Hair Füror’s Pocket Nazi, Steven ‘Pee-Wee Himmler’ Miller is a fan of America’s Favorite Pastime, you know, the bat game:
“A bat that I have only used on ceremonial occasions at the border,” he did not add.
“Selling the Koufax card financed my first dungeon,” Miller did not wistfully say, “My first victims’ skin is also woven into the fabric of my life.”
Holding back a tear, Miller begins to sing in his scratchy tenor (off-key) Horst-Wessel-Lied as he goose-steps up to an imaginary Home Plate, and then quickly changes songs into Take Me Out To The [pauses for a moment to check notes] Ball Game.
[Anyway, he then transitions gracefully (for him) into agitprop and ¡GASP! politicizing baseball.]
Doesn’t inheritance imply death? Asking for a friend.
“Hair Füror is only allowed to engage in ugly, angry, divisive & vengeful partisan politics (based on a web of outright lies),” Miller angry spat. “We patented it! Pay the fee!”
“Speaking of stitching us together,” Miller said, “you should see my new couture line in the basement. As soon as they stop screaming, I’ll take you down there,” Miller added ash he twitched while flicking his lips. “You look like a size 16.”
“Many are the days I cherished playing the bat game,” Miller did not say, “I knocked them outta the ball park,” he added with a dreamy, far-away look in his dead eyes.
And with that, he flapped his wings and disappeared into the night.