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

for all!





[Note: I think this article is kind of stupid, myself, but I'm reposting

it anyway.]