[Requires probably 117 drafts – anyway, you catch the drift…another competition entry. Judge posted ‘Atmosphere’ by way of inspiration.]


‘Hans, ring the bell. It is time for ze prisoners’ luncheon.’

‘Yes, herr corporal.’

Hans Stigler swept a dry palm down the front of his smart uniform. A speck of blood besmirched his top pocket, blood that disgraced Aryan aesthetic. Furthermore, Hans considered the weariness in his bones, and his duty here at the camp, knew politically his thousand year reich was indeed a busted flush, so you British say.

He laughed bitterly,

If only one day in the future a band of popular musicians might grasp the nettle of dark brooding , nay industrial pre-occupations, his beloved drummer boys, smart ties, even the epilepsy that so plagued his childhood, and re-configure Nazism into an acceptable musical form. Such a dream seemed quite impossible.

Oh, but was he to know that one day the music of the…and he watched a string of camp prostitutes rest their violins at the trough, the Joy Division, yes, those naughty girls; was he to know that his philosophical forbearance, not of course in its entirety, simply the form of course, yes, was he to know zis new movement would fall upon the ears of so many nerds? And that nerds would spread through IT departments, households, play zeir ridiculous music not only alone, but torture women folk in bedrooms late at night wiz triple album box sets.

Hans grinned an evil grin.

‘Heh, heh, heh,’ he said. ‘Zose British fools, perhaps one of zem might even wave a daffodil from his back pocket, wear ridiculous spectacles, and sing poetry like a jackass zen I might control the whole post punk rock Eighties independent Britischer mozement as my legacy. This would be something, no? Nein, this vould never happen.