Z

Somebody Please !!! Hurt Me !

(The Red Baron !)

manny marxx

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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 struggling with a need to get even, the not so benign game of golf, the power of his scalpel and, the scars of a traumatic childhood.

His father The Late Baron Wilhelm Mueller von Schockenkraenken was a career Nazi colonel and doctor, rumored to be one of, if not, the Belsen Butchers, whose hanging fate his son now foresees as his own inescapable destiny.

Belonging and yet not belonging, insecure in the American ways, clinging to old country customs, but yet, like most American doctors, intensely caught up in the pastime game of golf, which he treats more like war than sport.

The doctor’s one true passion, one which has endured these many years, here and in the old country, is for 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 her brother, the baron, the disability inflicted by one odious hate-driven swoop of the baron’s sword.

To the care of his cousin and to the correction of his affliction, Dr. Shocker, undaunted by his many major setbacks and few, and far between, minor successes, has devoted a lifetime of experimentations. Dr. Shocker, an electricity aficionado in the Ben Franklin sense, is too, a very inventive man, and he will not give up, for there is here—between Egore Schlepstein and Gunder Shocker—more than blood; there is here, between these 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, last, but not least, there is buxom, Nurse Bruenhilda (Hildie) Braugh, a built like a Deutsche pocket battleship, sexy, blouse-button-popping-three-D-cup nympho.

There is too, the restive spirit of the colonel (the baron), the haunting refrains of Dr. Shocker's past times with his mama, triggered by his watermelon fetish, the goings on at Lenox Hospital and Old Westbury’s Golf Course, the Black funeral procession through Bund-town USA, and lastly the Fourth of July mob-riot scene with Weinstein and his blaring bullhorn, the skinheads on their Harleys, and the confounding coroner’s report.

The year is 1935; the place is somewhere in the mountains of Bavaria, southeastern Germany.

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!” He turns, raises his backside, aims it at the marching-off-to-war colonel and, sends 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” cup 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 a dragon's fire, stands the baron—

Disengaging, 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.