Together in Eclectic Dreams

In the month since picking up a nagging ringing in my ears, crazy dreams have been dancing in my head like methed-up sugarplums at a tweaker's Christmas gala. I can remember most of these REM blockbusters long enough to regale my friends with their details the next day, but the majority float past my transom without incident or fanfare. Until this one…

Seventeen years after the fall of the Berlin Wall, a reunified and spiritually energized Germany has decided to pick up where Hitler had left off; to prove the racial superiority of the Teutonic gene pool. This time, however, the Neo-Nazis weren't resorting to terrorism or genocide—the Muslims had beaten them to that. Instead, politically powerful members of an insidious Nazi sleeper cell flexed their fascist muscles in an even more devistating arena: the breakdancing jam circle.

Black Ops profilers must have known about my unrequited love for breakdancing for decades, because I was selected to infiltrate the Nazi Dance Party under the guise of a B-Boy squad leader. With no immediate family or documented history in the B-Boy scene to blow my cover, the CIA deemed me the perfect candidate for this assignment. My 25-year alliance with Michael "Boogaloo Shrimp" Chambers' high-school friend Ceppie Maes and complete Kraftwerk discography had probably influenced my CIA handlers' decision. Members of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and perhaps even the President had seen "Turbo's" minuet to Kraftwerk's "Tour de France" in "Breakin' 2—Electric Boogaloo," and were as mesmerized by it as I was:

The trip to Berlin for me and my crew of black and hispanic homies was uneventful, and we dispatched the poppers, lockers and hip-hop MC's from weaker nations as quickly as one might expect of a crew trained in the twin disciplines of human beatboxing and urban warfare. The Germans could also bust a move, however, and a showdown on the open refrigerator box in front of Brandenburg Gate loomed imminent.

In a prophetic twist of irony, the last time an American black man rubbed a German political leader's nose in his own misguided racism, that man earned all four of his 1936 Olympic gold medals wearing Adidas sneakers. In homage to Jesse Owens' ceremonious thrashing of Hitler's Aryan race, my crew donned the illest red, white and blue track suits the street-savvy haberdashers at Adidas could muster. As US spies had predicted, the Germans chose Kraftwerk's Numbers for the global B-boy breakdown. My crew's tireless months of uprock and beatbox training would not be in vain…

In my dreams, zweitausend acht would go down as the year American choreography—not military might—changed the course of world history. Of course, it was merely a dream. The only dancing in the political arena occurs in the mass media, and their powers rest in the hands of Global Industry.

Freiheit, ├╝ber alles… 


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