Party Robot Joseph Stalin

From Whelp's Memoirs
Chapter 57: Joseph

There was a time, not so long ago, when you couldn't walk into a newsstand in this or any other country without seeing my face on the cover of a half dozen magazines.  I went down to the Department of Trivia the other day, and discovered that I'm the most interviewed man in human history.  Well, I was; I haven't done an interview in years.  It's not that I didn't have anything left to say; there were plenty of other things that I wanted to talk about.  The sad fact of the matter was that no one wanted to hear about the things that really mattered.  Everyone just kept asking the same questions.  They'd ask about the incident in Madrid, and about the KIRCHER Engine, and occasionally about my ties to the royal family of Borneo.  Mostly, though, they'd ask about Joseph.
      I got tired of it, after a while.  People need to realize that, in my line of work, there are certain things that a man simply can't talk about, for reasons of dimensional security.  They kept on asking, anyway, in the hopes that I'd eventually slip up and reveal something.  I never did, and after I killed and ate Time Magazine Editor Marc Shuebal, the interview requests stopped coming.
      I should probably mention here that I don't blame the magazines for trying.  The public was insatiable for more information, and I guess that I should have been better prepared for that.  After Madrid, it wasn't as though we could have kept things under wraps any longer, and a man who gets a taste of the truth is almost certain to want more.  That's how I got drawn into this sucker's game of theirs, so I shouldn't have expected any better from the man on the street.  As time went on, and I grew tired of the questions, I gradually withdrew from society, until I became the billionaire recluse that I am today.  It wasn't an intentional thing; I was walking through the Mignolia Wing of my New York gallery one day, and it occurred to me that I could scream bloody murder and no one would ever hear me.  I did a lot of screaming, then.  When there's no one around to see it, you can let out a lot of pain that you don't even know you're carrying.
      What I'm about to tell you, you've probably heard before, in one form or another.  Most of the information presented here is available at your local public library, or through the data cube.  These memoirs would be woefully incomplete, however, if I didn't give it at least a brief mention, so here it is . . .
      The funny thing about my time with Joseph is that it all started with such good intentions.  Shortly after the American invasion of Iraq, our intelligence sources learned what we had all suspected from the beginning:  At some point, shortly before the war began, Saddam had successfully managed to clone Hitler.  We knew that the Iraqis had managed to get their filthy hands on the Hitler DNA via a much-used copy of Black Tail Magazine, but we'd hoped to stop them before they had the opportunity to use it.  If only those damn hippy protesters had let the president do his job, we might have had a chance.
      When we learned that the Iraqis had managed to create a functioning Hitler, we knew that we had to act, and act fast.  Say what you will about the man, he was one tough nut to crack.  One of our top scientists suggested that we build a robot to stop the Nazi overlord, and a plan was hastily drawn up.  These days, it seems as though we have a robot for everything, but it was a novel idea at the time.  It was my idea to pattern the robot after the only man to ever defeat the führer in hand-to-hand combat, and George Clinton suggested that we put a little more dip in his hip and glide in his stride.  Thus, Party Robot Joseph Stalin was born.
      I was assigned as Party Robot Joseph Stalin's partner.  We should have been the perfect team; I was a straight-laced government operative that did things by the book, and he was a rogue mechanical Soviet dictator who didn't play by the rules.  By all logic, we should have been the ultimate weapons against Nazi oppression.  Unfortunately, we forgot the golden rule of the spy game . . .  Never fall in love.
      If you're reading this, then you know all about the Madrid fiasco by now, so I won't bore you with the details.  Now that it's all said and done, I don't know who I hate more; Joseph, for being such a bastard, or myself, for loving him anyway.  In the end, I suppose that I should focus on the positive results of our mission.  We did manage to stop Hitler, and I received a medal for it.  The Spaniards say that they're not going to let Party Robot Joseph Stalin out, and I can't really fault their judgment on that.  They won't be able to hold him for long, but I applaud their efforts.  After everything that he did, I salute anyone who has the guts to try to restrain him.  It's a futile effort, though; our love is too strong to stop.  
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