“I’m Pretty Good at Reading People, But I Was Wrong Once…”
And that man’s name was Adolph Hitler.
by Denny Stevens
Let me back up, me and my friend, Corben Copeman, had just invented time travel.
Let me back up, me and Corben found my old Dreamcast when we were cleaning out my parents’ attic for beers when we rediscovered probably history’s most underestimated console.
Let me back up, do you remember what games the Dreamcast launched with? Sonic Adventures, Soul Caliber, Power Stone, POWER STONE, guys. It was like a Jackie Chan movie with Dragonball Z powers in the Street Fighter universe. My weiner jumped a little bit just saying that out loud.
I fear I may have backed up too far.
After a marathon session of both Power Stone and Power Stone 2, me and Corben drank, probably 20 or 21 cans of Code Red, so our brains were working super fast and we invented time travel.
Let me back up; during hour five of the marathon we talked about how pissed off we were that we didn’t buy up all the Dreamcast games when they discontinued the system because they were super cheap, but we were so dumb, because were really just kids and felt that if the Dreamcast failed it must have sucked. We threw all our passion and verve behind the PS2.
Our thinking was, stay with me, here, we go back in time, use our future dollars to buy even more already cheap stuff, and then stay up all next weekend with another, even greater marathon playing session.
Long story short, we went, too far. We traveled through time and space ending up in Munich Germany, 1920.
Fortunately, me and Corben were part of German club in High School (go Lions) and were able to figure out that we were in Germany, and it wasn’t the year 2002. Corben started freaking out, hard. Our brains were still all wired up from all the Dew, and we needed to slow it down.
We needed beer.
We didn’t have whatever German money is called. We were in German club, but we weren’t, like, great at it.
Wandering into a pub, me and Corben were going to see if they needed some dishes washed or floors mopped in exchange for the some precious, precious beer to get us back to our own time. Before we could talk to the beer guy, there was this little guy at the end of the bar looking, I don’t know, kind of down. He was trying not to cry while he broke pencils and paintbrushes in half.
I could relate.
Let me back up, I’m something of an unfulfilled artist, myself, with my comic book, Zomborg, never really taking off because I couldn’t get any editors to look at my portfolio at comic conventions. Hollywood, man.
We approached the guy and asked him what was wrong. He confessed that he had been denied entry to art school, again. The poor guy was a victim of style. After WWI there wasn’t a big call for landscapes and buildings in the art community. The guy could draw. Let’s be real about that, but here he was, being crushed by the man. The system wasn’t allowing him to be himself, and he was being forced out by a group of people in control over him.
He was a dreamer, just like me and Clint Slamson, the hero of Zomborg. Marvel said that the market was too saturated by zombies and cyborgs and the Academy of Fine Arts Vienna said that his personal vision wasn’t in vogue. What a bunch of bullshit!
My fire and empathy eventually got him to snap out of breaking all his own tools. He regained his composure, opened up. and offered to buy us a beer.
Over drinks we talked about life, love, and politics, and about how if the government, school, or any system exerting control over the people won’t let the people become who they need to become then those points of authority must be ignored. A man’s first responsibility and loyalty must be to himself. Win your struggle before you throw yours in with everyone else.
I could tell my new friend saw the logic and reason in my words, and he began to regain his composure. He would go his own way. Instead of searching the existing systems for supporters, he’d search the fringes. He’d find the other disenfranchised dreamers looking for something, anything to believe in for his people.
He was going to be okay. He was going to be an artist. I was proud to call him my friend.
Then Corben spilled his beer on the guy’s portfolio.
That’s when things got really loud, scary, and anti-semiticky. Our friend began to talk really fast, emphasizing points with his fist, and he couldn’t keep his hair out of his eyes.
Yup, this guy was probably Hitler.
What happened next happened in fast motion because we had seven German beers, each, and me and Corben were coming off our Dew highs. A think a fight broke out, then shots were fired. I hid behind a table next to Hitler who reached out to me. I was conflicted. Yes, this was Hitler, but maybe he became Hitler because no one reached, back, y’know?
So I reached and we grasped each other by the forearm, like Viking princes. He looked my in the eye, smiled, and said, “we need to get out of here. The cops are on their way. Some Jew probably called them.”
That’s when I realized two things, A.) some people are just dickheads. There’s no changing that. 2.) This was definitely Hitler.
We managed to get away from the cops, but were figuring out what we should do. Find a brilliant scientist to send us back to the present? Stay in the past that we may have helped create, and try to stop Hitler before his mad rise to power?
Then we remembered that the time machine works both ways.
I changed a lot that day. I realized I couldn’t change people. You can’t save everyone.
Second I learned that just because we have technology, doesn’t give us the moral right to use it.
So we destroyed the machine and all our research.
Right after we traveled to 1993 and stabbed the shit out of Ken Kutaragi, the father of the Playstation.
See you guys Wednesday, but before we go, this one’s for Neil,
Posted on November 8, 2010, in Character, History Lessons, Matt Loman and tagged beer, code red, dreamcast, hitler, mountain dew, mountain dew: code red, power stone, sega, sega dreamcast, this was really dumb, time travel. Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.