A/N: Just a note--the story earns its T rating here for the thankfully brief appearance of George Patton, who has possibly one of the worst mouths in history. If all manner of foul language offends you, don't read the second section.
Guests On The Show, Loss of Ingredients, And General Hysteria
(Scene opens once more on the stage with the different cooking sections to applause from the audience. Hitler, Mussolini, and Stalin are all standing at their separate booths with their helpers in neat ranks in the background exchanging suspicious stares. Bob clops on in his usual cowboy attire, beaming to the crowd.)
Bob: Howdy, guys an' gals! Welcome back to Bob's Post-Hoedown Cooking Show! Hope y'all enjoyed yesterday's interviews to get to know our cooks a bit better, and today we're gonna spice things up with a surprise guest visitor!
(Heinrich Himmler in full black dress SS uniform and peaked Reichsführer cap complete with ominously gleaming Totenkopf pin strides onstage)
Hitler: HEINRICH!!!!! (Pounces on Himmler and throws his arms around him. Himmler looks horrified as a button is wrenched off his otherwise immaculate coat and rolls off the stage, where it is quickly scooped up by members of the audience) You're here! It's absolutely awful here! People hate me! And I don't understand the toilets at all. Or the mechanical toothbrushes. Or the automatic window shade in my room—
Himmler: (Carefully peels Hitler off of him and pats him on the head, handing him a cookie) Mein Führer, I'm sure we can sort that all out. Don't worry about it. I'll take care of it.
Hitler: (sighs with relief and chomps on cookie) Oh, good. I'm so confused.
Himmler: (mutters) What else is new?
Hitler: What was that, mein Reichsführer?
Himmler: Ah—nothing, mein Führer. (looks around quickly and tries a smile) Well, it is nice to see some familiar faces around here—I'm sure you're not completely alone.
Stalin: (stares stony-faced at Himmler) Fascist scum.
Mussolini: Get a chin. And a life. (sniggers)
(Glaring, Himmler snaps his fingers. A magical purple swirling time travel orb that looks vaguely like something out of Stargate appears in the middle of the stage, and Otto Skorzeny steps out, also in full dress uniform and holding a Schmeisser machine pistol)
Skorzeny: Oh, hello, Benito.
Himmler: You know, Herr Duce, Otto only agreed to go snatch you away from your nice little mountaintop prison because I offered him a pony. He would gladly kill you if I told him to.
Skorzeny: Er—Herr Reichsführer? I'm afraid you're incorrect. I would if I got another pony. Or a plate of those cookies you baked for the Führer.
Himmler: (whacks him over the head) Shut up, idiot! I'm on camera! (turns sinister stare back to Mussolini) As I was saying, Otto would gladly kill you if I told him to. I would be a bit more careful of what you say to me if I were you.
Skorzeny: (whining) Can I go back now, Herr Reichsführer? I'm bored.
Himmler: (irritably) Yes, Otto, go play with your pony.
(Magical purple sphere appears again, and the acclaimed fallscirmjäger dives happily in it in pursuit of his pony, aptly named Himmler's Biggest Mistake, or just 'Missy' for short.)
Hitler: So, Heinrich, why exactly are you here? Did you come to join the cooking group? (brightens) You can help me! I have absolutely no idea how to make Black Forest Cake!
Himmler: (forces a smile) Mein Führer, you're on camera.
Hitler: (appears startled) Oh—right! Just kidding! But you could help, couldn't you?
(Himmler glances over at the cooking counter, which is lightly dusted with flour for today's show, then back at his jet-black coat.)
Himmler: I would, of course, happily do it, mein Führer, but I'm afraid I'm a bit busy at the moment. Running the country while you're away, and so forth. Rommel, it turns out, has been using that prototype Messerschmitt 262 you so graciously gave him to send me spam mail from North Africa.
(Draws a piece of paper from his pocket, adjusted his spectacles, clears his throat, and reads.)
Himmler: This, for example—"Dear Heinrich, I know all about your plans to become the new dictator of Germany. HAH! Like that will ever happen. The next thing you'll know, there'll be bomb plots to try and kill your "esteemed" Führer or you'll grow a chin overnight. HA. HAHA. BWAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHA. Signed, Someone You Don't Know."
(His eyes widen, and he quickly shoves the letter back in his pocket). Er, wrong letter, mein Führer! This one…
(Rummages around in another pocket, draws out another piece of paper, and scans it briefly before reading aloud.)
Himmler: "Dear Heinrich, You're ugly and smell like the foul pig you are, rotten SS arschloch! No idea how you have three children. Yes, I know about those other two. Illegitimate, aren't they? Poor kids. Pity their pictures will be in the papers all over Germany by next week. Signed, Someone You Don't Know."
(frowns at paper) Utter lies, of course.
Hitler: Yes, yes, of course.
Himmler: (suggestively) I've never trusted Rommel.
Hitler: Nor have I. Wait…that must mean he's a…(scratches head)
Himmler: T…R…(looks expectantly at Hitler and rolls his eyes when the Führer looks back uncomprehendingly) A…I…
Hitler: Tra…trai…trai…uh….OH! TRAITOR! Rommel's a traitor! Yes! Can I shoot him, Heinrich? I want to shoot him!
Hitler: Oh, wait. No. Rommel? I like Rommel. Rommel's my favorite field marshal. Never mind.
Himmler: Are you sure, mein Führer?
Hitler: Yes. Positive. No shooting Rommel. Got it.
Himmler: (sighs) Very well.
Hitler: You're avoiding the question, Heinrich. Did you come to deliver a message or something?
Himmler: (blinks) Do I look like a messenger boy?
Hitler: Don't you dare use that tone of voice with me!
Himmler: (cringes) I'm sorry, mein Führer. Please forgive me. Actually, I brought the eggs—you left them under your pillow. (He magically produces a large carton of eggs) Twenty-four of them, to be exact, all freshly laid sixty-three years ago…
(The audience laughs. Hitler's face reddens steadily.)
Hitler: You traveled through time. To bring me eggs.
Himmler: Uh…yes. I thought you'd like—
Hitler: TO EMBARRASS ME ON CAMERA IS MORE LIKE, YOU IDIOT! (He kicks the Reichsführer in the shin. Himmler whimpers and sits down abruptly)
Himmler: Owww…please, mein Führer, I didn't intend to! I thought it was witty. I thought it was something the public would find funny. Er…no, it wasn't even me! It was Goebbels! He's the Minister of Propaganda, isn't he? He thought it was good for our image! Working together—
Hitler: And you went along with it?! You know how much I pay Goebbels for his useless pamphlets, don't you?
Himmler: (scowls) More than you pay me.
(Hitler kicks him again, this time managing to give him a bloody nose. Seeing blood drip on his perfectly tailored uniform, Himmler gasps and tackles the Führer around the knees)
Hitler: Arrrgghh!!! That's it, you're fired!
(Himmler headbutts him savagely)
Himmler: HAHA! That's fine by me, you stupid Austrian! Go shave your ridiculous mustache!
Hitler: (lower lip trembles) B-but…but you said that was my most attractive feature…(his eyes narrow, and he punches Himmler in the stomach) LIAR! TRAITOR! TAKE THAT! AND THAT!
Stalin: (is surveying the scene atop his stool with a large grin on his face) Ah, fighting fascists. It is a sight to gladden every good communist's heart. (He reaches into his pocket, draws out a cell phone, and speaks into it) Are you getting all of this, Vasily? (He listens briefly and nods, satisfied) It's broadcasting on Soviet televisions now? Good.
(Hitler and Himmler jump up, glaring)
Hitler: What did you just say?
Himmler: I think he said what you thought he said, mein Führer.
Hitler: I knew it! Heinrich, have him arrested! Er…no…can I do that?
Himmler: Ah…I don't think so, sir. But I can think of some alternatives.
Hitler: Oooo! Like what?
Himmler: (sighs) Why don't you threaten him, mein Führer?
Hitler: Yes! Yes! Good idea! (He turns to Stalin, who is still smiling with amusement, opens his mouth, pauses, and frowns) What can I threaten him with, Heinrich?
Himmler: (takes a deep breath, counts mentally to ten, and exhales) How about the Vengeance weapons, mein Führer?
Hitler: Oh. Right. (turns back to Stalin) How do you feel about me sending a couple rockets into Moscow, huh? Huh? Let's see you respond to that one, pal!
(He turns back to Himmler, looking anxious)
Hitler: How was that, Heinrich? Was that good enough?
Himmler: (eyes Stalin, who is regarding him scornfully) Perfect, mein Führer. He's trembling in his boots.
Hitler: (grins nastily) Yes, I thought so! Ha!
Mussolini: Ha! Ha! Ha! (he slings an arm around Hitler's shoulder) Great, Adolf ol' pal. So, speaking of which, when did you plan on shipping me some of those…?
Hitler: (looks briefly surprised, then laughs) That's funny, Benito! I thought you were serious for a second there.
Mussolini: Er…I was.
(Mussolini nods, looking hopeful.)
Hitler: That's the most outrageous thing I've ever heard! Yeah, keep dreaming, man!
Mussolini: (glares) What do you mean?
Hitler: Heck no.
Mussolini: What do you mean, no?! (He tackles Hitler and begins hitting him) I trusted you!
Hitler: (gasps) Ignorant…Italian…! Ge'off!
(The German and Italian soldiers plunge into the fray, simultaneously pulling their battling leaders apart and exchanging blows themselves. Host Bob, looking frantic, jumps in front of the camera. Behind him, Hitler is strangling Mussolini)
Host Bob: Well then, guys an' gals, I say that's a perfect cue for a commercial break! Woohoo! Be back in five—(he glances behind him)—make that ten minutes! Woohoo!
(The screen suddenly turns bright green, and Smashmouth's "All Star" begins playing in the background. George Patton appears, looking furious)
Patton: Jesus fucking Christ, am I on? This is so fucking stupid! My God, Ike, I'm gonna fucking kill you, dammit! This isn't worth a fucking raise—
(He freezes suddenly, eyes wide, and adopts a fake-looking smile)
Patton: Uh…uh…oh! (adopts an uncertain learnt-by-heart ring to his voice) Not everyone can call himself an all-star. But with a Sherman tank, I definitely can.
(A Sherman wheels in behind him, and the hatches open to reveal a bored-looking crew. The driver abruptly cranes his neck to the left, clearly peering at something off camera, and suddenly pastes a phony-looking smile on his face)
Patton: (uddenly enthusiastic) The Sherman has all-new special features that enable you to blow those fucking Kraut bastards out of the water! Literally.
(A decrepit-looking U-Boat docked at a small pier flashes on screen and is soon replaced by a Sherman rolling across a landscape definitely nowhere near the ocean. The U-Boat returns and suddenly disappears in a massive explosion. Patton whoops off screen.)
Patton: Hell yeah! That's one badass tank, if I do say so myself. Buy a Sherman today, dammit!
(One of the Sherman's tank crew leans over and taps him on the shoulder, then whispers something in his ear. He listens briefly, gasps, and turns back to the camera.)
Patton: Oh yeah, I forgot! If you purchase your Sherman today, you get a customized nameplate on the gunner's seat that looks like this:
(A fuzzy picture of a plaque reading "GEORGE PATTON THINKS YOUR AWSOME" appears on screen)
Patton: Fuckin' awesome, huh? Go kill those goddamn Krauts with your new Sherman today!
(The screen goes dark. After a moment, a tired-looking Erwin Rommel appears on screen with a slightly worn copy of Infanterie Greift Am tucked under his arm)
Rommel: (sounding irritated) You can be a great commander with the infantry tactics revealed in my book, Infanterie Greift Am or, for you Americans and Brits who don't bother to learn German, that's Infantry Attacks.
(He glances furtively off-camera and leans in, lowering his voice to a whisper)
Rommel: Please buy it. It's funding the El Alamein thing. We can't get any money from the government anymore, so we're raising our own so we don't get completely mauled in the air. Please! My chief-of-staff already pawned his dog. His dog, for God's sakes. Just buy the bloody book. Special discounts and automatic protection from the rampaging hordes of Waffen-SS if you buy today, which is only guaranteed for—
(Screen goes dark and automatically launches into next clip—clearly, the German generals don't have enough money to fund the entire thing)
(Message in bright
pink letters appears on the black screen reading "We're sorry,
Bob's Post-Hoedown Cooking Show needs another five to sixteen
minutes before resuming our regular program. Seeing as we're too
cheap to provide you with more commercials, you will now spend the
next few minutes listening to a terrible rendition of Josef Goebbels
singing "The Horst Wessel Song")
A/N 2: Thanks to my two great reviewers, Lizagna and Dutch Rogue! I appreciate your comments--hopefully you enjoyed this chapter even better. Personally, I like this one better than the first...