Rebar for Tootsie Rolls: Chapter .44 Magnum - Where Kittens Dare

Through the gunsmoke, seawater, sweat and diesel, I worked my way forward in Unterseeboot-143 , picking off sea-Krauts with the old Swiss Guard crossbow, pulling the arrows out of the bodies and shooting again, while Dardenella in the mink bikini continued to distract the Japanese military delegation with a hula dance in the 10 by 6 foot wardroom. Normally, the mere sight of Dardenella, a woman so beautiful she'd had to take out restraining orders against several woodland creatures, in a mink bikini would have induced men to buy her a car. When she started singing "Stardust," two of these clowns had a coronary.

The gamble of lighting a giant swastika on fire on the volcanic island had paid off, attracting the submarine to us like a bedbound grandfather to a cherry-flavored menengitis lozenge.

Down the long gray corridor lined with bananas, the door to Captain Jerry Von Bosch's tiny steel cabin appeared. I kicked it in with democractic enthusiasm, and rifled through the Nazi Commander's linens. Judging by its contents, he seemed to have a girl in every port, or I was begining to hope to that he did. Where was the log? Where was the codebook? Where was the extra secret secrety thingy that the engineered gurgled out of his throat after I winged him with a razor bolt? I took a second to deliberately drop cigar ash on El Kapitan's paisley bunk cushions. I tried to think. The magic 3-d picture of Hitler than turned into Errol Flynn from a different angle began to get on my nerves, and I took a sip from the first bottle I could find, which unfortunately turned out to be stale milk kept I think deliberately in a whiskey bottle for just such a contingency.

"AH HA! Halt! You Amerikanzer Pig!" Surprised, I spit the turned milk on Hitler. Or Errol Flynn, from his side of the room, which was no more than three feet away.

El Kapitan, short, blond and so pink he could play a baby rat in the school play, was back, with an ugly looking burp gun that could shoot 30 ballerinas a second and a trigger finger so itchy he actually carried a bottle of Calamine lotion in a holster. His eyes were so steely you could sharpen scissors with them, and with that fascist gaze on me with my hand in his linen drawer, I could see that this was no time to try to sell him an insurance policy.

"I will show you how weak your pathetic Amerikan wool suit is!"

He squeezed: the blast of bullets flew - 10, 20, 30, 50 rounds. In that tiny room it was louder than than stepping on a cat who'd swallowed an air raid siren. Then he reloaded.

"Next time, I shall be considerably more careful with my aim! And you will learn the futility of resistance and worsted wool sportsjackets with a mere three buttons."

I'd heard of fashion Nazis before.

"Prepare to die a quick and unstylish death with no trace of panache!"

It was a fair bet that I wasn't going to survive yet another 50 round clip blast of 9mm in a 24 square foot metal space. I had less time to think than Marie Antoinette after her head hit the basket.

Which is exactly the last thought Klaus Oppressenheimer had as the pirate snipped off his head with a cutlass as neatly as girl deals with a prom-night nose pimple. Pirate?!

"Arr! That'll barnacle-blasted bilge-bat's polished his last jack-boot!"

My mouth was filled with the tangy taste of profound surprise as well as sour milk.

"I need a drink, Mack. Got any rum?"

"The name's Captain Jules Rougier. What kind of two-eyed pegless lubber d'ye take me for?" He tossed me a tot in a leather jug, yet I had clearly rattled his beard beads.

"Thanks, no offense. Nice work on taking out Herr Dusseldorf there, but we need to get to the control room." I showed my appreciation with a nice crossbow shot to a marauding squarehead's wrench-wielding hand.

"Arrghhh, your tea, sir," he said, dropping the china and soaking the cucumber sandwiches. I may have been rash.

Running forward over a headless Nazi in a U-Boat with an 18th century pirate with a bloody dripping cutlass back to a girl in furry underwear mesmerizing a clutch of Japanese diplomats made me wish I was back at Mel's trying to get Crumples to front me another Sloe Gin Howitzer so I could think this over. But it was Crumples and his crumply chloral hydrate betrayal that got me here in the first place. When I got back, I'd show that bum what America stands for by smashing his dentures in.

Wait - Pirate, cutlass, headless bodies, Losie the bookie, rumors of some kind of German time changing device that some egghead named Hiesenberg may or may not have been working on. Hard to process it while cranking the crossbow. Maybe I should have picked up the machine gun. It occured to me that someone had gone back in time to place and win bets with Losie - but Einstein had proved that was impossible. There was something, there was something....and that's when I bumped into Dardenella smack in the fuzzy gazongas.

"Arr!" said Captain Jules.