Field Marshal fLeidsil’s crisp gate belies her nearly 7 decades of service. Only a slight limp is evident from a half century old shrapnel wound received fighting the fFrench near Metz.

One pace behind follows General Trouser, 30 years her junior. A present day heroine following in the steps of an aging legend. They pass through reinforced doors and enter into an underground conference room.

The field Marshsal’s staff awaits beside a large map table decorated with colored flags. Also attending is General Heinnriette Juggernaut. The Kommandet of the 1st Panzet Armee. Another of the propaganda ministry’s rising stars…

Off to the side stands fFräut fFixen, personal advisor to die Angstchen. General Trouser recognizes her from newspaper photos.

After brief formal introductions, the field Marshal’s staff commences with the presentation.

It’s a well rehearsed affair outlining a major military campaign. Code named Operation HELGAROSSA. The plan details a massive invasion of the United States of Manmerica, scheduled to begin next May. Attack frontages will extend from Sfwitzerland in the north to the Mexican Federal Republic in the south. Axis forces from RoFräuia and Kalifinnlund will assist in the attack. The initial invasion front will exceed 1200 kilometers!…

The blood drains from General Trouser’s face as the briefing begins to detail troop deployments and initial objectives.

"Are they completely mad? They’ve taken her little "map exercise" for a 5 division preemptive raid into Texas and turned it into a vast offensive monstrosity that will consume the efforts of the entire Fräutwehr and Luftkrieg for at least 2 full years… assuming everything proceeds according to plan!"

LATER…

Alone in Glitchen’s small private office, General Trouser and Fräut fFixen sip coffee.

"I concur that this is a dangerous gamble, but die Angstchen is adamant… so we must all do our best to see it through to a successful conclusion. My main worry is the petrol reserves. Operations on this scale will quickly outpace production."

"I’m a Fräuten Officet, I follow orders– regardless of their merit. I would however like to make a suggestion for you and the other members of the planning staff. Start preparing for a lengthy, two front war…"

Another tear falls upon the white paper directly in line with Blair’s next word. His writing has stopped, waiting for the paper to dry. It will be lights out shortly so Blair is forced to continue through the dampness. The ink bleeds but the text is still somewhat legible.

"I know’d you ain’t said you’d be my girl, but I feel like you’re the only one I could ever really talk to.
It’s so lonely here and everyone treats me poorly. I seem to be the unluckiest soldier in the whole outfit. Just yesterday I got clubbed in the face during rifle drill. Sergeant Clay said it was an accident… darn near broke my nose off, and today Sergeant Synder put me back on kitchen duty, said my footlocker wasn’t lined up just so… I can’t remember the last time I had more than an hour of a sleep in one gulp… I do wish you’d write me a letter. It would sure go a long way toward lifting my tattered spirits…"

"Doris, you’ve got another letter from that Louden boy."

"Oh!, just put it in the wicker basket, I’ll read it later. I’ve got to get ready and I’m already running late…"

"I suppose you’re going to spend more time with that fly boy from over by the airdrome?"

"Fly boy has a name you know, you’ve been introduced! And yes, Lt. Hansome, said he’d pick me up at 7:00 sharp."

"You best be careful little lady. I’ll wager he’s got more on his mind than the wild blue yonder! I just knew when they built that damn Army air base there was gonna be trouble!"

"Stop your worrying, I’m a big girl… and he always treats me like a perfect gentleman."

The full moon traces across an iron cold night. The guests begin to take their leave.

Fräut Boring and cousin Alice bid formal farewells on the marble steps of the main courtyard.

After the last of the guests have left, one of the servant boys is escorted into the upper chambers and the thick wooden doors are locked behind him. Alice finds the champagne a little too potent for her adolescent constitution and terminates the evening activities sprawled on the floor in alcoholic slumber.

Moeche is on the prowl, police manacles at the ready, searching the bed chambers for her young prey.

She favors the taste of fear in their blood.

Once he’s been properly secured, she’ll present him to Auntie Boring and the real entertainment will commence.

The oak banquet table awaits with vintage silverware and linens. For tonight’s festivities two new and very young replacement servants stand at the ready. Fräut Boring has sent Karl and Dieter, her usual courtesans, off to Das Kapital for an overnight shopping excursion.

Perhaps the taller one might later be enlisted to help satisfy Fräut Boring’s– "end of evening appetites". After all, she has always had a fondness for veal… if properly prepared.

The ceremony begins. Cousin Alice makes her entrance displaying the freshly severed Hunker head upon a tray of bronze. Her blood splattered tunic displays the fruits of her recent ritualistic handy work.

Fräut Boring presents a toast to the young teen who stands before the seat of honor. The guests, wearing black formal jackets with a stark white, blood soaked left sleeves, raise their crystal goblets and drink to the glory of the gore and the accession of the Mädchen to Fräuten. The feast begins.

After dinner cordials are later served in the library. Within the oak panels of this smoke filled room have gathered a most select group of the fReich’s wealthy elite. Fräut fPropellenspiner the aircraft magnate relates, "All of our production is being directed to dive bombers and fighter types. Long range bomber development has been put on hold…"

Fräut fGebombenmachter, heir to the family armaments conglomerate mentions, "We’ve received orders to double our output of antitank and artillery rounds and triple our machine gun and rifle ammunition production…"

Baroness fDieselmotive the railroad and automotive industry oligarch adds, "Our auto factories are being converted for panzer wagon production and our rail capacity is currently moving military units to the eastern frontier."

Fräut fFixen listens in depressed silence. How long before the Brifish intelligence service fit these pieces together?

The Brifish will then surely warn the Manmericans…

It’s 3:00 AM and Governor Vermin is in the restroom.
All night long he’s been losing fluids. Mostly sweat. A little saliva during the concession speech,
and now his tears.

Two Texas Ranger body guards stand mute sentry in front of the men’s room door. The pitiful sounds of the most powerful man in Texas weeping like an orphaned infant echo off the cinder block walls within.
Between the two men, Vivian leans against the door, smoking a cigarette.
When the sobbing stops, she’ll pass beyond… and extract a little additional fluid from the Governor.
Experience has shown that he’ll be a lot easier to deal with after that.
Out at the bar, the barkeep tells Wyden “We’re all out of sodee pop,”
they’ll tell him they’re out of water too, when he changes his order…
Wyden now thinks it’s time for this “fancy-ass picture taker” to leave the establishment and head back to the hotel.

There’s no reason to stay, he’s gotten the shots he’s needed. Buella will no doubt love the concession speech shots. “Froth doth fly…” Wyden chuckles to himself as he flags one of the last remaining cabs.

It’s well after four when Wyden opens the door to his room to find the telephone ringing. It’s Buella.
“I’m so glad I got through to you, You need to get to the train station immediately! I’ve had the newsroom reserve you a ticket on the 6:10 express to Indianapolis. Seems there was a Women’s Right to vote rally up there last night! It got ugly… The police waded into them with shotguns and clubs.

“I want to run a full blown photo essay on the Women’s struggle for voting rights in the frontier states. Perhaps you can win us another journalism award with those marvelous pictures of yours!”

Wyden is asleep before his head touches the headrest. The coach rumbles north through Tennessee and Missouri, bound for the Indiana state line.

It’s game time…

All the work. All the money. All the back room deals…
Tonight it all plays out. In the morning there’ll be winners… and losers. This one’s a real toss-up. It’s going to go down to the wire.

The Old Man and Antiem have had their ears glued to the telephone. Been like that all night. The party lackies are about to wet their pants, and Templeton with that pit bull Pedal both look like they had raw pork for lunch.

I prefer good bourbon. It keeps me from losing my perspective and it’s going to be a long night.

Sometime around two the returns from rural Missouri come in.
There’s a loud shout from the men huddled around the black board. BMF has dropped the phone. He and Anteim embrace…
Shit, I never thought I’d see that!

Klensor, that gangly goon, has actually saved our bacon. He pulled in the frontier vote. Damn if we didn’t steal this election right out from under Ole Vermin’s ass!
I bet right about now he’s frothing at the mouth!

The excitement is starting to build. Cheering and confetti start to fill the hall. I walk over to the corner where Templeton and Pedal have been camped-out all night. I have been saving some decent stogies for just this sort of occasion.

"Congratulations mister Vice President Elect, have a cigar."

He looks shell shocked, "I don’t think it’s sunk in yet," he manages to stammer out. "T-Thank you, b-but I don’t smoke…"

Before I can retract my offer, that little weasel Pedal snatches the stogie from my hand. He looks me square in the eye and says, "Hell, I’ll smoke the damn thing, got a light?"

Agenda dresses for the rally.

Early November winds buffet the north windows of the librarian’s 3rd floor walk-up. The cheap bastard landlord has yet to fire up the boiler. It’s above freezing on the inside of the glass, but just barely.

Agenda Jones pays the weather little heed. She has donned her suffragette’s uniform. Made of wool, with long sleeves and a full length pleated skirt, it provides ample proof against the winter chill.

Librarian and covert recruiter for the cause by day, activist and secret lover by night, Miss Jones finds the peril of her clandestine duality powerfully arousing.

Tonight she must look perfect…
for the noble cause, for her sisters, and especially for… Annabell.

The street banner stands at the ready. Tonight it will be carried with pride.

The planned march will take them down Indiana Street from the park to the square. There, in front of the monument, they would rally, making speeches and singing till the dawn. This year they vowed not to allow the police goons with their clubs to intimidate them. They would hold their ground! Tonight they would be heard!

Unbeknownst to the council, the police chief has ordered every third member of the riot squad to be equipped with a shotgun… just in case the clubs no longer have their desired effect.

Moeche in the morning.

The ride characteristics of a mark III panzet fall short of the comfort of Moeche’s Mercedes coupe.

Her tank platoon rolls through colored smoke in a play battle. They are rehearsing an assault upon a
"fortified enemy village".

The Majoret spent most of last night mapping out the brigade’s attack routes.
She aspires to someday wear general’s epaulets.

Moeche’s far to hung-over to bother with maps, she has all she can do just to hang on to the turret ring.

Suddenly, out of the smoke the Majoret rolls up in her scout car.
"Were the doodle have you been? You’re ten minutes late! This sort of incompetence gets people killed!"

Moeche manages a half-hearted salute. "Jawohl, meine Majoret, we experienced mechanical difficulties."

"Difficulties, what manner of difficulties?"

Abruptly the turret side hatch opens and korporalet Grötessa explosively empties the contents of her stomach all over the side of the panzet. The bile permeated bouquet sends a spasm of nausea boiling up the back of Moeche’s throat.

"What the hell is this?", shrieks the Majoret.
Repressing her own gag reflex with remarkable success, Moeche calmly replies,"Vomit, meine Majoret".