angry swoop of the baron’s sword. To the care of his cousin and to the correction of his cousin’s affliction, Dr. Shocker has devoted – undaunted by his small successes and major setbacks – a lifetime of novel experimental approaches – Dr. Shocker, an electricity aficionado in the Ben Franklin sense, is a very inventive man, and he will not give up, for there is here – between Egore Schlepstein and Gunder Shocker – more than a blood-bond; there is here, between these to tormented souls, a symbiotic relationship, one depending on, needing, perhaps at times feeding on, the other. To complete the cast of misfits, and the doctor’s surgical team, there’s – built like a Deutsche pocket battleship – the sexy, buxom, blouse-button-popping nympho, Nurse Bruenhilda (Hildie) Braugh. And then too, there’s the restive spirit of the colonel (the baron), Gunder’s fetishes, the watermelons, his mama, the goings on at Lenox Hospital, Old Westbury’s Golf Course, the Black funeral procession through Bund-town USA, and lastly Weinstein and the Fourth of July mob scene, the skinheads on their Harleys, and the confounding coroner’s reports.
About the Author
Born in Brooklyn, in his teens ventured daily...when not playing hooky at the local cinema...into the Bedford-Stuy ghetto to Brooklyn’s Boys' High; worked nights, weekends and summers at a hundred sweat-shop-peon jobs...from toilet-paper spooler to tugboat deckhand...then served two years with Merchant Marines (US Merchant Marine Academy), a year sailing the seven seas aboard merchant freighters; six years night college at a variety of New York colleges and specialty schools, daytime dabbling in business ventures, then Brooklyn Law and post-grad at NYU Law; opened a one-man-ghetto-storefront law office where he serviced a rainbow array of clientele. Now, semi-retired, he spends his days walking Juno beach, playing tennis and weaving tales from out of the past.