REINCARNATED: HITLER'S RIGHT HAND MAN

President Alistair Bowmore sat with his head on his palm, propping himself up on the desk with his elbow. He watched the grandfather's clock in the far right corner of his room tick-and-tock. He'd been humoured by reports on the balding economy, on the climate crisis, on the War in the Ukraine and the conflict in Gaza. It was too much for a single person to handle. Sometimes he envied Switzerland; seven people served as the 'president', which meant they all had more time to truely serve the country. But of course, Switzerland was an impossible country to compare with the United States. A better country would perhaps be Russia. Both capitalist country's with the dying heart of freedom as their go-to slogan. He mused about Switzerland and the two Superpowers for several long minutes. 

His eyelids became heavy. His thoughts started to mix and mingle with thoughts of sleep, about driving home and finally being able to rest. The hardest part about being president for an individual were not the decisions; he didn't make those anyway, it was the long hours he had to stay awake...

There was a knock on the door. It shook President Bowmore out of his sleep. He'd really dozed off! Groggily he reached for the phone; nobody was allowed to enter the Presidents room without annoucning their entry, they must have left a message. He picked up the phone and clicked, but there was no unheard voicemal from the secretary. So who was it at the door, who had come unannounced and had managed to get past his long-time employee? As tired as he was he simply called out a 'come-in'. Most Presidents might have called their security, but he'd figured it coudn't be a Russian - or Swiss - assasin if they'd knocked. 

"Almost midnight and someone has the guts to walk in here..." He muttered after shooting a glance at his Hublot. 

At first President Bowmore took the man who'd marched through his door for a practical joke. The man who entered the office was no other than Joseph Goebbels, or rather, an actor paid to dress up like him. 

The President had studied history, and he'd written his Masters Paper on Nazi Propaganda, something that had greatly helped him in his presidential campaigne. He'd spent many nights with Joseph Goebbels, listening to him speak, reading what he'd written, searching every fact and detail about him. Funnily; there were many marketing tricks he learned from Nazi or Soviet Propaganda, some of which he'd used as part of his campaigne. 

Many of his close companions and even employees were close friends or had become dear to him, they were exactly the type of people who'd try to prank him on a late night. Especially with something that had to do with history; they all knew how fascinated he was with it. 

But that night he was too tired for pranks or visitors. He sighed and averted his eyes from 'Goebbels' to the Grandfathers clock. 

The Grandfathers clock was gone. 

President Bowmore blinked. It was still gone. And the wall behind it wasn't furnished wood but was covered with a tapestry. He closed his eyes and counted to five. He was quite sure that it would reappear when he opened them again. He did; the Grandfather's clock was still gone, the Tapestry still hung and Goebbels, who's noticed the man, was staring at him with his eyebrows drawn high. 

"Entschuldigen Sie, mein Herr, wer sind Sie? (Excuse me sir, who are you?" He asked politely. President Bowmores mouth dropped open. The man's German was perfect; he wasn't some cheaply bought actor. The way he held himself was no short of how Goebbels would have, and the powerful yet friendly aura he possessed was suited for a Propaganda Minister. 

"This is my office. I assume you're either here to humour me, or you've come to the wrong place." President Bowmore answered in German. He'd learned the langauge in University and had always practiced it. His level was that of a native speaker. Spanish however had fallen quite short, much to the dismay of the many Latinos in the US. 

"Ha-ha-ha. You amuse me." Goebbels answered. His laugh was real, not faked, and even as he walked over to the desk and gently asked President Bowmore to stand up the smile on his face never dropped. He was German in every way; from the way he walked to the lines in his face. President Bowmore furrowed his brows. The joke was, though very well executed, going to far.

But when he looked down at his desk he realized it wasn't his at all. He started. How was this possible? His immediate thought was that somebody had attempted to drug or poison him, but he wouldn't be able to think this clearly if that were the case. Had he fallen asleep, was this a dream? But it felt so real...

"I apologize, I had a long day." He said, standing up and pushing the chair in. In case this was still a prank, which was unlikely, he couldn't let the prankster sit on his chair. But it wasn't his chair. It was an uncomftorable wooden chair with a high-back, not the office chair his desk sported. Goebbels, before sitting down, offered him a seat on the other side of the desk where a few yards away, there was a cluster of chairs. President Bowmore grabbed one and sat down. He decided that this was definintely a dream; why would something like Ecxtasy make him see Goebbels? Drugs made you high; transported you to a colorfull world, not Goebbels' office. 

"I've had a long day too. Only one more meeting left." The Reichspropagandaleiter responded with a sly smile before sitting down. He started to go through the papers on the table, but then he looked up suddenly and added: "In case you are as unfamiliar to him as you were too me, please do stand up when the Führer enters."