[ WP ] 1970s , South America : you are in a bar when a bearded elderly man sits beside you speaking in a slight German accent . The wrinkled face under the beard looks familiar , but you 're not sure how . During your conversation he tells you that he is , in fact , Adolf Hitler and is tired of hiding .

As I finished my pomelo, I saw him sit down in the reflection of the glass. I never would have looked twice, but his order was an apfelsaftschorle. Why would this old man order such a germanic concoction in a ocean-side cabana bar? I turned to the barkeep and motioned for a refill and put both drinks on my tab. I stuck up a conversion with the old man as I passed him his fizzing cocktail. 
 
 `` Say, friend, what is that you are drinking? I've never heard of it.'' I asked in Portugeuse 
 
 When he did'nt respond, I tried again in Spanish, English, French which caused him to grimace slightly, and finally in German. He understood and took a sip. 
 
 `` It is an old drink, a drink that reminds me of when I was somebody. A drink I had when I almost ruled the world!'' The last words rising in angry defeat. `` That is the past now, now all I am is a lonely poor painter haunted by the ghosts of old.'' 
 
 `` I thought you looked familiar! You're the artist that did the mural at the airport. The interplay of dark and light were striking, and I just love watercolors.'' 
 
 `` Ja, I was the artist. The name however, is a ruse. My real name is far to famous to display. I try not to seek fame. I only wanted to paint. They had other ideas, other plans...'' His bearded face burned crimson at his admission. `` I tend to ramble in my old age. I am just a humble artist now. Thank you for the drink. I must be going now, I have guests coming for dinner.'' He stood and headed for the door. 
 
 As the old man neared the exit, I grabbed my folded newspaper and fell in behind him. We were on the street now and he picked up his pace, trying to put distance between us. 
 
 He was about to get into a taxi when I shouted `` Wait Mein Fuhrer!'' 
 
 He stopped short and begin to turn in my direction, mouth open with explanation or rebuke. He only had time to see what was in my hand. 
 After my outburst, I pulled the small pistol from between the pages of the paper. A moment to aim and fire and the list of Nazis we were hunting got a little smaller. We would not stop until all of those monsters were brought to justice. Gavels or gallows, cells or shells, we would not stop or grant mercy. 

