Maxfall

                              Nazis aren't funny.                              Cover of Downfall"What've you got there Max?"

 The sun, gentle and benign in the sky was shining down on us. Max and I were seated under the azure openness of a clear summer's day, sipping tea on the veranda I imagined to be part of my garden for this setting. We'd been here for half an hour or so, but I had taken my time asking Max what he was carrying in his briefcase. He didn't usually carry a briefcase, you'll be surprised to hear, and I was gripped with the grim foreboding that accompanied almost every visit Max made to my humble abode.

 "What? Oh, this? It's a script." Max replied.

 "Ah." I offered. Max had a habit of writing film scripts, play scripts, musicals and so on, and brining them to me. They weren't, technically speaking, usually badly written. The problem was they could be a little... offensive. Well, very offensive. And I had to explain, in great detail, exactly why Max's so-called family-friendly screenplays would offend a drunken toaster.

 "And what's it called?"

 "Black Hitler." Max replied.

 I nodded. I took the script. I read the script.

 "This is, what? Just the film Downfall?"

 "Yea." Max replied.

 I nodded. It was basically Downfall, except everyone in the Third Reich was inexplicably black. To Max's credit, he hadn't written any offensive dialogue, or added a rap soundtrack. Indeed, it appeared just to be an aestetic thing - the whole cast was to be black. Of course, at no point did Max tackle the varied problems this would cause to Nazi ideology. In reality, he'd just printed the script for Downfall of the internet, and added a note that said "Everyone should be played by black actors."

 I put the script down on the table and turned to my own briefcase.

 "What've you got there?" Max asked.

 I didn't answer. I just opened the briefcase and turned on my portable shredder. The sound of paper screaming out filled the afternoon air, as the sun watched happily.

I knew it had been foolish to leave the door open - there had been reports of bears in the area all week. Now, however, it was too late for regrets. I had to deal with this.
First, I'd tried ignoring the bear. Sitting rigid at the table, I'd made a point of reading my whole newspaper. However, when I finished, he was still sitting opposite, staring intently across the table at me. It was no good, I had to acknowledge him.
I tried to act casually. I smiled at him in what I hoped was a friendly manner. Spotting his opportunity, he leaned across the table.
"Have you heard about our Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ?" He asked.
I looked at him in confusion. After a moment, he realised I wasn't going to reply. Reaching for the floor, he picked up a briefcase and started to rummage around inside it.
"I have some pamphlets here, you might like to look at them."
I politely declined. He looked rather deflated, and there is nothing more depressing than a sad bear. I made awkward smalltalk for a few minutes, then he left to catch a bus.