June 6th, 2009, a heavily sedated James Gordon Brown returned to The Bunker from Normandy. He stomped down the concrete steps, his now constant and nasty expression set firm. In his hand he clutched a photograph of a young Winston Churchill look-alike that just showed a Scottish name, Fraser. The picture had been daubed with red ink crosses.
His mood was further blackened by the glimpse of elegant high heels as he had swept through the front door, glowering nastily and superiorly at a working class plod guarding that famous but now infamous door. He had screamed at his butler, Heinz Linge to instruct any remaining females to be retained during these final days, not to wear stilettos but rather the brogues favoured of the women supervisors in the camps.
He reached the bottom of the steps to see gathered before him the last remnants of his defeated and discredited Regime.
At their head stood our now familiar serpent, Albert Speer like figure. “Welcome, dear Adol…James,” hissed the scarlet draped, haughty creature. “Hmmph, are they all here?” asked their Fuhrer. “Yessss…” was the unctuous reply. A Bormann like creature stepped forward, surrounded by a boyish female, already in flat shoes and children. “I’ve brought the family too,” mumbled the blinking, silly grinned and rotund fat cat, bowing slightly in deference as he spoke. Within this group of sycophantic loyalists were some familiar faces and some newish ones. “Gunsche”, the nickname he had given McBride hovered, “Sugar” Himmler waited at the side of the gaping, heavy steel, gas proof door, not knowing what was expected of him other than as a crutch to the waning ego of this grotesque excuse of an unelected, unwanted, unloved Prime Minister. “Goebbels” Woodward had been reported as hiding in a German Alpine resort, garden spa, entertaining the rump of the old guard, many of them women.
As he barged into his beloved bunker he shouted in a croaked, halting scream “Have Ritter Kinnock and his Glenys Reitsch made it?” “No” replied “Sugar”, “They’ve been delayed at the bank, apparently”. “Greedy buggers”, raged Jimmy. “Close the fucking door and fetch “Schaub” Bradshaw, I need some relaxation”. The massive door clanged shut.
Alone, he rapidly threw his crumpled clothes to the already littered floor. On the just visible and dimly lit wall was a huge tactical map of The UK. It was a total swathe of deep blue, the cloudscape just dotted with a small dash of yellow.
“Schaub” slid through the door, closing it with a barely audible, metallic ring.
“Nappy” he whispered. “Of course” came a croaked response. Helped by “Schaub” he wrapped and pinned the toweling around his flabby girth. With a great roar he leapt onto the rocking horse and began violently to rock backwards and forth thrashing a crop to either side. Stuck to one side of the flanks was a torn picture of a grey haired, long faced, sombre, black eye-browed face. On the other a scarlet robed, soft porn brunette, wearing a smirk noticeable by the slight gap in the upper front teeth.
Outside the door a puzzled “Sugar” Himmler enquired of Bormann Balls, “Is he often like this?” “Every day” answered Sarah “Braun”.
Back in the chamber, “Schaub” had been joined by butler Linge who handed him a piece of paper. As the manic rider got ever more chaotic and violent in his riding, the horse’s snout almost dipping in and out of a trough marked EDF, the two men began the tasks outlined in the document.
They tidied his clothes and hung up the suit. They placed a cover over the sofa, laid a small tin of capsules on the table and two pistols. They tip-toed out of the room. To the gathering in the passageway and to Sarah in particular, they said “It’s time”.
One thing that can be said for sure about Martin Bormann is that most people in or out of the bunker disliked him. Power-hungry and manipulative, he wheedled his way into a powerful position and the good graces of Hitler. Once Hitler was dead, Bormann and everyone remaining in the bunker decided it was time to leave before the Soviets found their hideout, as capturing this group of Third Reich higher-ups would be a prize catch. The plan was to get outside the Soviet ring that encircled Berlin. Creeping through the rubble and empty subway tunnels, the group passed a landscape of gutted buildings, fire and sulfurous clouds. Although in the postwar hysteria rumors circulated that Bormann had escaped and was living a life of luxury in South America, in all probability he was killed during the breakout.
Vaunted but evil ambition personified in the puppy- like adoration of a deranged leader. I swear that when asked to join Hitler's or Brown's "inner circle", they have to have an injection first thing in the morning. A cocktail of delusion and madness.