The Story of Mr. T, part I
The Last Parade of Mr. T
In the history of mankind, no man was as hated and feared as the leader of
Nazi Germany, Adolph Hitler. In the years after World War II, his name
became synonomous with insanity and genocide. His insane "final solution"
hung over Germany like a shroud for years after the fact. If Satan ever
walked the earth, it was in the form of Adolph Hitler. Fortunately for the
world at large, every man has his opposite number, even the most evil man
on Earth. Fifty years after his supposed death, Hitler was about to meet
justice at the hands of his heroic counterpart, one of the greatest men to
have ever been born. He would be a man of justice. A man of bravery. A man
who would save the world.
As the 25th Annual Independance Day Parade of Tulsa, Oklahoma proceeded
down 5th and Main, Mr. T felt a familiar joy rising in his soul. It had
been much too long since he had been in the public eye. He was no glory
hound, but he enjoyed the attention he attracted in events like parades
and grand openings. His career was on the skids for a long while, but
parades like this would help him get back on his feet and make him a star
once more. At least that's what his manager said. Frankly, Mr. T could care
less. Public adoration and wealth were nice, but he would give it all up
in a second if it would ease the suffering of one small child. It was no
secret that Mr. T loved kids, and they loved him right back. In his
opinion, there was no greater treasure than the smile on the face of a
happy child. But as Mr. T looked over the thousands of spectators in the
crowd, he saw far too few grinning faces. Times were tough in Tulsa, and a
parade was of little use for the poor and unemployed of the city. Although
he gave hundreds of thousands of dollars to charities and acted in a nearly
endless stream of non-profit telethons and charity drives, he knew he had
not even begun to scratch the surface of the problems the world faced. It
broke Mr. T's heart, but there was so little he could do, and he was just
one man.If only there were some way he could make a real difference,
instead of just going through the motions... He put these pessemistic
thoughts out of his head and began to concentrate on the parade.
Mr. T was riding a paper mache float with a strong anti-drug message. He
had paid for it out of his own pocket and assembled it in his spare time,
and he was more than a little proud of the results. The float was draped
with plenty of red, white, and blue bunting, and a gaudy yellow T with
hundreds of helium-filled "Just Say No" balloons tied to the top served as
the float's centerpiece. Banners provided by D.A.R.E. were hanging on every
side, and there were five buckets full of lollipops emblazoned with
anti-drug messages which he would distribute to the children.
As he cruised down the street, Mr. T noticed pockets of rowdy young men
jeering and laughing at his float. He was used to dealing with hecklers by
now, and he could tell a nasty crowd when he saw one. It was clear that
these punks were looking for trouble in the worst way. Some of the braver
ones would toss empty popcorn boxes at him when his back was turned, or
wave insulting signs. Mr. T did his best to carry on, but the situation
quickly came to a head. The man in the Underdog costume had passed out due
to heat stroke, and the security was doing their best to get him back on
his feet. The hoodlums took this as their cue and began to rush Mr. T,
jumping and screaming with glee. The ringleader, a huge jackbooted
skinhead, whirled a heavy chain about his head. He grinned maliciously and
yelled, "Your time has finally come, schweinhunt!" with a thick German
accent. Before Mr. T could react, the skinhead had nailed him in the solar
plexus with the rusty chain. The force of the blow knocked him clear off the
moving float, and as he fell, he struck his head on a streetlamp. He
stumbled woozily to his feet, only to be knocked down again by a swarm of
toughs, kicking and swinging at him with friction-taped baseball bats and
tire irons. Mr. T's senses reeled as the hoodlums continued to batter him,
until the constant barrage of violence seemed to merge into a single
continuing shock. He saw blood splattered on the sidewalk and dimly realized
it was his own. The last thing he saw before he passed out was the lead
skinhead grabbing all of his gold chains and spitting in his face, then
escaping down an alleyway as the police finally noticed the horrible beating
that was being administered. While the cops drove back the savage youths,
Mr. T breathed his last.
At least that was the way it seemed to go as Mr. T looked back on the
incident. He awoke several hours later in a city hospital and spent the
next week slipping in and out of consciousness. After he fully regained his
lucidity, he learned that none of the attackers had been apprehended, and
that the horrified onlookers couldn't provide a description any more
accurate than that they were all young blonde Caucasians dressed in
militaristic clothing. A week after that, Mr. T walked out of the hospital
a changed man. The hoodlums had taken more than his gold chains that day,
they had taken his dignity. People on the street looked at him with contempt
and disgust, as if he were the one who had beaten a defenseless man with
chains and tire irons. Grade-B stand-up comedians made jokes about "Mr. T
the wimp". Young children laughed and pointed at the eyepatch he was
forced to wear until his left eye healed. His agent had stopped returning
his phone calls. He was a disgraced man who had been falsely convicted
of the crime of cowardice. For a public figure like Mr. T, this rejection
hurt worse than the beating that so cruelly destroyed his public image.
After two months of snide comments and juvenile harassment, he couldn't
stand it any more. He realized he had to end it all by comitting suicide.
He contemplated overdosing on pills, but ruled that option out quickly.
All his life, Mr. T had stood against drugs and the dangers they posed to
children. He would never change his position on drugs, even in death.
He refused to shoot himself for the same reason. Too many black role models
had died by the gun already. A public suicide, such as jumping off a bridge
or a tall building, was out of the question. He couldn't walk a block
without being recognized. Finally, he decided on carbon monoxide poisoning
as his method of suicide.
Mr. T's spacious estate included a huge four-car garage. To fill a space
that large with exhaust fumes would be a difficult trick for most people,
but Mr. T owned four cars that he could run all at once. He began his final
exit by dismissing his staff for the day, which only consisted of his
housekeeper and his accountant. After they had left, he entered the garage
and sealed all the doors and windows to prevent anyone from intruding on him
in his final moments on this earth. He started the engine of his Cadillac,
followed by the Rolls-Royce, then his Lincoln, and finally his '57 Chevy.
As the carbon monoxide rose through the garage, Mr. T felt himself become
light-headed. As he drifted away in a comfortable bucket seat, he felt
pangs of regret. He was so sure that there was some way that he could help
the world, but he'd be damned if he could figure out what it was. Anyway,
it was too late to be having second thoughts now...
"It's never too late to make a difference, Mr. T."
Mr. T sat bolt upright. He had sent his staff home earlier, and his nearest
neighbor was two miles away! Could he be imagining things? As he swiveled
in his seat, he saw that he really was not alone. There was a tall
Caucasian man leaning against the hood of his Chevy, smoking a pipe and
grinning. He was fairly tall, well groomed, and had the look of well-heeled
suburban family man about him. The only thing slighly odd about him was his
face. Somehow, it seemed to be too perfect and symmetrical, like some kind
of painting or mask. "What am I thinking?", Mr. T asked himself mentally.
"This crazy fool suddenly pops up in a sealed garage, and he can read my
thoughts like I was speaking aloud! Everything about this fool is slightly
odd! Who is he?"
"My name's "Bob", Mr. T, "Bob" Dobbs."
The man had read his thoughts again! Maybe he had finally succumbed to the
noxious fumes of his cars, and this man "Bob" was the angel of death! "Bob"
chuckled at this, as if he had just been told an old knock-knock joke.
"No, Mr. T, I'm not the angel of death. I'm just a man, made of flesh and
blood. Your time of dying has yet to come to you."
It was Mr. T's turn to chuckle now. If he was such an ordinary guy, how
could he read his mind or enter a locked room? Such amazing feats were
unknown to the average man on the street!
"There are many skills and blessings unknown to a man of the West, Mr. T.
For thousands of years, the amazing mystical swamis have hovered over the
clouds of Beirut. Hundreds and hundreds of Haitian voodoo masters have
forced the dead to rise from their eternal slumber as zombies. The gypsies
of Europe have brewed many a powerful spell and potion. They mock and call
them primitives, but the mist of science clouds their eyes. Yes, there is
much I have learned from those who are wise."
"What do you w-want from me, "Bob"?", Mr. T stammered. He had never seen
a man like the one who stood before him!
"I want nothing from you, Mr. T. It is the innocent children of Earth
who now require your aid! The parent secretly laughs at the imaginary
boogie-men of youth, but they would never laugh again if they knew of the
strange beasts that roam the night with crimson blood on their bloody lips.
There is a madman walking the streets of America, a madman destroying the
stalwart youngsters of this great land!"
"What?" None of this made any sense! What was this crazy man talking
"Hitler! Since his supposed death in 1945, Adolph Hitler has walked the
earth in a clever disguise, leaving nothing but death and sadness in his
wake! I have chased Hitler across the four corners of the globe, but he has
always managed to elude me... until now! Hitler is hiding out in America,
and with your help, we can put an end to his devilish threat forever!
My comrades and I will train you in the art of killing and detectiveness
until you are a razor-edged cobra, prepared to lash out at the danger
coiled around young America's throat at this very moment! Will you help us,
Mr. T? Will you come to the aid of the children in their darkest hour?"
What could he say? "Yes."
"Good man!", Dobbs exclaimed as he slapped Mr. T on the back. "I won't
lie to you, Mr. T. The road ahead is fraught with peril. You will learn
how to fight with every bone in your body fractured. You will sleep on
a bed of nails, and eat only what you can catch. It's very likely that
you won't survive the conflagrations ahead. But with you on our team,
we will finally have the upper hand! Adolph Hitler will no longer haunt
the dreams of planet Earth, and you can make book on that! Now, let's get
out of this stuffy garage before we both suffocate to death and rot away!"
"Bob" began to laugh as if he had just told the funniest joke on God's green
earth. Mr. T added his hearty laugh to "Bob"'s. Mr. T knew that after 43
years, he would finally be able to make a difference in the lives of the
youthful. For the sake of the world's children, Hitler would die, once and
THE END PART I
GOD IS NOT MOCKED
[Note: I think this article is kind of stupid, myself, but I'm reposting