Tag Archives: drama

Scott Skipper

I’ve got an exciting post today. This is a totally exclusive character interview from Scott Skipper’s Face of the Angel, enjoy!


In 1984 independent German journalist, Ingrid Dorffmann, contacted fugitive Nazi, Josef Mengele, through his son, Rolf. Through a convoluted series of messages, Mengele agreed to be interviewed. Andreas, the son of Mengele’s friend Wolfram Bossert, led Frau Dorffmann to the clandestine meeting place in a São Paulo café of Mengele’s choosing.

The interview began over coffee:

Dorffmann: Thank you for meeting me. I know that it takes courage for you to do this.

Mengele: Not at all, to spend a few moments with someone so charming as you brings a little joy to an old man.

Dorffmann: Thank you. So, why do they call you the Angel of Death?

Mengele: That is a lie perpetrated by the malignant Jews. At the camp I was called the “Angel of Auschwitz” because I tried to help people.

Dorffmann: How could you stand on the platform and decide who lived and who died?

Mengele: Liebchen, I was sent to Auschwitz to do a job. I was simply instructed to select those who were physically capable of working. You want to know about the gassing. That was not my decision. It was going on long before I got there, and in fact, it ended before I left.

Dorffmann: Is it true you removed the eyes from living people trying to learn how to change eye color?

Mengele: It was impractical to retrieve the bodies from the gas chambers and I had my orders. I thought it was a silly waste of time, but the Führer had brown eyes and wanted them to be blue.

Dorffmann: Could you not have anesthetized them?

Mengele: Ach! There was no anesthetic.

Dorffmann: Then you could have shot them.

Mengele: Do you take me for a monster?

Dorffmann pauses, slightly stunned.

Dorffmann: Then what about the other experiments on live subjects?

Mengele: Experiments? That was scientific research for the betterment of the German race. I did not invent Auschwitz. It was created to support the war effort by exploiting an inferior race. My research was only a small part of that effort.

Dorffmann: But attempting to force twin births your idea, wasn’t it?

Mengele: Yes, it was my idea, and I later succeeded, but only with cattle. The twins owed me their lives. I saw to it that they were treated well.

Dorffmann: But what became of the twins?

Mengele: I did all I could to save them. It was the Russians who caused their deaths. All I could do was flee to the west fully expecting to run into the arms of the amis.

Dorffmann: Did you ever meet Hitler?

Mengele: Yes, but only to salute and shake hands. He once toured my family’s factory in Bavaria, but I was away at university at the time.

Dorffmann: What did you think of him?

Mengele draws a deep breath and looks at the ceiling.

Mengele: He was the man of the century—another Alexander or Fredrick the Great—but he was poorly educated and he surrounded himself with weak men who filled him with bad advice. In the end, he simply could not win the war by himself.

Dorffmann: Let’s get back to your assertion that the German race is superior. What evidence do you have that one race is superior to another?

Mengele: It is obvious. There is scientific proof. It can be proven by studying the prehistoric migration routes of the Aryan race as compared to those of the mongrel races. It can be further proven by genetic studies. We are superior mentally, physically, morally and genetically.

Dorffmann: You have been living in Brazil for many years, how do you rate the Brazilians?

Mengele: They are subhuman.

Dorffmann: Do you not think there are any intelligent Brazilians?

Mengele: Ach, some are brighter than others, but it is like teaching a monkey to do clever tricks. The monkey can learn to do amusing things but it cannot understand its own motivation. It is driven not by lofty thoughts, only greed for the treat it will receive.

Dorffmann: How do you account for all the scientific breakthroughs made by non-Aryans?

Mengele: Plundered German science.

Dorffmann looks exasperated.

Dorffmann: One last question, how have you managed to avoid capture for the last forty years when every Nazi hunter on earth is looking for you?

Mengele: Most of them are Jews of course, and so not very enlightened. When they grabbed Eichmann in Buenos Aires I was very nervous naturally, but I had many good and generous friends who understood the wrongness of the Jew led witch-hunt. I suppose by now there must be fifty people who know who I am and where I am and are willing to help me. I only wish they would send more money.

Ingrid Dorffman’s interview was never published and Mengele was never captured.

Read the whole remarkable story.

Face of the Angel

See all of Scott Skipper’s work at:


Student Body

Today it’s the turn of author Rafeeq O. McGiveron and his book Student Body. Don’t forget you can let us know what you think in the comments section.



“You okay?” Lauren asked him.

“Sudden chill,” grunted Rick. “No big deal. Just a minute and we’ll be back to Morrill.”

They walked before the Human Ecology Building, and Rick warmed one of his hands in the plume of coffee-scented vapor rising from the hole in the cup’s thin plastic top.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Lauren wondered.

“Nothing special,” Rick said quickly.

They moved under the high, rustling canopy of the big sycamore tree. “Nickel?” she tried again.

“Uh-uh.” Rick shook his head.

On this side of Morrill a flying buttress of railed concrete stairs led up to the building’s first floor, which actually was half a story off the ground, just as the basement was only half below. Rick and Lauren walked around the stairs and went into the cut-out by the base, where a corner had crumbled away to reveal rusty steel supporting rods. They started down the steps to the recessed basement door. Partially hidden there by shrubbery and brickwork and overhead stairs, Lauren grabbed his arm suddenly and turned him to face her. “A dime,” she said softly. “Surely the best offer around. Ol’ Slinky pays top dollar.”

Rick winced at the sound of the old pet name, and the way his own words came back at him. He stared helplessly at her porcelain face, so close before him that he could count the dainty, familiar little freckles at the tops of her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. Her dark eyes, beautifully long-lashed. gleamed hugely dilated, and her rich lips were ever so faintly parted. Heavy black hair blew about her flushed cheeks and her pale throat, and again he caught the familiar fragrance of her perfume, so deeply affecting in a way he could never name.

Rick’s chest felt constricted. He licked his lips slowly, trying to shake his head. Why did it have to be this way? he wondered again, pointlessly. God, no wonder he had stayed away, if this proximity sent him reeling even now. He remembered— He remembered everything, and it made the bottom of his belly feel empty. He knew that look in her eyes, saw the longing. Like Rick, she had tried. But it hadn’t worked.

If he wanted, he knew suddenly, agonized, he could do anything—anything! She had always made him feel that way, and all at once the crazy freedom burned in him again, wild and impossibly alluring. He could sweep that narrow young body of hers up in his arms and carry her away to a softly shuttered boudoir, throw her splay-limbed and flushed across silk sheets and strip every thread from her beckoning nakedness, and then, panting in his need, simply fall upon her—wordlessly, gratefully, adoringly—and bury his face in her fragrant hair and his flesh in her very soul and make her all hisagain. That was what her silent dark eyes dared him to do.

He was thrilled, and yet he recoiled, sick at heart. She wanted to lie beneath him again and gaze up into his helpless face in the darkness, wanted to rock him in the cradle of her being, her ankles crossed contentedly behind his striving back. And she longed to cling to him again, afterward, sweat-sheened and happy and limp, feeling warm and close and so very, very wanted, smiling sleepily as her head lolled back across the pillows amid gleaming waves of sable that fanned out against the delicately freckled skin of her moon-silvered shoulders… She wanted it like it had been—like it hadn’t been—like it never could be.

Rick swayed upon his distant feet. He had a wife and three children, he knew, who waited in his apartment back in Spartan Village at the other end of campus. It was a five-digit call from any campus phone, a six- or eight-minute drive by car…and the way he would go at the end of the day, fully half an hour’s hike under the gathering gray of heavy autumn clouds. Suddenly it felt like the other side of the world. He tried to picture his family, but for a terrible moment nothing came, and he had to cling to the abstraction. He was married, he told himself again. He had a wife and children, he was already oh-so very happy—

Rick reached his hand out and gently brushed a wisp of sable from the girl’s forehead. The tip of his middle finger continued slowly down her blood-warmed cheek. “Thoughts?” he said shakily. “Who, me?”

He took her jaw gently in his hand. “No thoughts here,” he whispered desperately. “I— I can’t think anything like that again. You know that, don’t you, Slink?”

She bit her full lower lip and blinked, and her little chin nodded mechanically in his hand.

“It makes sense, doesn’t it?”  He stroked his thumb tenderly across the point of her jaw. “Doesn’t it?” he pleaded.

Lauren cleared her throat. “Of course,” she husked. She licked her lips, then continued glibly, “Why, sure it does, Rick.” She gave a quick smile. “We’re just out enjoying a nice fall afternoon. No special thoughts here, eh?”

“That’s right.” He felt her hand drop from the bare flesh of his arm. “And now,” he continued, feeling cold, “it’s about time to get back to work, huh?”

She tugged open the heavy door and with exaggerated courtesy gestured for him to enter. “Proceed, Professor.”

“Your servant,” he acknowledged with a faint bow. They walked down the hallway in silence. A few paces before his office, Rick stopped and looked her over. “Thanks, Lauren,” he said quietly.

She shrugged with her eyebrows. “Ask a silly question…” She let out her breath. “Don’t worry, Rick. I’ll look for those papers.”

Rick nodded. He almost reached for her hand but then, hesitating, gave his wrist an awkward little twist and caught the gray cuff of her jacket sleeve instead. He clasped the tweedy material earnestly in parting, feeling it warm from her flesh beneath, richly textured under his fingertips.



You can buy this book from Amazon now: http://www.amazon.com/Student-Body-Rafeeq-O-McGiveron/dp/149529269X/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1410727582&sr=8-1&keywords=rafeeq+mcgiveron

And find out more about Rafeeq here: http://www.rafeeqmcgiveron.com/