By Edward Lee, John Pelan
Six-foot-nine and 4 hundred kilos, GOON is a one-man gore-machine of the Wrestling convention. Police captain Philip Straker isn't a wrestling fan. The our bodies pile up like soiled laundry: sex-obsessed tramps used as playthings by means of a few unspeakable creature. Straker is decided to unravel the rash of rape and mutilation murders with trimmings that beggar description. Reporter Melinda Pierce will do something to determine, through providing herself up so as to infiltrate the arcane and lust-drenched warrens of behind the scenes wrestling. This human juggernaut, this masked rack of guts, muscle, and mayhem... Is Goon only a wrestler long gone insane? Or is he whatever hideously worse?
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You must understand, monsieur, that if those of us who championed Hitler and stoked his dreams had one shared common bond it was to show our disapproval of the Jew. To throw a spotlight on Jewry which had inflicted so much anguish and indignity onto our German people. Whatever else is said about us, no one can say we shirked our duty. History has proven that we carried out our holy mission to our own ultimate destruction. ” He seemed genuinely puzzled. ” He rose abruptly. ” He walked across the room, entered a small annexe, and closed the door behind him.
In one smooth motion he returned his foot to the ground and passed his hand down his loose bodice. Reverently, he massaged his right breast. The hormone drugs he had been injecting were bearing fruit. Horror turned, and began to stride away. He no longer fancied meeting Future Time. If only Hitler could be persuaded to return to power, wherever he was. The last news he had was that Hitler had been made head of film production at the New Order Studios in Los Angeles. He alone now carried the weight of insurrection.
A small wave broke across his feet. Old Shatterhand lisped and hauled itself upright and tightly wound itself around the Mugwump’s shoulders. From its hinged jaw the remains of a half-eaten hairy crab dribbled. Horror watched as the sluggish waters slowly began to fill the sea bunker. Perhaps Hitler was playing a game with them. Dreamily, he shook his head. Perhaps Hitler had deliberately fashioned his undersea eyrie after the huge mausoleum - Torenburgen - that would one day house the dead of the Master Race.