This was originally published/written in: http://www.comicvine.com/forums/fan-fic-8/the-writers-guild-presents-3-28-2014-1549389/#10/
Disclaimer & warning: The 90% people mentioned in this piece are/were real; based slightly off real events but fictionalized. Whilst a story it possibly could offend some people as it is about Nazis, Adolf Hitler and World War 2, though it did end 69yrs ago. This is rated MA+ mainly due to the subject.
Dr Josef Mengele stood quietly as the Institute director, Otmar von Verschuer, looked through his curriculum vitae. He paused to ash his cigarette and glance up at Josef before returning to the pages.
“This is quite Doctor Mengele…” Otmar inhaled the cigarette “Interesting.”
“Thank you.” Mengele nodded.
“You have the Fuhrers stamp of approval,” Otmar closed the folder and reclined back in the chair “And he has given permission for a site in Poland to be used as your facility. He has also,” He flipped through his desk before locating a small blue gift box. “You now have the army rank of captain. Heil Hitler!”
“Heil Hitler!” Mengele threw up the salute.
Dr Mengele looked at his ‘school’; dozens of twins and triplets from the ghettos of Poland. It served him well in his experiments as he infected one twin with say typhoid and used the other as a control agent. His research was closer to barbarism than science but since he was in charge he had total carte blanche.
Taking some notes from the Japanese allies Dr Mengele had injected several boys with a combination of methamphetamine and phenylcyclohexylpiperidine to see if he could increase their mass and strength. So far it had merely increased their aggression as was being demonstrated as the four subjects and their respective twins beat each other like cave men.
“I hope you have some good news for me Josef!” said Hitler as he emerged onto the patio in his pale blue shirt and brown lederhosen carrying a tray of drinks. “I’ve essentially given you Poland to play with!”
Josef smiled and took a glass “Yes my Fuhrer, very good news.”
Hitler paused and looked him dead in the eye. “It had better be.”
The words hung in the air like a pistol to his head. Adolf’s piercing gaze burnt deep into Mengele’s until the good doctor blinked and looked out across the Bavarian hills. “I think I may have something that will brighten your mood my Fuhrer.”
Hitler grunted as he put the tray down. He crouched down and snapped his fingers. From the other side of the terrace, Blondi his Alsatian, bolted towards him. The leader of the Reich hugged his dog and scratched her belly.
“Who amongst the assembled guests here at the Berghof is…expendable.”
Hitler quickly stood, his fingers snapping again and Blondi quickly turning from playful pooch to ready attack dog at his side. “Explain yourself doctor!”
“Who here is of least value to the Reich?”
Adolf scanned the balcony at the people assembled at his home. Albert Speer his highly organised and motivated architect talking with Heinrich Himmler the head of the SS and his number two Reinhard Heydrich. Martin Boorman his own personal secretary and his mistress Eva Braun and her sister Gretl. Karl Dönitz the head of the Navy. Adolf Eichmann who smoked cigars with the bulbous Luftwaffe general Hermann Göring. The rat faced and zealous minister of propaganda Joseph Goebbels who leered at Eva when he thought he was unobserved despite the fact he was married to the long suffering Magda. His personal photographer Heinrich Hoffman. Dr Mengele himself. All were vital…to a degree.
“That one!” Hitler pointed at a cavalry officer standing quietly to the side.
“You!” Mengele yelled over the conversation as he pointed to the man. “What is your name?”
“Becker, sir! Hans Becker!” replied the officer as he threw up an almost instinctive and automatic salute.
“Thank you!” said Mengele as a pair of hands appeared on the balcony. Blondi let out a low growl as Hitler went to shout; Mengele held up his hand.
“Just watch, my Fuhrer.”
The hands shimmied across the balcony ledge then a masked man in black with a Nazi symbol on his chest launched himself high into the air, somersaulting twice before landing in front of a startled Becker. With ruthless efficiency he grabbed the man by the head and snapped his neck. The balcony erupted. Two guards opened fire on him. He easily leapt away from their nervous firing and using Becker as a shield closed the gap. Within seconds the guards were dead.
“Heil Hitler!” roared the man as he removed his mask and stood there like a statue.
“This, my Fuhrer,” said Mengele as he applauded his creation. “This the future!” He looked down and quickly helping the dictator to his feet. “Loyal, efficient, deadly. Commandoes genetically reengineered to serve you.”
Everyone was stunned. Adolf slowly moved towards the man who hadn’t moved. Mengele quietly sipped his champagne.
“Amazing!” said Hitler as he circled him like a shark. “Assassin.”
“Yes my Fuhrer!” barked the six foot tall, blonde haired, blue eyed Adonis.
“Loyal to me you say,” sneered Hitler as he glared at Mengele.
The doctor gulped and gingerly put down the champagne flute. “Yes, my Fuhrer.”
“Is he bullet proof?” asked Hitler as he watched the man do set after set of fingertip pushups in a handstand position.
“No my Fuhrer.” Dr Mengele made some notes on a chart. “He is near the pinnacle of human perfection. I could bore you with the technical details if you wish.”
Adolf waved his hand as he watched the show “Now impressive as he is, how does just one man win me the war?”
Dr Mengele smiled and put a cigarette into his mouth “As you are aware, most of my research has involved twins.”
“Yes, yes.” Hitler said impatiently.
“He has a twin working as an attaché to Churchill in London.”
Mengele blew out a cloud of smoke “Seems during the Great War, Klaus Mueller and his Swedish wife Ingrid had twin boys. Unsure of which side would win each took a boy; Ingrid fled to England whereas Klaus stayed in Berlin. Each boy unaware of each other, it is a fascinating case of nature versus nut…”
“Spare me saga doctor,” growled Hitler.
“As you would’ve been briefed by Himmler, we have cracked the Americans codes. There is a meeting of Churchill, Stalin and Roosevelt in Tehran scheduled in the upcoming months. We have an opportunity to strike a crippling blow.”
Hitler smiled and patted Mengele on the shoulder “This is very good.”
Peter Mullins stood on the corner puffing away on his cigarette. Singapore had just surrendered to the Japanese in what the Prime Minister was calling the “great capitulation”. They had island hopped through Malaysia, now to Singapore. At this rate they’d be in Sydney by June.
Peter checked his watch, it was ten thirty. He had to be back here at four. He dropped his cigarette and went to step on it when a foot did it for him. He looked up and it was like looking in a mirror.
“What the?” exclaimed Peter.
His doppelganger smiled “I will need a haircut.” He cracked Peter in the groin and grabbed his throat as a black car silently pulled up and Peter was dumped inside and they whisked away.
“Is that cripple ready yet?” muttered Stalin to his aide as the Russian leader rattled the ice in his vodka.
“Mr Roosevelt is being set up in the conference room.”
Stalin rolled his eyes and finished his drink “How does a man in a wheelchair lead a nation? And what of the little fat man?”
“Mr Churchill is still an hour away sir,” replied the staffer.
“Do any of the Americans speak Russian?”
“Get me a translator!” growled Stalin as he tossed the empty glass into the fireplace.
“You’ve been pretty quiet Peter.” Winston said through a cloud of cigar smoke as the car jostled about.
“I think I’m getting a cold.”
Winston looked at his aide who wiped his nose and face with a handkerchief. Something was off with him, though he couldn’t tell what. He seemed different. Maybe it was the closeness of the car or the fly by night trip to Iran via Spain which could’ve been blown out of the sky by the dreaded Luftwaffe, but his aide wasn’t himself.
“I’ll be fine sir.” said Peter with a smile that sent a chill up Winston’s spine as they sped towards the Soviet Embassy.
“Welcome comrade fat man!” said Stalin as he greeted Churchill on the steps of the embassy looking at his translator as if daring him to translate it all into English.
“President Stalin.” Winston waved as he climbed the stairs to shake the Russian’s hand. “Does he not speak English?” he muttered to Peter who shrugged.
‘What is the matter with you?” Churchill said through a smile as he greeted the leader of the Soviets. “Shall I make you wait in the car like a spoilt child?”
“Seems the fat one is having trouble with his staff,” said Stalin throwing an arm over Churchill’s shoulder much to his disgust “Ask him if everything is alright?”
“Mr Churchill, is everything okay with your staff?”
Winston walked in awkward step with Stalin “It had better be by the time this meeting starts.”
Stalin glared at Peter before escorting Churchill to the room.
“You look ill Franklin!” stated Churchill as he entered the room to see Roosevelt sipping tea as he perused a map of the world with his two advisors.
“Always a pleasure to see you Winston,” replied Roosevelt he placed the tea to one side.
“Tell the cripple and the fat man I am ready to discuss their ridiculous plans!” bellowed Stalin as he filled the room, the translator cleaning up the language. “Drinks?”
Peter closed the doors behind him and locked them, pocketing the key.
“We are looking for full cooperation and assistance from the Soviet Union,” said Winston as he took the floor speaking deliberately so the translator could speak into Stalin’s ear. “Our three nations in alliance, along with our other allies could turn the tide against Germany.”
“Currently the United States is fighting a war in the Pacific,” added Roosevelt as he moved an American flag across the world map towards Japan. “We have a plan to take out the Japanese that could free up hundreds of thousands of men and resources, but like all things it takes time, time we don’t really have.”
“Tell them the Soviet Union gladly will accept all their proposals, at a price.” Stalin picked up a Soviet flag and placed it on Poland. “The border of Poland shifts to the West. The cripple and the fat man will also support my reign.”
The translator started to speak when Peter began chuckling. Everyone turned towards him.
“What in God’s name is wrong with you Peter?” snapped Winston slamming his hand on the desk.
“My name isn’t Peter,” he spat in accented English “It is Mörder, which is German for…”
“Assassin!” yelled Stalin, his first words ever in English.
“Correct!” and he launched upon them like a tiger in a chicken coop.
To be continued...