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His followers cheer him on.
Blackshirts take to the streets. Barbed wire closes in on every unidentified foreigner. He strolls down the garden path to the cheers of a crowd that is easily pleased. Does his brain inside that black-lacquered head lead him on? Hardly. As everybody knows by now, another organ takes the lead. He's close to the edge and falls over yet again. They simply love it. All others have but one consolation: One day he'll fall for the very last time, and take up residence below the turf from whence he came.
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