It was 1945, and Gandhi was scanning the British Times magazine for pictures of himself, as he had not looked in a mirror since 1901 and felt mildly disconnected from his face. There he was, on page four, his knife-sharp ribcage protruding from the brown skinned beauty that was his chest, sitting in lotus position below the headline, 'GANDHI SAYS, BRITISH TROOPS, LEAVE INDIA. THE BRITISH SAY, SURE...MAYBE.' Satisfied by the headline's optimism, Gandhi flipped through the rest of the newspaper, expecting to find the rest of the world in tip top condition as well. He hoped for headlines like 'HITLER CHECKS INTO DEATH CAMP AFTER REALIZING HE IS NOT BLONDE OR BLUE EYED OR EVEN GERMAN, REALLY' or perhaps broadcasts such as 'CHURCHILL AND ROOSEVELT DECIDE WAR JUST IS NOT ANY FUN ANYMORE, AND AGREE TO STOP DOING IT'.

The newspaper in Gandhi's balding head captured a world that refused to exist. The newspaper's hints of reality, allusions to the destruction of a second world war, made him frown. 'Something is Going on in Warsaw, But We Won't Say What' one headline boldly addressed an issue, but then did not bother talking about it, as there were no words beneath. Twenty three days ago, as Gandhi had heard from a friend, the Polish Home Army began the struggle to gain control of the Nazi occupied Polish town of Warsaw. According to an escaped poet, Warsaw was a corps set on fire, the smell of its dead body leaking through the cracks into the outside, damaging much cleaner, much freer lungs, less Jewish lungs. Those on the dying corps seemed to be living ghosts, men, children, and women as skinny as popsicle sticks or maybe match sticks, scampering across its surface, carrying in their hands hand grenades made from old gas pipes and rifles smuggled in through the sewers. Certainly, they were already dead when they decided to fight the Nazis, but they fought, to prove that they could.

At once, Gandhi began composing a letter to Hitler to apologize on behalf of the Warsaw Ghetto inhabitants.

"Dear friend," Gandhi began the letter, very appropriately, with two words capable of offending no one, save for a handful of people, assuming that the hand in question is perhaps large enough to fit the Jewish and "decent human being" population. Proper measurements of the hand should stand at "not too big."

Gandhi's pen carried on, lovingly:

I know I represent all the Jews in Warsaw and all members of the Polish Resistance force when I say that I am sorry. In fact, do not think of me as Gandhi. Just think of me as all Polish and Jewish people. Hello, my name is All Polish and Jewish People. And I am sorry.

And now I am Gandhi again. Let me just say that India has been through some pretty rough times. In 1931 alone, the British imprisoned 30,000 of my followers, all released a few months later. I do not think it gets any worse than that. It seems to me that the British press have labeled you a monster. I am sure you are just a regular old guy. I also understand that you want to conquer the world. I recommend nonviolence. Nonviolence, I feel, has sent India on her way to independence, and can work for Nazi Germany. You, Hitler, my good friend, have the power to end the killing today. Think Peace.

Then Gandhi signed the letter with love, hearts, kisses, smooches, and an overly provocative"mwah" to wrap the letter in love.

Hitler never made it to his Big Kiss with Gandhi. He made it to the "Dear friend" part, and then stopped reading to turn to his secretary. "Who IS this guy? I don't know him," he muttered, tossing the letter into the garbage bin.

Winston Churchill read about Gandhi in the Times over a cup of tea in his office at Ten Downing Street, his living quarters throughout his prime minster-sty. Technically, he slept in the bunkered Annex of Number 10 for his safety, but he went into his office now and then to have the public believe everything was completely and normal and safe in the government. Typically, he pretended to enter Town Downing at least twenty times per day, thinking the public wanted someone who entered and left buildings, as that was the representation as things that were regular and normal. "Hmmm, just one more time, then I think everyone will feel safe," he said, entering the building for the last time that day.

Studies showed that the public simply wondered why he was went in and out so often. "Was something...wrong with him? What...was his problem?" they wondered of their obsessively entering and leaving prime minister.

As Churchill read about comments Gandhi was making to the press, he hated him. "Gandhi claims that he would be better at being a Jew in the Warsaw Ghetto," the article read. "Jews everyone are outraged. A Jewish couple was seen as far away as Switzerland, making shocked faces. 'I might not be the best Jew in the world,' an America rabbi named Stephen Wise stated when asked how he felt about Ghandis statements. But I'm not the worst Jew either. Basically, I'm a Jew. Gandhi is not. I feel this makes me the better Jew."

For as long as he could remember, Churchill had disliked that Gandhi man, with his stupid robe, and his stupid fasting, and his stupid nonviolence, stupid, stupid and not fun at all. This was an incorrect statement. Said properly, Winston did not dislike Gandhi, but hated him. "Disliking is not good enough!" his mother taught Winston's war-loving five year old self when he mentioned a disliking for broccoli. "You must HATE that broccoli. You must want it dead. You must eat it, to its death." That was how his mother had convinced him to eat all his vegetables. Men like Churchill were taught to hate, and the British had tried to teach India to do the same. You know, show the little guy, as in the geographically seventh largest country in the world, how great and fun violence and war could be. Showing no gratitude for their Papa Britain whatsoever, all Ghandi and India kept saying, no matter how poorly the British treated them and how high they taxed them, "No thanks. I don't fight because I am stupid stupid yeah yeah I am a stupid baby." The Indians kept being babies; and so the British kept putting them in jails. The babies in the jails cried a lot at night, and the prison guards had not signed up for that.

The British agreed to get rid of the salt tax and to release Indian prisoners, but on one condition. "No more nonviolence!" they begged. "Please, for the love of all that is good and holy, be violent. A small whack. A little iddy bitty punch on the nose. That's all we ask."

Gandhi called off his campaign for nonviolence, and now the Indians could get cheaper salt, as long as they punched the British. Many countries who had gained independence from the British – meaning almost all the countries in the world— were envious; they never were allowed to punch them!

When elected prime minister, Churchill attached highly advanced buttons to British army men to insight others to beat them. When these buttons were touched, a robotic female voice would say, "You hit me, and I loved it!" If the enemy did not hit again, the robot voice would wobble in sorrow, "Why are you not hitting me again? I am sad." Usually the person who, say, accidentally poked the army man, would feel bad about being peaceful, and proceed to give a whipping that would have made Churchill proud.

War was Churchill's passion, and to him, sure, Hitler was a bad guy, was killing millions, yadda, yadda, very hateful, not very nice, and so on and so forth. But at least the guy was normal enough to like war. Gandhi was just plain weird.

Churchill had the urgent desire to be among normal men who liked war, and so he called a conference at Yalta with his friends Franklin Roosevelt and Joseph Stalin for a second time. All this talk of nonviolence was giving Churchill nightmares, where in people did not kick or hit him or anything, no matter how much he begged and begged. He always woke up in a heated sweat, and then asked his wife to hit him, just to show him that the world as not as scary as his dreams.

Churchill did not trust Stalin, as he used to. He had once been quoted as saying, ""Poor Neville Chamberlain was wrong about Hitler. But I do not think I am wrong about Stalin." Now, every once in awhile, noting Stalin's smiling face, pleased, as though he had just slaughtered a great number of high level officers, or at least caused civilians to bare a terrible famine, said to himself, "I...think I was wrong about Stalin." That thought was stored in his head, because he had banned himself from saying that he was wrong. Many people of the decade did the same.

Unlike Churchill, Roosevelt trusted Stalin, since he seemed legit in his fondness for war, not some old fake bloke who only pretended to like it to be popular and get all the girls to jump on him. "I just have a hunch that Stalin is not that kind of man," Roosevelt had once told a reporter a few years back. "Like, the bad kind. He's not that. He's good! I think that if I give him everything I possibly can and ask for nothing from him in return, he wouldn't try to annex anything and will work with me for a world of democracy and peace." This was true. If Roosevelt gave him all the countries on earth, Stalin would not have anything to annex...

The leaders smiled at one another, big toothy smiles, and they shook hands. They took their seats. "We are here today to talk about," and this is where Roosevelt and Stalin really listened, because they had no idea what any of this was about. "Gandhi."

This caught them all by surprise. "Who's he?" said Roosevelt, innocent as can be, or just ignorant and racist.

"I hear he is an Indian," Stalin told of the rumors that were spreading throughout the land. Stalin never spoke simply, and so he continued poetically, "The brown skinned beasts, the dancing creatures of Asia, birthed by Great Britain one day on an autumn after noon!"

"Who did we talk about last time we met at Yalta, anyway?" Roosevelt needed a refresher.

Churchill remembered talking a lot at the last conference. He flipped through his notebook now, where quotes he had said were recorded by his secretary. Sometimes he forgot the opinion he held. "Let's see...Oh! Yes, we agreed to beat the Nazis." The memories made their way into his head. "Oh, yes," he recalled. " I remember now. Beat the Nazis. Very good idea. Yes, that was my idea." When considering whether or not to lose against the Nazis, Churchill had realized that if the Allies intended to lose against the Nazis, losing would actually be winning, since it was their goal. Losing was too confusing a topic. And that, and that alone, was why Churchill decided to beat the Nazis.

Stalin put in his two cents into the two cent coin conversion machine."And we, the Big Three, the only giants of the known world, also agreed that the Soviet Union would be able to take hold of Poland as a client government, so as to ensure that communism lives on and grows strong, for the good will of all mankind!" Stalin pointed out.

Roosevelt and Churchill did not recall this to be the case. Looking through his quote book, Churchill realized he had said he would not be satisfied unless Poland gained independence following the war. However, there was a problem in translation. It is important to note that Russians speak Russian, and not English.

"The communist Provisional Government of the Republic of Poland should be installed on a broader democratic basis," Churchill had, for instance, said. "Peace and democracy in Poland."

The translator had repeated this in Russian. Unfortunately, in Russian, peace meant murder, for people truly find peace when they are dead. For Great Britain and and the United States, the synonym for democracy was "goodness." So what Stalin heard was, "The Republic of Poland should be installed on a good basis. Death and communism in Poland."

Now it appeared that there had been a slight misunderstanding, but Churchill had to move on. "I want to re-enter the subject of Poland, actually. Poland and Gandhi and the Warsaw Ghetto, to be specific." He moved his hands to demonstrate putting dirt inside of a pot. "Putting Gandhi in the Warsaw Ghetto in Poland, to be more clear."

The British and the Soviet Union had different feelings towards Warsaw. Initially, Churchill had sent in troops to help Warsaw, but when they were wandering through a forest, Soviet Union troops had said, "Hello!" to them. The British troops said, "Oh. The Red Army. You're going to take us as prisoners, aren't you?" Indeed they did, for Stalin had not wanted them there, despite telling the inhabitants of Warsaw differently. Over the radio, he said to them, "Fight the Germans! Rah, rah, rah! Wipe out the Hitlerite vermin from Polish land! Liberate Warsaw! Rah, rah, rah!" like a mad man cheer leader, complete with pompoms and everything. Since then, the British only dropped weapons from the sky. They did this with their eyes closed, and sometimes they landed right near the Germans. "Hey, weapons," the Germans said. "This is nice." The Polish were sad about this, and said, "Wait, they are ours. Can we have them instead?" The Germans said that they could fight for the weapons. "Can you give us the weapons so we can fight you?" the Polish asked, and when the Germans said that that was against the rules, they proceeded to fire on the Polish with their new gifts.

Aside from the occasional weapons that rained from the sky, the British also poured leaflets down on them. Almost daily, Churchill had a member of the British Army drop down a letter onto Warsaw from an airplane that said, " "Hey, England loves you!" and "Hey guys, doing a great job!" and "Hey, watch out for that Nazi, he looks pretty angry." Sometimes an Englishman would wave from his helicopter, and then fly away. "Wait, no, come back!" the Polish who had seen would call out. "Where are you going!...Help us!" But they were only visiting, you know, to check up on their Polish friends. When it came to Warsaw, England was the supportive soccer mom. Soccer moms don't just jump into the soccer match, so neither would England.

Roosevelt also pledged his full support to helping people, even if he refused to get involved in the Warsaw ordeal. When Stephen Wise had informed Roosevelt that Hitler intended to anniliate the Jews, Roosevelt did not believe him. He did not believe in Santa Clause, and so he would not believe in dying Jews.

Hitler appreciated Roosevelt and Churchill and Gandhi and Stalin for their commitment to the Jews.

The meeting resumed. The butler arrived with the food. The world leaders grabbed at the chicken legs, stuffing the meat into their mouths. They looked like kings. They looked like savages. Churchill's fat baby boy cheeks shook as he chewed. Churchill bit into the bones with his teeth, and then took the bones out of his mouth and put down on the plate. "I just think action needs to be taken against Gandhi. I just don't like him." He turned to Roosevelt, his best friend, his favorite world leader, for support. He proposed a question, "Think of it like this, Roosevelt, when American tea was taxed, what did the Americans do?"

Roosevelt remembered learning about this. "The American Revolution!"

"Yes, Americans went to war. You have been violent ever since, and I am proud of you," Churchill was glad he had found a friend, someone to understand that violence was always the answer. "Gandhi incites his people to resist, sure, but they do it with nonviolence. "

Roosevelt gasped in horror. "That's not right! That's just...wrong. That's just weird."

Winston Churchill's face burned with pride, and he nearly smiled, but forced his teeth down because this was a time to be serious, not jolly. He proposed a question he knew the answer to. "Give the indisputable fact that Gandhi is lame, I now ask you, my brothers, my friends, where do lame people go?"

Stalin took a sip from Stalin, the new soft drink that all of the Soviet Union was drinking and lovin', by force, these days. He did not know the answer to this one. He did not put lame people anywhere, so to speak; he just killed them.

Roosevelt did not raise his hand in the air and say the correct answer, either. Sure, Roosevelt had sent a few Japanese to internment camps in his days, but that was not because they were lame, so to speak. Japs were normal, and liked war. A bit too normal, in fact. Creepily normal. Suspiciously normal. There were bombs in their eyes, that's how normal they were, and it worried Roosevelt, so he sent away to camps.

Mr. Churchill offered his students a clue. "Think like Hitler."

Roosevelt put on his Hitler thinking cap at once. All American presidents had been given a Hitler thinking cap after their election, even before there was a Hitler. This Hitler thinking cap was used whenever it was necessary to abandon all morals and sacrifice human life. So, basically, every single president since George Washington had put on a Hitler thinking cap. President Roosevelt carried it in his suite case at all times, and now it snuggled against his glorious head.

Every solution suddenly seemed so simple. He said at once, "We could send Gandhi to a ghetto."

"True! We could!" Churchill loved Roosevelt in that moment. "I had just the ghetto in mind. It is my favorite ghetto. It is called the Warsaw Ghetto. Quite lovely."

Stalin rubbed his nose hair, as if rubbing his brain in thought. "Ah, the Warsaw Ghetto. I told the Polish I would help them there. Funny, right?"

Churchill now had two friends in the room with him. "Oh my goodness, I did that too!"

A question was thrown in the air: Would the public mind if three world leaders had Gandhi sent into a ghetto?

The public was, on principal, opposed sending leaders from other countries to ghettos. They were also, on principal, opposed to war. Based on Churchill's approval ratings, however, they seemed to be quite fond of this war. And so while they would absolutely not tolerate sending a person to a ghetto, they would probably tolerate sending that man, the one half-naked in his white robe, with no hair, named Gandhi, to a ghetto. Plus, they were not just sending Gandhi to any old ghetto. They were sending him to the Warsaw Ghetto. This was better than sending him to a different ghetto because....Because sometimes you know things to be true and there does not have to be a reason. Besides, it did not exactly hurt anyone to send Gandhi to a ghetto (save for Gandhi). With this in mind, the world let a man be die.

Gandhi received two golden tickets in the mail the following afternoon. Attached to the tickets was a note that read:

Congratulations! You will finally have the chance to be a Jew—a Jew in the Warsaw Ghetto, that is. We will be sending a war plane over shortly to take you to Poland, and then you will have the once in a lifetime opportunity to drop from a parachute, which actually costs loads of money for families to do on vacation, but you will be able to do it—FOR FREE. This is the chance of a life time, so you better start packing your bags now.

Gandhi squealed as he read, and then began packing at once. He was a simple man, and so all he packed was a loaf of bread. That, plus a cloning machine and a malaria bar. The cloning machine was to create followers instantly, and the malaria machine was, well, in case he ever wanted to get malaria.

During the plane ride, he tried thinking only Jewish thoughts, to make himself more in character. "I am in a ghetto and I am Jewish and I do not like Hitler or Nazis and I celebrate Hannakuh," he thought on repeat during the ride over, Jewish as can be.

The stewardest walked over towards Gandhi. She fastened the parachute around his body. He jumped out of the plane.

A man fell from the sky, and a woman watched him land. "I am in ghetto, and that means I am Jewish," Gandhi marveled to the woman as he attempted to stand.

He shook, and then fell down on his knees. "I've never been Jewish before," he said, as though that explained it. "My god, however do you balance!"

Gandhi was about to become very good at being Jewish, at least from his perspective. This meant that he was about to get shot by a Nazi, a task most Jews at the time seemed to be practicing. Indeed, Gandhi was about to become a member of the club.

Interestingly, all the current members of the so-called club did not appear to like him very much when he wobbled on in to the temporary resistance meeting room. General Bor, the leader of the Polish resistance army, raised his eyebrow when Gandhi entered the building. Everyone else kept their eyebrows and their eyes, in locked position, all pointing like hands in the direction of the Indian who had just arrived at their terrible ghetto.

"The British gave us this man," the woman explained, but it was not a very satisfactory explanation. General Bor looked him over.

"Do you have any weapons?" he begged Gandhi to answer him with a "Yes, loads."

"Oh, certainly!" Gandhi said, warmly. These words were also cruel considering Gandhi did not have any legitimate weapons, the kind people used to shoot at people, arguably the most popular weapon out there on the market. "I brought my favorite weapon. It is called nonviolence."

General Bor debated laughing or crying. He unleashed a very powerful cry of pain, followed by a jolly, good, hearty laugh, and this made it perhaps the most depressing sound on earth. "Can you shoot people with nonviolence?" he said the a very sorry joke.

Gandhi nodded, eagerly. "So where are the Nazis? I have always wanted to meet them."

"You will get killed," General Bor pointed out.

"Ah, that is the point," Gandhi chirped. "Want to come with me?"

General Bor declined this invitation. Gandhi remembered he had matters to address before dying. "I have a washing machine. Where should I put it?"

General Bor ordered the Polish woman to escort him out of the meeting room and into his apartment complex. Gandhi thanked the woman, and then asked her to leave. He had buttons on a clone machine to press. He pressed it, and then was off to go make some friends.

The first Nazis he came across were standing outside a building, talking war and laughing, lost in their bliss. Gandhi was coming closer. He shouted out at them, "Hello, Nazis! I'm Gandhi!"

The Nazis gazed at him, and then looked at one another, hoping the other would offer an explanation as to what an Indian was doing in a Warsaw Ghetto. The officer assumed that he must have gotten himself lost. Yes, he had probably been looking for his aunt's house in Pakistan. So he started walking and forgot to stop, and then ended up in Poland. Then he noticed a town with a brick wall around it and the smell of rotting corpses coming from it and thought, "Hmm, maybe my aunt lives here."

The Nazi officer ordered his men to wait by the building, and explained that he would be right back. He just had to kill Gandhi, real fast. He swaggered on towards Gandhi. They met, face to face, preparing for the epic duel of violence vs. nonviolence, which is not really so much as a duel as someone punching and the other person not punching and then dying. Chances of nonviolence winning in a duel was always pretty slim, but everyone likes an underdog.

When Gandhi extended his arm for a hand shake, the Nazi declined. "Who are you?" he asked.

"I am Gandhi," he said, and then realized he said his name, not his identity. "What I mean is, I am a Jewish fellow, through and through. I am in Warsaw specifically so that I can be Jewish."

Most Jews would have loved to be brown skinned and be able to declare, "I am Indian" but Gandhi, for whatever reason, felt like this was Halloween, and instead of a costume, he would wear a new religion. The officer stared at the Indian. "You are not Jewish," he said. "I took a course on Jewish people in Hitler Youth. They showed us pictures. Well, mostly they were pictures of rats, and they said 'This is a Jew' but then there were some so-called human Jews, and you are not that."

Gandhi sighed with embarrassment. Clearly, this man was well learned on the Jewish, had taken a whole Jewish People: Preventing Accidents By Making Sure it is Them You Murder, Not Indians class in his youth. Maybe, however, he would still be interested in nonviolence. "Anyhow," Gandhi changed the subject. "I was wondering if you would be interested in allowing me to take over...the Nazis."

"All of the Nazis?" this Nazi thought he was not necessarily the one who would make such a decision, and that Hitler might be upset if he found out the Nazis had been given away to a man who called himself Gandhi.

"Here is what I was thinking," Gandhi laid out his dream with words. "In my great vision, the Nazis would put down their arms and lead the way for nonviolence. Theirs will be the duty of bringing warring communities together, carrying peace propaganda, engaging in activities that would bring and keep them in touch with every single person in their parish or division." At this point, the Nazi officer had stopped listening. He was thinking of how he would strike his first blow to Gandhi, this annoying man who talked too much and desired to overthrow Hitler. "The unexpected spectacle of endless rows upon rows of men and women simply dying rather than surrender to the will of an aggressor must ultimately melt him and his soldiery...A nation or group which has made non-violence its final policy cannot be subjected to slavery even by the atom bomb.... The level of non-violence in that nation, if that even happily comes to pass, will naturally have risen so high as to command universal respect."

"You sure can talk," the Nazi marveled. The violent never listened to the nonviolent. "I am going to break your bones now and claw into your gut with my nails."

"I am going to break your bones and claw into your gut too!" Gandhi said, in that half-mystical and half-crazy voice of his. "Yes, I will break your bones...with nonviolence..and claw into your gut, with nonviolence!"

Gandhi stood still. He kicked the Nazi, with nonviolence (this meant he did not kick him). He slapped the Nazi across the face, with nonviolence (this meant he did not slap him). "POW! POW!" Gandhi screamed with his hands held at his side. "I am not hitting you. How do you like THAT? I bet it hurts!"

The Nazi grabbed a rock from the earth and raised his fist. The Nazi hit the filthy Indian thing, and this time Gandhi truly looked like a Jew. He bled from his skull and the red goo stenciled itself into a number in a history textbook as the human, the Gandhi, crashed into the pavement to rot. And that was what all the hip/cool Jews seemed to be doing in those days. Well, throughout the history of the known world. It never did seem to get old, always advertised in trendy fashion magazines under the "What's HOT?" section. Needless to say, Hitler knew what was HOT.

In another part of Warsaw, fifteen Gandhi's were breathing and very much alive, though stuck in a washing machine. When General Bor returned to his apartment for a brief break from hopeless battle, he heard a high pitched, "BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!" coming from a washing machine. This blended in quite well with the "BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!" coming from the German explosives, dropped as often as every 30 minutes. The battle for Old Town had begun fifteen days ago, and General Bor decided he would take a break. After all, it would probably still be going on after his nap. He wouldn't miss a thing.

And apparently the wash was done! General Bur had never seen a electric washing machine before. After hours of listening to the "BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!" he went to inspect. "Well, maybe I can get myself some fresh socks...that way...I will be able to beat the Germans," he thought miserably. He opened the door of the washing machine. He saw 15 Gandhis, miniture, and squeezed in together. "Oh, um, sorry about that," he said, closing the door.


General Bor opened the door again. He stepped back. The Gandhis jumped out of the wash, and as they did so, their bodies stretched out and became normal and human-sized, or at least Gandhi sized.

Each Gandhi extended out his hand to greet General Bor. "Hello, I am Gandhi 2!" the first one proclaimed, and then grabbed and shook General Bor's hand. Then came, "Hello, I am Gandhi 3!" The second extension of an identical hand followed. To each Gandhi, General Bor's response was, "Oh my god, why!? 1!" Then came, "Oh my god, why?! 2" and then all the way up to "Oh my god, Why?! 16" as the sixteenth Gandhi completed its formation. Apparently General Bor had an "Oh my god, Why?!" cloning machine, and had managed to clone fifteen of them.

When their leader, Gandhi 1, did not return, the Ghandhi clones delighted themselves in dreamy assumptions about the nature of humans, as Gandhis often do. By now, they assumed, Gandhi 1 had probably made a name for himself as leader of the Nonviolent Nazis. The Nazis probably loved peace, and couldn't get enough of it. "Papa Big Soul!" they probably endowed Gandhi with this endearing nickname as they went spreading peace throughout the land, ghetto to ghetto, concentration camp to concentration camp, gas chamber to gas chamber, and crematoria to crematoria.

This vision was not reality.

The Gandhi clones went walking in search of their friend, hoping the Nazi Peace Corps was still accepting members. The graveyard was full of bodies; the grave diggers were absent. Gandhi 14 tripped over one particular body, and then looked into its lifeless eyes. It was Gandhi 1. He was a dead man, but to the Gandhi clones, he was only beautiful, and rather than seeing the dried up blood, all they chose to see was the halo above his head. Gandhi 14 called the others to a hault.

"Gandhi is dead!" he said, and the others cheered. Then Gandhi 14 felt jealous of his leader. "This is not fair. I want to die."

Gandhi 13 tried to cheer him up. "Don't worry, Gandhi 14 you'll probably die someday too. Everyone does; that is why this system that is life is so fair!"

The Nazis were coming. This meant that victory (death) was near.

The Nazis arrived. This time, there were a dozen of them, all led by the same officer who had killed Gandhi 1. He stared at the Gandhis. "That man is back from the dead," he temporarily lost himself. "....And he is back...fifteen times."

Once, back at the Hitler Youth, the officer had taken a multiple choice test that contained the question, "What do you do when there are fifteen Indians, and you are in the Warsaw Ghetto, and it is 4:00PM, and you have a gun with you?"

The officer had gotten a 100% on that test, complete with a golden sticker on top of it that said, "100% Aryan, 100% Awesome!" He remembered the feeling of unstoppable pleasure after wards, when he showed the test to his mom, and the even greater glee he experienced when he turned his mom in for having a haircut suspiciously similar to the Jewish mother next door. He wanted more joy in his life. So he charged, for pleasure, for love, for appreciation, for admiration, and for joy.

The Gandis were busy stroking the head of Gandhi 1, hoping they could be as great as him. They sat on the pavement, being nonviolent, nonviolently staring at their friend, nonviolently looking up when they noticed the Nazis had come.

"Get up," the officer lashed at them, his vocal cords serving as a harsh whip.

"Oh, no thank you," Gandhi 12 said, pleasantly. The Nazi punched him in the gut, also pleasantly. That is, he smiled when he punched him. Fifteen Gandhis did not fight back, for they believed in peace, they believed in--

"Ow, that hurt," Gandhi 12 proclaimed. "Not that pain is a bad thing, or anything," he added when his friends stared at him in wonderment. "More, more, more."

"Get up," the Nazi repeated.

"No, no, really, we're fine," Gandhi 12 repeated as well. He was punched for a second time. "I do not like violence, though, so I do not think that I will be punching you back. No joining in for me, although it does sure look like you are having a smashing good time yourself. I am glad!"

The Nazi felt let down, and he felt angry, anger twisting inside of him, anger lightning bolts in his veins, almost painful, it seemed, like he might fall down because of his anger. He grabbed Gandhi 12 by his skinny body, not so impressively. "Oh, I am being thrown," Gandhi 12 declared. "Oh! I am an eagle! Watch out, Gandhi 2! I'm coming down!"

"No problem! Thank you for the warning!" Gandhi 2 said, gratefully, but without moving from his spot. When his friend landed on him, he said, "You have a bigger belly than I thought!'

The other Nazis moved in on the other Gandhis. They threw their bodies down to the ground, and beat them with their fists. The Gandhis hit back, with nonviolence. "This hurts," Gandhi 12 remarked as the Nazi punched him. "You feel it too?" Gandhi 9 put in. "It hurts, but it sure feels good, at the same time!" The Gandhis were thrown into the air, like footballs, not like birds.

"I think we just might die!" Gandhi 2 squealed. "It's's coming...death, death, yes, it's here!"

Then he did not quite say anything else.

Life was being created once more in General Bor's apartment. The washing machine chanted, "BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!" General Bor had returned from a losing battle over the Warsaw Power Plant, the central stronghold for the insurgents.

One hundred Gandhis greeted him from outside the apartment when he arrived. "This can't be happening," the General shut his eyes, and when he opened them again, they were still there. He ran away, back to the war.

The Gandhis ran after him, insisting they watch, so that they could understand the importance of peace. The Germans were still shelling the power plant, almost every eight minutes. The Polish resistance army hopelessly fired back. "I don't think you should do that," a Gandhi would say with each shot. "Come on, seriously, reconsider! Don't shoot! Shooting is wrong!" Typically the Polish man he was speaking to would then be shot, to which the Gandhi would declare, "Good! You've stopped shooting!'re dead...but you have still stopped shooting, and I am still proud of you!"

It was getting annoying. One hundred British clones with lots of fancy British weapons and fancy British desire to kill would have been nice, but one hundred men shouting, "No! Don't kill him! That is not the way to the truth and the light!" as they shot was no good for anyone.

During the battle, Gandhi 89 confessed his life-long dream to General Bor. General Bor could not hear him over the bullets and the bombs, and so Gandhi had to repeat himself several times. The dream of all Gandhis, he said, his eyes taking to sparkling, was to die.

Warsaw certainly was the right location for this dream.

General Bor had an idea. "Would you be interested in acting as a barrier between us and the Nazis, so that we could..." By now General Bor knew that he had to be careful with his words. "Air...kiss them...without being attacked? They'll shoot at you, I promise. The way you like it. I just want to...deliver kisses to the Nazis, without being killed."

Gandhi was a wise man. He did not believe that General Bor wanted to give the Nazis kisses. He was called General Bor for a reason. Generals shot people. Sure, cupid shot at people with arrows made of love, but the people cupid shot seemed to live after wards, whereas the people Bor shot seemed to die.

Besides, the Ghandis had been planning something far more spectacular. It was a secret. Gandhi 33 whispered into Burr's ear, "The other Gandhis and I are going to get malaria!"

"That's....nice...." Bor never knew what to expect from the Gandhis. But he had not expected for things to be this unexpected, and so was vaguely surprised, and confused Bor never knew that getting malaria was a decision that could be made. He had assumed it had just happened.

When Gandhi 1 he was jailed by the British during his civil disobedience campaign, he had gotten malaria. Sir Irwin had not wanted such a well-liked man such as Gandhi to die while in prison, and this was how Gandhi had been released from prison. If one hundred Gandhis got malaria here in the ghetto, the Jews would be let free!

"Would you like to get malaria?" Gandhi 33 asked General Bor. Since Gandhi 1 had invited General Bor to be killed by the Nazis, Bor had the sneaky suspicious that all Gandhis wanted him to die. This was accurate.

"No, no, malaria for me," General Bor said, apologetically. "But thank you for the offer."

That night, the malaria machine was brought outside. One hundred Gandhis lined up to touch it. Before doing so, each Gandhi said in his most wisest, most powerful voice, "MALARIA! ACTIVATE!"

It tickled.

Seconds later, everything in the Gandhis' world was pain. Their insides felt as though they were attempting to make an escape from their bodies. All the bits and pieces inside their stomachs seemed to be led by a captain who said"This way, everyone! We can escape this way!" Any material in their stomachs then followed the captain out, through Gandhi's butt hole, throughout all hours of the day.

Every morning the suffering Gandhi's woke up, expecting to be taken to a nice, safe hospital as they had been when they had gotten malaria in England. Instead, they awoke in a hospital in the Warsaw Ghetto, with few people with the time to care.

When Hitler was told that the Ghandis in Warsaw were killing themselves before the Nazis could get to them, Hitler exclaimed, "Really? That's wonderful. Why can't the Jewish people be like them?" It was like the teacher saying to the trouble making brother, "Why can't you be like your sister Janet? She always gets straight As." Only, in this case, it was more like, "Why can't you be like your sister Janet? She always kills herself, and I don't even have to ask." Even if Churchill, Stalin, Roosevelt, and the Polish Resistance Army did not like the Gandhis, at least they had Hitler. Hitler liked them; so they could not be as bad as people as the rest of the world had thought, right?

Gandhi 49, the last one to go, pushed the Gandhi making clone button moments before his death. Then he shivered, and puked out vomit and the words, " the world aroused to action yet?"

General Bor did not provide Gandhi with hope in mankind when he said, "Well, Gandhi, I don't really think they can exactly see this. We are in a ghetto. Closed off by fences. We are also in Poland. Which is ruled by the Nazis at the moment. So, no, I do not think the world is aroused to action yet."

Next, Gandhi 49 puked out blood, before puking out his soul, and dying.

The new Gandhi clones bubbled and fizzed with life. After escaping their washing machine, they left their apartment and went to the hospital, where they had heard the other Gandhis had died. Their bodies were mixed in with hundreds more of the dead Polish.

"We will fast to celebrate their meaningful deaths," Gandhi 139 proposed.

The people of Warsaw had already gotten started on that. They were good to go.

In Zoliborz, the insurgents were desperately fighting and they were losing. The Gandhis had shown up to stop the fight, like the school principal attempting to stop a fight between bullies. "Are you sure you really want to shoot the Nazis?" Gandhi 199 asked General Bor. "Come on, just give me your gun."

"You know what? Fine!" General Bor gave up. "This whole uprising, it's almost finished anyway. I'm going to help the civilians escape. Take my gun."

Gandhi 199 grabbed the gun from him, and completely by accident, pulled the trigger. A Nazi fell to the ground.

It felt amazing. It looked amazing.

"That looks so much cooler than being nonviolent!" Gandhi 34 decided. "I want to try!"

And so the Ghandis were off, killing Nazis, mulitplying themselves with the Gandhi cloning machine, and then killing more Nazis. Suddenly, and not strangely at all, the Gandhis were heroes to the people of Warsaw. Hitler did not like them anymore. "I had so much high hopes in them...that they would all go and blow their own brains out..." He sighed. Hitler was a sad man the day the Gandhis had gained control of Warsaw.

The Gandhis wanted more places to take over. More, more, more! Gimme, gimme, gimme! MINE, MINE, MINE. The Gandhi cloning machine was going wild, with Gandhis mulitplying and multiply and muliplying until their army could not be contained in Warsaw. They smashed open the walls of the ghetto, and headed out to the world.

"Let's go to Great Britain!" And so they took over Great Britain. Winston Churchill said, "Hey, wait, what are you doing?" The people were so shocked that they were nonviolent.

"To the United States!" And then they took over the United States. Roosevelt did not see that one coming. So great was their shock that they, too, did nothing. The Ghandi Nazis continued to preach nonviolence, but this time, it was only to their enemy, who they sought to destroy, who they managed to convince to willingly go to their deaths.