Only child-like him!-of Hermann Schwann and Hilde Lobauer Schwann.
Date of the blessed event: April 20, 1926.
The sacred place: Garmisch-Partenkirchen, Germany.
("Fancy ski resort for the rich, Doc," Fields had scrawled. "Family probably had money, may still have some. You could try to attach some of their bank accounts but overseas stuff is hard to pull off without an internt'l attorney-be happy to get you a referral.")
Grandma Hilde: Fields had little to say about her. ("Nothing traceable. Died 1962, haven't been able to find out who inherited her estate. A foreign trace might obtain you more.") But he was certain she was beautiful. Clean and cool. And blond.
Grandpa Hermann: a doctor, of course. An important one-two doctorates, M.D and Ph.D. Professor of Surgery, University of Berlin.
Herr Doktor Professor Hermann Schwann, M.D., Ph.D. ("Died, 1952. A Nazi. I checked the Periodicals Index and his name turned up in a 1949 Life magazine article on the Nuremberg trials. Seems he ran experiments at Dachau, was convicted of war crimes and imprisoned after the war. Died in jail. Tough luck for the bastard, eh, Doc?")
Tough luck for slime-o Fields, eh?
Chapter Two, Verse One: Dieter Grows to Manhood.
Supercloner had been a doctor too. A brilliant one-you could tell by reading between the lines of the bible/report:
"M.D., 1949, University of Berlin"-which made him a doctor at 23! "Residency and fellowship in surgical pathology, '49-'51"-they didn't give that to just anyone! "Immigrated to the U.S. on a student visa in '51 for a post-doctoral fellowship in micro-anatomy research. Finished up in '53, and went to New York as a staff pathologist at Columbia Presbyterian Hospital."
Reading between the lines revealed a dual mission to the emigration:
A. Put the finishing touches on a brilliant medical education.
B. Shoot superhero sperm into a womb-receptable until it cloned to perfection.
Fuck the womb-the seed lives on!
Dr. Terrific, alias Dieter Schwann, Junior-no, the second. No, Roman numerals: II. II. II.
Dr. Dieter Schwann, II.
Herr Doktor Professor Dieter Schwann, II: Famous- world-renowned physician, surgical pathologist, micro-anatomist, life giver and taker, cleanser of dirt and scum, mind-picture artist, and man-about-town.
Dieter Schwann had died for the sins of the world, but his seed lived on.
Lived.
A noble story, but the end of the report couched it in lies. The Apocrypha. By trying to conceal the truth, Fields had justified his death a million times over.
It had happened too fast. The slime had deserved a lesson. Real science.
No more Mr. Nice Guy.
Still, he didn't tear out the lies, not wanting to alter any part of the bible. Forced himself to read, in order to strengthen his will, harden his heart.
"Schwann left Columbia in '59. They wouldn't say why- his file was closed. (I picked up a hint of something smelly in the ethics department, which makes sense when you follow what happened to the guy.) After that, the State Board has him working in a storefront medical clinic in Harlem-that's a bad black neighborhood-from '60 through '63. The first dope arrest is in '63. He got probation, lost his license, appealed, and lost. No employment record after '63. Second arrest, '64, possession of heroin and conspiracy to sell. A year at Rikers Island-that's a New York City jail-released on probation after six months. Arrested again in '65, sent to the state prison at Attica for seven years. Died of a heroin overdose in prison in '69."
In the margin: "Like father, like son, eh?"
He read the scrawled note for the millionth time, became inflamed with rage. Rubbed his cock until the skin was raw and pinpointed with blood. Clawed at his thighs, tore the skin, pushed through the bad-machine noise, which was as loud as thunder, strong as a tidal wave.
"No records of burial service," wrote Fields. "Probably a potter's field situation (pretty low for a doctor, eh?). No bank accounts or credit cards, no permanent address since '63." In the margin: "I wouldn't count on getting your dough, Doc. This guy may have made a good living at one time but he pissed it all away on dope. Top of that, it's been a couple of years. The foreign angle seems our best bet. What do you think, Doc?"
He thought-he thought-he though the thought.
NOTHING!!!
One summer, two tourist girls from the Midwest got raped and stabbed to death near Nasty and the politicians got all hot and bothered about the crime situation. The cops responded like good little robots, enforcing a ten P.M. curfew, raiding bars and skin joints, busting heads, hauling geeks and creeps off to jail for spitting on the sidewalk.
A threat to his relationship with Nightwing, but no problem for Dr. T.-he was ready to break it off with the ungrateful cunt anyway. Had been figuring out the best way to do it. The best plan.
She was a shallow person, had stopped acting scared but the emotional distance was still there. But she wanted him, said:
"Listen, Doc, no reason for you to boogie away. I found another place. A safe one."
He thought for a while.
"Sure, babe."
There was a big park in the hills north of the boulevard, huge place with a zoo and an observatory and a dozen gates. She told him to drive there, directed him to an obscure gate on the east side, almost completely hidden by giant eucalyptus-a swinging metal frame crossed by wood beams that the park rangers never bothered to lock. She got out of the car, pushed it open, got back in, and they drove through.
The park was oil-black at night. Nightwing pointed left, to a winding road that circled one of the mountains that formed the core of the park. He drove slowly and carefully, with his headlights off, aware of sheer drops on both sides, the city lights that got smaller as they climbed.
They cruised nearly to the top of the mountain, came to a flat turnoff before she said, "Right here. Park under those trees and turn off the engine." When he hesitated: "Come on, don't be a party pooper."
He parked. She got out. "Come on. There's something I want to show you."
He got out carefully. Walked down a twisting dirt path, through walls of trees.
Spooky. But not scared. His body was hard and strong from hours of self-torture and weight lifting, his eyes cat-sharp in the darkness-he was part cat, now. Snowball's contribution to his Aryan ubermensch superconsciousness.
Ubermensch. Kultur. Das Reich. He sang the sacred words to himself as he followed Nightwing's ass-wiggle. Arbeit machl frei.
So many things you could learn in the library.
The librarian at the junior college was an older woman with big tits, not bad-looking, but not his type.
Excuse me
Smile. Yes, what can I do for you?
Uh, I'm doing a term paper on racist literature for Soc. 101. What kind of reference material do you have?
Let's see. The general references would be in the card catalogue-you could try bigotry, racism prejudice, possibly ethnicity. How far back do you want to go?