I, I will be king

And you, you will be queen

And nothing, nothing will drive them away

We can beat them, just for one day

We can be heroes, just for one day

- David Bowie

Dear Marc,

I write this letter to you with what I believe is my last honest strength, and with a growing uncertainty that this a letter you may not receive. It leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. Hard to swallow. 

Everything feels.... Numb. Murky. Like I'm drowning in a sea of death and memories, the viscous swamp of soiled bodies and fire and cold steel; a cohort of bleating, soulless children marching through the trenches. Singing.

At night, when rains falls through a dim and cold-coloured sky, I can hear a strangled amalgamation of my frustration and regret scratching and clawing at my door. It breathes hoarsely, its monstrous fingers weakly gracing the window in desperation.

Of course, my well-being is not the focus of this letter.

I've created life of my own, you know. Candido Godoi. A small municipality, its population predominantely native Portugese, now gives rise to legions of Aryan twins with the homeland on their tongues.

The blood of great Germans flows through them, seeps through them. It's quite absorbing becoming a God to these little ones, the spawn of science in all their glory.

Within the next fifty years, the twin birth rate will be 1/10.

One in ten. I have, in layman's terms, reached the edge of divinity. I truly have become an angel of death. That's an amazing achievement, a crowning contribution to my legacy.... People will remember me, Marc. It's been 16 years, and the people of Candido Godoi have remembered me still. It's been 34 years, and the people of Deutschland have remembered me still. The people of the world have remembered me still. Alas, they will continue to do so.

Do you remember me?

You see, Marc, I'm writing this letter to you because there's no one else to write it to. You were the only child I never had the ambition to willingly hurt. You weren't like everybody else. You were perfect, Marc.... Even now, I think of you more fondly than I do my own son.

That is why I'm writing this letter. Life, like a road, may drag on, but I fear a dead end is approaching and I'm going too fast to stop. I believe I'll be checking out very soon, and so regard this letter as one last attempt to reach out.

You were a good child, Marc.

And you'll always be mine.

- Uncle Josef.

January 29, 1979

Woah. I seriously haven't published a pasta in a while, but I hope you enjoy this in the time being. I originally wanted to do a short little ditty on the death of Jesus Christ, but I decided to do this.

Anyway, in case you haven't already figured it out, this pasta is about the relationship between infamously insane Nazi doctor Josef Mengele and his servant, 11-year-old orphan Marc Berkowitz. Mengele, ironically known as the 'Angel of Death' for his notoriously appaling procedures he committed, including genetic experimentation (and outright mutilation) on prisoners at the Auschwitz-Birkenau Concentration Camp, formed an emotional bond with Berkowitz from 1942 to the Communist liberation in 1945.

This man, this noteworthy archetype of the mad scientist pastiche, was feared all over the entire world. One could just imagine.... the steam train trundling to a stop, the dominating faux-neoclassicist architecture of the camp buildings rolling towards you, the minds of adult and youth alike clouded in shades of monochrome.... and then they saw him. A young, faintly attractive, dark-haired man of 31, donning a white lab coat, otherwise unremarkable appearance a costume worn by a writhing Eldritch abomination of terror and repulsion. Eyes glazed over with almost Lovecraftian malice, he twists his face into a smile and warmly greets you like the concierge for a slaughterhouse. He is Uncle Mengele - he is Satan's messiah, the vessel for an entity beyond describable words that lives inside him and feeds on him.

I wanted to write this in epistolary form (if not somewhat embellished for a simple letter), to give you something of a slice of Mengele's later life. After WWII he fled to South America; however, the whole thing about Candido Godoi is simply a widely scrutinized. Yes, Mengele was in Brazil in 1963, and yes, Candido Godoi has the highest percentage of twins in the world, and yes, the twins do resemble those brazen and unfaltered Nordic alien-type rugrats imagined in John Wyndham's classic 1955 novel The Midwich Cuckoos (and realized in two separate films called Village of the Damned in 1960 and 1995, respectively). He died on February 7, 1979, in Bertioga, Brazil, after he suffered a stroke while swimming and drowned. He was buried in nearby Embu das Artes under the alias 'Wolfgang Gerhard'; That grave was exhumed in June of 1985 and, in 1992, the corpse known as 'Wolfgang Gerhard' was properly identified as Mengele through DNA analysis and testimony from his son Rolf.


I believe this pasta is turning into an excuse for me to explain everything about my current condition. Setting the story aside for a minute, I am doing very well; life has simply gotten in the way of my writing' of another pasta. I promise from now on that, as much as I can, I will try to publish more pastas for your enjoyment.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this short little taste of what's to come for me and have yourselves a great day/night!

Most sincerely,


(P.S: Here's the link to David Bowie's classic 1977 hit "Heroes" - the song that I epigraphed at the beginning - for your listening enjoyment. 'Just so you don't have to look it up yourself.

You're welcome)

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