Hans is a rebel. Hans does not like tulips. He hates tulips. He stomps tulips whenever he sees them, shouting, "Bah, tulips!" and then he stomps more of them. Holland is full of tulips, so Hans does a lot of stomping.
Hans built his windmill on a hill. He does not trust the old, run-down dikes to hold back the sea. "My windmill will still be standing while all of you are swimming in your own filth," he said to the townspeople. The townspeople thanked him with a tarring and feathering. Hans spent the next three nights writing "Thank You" notes and tying them to rocks.
The townspeople called his windmill an eyesore. They planted tulips by his windmill in the dead of night, Hans stomped them all, and then he took to patrolling his yard with a shotgun. Then the townspeople planted tulips in the dead of day. Hans didn't get much sleep. He paved over the tulips and planted land mines.
After several tragedies, the tulip-planting stopped.
Hans grinned and went back to his windmill, shotgun in hand.
A man in a suit nailed an official writ to Hans' front door. Hans opened the door and demanded an explanation.
"Every windmill in this town turns clockwise," said the city planner. "Yours turns counter-clockwise. Three producers from Hollywood wanted to film this valley, but your windmill drove them off. We cannot afford to repair the dikes now."
"No," said Hans. "I want to know why you're nailing this writ to my door. I have a mailbox, you know."
"Nails are cheaper than envelopes and stamps," said the city planner. "So, will you comply and allow us to raise the funds for fixing the dike?"
"I built my windmill on a hill," said Hans. "What do I need a dike for? I can turn my windmill any way I want to. Is it my fault that my windmill was designed with plans copied and stolen whilst a man was shaving in a mirror?"
"Then I must go back to the council and report your failure to comply," said the planner, packing up his hammer and nails and writs left to deliver.
"You will report nothing of the sort," said Hans. Hans beat the city planner with a stick and ground him into bone grist under his windmill's grindstones. Hans left the city planner's head on the front steps of the town hall, the writ stuffed in his dead grinning mouth.
The town used the remains for soup, despite the planner's dismal test scores.
The council convened when everybody sobered up the next morning.
"How much longer must we take this abuse?" said a councilperson.
"Why can't we do anything about this?" said a townsperson.
"As loyal citizens of Holland, we must act against this rebel!" shouted a vendor.
"Holland?" screamed some people. "We are the Netherlands!"
"We are Holland!" yelled the rest of the people at the meeting.
And so, the fight raged back and forth, and nothing was accomplished.
Nothing ever got accomplished at council meetings in Hans' town.
The next day, Hans placed an ad in the local paper. He was seeking a cook who was experienced with preparing food that could be slid under locked doors. No lawyer answered his request, but a drunk called to say that he was genetically incapable of smelling grapefruit.
Hans hired him on the spot, and put him to work raking aluminum shards out by the "You Are Leaving New Jersey" sign Hans had placed at the edge of his property along the roadside..
"Why do you have this sign?" asked the drunk.
"The best kind of enemy is a confused one," said Hans.
"I don't understand," said the drunk. "I'm confused now."
Hans mistook the drunk for an enemy, and he set him to flight with the rake.
"I have never felt the affections of another person," says Hans to his analyst. "I have always feared my mother, her loving arms cradling my body as she sung to me and wrapped her hands around my throat. I still have her ears as trophies. Would you like to see them?"
"No thank you," says the analyst. "Shall we discuss your anger issues now?"
"I have no anger issues," says Hans.
"Then my work is done," says the analyst. He presents his bill to Hans.
Hans reads it. "I've got anger issues now."
Nobody has heard from or seen the analyst for a while now.
To this day, Hans still putters about in his windmill. His will specifically states that he wishes his body to be donated to the automobile industry for crash testing.
"But only Mercedes!" he added hastily, peering into his pockets for uninvited guests.
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