Chapter 32: The Wedding, Part 1

A MONTH OR SO LATER OR SOMETHING

Joseph Stalin was in the kitchen, reading Mein Kampf just to hear his voice in his head. The scent of bliss oozed from between each cum stained page. He grinned. It was so soon. So soon that he would get to see his beloved again. When Addie would be made properly his...

'...Comrade Stalin?'

Joseph struck a super sexy pose in the mirror, adjusting the collar of his deep crimson wedding suit. His biceps bulged like the intensification of class struggle under socialism. 

In came a familiar figure..........................

Vyacheslav Molotov... his wheelchair squeaking in trepidation as he rolled, grunting softly, into the room. In his lap sat a freshly made infant, its tiny hands clenched into proletarian fists.

'You look good, Joseph,' he muttered wearily. His face was adorned with deep slashes.

Stalin didn't turn. 'Took you long enough. In fairness, it took me two days to decide between the blood-red cape or the Lenin-print mesh. Went with both.'

'Right...' nodded Molotov. 'Are you ready to go, comrade? Or maybe you want to hit me with your car again for good luck? Whatever you need. It's your big day, after all! But we have to be there within the hour...'

Stalin snorted, allowing himself to admire his reflection one last time before tossing Mein Kampf onto the bed. 'Don't worry, Vyacheslav. I've never been more ready for anything in my life...'

Molotov moaned in relief, clutching little Gloopnak Unity Molotov-Igglepiggleovitch to his chest, as he led his most trusted comrade towards the door.

'Hey, comrade Molotov...' Stalin muttered gruffly, properly taking in the man for the first time in weeks.

'Da, comrade Stalin?'

'Thanks for this. For...being my best comrade and all. I appreciate it. In fact, I've practically forgiven you for trying to sabotage my relationship already...'

'Oh...'  Molotov beamed. 'No problem, comrade! Really, I should be the one thanking you...'

Stalin raised an eyebrow. 'Go on then...'

'O-oh. Thank you, comrade, Stalin. For hitting my legs and not my spine. And for letting me keep my child alive. After I begged. It honestly means the world...'

Stalin whacked Molotov's wheelchair in an appreciative gesture. 'You crack me up, comrade! But for your sake, I hope your wedding speech is better than that...'

Molotov gulped under his breath...

*

Meanwhile, at the venue, Adolf Hitler was having a major diva moment. 

'This is a DISASTER! LOOK at this stitching! LOOK at this hem! I-I look like a divorced peasant! I- OH MEIN GOTT JOSEPH WILL HAVE ME SHOT...'

Joseph Goebbels gently stepped beside Adolf and the shattered remnants of his makeup mirror.  

'Adolf. Darling. Listen to me...' he placed both of hands on the shorter man's shoulders. 'You look fine. Showstopping, even.'

'Yeah totally,' piped up Elon Musk. 'I'd marry you. I mean like no homo and shit...'

Unconvinced, Hitler sighed. 'I- I just,' his voice wobbled as tears threatened to spill from his ultra-Germanic eye sockets, 'I just want today to be perfect...'

Goebbels nodded. 'I know, mein Führer. And it will be. Just you wait...'

As Adolf shifted uncomfortably, behind the thin curtain segregating the dressing room from the bathroom (as if they were difference races), sat Hermy G and Da Real Heinrich, perched sluttily on the sink, as they listened to the scene...without really hearing it.

Göring leant forward to his compatriot, lowering his voice for the one hundredth time that evening.

'You know, personally, I don't care if he's coming. You know how it is, Heinrich. Our proto-Indo-European blood happens to be of the divine wisdom of the ancient Hyperborean homeland. So ja. If he comes, I'll just tell him that...'

Himmler nodded. 'Ja, I'll tell him too. That'll show him.' 

He took a long hit of his melon flavoured vape, squinting strangely at it as if it had personally insulted him, before adding nonchalantly: 'By the way...what do you think he'll be wearing? I mean, if he shows up at all, that is...'

Göring scoffed. 'Heinrich, please. We've already been through this already. He'll be wearing one of his stupid fucking berets. Probably the blue one for 'good luck'. And his hair will be perfect. Like how he styles it for the club. And he'll be wearing that cologne...'

A silence sticky with memory stretched between them. Himmler reached for his vape again. 

'Oh ja...' he muttered, unable to bear the intensity of his thoughts alone. 'That cologne...'

Göring let out a strange noise. 'A Jewish conspiracy if I ever saw one...'

Back in the dressing room, Hitler had flung himself onto a chaise long as if it were Stalin's hard and hungry cock. 'It's all ruined!' he exclaimed, distraught. 'I should call the whole thing off! J-joseph can't see me like this...'

Elon and Goebbels knelt on either side of him like a pair of lopsided testicles. 

'Mein Führer, you are radiant. You look like if a white man and a white woman had a baby together and it wasn't adopted. You are the moment. Ok?'

'Exactly bro. You have become meme...'

Adolf's tear-stained face peeked out from under his arm. '...Really?'

'Truly,' smiled Goebbels. 'Come on now. We don't want you to be late for your big day, do we?

Tentatively, Adolf got to his feet. Facing the mirror like a big boy, he gave a halfhearted twirl, the bodice tight and shimmering like a silk noose or a strange, Reich-white substance poured over his wispy frame. Clutching to each bone with erotic desperation. And below the waist, the gown flared out, revealing thighs that trembled with dreams never meant to survive the bunker.

'You really think I look ok?'

'Yes,' whispered Elon, reverentially. 'You look more than ok...'

Hitler smiled a slow and slightly terrifying smile. 'Right. Now all we have to sort is the veil! That should be easy...'

Goebbels groaned.

From behind the curtain, Göring muttered: 'Jürg would've known the right veil. He always looked so good in everything...'

And Himmler, barely audible, replied instinctively, 'And nothing. He looked especially good in nothing...'

Not listening, Adolf stepped forward slightly, gazing out of the window at the Argentinian sky. In just one hour, he would somebody's wife. And not just any somebody...

'Joseph...' he moaned, closing his eyes lustfully. He couldn't wait...