The Afterparty

The car was beautiful, the kind of car nobody owned anymore in the Presidents time. In fact he'd only ever viewed in on pictures, not even most car museums had one to admire. It was a Mercedes-Benz 770, the perfect car to show-off, to cruise through streets of onlookers or, to drive to a Nazi Afterparty. 

"This is a wonderfull car." Bowmore complimented. "I've never seen something quite like it..."

"It belongs to Adolf. He has several of them. Mercedes is a great company, that's why this is a great car."

"I agree. I have a Mercedes back home myself," Bowmore started, but he soon realized that he'd be unable to tell even one detail about it to Goebbels; it was a car that didn't exist yet in the Germans time, "but I almost never drive it. It's not nearly as nice as this one." He used the strategie of putting his own car down, why would Goebbels be interested in it if it cost less than the one they were driving in?

"The quality of Mercedes-Benz is outstanding, even a less pricey one is top-notch." Goebbels agreed. "I see that we all have the same taste in cars." His little remark seemed to delight him. Bowmore made a mental note to sell his Mercedes-Benz back home, even though this was just a dream, it was starting to scare him quite a bit. Maybe if he got rid of anything that reminded him of the two men he'd stop dreaming about them...

"We're going to be there quite soon." Goebbels said. "I know you drink, but do you take cocaine, Alistair?"

"I never have." He admitted truthfully. "By choice. I get excited enough about my work." Goebbels obviusly took he last sentence as sarcasm because he laughed heartily. 

"If you'd like too, you can take some tonight. I'm sure Adolf will be generous enough to share. We have more than we need, anyway. And believe me, it's the best of the best." President Bowmore did believe the Reichspropagandaleiter. He'd known that Hitler took plenty of drugs, especially during the second world war, and who could blame him for that, and of course, regarding that the junkie was the Führer, the drugs would naturally be the best. At least the best in all of Germany.

They passed by several old houses, driving into a quieter and seemingly richer part of the old city. Bowmore enjoyed looking at the architecture, he'd only visited Berlin twice before this, and he'd never strolled through the pretty parts of town; let alone driven a W07 through them. They pulled into the back driveway of an unseeming house. It wasn't run-down in the slightest, but it wasn't magnificent at all. "This isn't an official residence of the Führer. He almost never stays here, but we use it as a place to throw parties with friends and comerades. Let's go inside, shall we?"

Bowmore nodded. They exited the car and the American found himself hoping that he'd get the chance to ride it again, even though he'd decided on selling his own Mercedes. The little door in the back was locked shut, and Goebbels, having no key, had to knock. It didn't take long for the door to spring open. "Ah Joseph!" They were led inside by a man Bowmore neither recognized nor ever saw again, and were immediatlly led up a flight of stairs and into a large room that resembled an unadorned ballroom in shape and size. "The Führer is over there. Enjoy yourselves, gentlemen!" With a clap to Bowmore's shoulder he disappeared again, back down the stairs to the door where he'd play Doorman for the rest of the night. 

Goebbels and Bowmore made their way over to Hitler, who stood surrounded by fans and his wife on the other side of the room. His expression lightened as he saw Goebbels, and giving both him and Bowmore a hug, proved his drunkeness and high. "Joseph! Have some champagne. Alistair, would you rather drink red or white wine, or, as Joseph will, champagne?"

"I'll have a glass of champagne as well, thank you." He said, accepting the Reichskanzlers offer. Hitler himself poured the two glasses, his hand was still steady despite of all the drugs he'd already taken that night. They only showed in his mood and his pupils. He handed his friend and his aquaintence the alcohol and picked up his own glass to toast. "Prost!"

"Prost!" They echoed. All of them took a sip. President Bowmore was surprised at how perfectly chilled the champagne was, it hadn't been on ice. And the taste, more sweet than bitter, was a pleasure on his tongue. He'd had plenty of wonderful champagne at the White House or in France, but it had never been as tasty as this one was. "This drink is wonderful!" He exclaimed. 

"Good drinks taste better with great company." Adolf added with a smile. "How did you like the speech, Alistair?" 

"I thought it was genius." The American replied, flattered by the champagne, the compliment, the car, and the Germans hospitality. He felt a pang of guilt after saying it, how could he so easily agree with the Reichskanzler and why did that keep on happening?

"I was thinking you'd like it. America is a self-made place itself, much like Germany has become. Perhaps in the future, especially if a man like you became President, there could be a better relation between both of our countries." Hitler was cut off by someone who'd grabbed him by the arm to introduce him to a newcomer. He shook his hand politely and then turned back to the American. "I'm sorry about that. Where were we? Ah yes, America. But I propose that we stop talking about serious matters and go have some fun." 

"What kind of fun?" Bowmore asked over the rim of his champagne glass. 

"Why snow of course!" Hitler called out, taking his companion and old friend Goebbels to the notorious backroom.