Adolph Hitler, comedian

INT, Comedy Club, Berlin, 1933
Adolph Hitler walks on stage and takes the mic.

Adolph: Ja ... how many Germans are here tonight?

The Crowd ignores him, talks over him.

Adolph: Did you not hear me? 

The Crowd ignores him, talks over him.

Adolph: Then I shall speak louder. (shouting) How many Germans are here tonight?

Heckler: How many assholes?

The Crowd titters.

Heckler. I'm counting at least one.

The Crowd busts a gut.

Adolph: Stop laughing at me! (to the Crowd) I asked you before a question. I shall now repeat it for the third time! Who here is German?
Heckler: Who here gives a shit?
Adolph: Stop laughing at this man! 
Heckler: So ... where are you from, Charlie Chaplin?
Adolph: Austria! And my name is not ...
Heckler: Australia?
Adolph: Nein! Austria! Austria!
Heckler: Whatever. Either way, you're no freaking German, "Charlie."
Adolph: Nein! Germany is a race, not a ...
Heckler: Race? (turns over table) You wanna race? OK! Let's race!
Adolph: No, this is not what I ...
Heckler: (to the Crowd) OK, people. That asshole's the finish line. Aim for the mustache! Go!

The Crowd rushes the stage.

INT, MANAGER's Office

Hitler sits, bloody shirt, black eye. A piece of his mustache is torn. The Manager behind his desk regards him skeptically.

Manager: So, Mr. Schicklgruber ...
Hitler: Stage name. Please.
Manager: Fine. (sighs) Listen ... Adolph. Let's get real here. You're just not funny, man.
Hitler: No! That is a lie! I am funny! I am funny as an act of will!
Manager: No, you're not, kiddo. Listen. Why do you even want to do comedy?
Hitler: I ... I have a fear of public speaking.
Manager: In your case it's justified.
Hitler: (standing up in a rage) Are you insulting me?
Manager: Big time. Sit down.

Hitler sits. Suppresses a sob.

Hitler: As a professional man, you must understand my problem, hmm? I know you are right. I am not the funny man. But I sincerely want to be funny! How can I learn?
Manager: Learn? (scoffs) Listen, baby. You either got it or ...
Hitler: How can I learn???
Manager: OK, kid. I'm not supposed to tell you this but ... (whispering) Here's an inside tip. Try improv.
Hitler: What is this "improv" ...?
Manager: You make shit up and stay loose in the moment. No judgement, no control, no thinking. It's just what the comedy doctor ordered, baby. 
Hitler: Are you the comedy doctor?
Manager: You better believe it, pal—and here's my prescription. (hands Hitler a business card) Just go to this club. They'll teach you all the tricks. And your standup dreams will all come true.
Hitler: Ja ... (looks at card suspiciously) Are there Jews here?
Manager: In show business? C'mon.

Hitler grabs the Manager's hand, pumps it furiously.

Hitler: I can't thank you enough, sir. You shall not regret this!!

Hitler leaves. The Manager wipes his hand on his pants. His Secretary pops in.

Secretary: Improv? 
Manager: Yeah, that dive by the Bundesstrasse.
Secretary: They'll eat him alive, you know.
Manager: From your lips to God's ears.