Chapter 2: Joseph

It was the next morning, 10th May 1945 to be exact. In Moscow, whilst Hitler was reunited with his childhood bestie, Igglepiggle, Joseph, the hot Russian who Adolf thought he'd never see again, was late to an important meeting at the Kremlin. 

Not caring about his lateness, Joseph gazed into the mirror with a bemused expression, slicking his unruly curls back and flexing his thick triceps with a slight grin. He was a handsome man, he knew it and so did everybody else. For this reason, Joseph had never known the purpose of modesty...he knew that he had the physique and the charisma to get anything he wanted out of anyone, even the roughest heart, and he was willing to exploit the matter for his own pleasure.

'Joseph!' Vyacheslav Mikhaylovich Molotov exclaimed as he banged on the door. 'Where have you been? Churchill is here to see you...it's urgent!'

You see, Joseph, last name Stalin, wasn't just any hot Russian...he was the most powerful man in the entire country. And that country was in a pretty big war. It had lasted over a year! But peace was on the horizon, thank god...Stalin would much rather be reading a book in a musty library at twilight by candlelight than sitting through another tedious discussion on military strategy.

'Joseph,' asked Molotov as the door swung open, 'is everything ok?'

'That's Stalin to you...' said Joseph. 'Who gave you the authority to address me informally? Are you asking for a trip to Siberia?'

Molotov cocked his eyebrows. 'Who put your knickers in a twist?'

Stalin laughed roughly: 'Haw haw haw'.

That's why he kept Molotov around...he put up with his bs without submitting to it. He seemed perpetually unimpressed and that impressed the 'Iron Man' (as Stalin was known to his comrades).

...

'Joseph Stalin,' wheezed Winston Churchill, the English prime minister as Joseph waltzed into the meeting room fifteen minutes later, 'forgive me - there's no time for formalities. He's still alive and we don't know where he is...'

'Who do you speak of?' sighed Stalin, thinking about the aroma of black coffee (NO MILK). He liked it bitter like his dark and brooding soul. In fact, there was this cool indie place around the corner that made it just the way he preferred it...

'Hitler!' exclaimed Churchill. 'He's the guy we're fighting, remember?'

The name sounded eerily familiar to Stalin.

'No...' said Joseph, 'I forgot. But come to think of it, that name does ring a be-'

Stalin felt his heart skip a beat. No....It couldn't be...NO! The pretty German boy from the bar...the one he hadn't stopped thinking about for a moment...

'Joseph?' Churchill leant forward, smelling of dairy.

'Get away from me!' shrieked the Russian. 'AWAY!'

And he rushed from the room, trying to hide how he flushed he had become. Stalin would keep this secret; something within him had decided this was how it would be and there was nothing that could be done to counter that. Nobody could know. Not even Molotov...