the boys from brazil

Morning at Ireland's parliament, so recently renamed the Reichstag.
Red backed swastikas snap stiffly in the breeze.
Fuhrer Enda Kenny is sitting at his desk.
"Ninety men must die to protect a dream... or a nightmare," he muses half to himself.
"Was ist das Mein Fuhrer?" enquires Gestapo Chief Alan Shatter who is munching a muffin.
"I vas just repeating ze old tag line from Ze Boys From Brazil," explains the Fuhrer. "It seems appropriate to apply it to our attempts to contrive guilt for a generation of Catholic Bishops by labelling them concealers of child abuse while even today twenty children a year die in State care facilities at the hands of our atheistic social workers, police and judges. That's twenty we admit to. Ze real figure vill of course be higher."
"There, there, don't trouble yourself," says Alan Shatter mollifyingly placing a protective arm around his shoulder.
"Vee are monsters, aren't vee?" murmurs Enda Kenny.
"Jawohl Mein Fuhrer," replies Alan Shatter.
The door bursts open.
Finanzminister Herrless Ruairi Quinn, whose brother Lochlain's corrupt bankrupt gangster bank AIB was recently purchased by the Fuhrer with ten thousand million dollars of my money, stands there panting.
"Vot is going on?" he exclaims. "Am I not in it this week?"