Yesterdays Future 2

“No I really, really don’t like this idea.” Scorch protested, waving his hands in front of his face. The smell of all the various perfumed noted into one ghastly smell akin to a whorehouse he’d once visited in his well spent youth.
“But darling, if you don’t Herr Gabe out there will know that you’re not part of the show.” Said Desdemona. Desdemona was the transvestite performer was the owner of  the Darkwing and Scorch had fallen through. With the Nazi high commander waiting outside for a show it had become imperative for Scorch and Darkwing to explain their ridiculous costumes.
“They look like bushes to me!” snorted the colonel when they’d been discovered hiding under the stage.
“All part of the show mein colonel, I assure you.” Desdemona had covered quickly. To his horror the colonel accepted it, accepted it too much. He’d order the show to start again as he and his men had just received reports of unusual activity in the area and had driven all day to get there. And tired soldiers didn’t help the Hitler win the war. Refreshed soldiers did.
“But I don’t know how to speak German.” Scorch continued, his protestation growing more and more urgent.
“Yes – this will do I think. We’ll do the dance routine and end with the can can.”
“The what? And what the fuck is that!” Scorch said, panic cracking his voice like he was 13 again.
“This is a little sequined number I picked up in Soho back in ’23. It’s got good coverage of all the parts.”
“That will cover my naval and that’s it, everything else will fucking hang out!”
“Oh stop fighting Scorchy, we need to get out of here, if we’re stuck in this place, I don’t want to be at the wrong end of the Germans, my father was Jewish. Just wear the thing and get on with it.” Darkwing said, more clearly than perhaps expected for a man who’d just drunk a bottle of wine.
“That’s easy for you to say, you’re not the one being told to wear a fucking dress by some drag queen. Why’d you get to be the man?”
“Because he’s faster on the uptake dear, and put the tux on before you’d got over looking at my breasts.” Desdemona said cattily, put out at his condescending reference to her being a drag queen.
“Shit. Isn’t there some kind of back way? You know an alley that we could run down? Some kind of window we could bunk out of in the bathroom?”
“There is. But I doubt the colonel would take two kindly to two performers suddenly running off in the middle of a show.”
“Scorch.” Darkwing said as he brill-creamed his hair to the side, emulating the look of a cabaret performer.
“You’re having too much fun Darkwing. I won’t forget this.”
Darkwing looked over his shoulder as Scorch took his shirt off. Then he looked at the red sequined dress.
“You know Scorch, you’re absolutely right. I will never forget this…”

“We’re in deep shit sir. Can’t explain it any other way.”
“Yanek, if you’re going to lead a squad one day you’re going to need to be more precise. Please explain to me exactly what kind of shit we’re in, and it better explain what a large convoy of trucks from the 40’s all blazing a fucking Nazi sign are doing in Afghanistan.”
Yanek glared at his commanding officer, although his defiance was cloaked in the moons shadows.
“What I mean sir is that those trucks headed into that town. And from what I could see, Nazi soldiers got out. Now we’ve all watched The Great Escape so I mean I know a Nazi when I see one.”
Major puffed on his cigar for a second. It was crumpled and the top seemed to have been bent out of shape but it still tasted good. And it helped draw focus away from reality. He looked at Yanek’s face for a moment, trying to figure out if this was some sort of terrible dream. But he’d never remembered needing to take a dump in a dream before.
“Do you mean to tell me that we show how ended up in Germany?”
“No sir. It appears that we’ve ended up in 1940 Germany.”
Major didn’t respond immediately. He’d dispatched Savannah and Godfather to go and scout out the area. After their brush with the convoy he wanted to keep a low profile, something that Yanek didn’t seem capable of when left alone. So he waited for them to return. His bowels protested but he chose to ignore them.
Presently Savannah and Godfather returned. Neither looked happy.
“Report.” Major said after a moment.
“I… don’t… understand.” Savannah said after a moment.
Major turned his head to Godfather. The big man often had comments to make at a time like this. After no immediate response all eyes turned to Godfather.
“There is no other way to explain it. We’re in the fucking Twilight Zone. I think we all popped some serious drugs or something cause it looked to me as if we’re in fucking Nazi Germany.”
Major nodded, and puffed on his cigar once more.
“Major something is seriously wrong here. We can’t be in Nazi Germany. It makes no sense at all. It’s impossible actually.” Yanek started.
“Well – that depends.” Godfather interjected.
“No it fucking doesn’t! You can’t fucking time travel!” Savannah exclaimed suddenly. All eyes turned to him. Usually a calm and collected sort, it was unusual of him to so violently take a stand.
“Well… actually it all depends on how much LSD you’ve taken.” Godfather said, half laughing at the ludicrous nature of their situation.
“Chaps – I don’t like what I’m hearing, and I certainly don’t for one fucking second believe that we are in 1940 Nazi Germany. So what I want us to do is head into that town and find out what the fuck is going on. Any questions?”
“No sir.” Yanek said, glad to have orders to bring … well … order to his chaos.
“Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to take a shi…” As the team rushed forward to try and catch the Major he screamed once and disappeared into the darkness. As one they drew up on the edge of a small ledge looking down into a ravine of sorts.
“God damn it! Yanek! Get me out of here. Ahhaaaaa! My legs broken. Shit.”
“OK, Godfather you and Savannah head off into the town and see what you can find out. I’ll get the boss out of there.”
“Shit, that’s all I wanted. Can’t I have a shit in peace for once gods damn it! Shit.”
“If it’s all the same to you sir, I’d rather you didn’t. It’ll make it … cleaner to pull you out first.” Yanek said.
“Shut up Yanker.”
“Yes sir.”

The goat blinked for a moment before continuing to eat the barbed wire fence. Bracye blinked several times. Her head hurt, and she was certain she was in a chopper only a moment ago. Had it exploded and hurled her into some kind of field with goats? If it had she didn’t remember it, and was certain she’d feel more blown up.
“Bah.” The goat commented. It was possibly bleating out the answer to life’s big question, but Bracye wasn’t about to find out. Tugging at the grass in her hair she tried to get a bearing on their position. For one thing they were in the wrong place. The stars were wrong. But maybe she was. She wasn’t clear, and her head still pounded.
A movement behind her made her spin and draw her knife. A large old woman was making her way forward with a pile of wood on her old shoulders.
“Excuse me, but I seem to be lost.” Bracye said, approaching. She noted with some concern that the old woman was a white a milk, and dressed like some old crone from a 1940’s war movie.
“I… little English.” The old woman ventured. She was alarmed. Gotfried the goat seldom explained the meaning of life to anyone but other goats. For him to talk to a woman was a fresh development on the Klinkerhoffen’s farm. Something worth talking about for weeks. She’d treasure it. Already the old woman was forming entire little gossip circles of conversation. They ran along the lines of (translated from German to English for your pleasure):
“You know what Grumhilde? Gotfried spoke to some English slut whore bitch who was trying to do something to my gauss bush.”
“You kidding Vrou (this was her name in English and German, her mother having a sick sense of irony did little for her five kids names: Vrou, Man, Boy, Girl and Fuckup.) Gotfried said something to some English slut whore bitch?”
“Yes. He did.”
“But what I wonder?”
“Well what would you say to some English slut whore bitch?”
“If she was in my field raping my gauss bush?”
“Yes. Raping your gauss bush. What would you say?”
“Well… I would probably say – Hey English slut whore bitch, rape your own gauss bush!”
“That’s what I would have said. Exactly.”
“So that is what Gotfried would have said. He’s a good goat that.”
“Exactly.”
Oh yes, the little hamlet of Klapcampstein would have gossip for weeks to come, old Vrou decided. She smiled sweetly at the source of her new gossip.
“I’m a little lost.” Bracye said, wondering why the old lady had lost focus and started moving her lips and smiling occasionally.
“Come. Good time come.”
“I’m not looking for a good time, I’m looking for a phone or something. Mine is dead. Must have taken a knock or something.”
“Yes, knock knock long time. Follow.” Vrou said still smiling at the thought of having something to talk about at Grumhilde hadn’t thought up.
Without much else by way of option Bracye followed along the track leaving Gotfried to continue to eat the wire fence in silence. After a while he gave up and ate the gauss bush instead.

“Bravo!” Screamed the colonel clapping his black clad gloves. “Brilliant!” The chill air tickled Scorch in places he didn’t want to think about, in case that was what the colonel found so brilliant. Darkwing had apparently being taking waltz lessons from someone. The bulk of the dancing was being done by him, with Scorch clattering along in red high heels constantly trying to pull his dress down below his crotch.
“I didn’t know you could dance DW?” Scorch hissed as Darkwing pulled him in close and began to slowly gyrate towards the edge of the stage.
“Shut up and keep dancing.” Was in only reply.
Desdemona kept droning on in German about some long lost lovers. After a rousing second chorus she finished with a flourish, as did Darkwing, spinning Scorch across the stage. Sadly, as skillful a sniper as he was, Scorch was no ballerina. High heel caught low ankle, low ankle twisted left and knees twisted right. In a catastrophic burst of red colour, bright sequins and flapping arms Scorch tottered off the stage into the audience.
With a roar of delight ten burly soldiers groped Scorch back onto the stage. As he staggered forward, pulling his blonde wig back into place he shot bullets of pure hatred at Darkwing. He’d just been touched in places he barely touched himself.
“One more!” Screamed the colonel.
“Oh no, we couldn’t colonel! We’re exhausted, besides that show is over. That was our last act.”
Gabe seemed to take this with hospitable grace. Slowly he rose, nodded his head towards his soldiers and turned to Desdemona, pointing his revolver at her at the same time.
“I said, one more.” He said calmly.
“One more. Sure darling. We always have an encore, we were just playing silly. Weren’t we girls?” He said looking quickly at Scorch and Darkwing. Who expertly judged Scorch’s reaction and put a stop to it by preventing Scorch from telling the drag queen to go fuck himself, by clamping his hand over Scorch’s mouth.
“One more.”
“I want to see the tango.” Gabe screamed up from his chair. His choice was apparently highly appreciated as the cat-calls and jocular whoops from the randy troops sounded out.
“Oh no. Please.” Scorch moaned as Darkwing took up position.
“One… one two three!”