Chapter 28: Don't Cry, Argentina!

The Argentinian sun beat down on the runway, hot, sexy and unrelenting. The plane door opened with a definitive hiss, and the group stumbled out onto the burning tarmac. 

'¡Hola! exclaimed Juan Perón, running up the runway to greet them. 'Welcome to Argentina, my...gorgeous diplomat friends!'

Hitler nodded. 'Danke. Super cool of you and everything.'

Stalin lit a cigarette, not to smoke it - just to dominate it.  

Molotov vomited onto the tarmac.

Perón blinked in Spanish confusion. 'Is he...ok?'

'Molotov's just dramatic,' muttered Joseph.

Molotov groaned, clutching his stomach as he collapsed into Joseph's firm and hard arms.

'Comrade...I-I I think I'm... pregnant.'

Everyone froze.

'What?????' said everyone.

'Molotov, you're a man,' Ulrich Friedrich-Wilhelm Joachim von Ribbentrop hissed.

Molotov blushed sadly. 'Oh...'

'Shut up, whatever your name is!' demanded Stalin, 'Come on, comrade, I'm driving you to hospital...'

'Don't be long...' whispered Hitler lustfully.

'Bye, I guess,' said Goebbels, turning very covertly to Hitler. 'Now that they're gone, mein Fuhrer... why were those Slavs with us in the first place. Also, I swear I've seen that Joseph one before...'

...

The Argentinian jungle blurred past them, trees whipping by like green bayonets. The Jeep Stalin had built out of bits of scrap metal and Georgian rolling paper roared over potholes and suspiciously placed road spikes. Molotov was gripping the door handle with both hands, knuckles white, eyes wide.

'Joseph -JOSEPH!' he cried in alarm.

'What?' Stalin barked, tactically and skillfully swerving around a llama. The glove compartment flew open and a small pistol fell out, landing in Molotov's lap.

'Please slow down, comrade. I can feel the fetus filing a union complaint!'

'Uggghhh whatever...' grumbled Stalin, before adding. 'You're lucky I care about you somewhat...'

For a moment, only the growl of the Jeep filled the air. And then, a groaning Molotov spoke softly...

'Comrade Stalin...there's something I need to tell you...'

Joseph's eyes flicked toward him like little flames. 'I don't want to know who the father is, Vyacheslav...'

'It's not that. It's something I did. Recently, though it feels a lifetime ago...' Molotov's eyes were screwed up in pain.

Stalin raised an eyebrow but said nothing as he lit another cigarette between the wheel. 

Suddenly, Molotov felt his water break. He sighed. Soon he would be out of labour. But the proletarian struggle would remain engraved into his loyal communist heart for eternity and BEYOND. He couldn't lose his most precious comrade...but he could no longer lie to him. Not now. Not after everything. The promise he had made to Igglepiggle burnt into his very soul... Whatever happened, it would be a dialectic fulfillment of that bitter pact...