Chapter 4: Hitler at the Club

Adolf had been up so late that sunlight was beginning to trickle through the windows like warm piss. He was at another gay club in Moscow...this one was so tedious, so vapid he did not even remember its name. Or perchance he was just exceedingly drunk...

Indeed, the little German found himself stumbling backwards into various men who paid little attention to his TINY physique and mustache. He felt practically invisible, and yet this did nothing to curb the storm inside...

He couldn't get Stalin out of his head, no matter how much he tried to drown his sorrows in Russian booze - which, by the way, was innately inferior to the German variety. In fact, Hitler decided, the only Russian thing that wasn't inferior to all things German was the hard Russian man who went by Joseph Sta- 

VERDAMMT! He needed another drink...

'Get me another one,' slurred the Führer, attempting to slam his chubby hands into the bar, but missing and falling head first into it.

'That'll be 150 roubles,' demanded the (female) Bartender.

Hitler reached into his backpocket...to find that it was empty.

'S-someone must have stolen my wallet...'

The bartender giggled. 'How embarrassing for you!'

Adolf felt his face flush with nervous embarrassment, as if he were being spanked. It seemed everyone in the bar was looking at him...he began to tremble...

'Whatever,' he replied, futilely trying to hide the wobble in his voice as he turned and marched away, knocking into furniture and MEN. The humiliation was taking him back to his days at school...but he wished to go back to his glory days, when him and his most trusted compatriots - Heinrich Himmler, Hermann Göring and Igglepiggle - would visit Berghain, Berlin's most exclusive nightclub, donned in tight-fitting leather and commanding the respect of all who were present.

But something deeply shocking happened before Adolf could reach the exit of this disgusting Russian club. He heard a voice...

'Sir, I will buy you a drink...'

Hitler turned and saw a stout, whispy man with a white, floofy mustache.

'Sure...'

Having returned to the bar, Adolf sat beside the strange man, taking in his strange scent of slightly rotten milk...

'So, what brings such a handsome man to a place such as this?'

'I could ask you the same question,' slurred Hitler, sipping his drink faster and faster as his head began to spin. This was the only way he could go on living without Stalin...

The other man laughed, a strange laugh. 'You see-'

It was at that moment that Hitler felt his heart grow erect. For who was standing on the other side of the club, desperately waving at him, than Joseph himself, looking just as rugged and...breathtaking...as usual... He was wearing a a latex jock strap, complete with a whip and an open leather jacket, exposing a deliciously defined eight-pack. Adolf felt something else grow erect...but what was Stalin doing here?

'Sir?'

Hitler turned, taken-aback, for he had forgotten that the milk-smelling man was still there, grinning at him in a most sinister manner.

'My name is Winston,' he continued, 'I'm looking for-'

'GET AWAY FROM HIM!!!!'

Momentarily, Stalin was by Hitler's side, whip outstretched...and the odd man was on the floor, unconscious as a black bruise spread across his lower lip.

'My love,' growled the Russian. 'I should never have let you out of my sight...'

Overcome with joy and exhaustion, Adolf drunkenly collapsed into Stalin's heavily veined arms, and began to snore softly.

'Come on my pretty German boy,' whispered Joseph, effortlessly yet carefully holstering the little thing over his shoulders, 'you're coming home with me...'