Nu, så hittade ja en riktigt rolig berättelse utav en medlem på en altenativ-historieforum (AH.com), kallad Geekhis Khan (rules all from his Techno-yurt). Jag har fått tillstånd att kopiera den över hit, men let us begin! (om du vill läsa det oredigerade orginalet, skriv ett göstboksinlägg)
*Jag översatte inte den, eftersom flera skämt skulle gå förlorade då.
Episode Fünf - The [British] Empire Done Struck Back
The lonesome depths of space. An infinite number of stars serve surrogate for the infinite time lines, the infinite possibilities.
Below, Earth, alone in a wash of blue and white. The golden halo of the sun shining bright over the gray desolation of a lonesome moon. We fall now, lower through ionosphere, air, clouds, until we are a mere two miles above the verdant English countryside.
A great shadow engulfs us. Soon, appearing slightly above so as to appear to be coming from behind is a flash of metal and glass replaced quickly by white paint fading upwards into a hunter's green. Two cross-bearing wings blot out the sky. Two engines hum like giganticised bumblebees. A glass-and-metal tub like a fish bowl sporting two machine guns, one of which is firing off green tracers. a tapering waist and then the smaller "wings" of the stabilizers. The massive bulk of a Heinkel bomber descends before us, tracers ripping around us towards foes unseen. Red tracers fire back from behind in a duel of light and lead.
Suddenly a convergence of tracers and a large explosion at the bomber's tapering waist. The beast begins a final dive, smoke tendrils writing a death note in the sky.
Three Hawker Hurricanes buzz by overhead, the rugged old workhorses of the RAF.
We zoom forth to the flight leader. "Take that, you Gerry Bludgers!" Against protocol he executes a 1G barrel roll without spilling a drop of his Earl Grey.
"Jolly good show, Old Boy!" calls a wingman.
"Pip pip!"
"Hear hear!"
"Other stereotypical English saying!"
The first wingman says, "Looks like the pints are on you, Old Bean!"
"Quite!" comes the reply. "And not a moment too soon. This Earl Grey has much to be desired. I had to use honey, sugar being in short supply. Rations, you know."
"War is hell, what?"
The three Hawkers fly off into the north while below us the doomed Heinkel falls to a fiery death, screaming its symbolic representation of the end of the Luftwaffe's iron dreams, and perhaps those of the Reich itself.
But above, in the transdimensional possibilities of time and space, something...some-things...watch, and do not approve...
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Das Fußanmerkungs:
(Yes! MORE bad transliteration! Suffer, fools!)
1 - No really. Quite serious here. By the way, I have some lovely new beachfront land for sale on the Hawaiian Island of Loihi. Great deals! Beat the rush!! Act now!!!
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But, on the other side of the English channel...
Our travels take us south, now, past white chalk cliffs and over the cold gray waters of the channel, across fields and hedgerows to a sprawling but fair city who nestles along the Seine like a Mademoiselle reclining seductively in a chaise lounge.
Occupied Paris. The city of art, wine, and song now subjugated beneath the steel-shod boots of the Reich.
Observe: the Eiffel Tower rising up in Freudian might. Down a tree-lined rue in feminine counterpoint: a stone arch to former military glory, now laying defiled, her honor taken by jackbooted thugs from the east.
But our travels take us to a large but beautiful building, a former palace now the command headquarters for the occupying army.
Inside, now, through stone and plaster to a fortified basement, where the Nazi leaders enact a ritual as old as bureaucracy: the Placing of the Blame.
They sit around in sharp-cut uniforms of gray and brown. All save for one menacing figure, tall and thin in a uniform black as death. He stares, rat-faced, through circular glasses. His right arm reaches out in menace, his index finger and thumb held apart, a sideways "I'm crushing your head" gesture.
"You have failed us for the last time, Kesselring!"
Marshal Kesselring emits a squeaky choke sound as he fumbles with his collar. He stumbles, coughs a few times, and spits out a prodigious lung cookie into a convenient spittoon with the obligatory *ding*. "Sorry, a bit congested. The French air, you know. Reichsminister, what is with the fingers?"
"This is to tell you that the Fuhrer is that close to having you shot for incompetence! Riechsmarshall Goering. Explain this failure!"
All eyes turn to the rolling bulk of the Luftwaffe's head. "Whaa naa chuu ka ta, Himmler?" he says in a deep resonate voice.
"The Reichsmarshall says that things are progressing well. It was an intelligence failure!" translates a timid young man in a gold uniform and thick spectacles. "He says that the RAF is surely close to destr..."
"Do not quibble, Reichsmarshall! The Fuhrer demands sucess and you did not bring it! Never underestimate the dark side of his temper!"
"Whaa cho ko no ko, se fuuu gaaah nuuu! Ahh haa haa haa!"Goering says, jerking the chain of his strudel-haired slave wench.
"Ahahahahaha!" adds the gremlin-like critter on his shoulder.
"Um," begins the timid translator, "The Reichsmarshal wishes to tell the Reichsminister to...ahem...'stick his...'"
"Heil Hitler!" screams a guard. All turn to see the Fuhrer and his beau Eva Braun enter the room. Like automata they spring forth with a matching "Heil Hitler."
"Enough blathering!" whines the Fuhrer, his voice whistling through his pinched nose. "We must...no shall defeat the hated British so we can deal with the Jewish Bolshevik menace! Besides, I promised Eva she's shop at Piccadilly this fall."
"Like you promised we'd spend our days in Paris together?" she snipped, a snide edge to her spoiled-brat voice. "You said we'd have brunch at a cafe, but I never ever see you!"
"Umm...we'll talk about this later! Besides, I'm very busy, what with the war and all..."
"You still manage to find time with Hans your personal trainer! Would you beleive they wrestled for three hours? Funny thing: it seems my Dolfy is a bad wrestler. Hans had him pinned on his stomach most of the time!"
"Oh, Heil me...Eva, dear? Darling? Leibchen? Could you leave us for a minute, please?" She went off, whining about "never going anywhere anymore"
"Now!" yelled the Fuhrer, his old burning power visible to all again. "You will explain to me why Seelöwe must be postponed!"
"It's the fault of the Luftwaffe!" yelled Admiral Raeder.
"It's the fault of the Kreigsmarine!" yelled Kesselring.
"Wha na choo tu naa Intelligence!" grunted Goering.
"Enough!" Who will fix this mess?" the Fuhrer yelled in all his savage power.
There was much silence and looking-away. Finally the silence was broken.
"Allow the Gestapo its turn, mein Fuhrer!" said Himmler. We have...alternate methods! There is a power, a dark force, if you will, so ancient and strong that none shall stop it. It is the might known to Wagner and our Aryan ancestors. Allow my people to call upon these ancients and victory shall be within our grasp!" His black-gloved hand made a fist in emphasis.
Hitler thought for a second. Fuck it. Can't hurt.
"Very well, Reichsminister. You may pursue your...alternative methods!"
"Thank you, master..."
Nu, vill ni att jag ska fortsätta att kopiera? Och vad tyckte ni?
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