Avast

The legends tell of a ship shrouded in mystery, a ship that very few people ever get to see. A ship that sailed the seven seas in search of pointless acts of violence while pointlessly arguing and forcing people out of the Politburo. That's right - this is the Dictator Ship!


Five of the most evil men looked out at the oceans, each thinking about thier own various campaigns. The ocean was a beautiful blue today, but the dictators didn't have time to think about that. They were musing over their own problems, their own failures, and the challenges that faced them on this ship. Napoleon was quietly wondering why he didn't have ships that didn't randomly sink during his campaigns while Stalin spouted random Russian reversals.

"Thankyou Joe," said Hitler testily, "those got boring around the same time Maddox stopped ranting about the different kind of tea-cosy or whatever was annoying him today. The internet has moved on..."
"Have you thought about the question yet?" asked Napoleon, sprinting over to Hitler at the pace of a turtle since his legs were far too short to get any kind of traction on the deck.
Hitler muttered an affirmative, doodling swastikas on his autographed copy of Mein Kampf.
"The best way to invade Russia," Napoleon reminded the fascist dictator. "We both tried it, sort of succeeded and failed because we're unfathomably stupid."
"Speak for yourself," smiled Hitler, the man who had been rejected twice from an art school.


Meanwhile, Idi Amin waddled about, faintly offended by that new film about him but primarily wondering whether he could fit any more medals on his stupid bulging chest.
"Do my boobs look big in this?" he asked Stalin. "I mean, I thought the medal for 'His Excellency President for Life, Field Marshal Al Hadji Doctor Idi Amin, VC, DSO, MC, Lord of All the Beasts of the Earth and Fishes of the Sea, and Conqueror of the British Empire in Africa in General and Uganda in Particular' covered it up."
"Uganda in particular?" asked Stalin.
"A little wordy?"
The moustached mass-murderer nodded.


In the face of such obviously important men, Hitler was feeling a little inadequate. Seeing as he only had one ball, he was attempting to keep this secret from the others by putting in subtle references to having a full set whenever possible.
"Where do you think we're going?" asked Idi Amin to Hitler.
The raving lunatic considered for a moment. "We could be heading to ihavetwoballs Portugal - I hear it's nice this time of the year."
Idi Amin smiled uncertainly. "What does that sash around your chest mean?"
"This?" asked Hitler, thinking quickly. "It's a medal for...virility. Having the normal number of balls and all that, I'm at it all day."


Through-out all of this discussion, Mao Zedong had remained relatively quiet, as if unsure about one part of the situation. It was as if he had been musing carefully about one factor of this dictator-like equation they found themselves in. He didn't notice as Stalin and Napoleon ran past, playing musical chairs. He was far too deep in thought for that.
A few minutes later Mao seemed to make his mind up. Eventually coming to a conclusion, he let out a resounding cry which echoed around the deck, a noise which would haunt the others for decades to come.