MARCH HARE pt.2
anonymous
July 3 2009, 14:23:41 UTC
She was munching on some ancient bread she found in the kitchen. It must have been lying there for several days, but she was so hungry that she could chow her arm of. She did not manage to eat anything yesterday. If she tried to she would be spectacularly sick. “It was baked back then when I was still my own country,” she realized. “Yes for the freedom bread!” She was getting nuts, but it felt good, far better than that emptiness that paralyzed her for months now.
The phone rang. She groaned and went to pick the blasted thing up. It was only bad news lately. “Tchécoslovaquie?” Oh. Sweet France. “Yes?” She was surprised by the sound of her own voice. Kind of croaky whisper. “Are you all right? Why aren't you answering the phone? I've been calling you for past few hours.” He was frantic. She half-expected him to scold her like a dad whose kid came home from a party gently kissed by the rosy dawn instead at 11 p.m. “I was asleep,” she answered stupidly. “I thought Germany... Did he hurt you?” Well, what could she said to that? Don't worry. He occupied my vital regions and lured my brother away. He completely humiliated me and dragged me along to show him around the Prague castle and whatnot. By the way do you remember Mucha? That guy who drew the posters for you? Gestapo arrested him. I have no control over what happens to my people anymore. The synagogues are on fire... By the way, if I had slept with you, would you have kept me? But they were listening. She was sure of it. Somewhere they were taking neat notes for a neat report for überneat Germany. Her throat managed: “It is Böhmen und Mähren now.” She cringed at her new name. Germany was smart when it came to conquests. With a new name comes new identity which in her case involved a swollen eye, empty stomach and tongue that wasn't working properly. “Ma fille, please, don't…,” his voice was so full of concern and shame that she had to take a deep breath and clutch her chest with her free hand. “I am so sorry.” “If you wish to speak to Slovensko, ask Germany for his new number,” she croaked back. “And, please, do not call this line again.”
She put the receiver down and hoped that France got the hint and Germany did not. She must find a safe way to send messages. Her old boss fled to England, some of her people grabbed what they could and ran and flew away to Poland and then further east or west. The war was coming, though later than she expected. England, she must talk to him. She just did not know how to do that without shouting.
Re: MARCH HARE pt.2
anonymous
July 3 2009, 19:10:07 UTC
Yes more Slav stories! Czechoslovakian history is so interesting to portray, and you did that more than well Anon! You also get a thousand extra points for mentioning Mucha..! He was such a genius
Re: MARCH HARE pt.3
anonymous
July 12 2009, 11:58:54 UTC
There was someone banging on the front door. She froze at first, but then she assumed that things could not get much worse anymore. She opened the door and immediately made to close it again, but a black boot blocked it and… yep, things could get much much worse.
The German officer made his way inside the house and gave her worryingly toothy grin. His red eyes rested on her swollen one gleefully. No matter how many times the bastard gets dissolved, annexed, mashed like a potato, Weillschmidt will always be back somehow. At the world's end it will be just him and cockroaches. Oh, finally, what a heartwarming friendship it will be!
She steeled herself for some heavy gloating. “I mustn't snap! I mustn't!” “Well well well, if it isn't the little Hussite, all alone and abandoned!” She winced. Alliteration, that was plain mean. Weillschmidt invited himself over to the living room and his boots left a muddy trail on the carpet. “What is it that makes everyone run away from you?” She had to admit that he had a point.
A man in his fifties and a girl who was many centuries older stood in front of the airplane. “So you are leaving too,” she stated the obvious, because there was nothing else to say. Her boss looked helpless. A soldier approached them and urged him to get on the board. “I am afraid I wouldn't live long if I stayed,” her boss answered tiredly. “You are smart and brave,” he told her. She snorted at that. “Germany fancies himself a conqueror, but you are a survivor,” he continued urgently. “This is important. Don't forget it and keep your wits. I will do everything to restore Czechoslovakia.” With a final nod he got on and the door closed shut. She watched the plane disappear.
She pointed out: “I have got a doorbell, you know?” “I prefer my trusty fist.” Weillschmidt was practically bouncy. “Right. Then I should get that very heavy metal door with spikes.” “Maybe, you'll get on sooner than you think,” he stepped closer and his grin in an instant turned from jubilant to predatory. She tried to stand her ground and failed. He was too close and it was painfully obvious how tall he was. Before there had always been a fortress or wagon walls between them. She could smell his sweat, a hint of petrol and something else that made her wish for a gun or at least a flail. Keep your wits. She stepped back and opted for casual conversation. “What do you want?” “Brother wants to see you, so I am picking you up, Protectorate,” he ruffled her hair. “And I brought you your post.” He thrust a heap of letters in her hand. “The courtesy of Deutschland, I see.” She shuffled through them. Same stamps, same sender. “Where's the rest?” “Hmm, seems the postman dropped some in the gutter,” Weillschmidt shrugged, “when I dropped him.” “Gotta check the Czech,” he continued inspired. Nothing compares to Prussia in the morning. Prussia in the morning should be outlawed by an international convention. “No wonder everyone is so scared of you. Your jokes make one weep bitter tears of sorrow,” she told him amicably. Suddenly there was a heavy hand on her shoulder. “Let's see,” he leant closer and murmured in her ear, “if I can make you weep harder than the Bolshevik did.” She stiffened and Prussia swooned: “Oh, Ivan - sniff − You were right - sob − We should have fought.” They were so bugging her phone.
Re: MARCH HARE pt.4
anonymous
July 12 2009, 12:39:24 UTC
“Amazing how he can give you a swollen eye,” the glove touched the side of her face and Weillschmidt's thumb brushed her eyelid, “by phone.” She retreated behind the table and set the letters down. Prussia however pressed his advance. “Did you hope that he would gallop in on a white horse to rescue you?” “Rather on a red one,” she made a strategic move North-West, but her line of retreat was cut mercilessly as he gripped her arm and her personal space screamed for enforcements. “Didn't work out that well.” Weillschmidt held her tight. “Now you belong to us.” She wasn't fast enough with her left hand. He caught her fist just in time and damn triple damn, his grip was painful. She hissed and his warm breath tickled her hair. “You even look more suitable than your brother. Be a good girl, brush up your German and we might let you play along, Böhmen und Mähren.” Her heart was beating so fast she thought it would explode. “Could please stop monologizing?” His maniacal laugh would come any moment now. Sweat, petrol, fear and control… “Come on, baby! Try some basic phrases. Like “Ich bin geil. Helfen Sie mir”. The phone rang and this time she would kiss it and profess her undying love for it. Prussia turned irritably and answered it. She made a move to the strategic position next to the lamp with the solid wooden stand. “Ja, natürlich, Bruder. Ich nehm sie mit!” Germany, the saviour of her honour. The world turned surreal. “Yeah, I was just monologizing on her!” Prussia smirked. “Sure. Picking her up. Easy.” He slammed the receiver down. “Spoil-fuck.” The sky was grey and morose. The street was grey and morose. It was drizzling and the chilling air bit her face when she stepped out on the front path in her fittingly grey and morose coat. There was a large black motorbike with a sidecar parked in front of her house. “Isn't she a beauty?” said Weillschmidt as he passed her on the way down. He patted the bike affectionately and the girl was wondering what he was compensating with it.
She grudgingly accepted his helmet. It is not like she had any pride left and there was a chance no one would recognize her when she was half-hiding in the sidecar. As they passed the people on the streets she was even glad to have the night pot on her head because they looked like they would spit on them. Most of the walkers looked empty-eyed, desperate or angry. There were some who raised their right hands to greet the albino officer and she realized that it did not hurt like it used to. She did not care.
The sodding helmet turned out to be actually handy as they drove on merrily through the streets of Prague. “Get the fuck out of my way, you ponce! Wrong lane, you sod!” “You are driving on the right!” she shouted at Weillschmidt over the roar of the motor and gripped the edge of the sidecar. She hoped that the freedom bread will stay in her digestive system. “Debile,” she adds under her breath. “Exactly!” “We are driving on the left!” They were going to die. She imagined the headlines. Two nations killed in Prague! (In a bike crash, the losers!) Rivals in life, united in death! Das Reich mourns and celebrates in his unique monstrous way! “Not anymore! Germany wants to change that, so adjust yourself.” They avoided a lorry at the last moment and nearly ended inside a tobacconist's. “Have you actually told my people?” “You bet. Rules above all! Scheisse! Piss off or I will pave the fucking street with you, Wichser!” “In German?” “Na klar!” She almost smiled at that. “Explains a lot. Do you think that this tram will avoid us too?”
"the man in his fifties" - president Eduard Beneš, Czechoslovakia was his life project
Prussia makes an appearance because invading and/or annoying Bohemia has been his hobby ever since...ever. He is still sore about the 15th century crusades against the Hussites who kicked his butt and later they teamed up with Poland and Lithuania in the Teutonic Wars to kick his butt again while enjoying the seaside. Beautiful Rides
Ich bin geil. Helfen Sie mir. = I am horny. Help me. Ich nehm sie mit. = I take her with me. Debile. = Imbecile. Na klar! = Sure!
Re: MARCH HARE pt.4
anonymous
July 14 2009, 05:01:40 UTC
As a fellow Czech nerd (SOOOO HAPPY YOU MADE HER FEMALE BTW) Im wondering if you will ride this story out till Ivan comes into the picture? Cause, well... Ivan automaticly makes a story 573 times more awesome (not that you need any help). Plus, a chance for consensual "OMG YOU ARE SO MUCH LESS OF A DICK THAN GERMANY LETS FUCK" and then Czech relising that he is ONE CRAZY MOTHERFUCKER.
The phone rang. She groaned and went to pick the blasted thing up. It was only bad news lately.
“Tchécoslovaquie?”
Oh. Sweet France.
“Yes?” She was surprised by the sound of her own voice. Kind of croaky whisper.
“Are you all right? Why aren't you answering the phone? I've been calling you for past few hours.”
He was frantic. She half-expected him to scold her like a dad whose kid came home from a party gently kissed by the rosy dawn instead at 11 p.m.
“I was asleep,” she answered stupidly.
“I thought Germany... Did he hurt you?”
Well, what could she said to that? Don't worry. He occupied my vital regions and lured my brother away. He completely humiliated me and dragged me along to show him around the Prague castle and whatnot. By the way do you remember Mucha? That guy who drew the posters for you? Gestapo arrested him. I have no control over what happens to my people anymore. The synagogues are on fire... By the way, if I had slept with you, would you have kept me?
But they were listening. She was sure of it. Somewhere they were taking neat notes for a neat report for überneat Germany.
Her throat managed: “It is Böhmen und Mähren now.” She cringed at her new name. Germany was smart when it came to conquests. With a new name comes new identity which in her case involved a swollen eye, empty stomach and tongue that wasn't working properly.
“Ma fille, please, don't…,” his voice was so full of concern and shame that she had to take a deep breath and clutch her chest with her free hand. “I am so sorry.”
“If you wish to speak to Slovensko, ask Germany for his new number,” she croaked back. “And, please, do not call this line again.”
She put the receiver down and hoped that France got the hint and Germany did not. She must find a safe way to send messages. Her old boss fled to England, some of her people grabbed what they could and ran and flew away to Poland and then further east or west. The war was coming, though later than she expected. England, she must talk to him. She just did not know how to do that without shouting.
Jan Žižka - a one-eyed leader of Hussites during religious wars in 15th century http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jan_%C5%BDi%C5%BEka
Alfons Mucha - famous Art Nouveau painter http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mucha
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The German officer made his way inside the house and gave her worryingly toothy grin. His red eyes rested on her swollen one gleefully. No matter how many times the bastard gets dissolved, annexed, mashed like a potato, Weillschmidt will always be back somehow. At the world's end it will be just him and cockroaches. Oh, finally, what a heartwarming friendship it will be!
She steeled herself for some heavy gloating. “I mustn't snap! I mustn't!”
“Well well well, if it isn't the little Hussite, all alone and abandoned!” She winced. Alliteration, that was plain mean. Weillschmidt invited himself over to the living room and his boots left a muddy trail on the carpet. “What is it that makes everyone run away from you?”
She had to admit that he had a point.
A man in his fifties and a girl who was many centuries older stood in front of the airplane. “So you are leaving too,” she stated the obvious, because there was nothing else to say. Her boss looked helpless. A soldier approached them and urged him to get on the board.
“I am afraid I wouldn't live long if I stayed,” her boss answered tiredly. “You are smart and brave,” he told her. She snorted at that. “Germany fancies himself a conqueror, but you are a survivor,” he continued urgently. “This is important. Don't forget it and keep your wits. I will do everything to restore Czechoslovakia.” With a final nod he got on and the door closed shut.
She watched the plane disappear.
She pointed out: “I have got a doorbell, you know?”
“I prefer my trusty fist.” Weillschmidt was practically bouncy.
“Right. Then I should get that very heavy metal door with spikes.”
“Maybe, you'll get on sooner than you think,” he stepped closer and his grin in an instant turned from jubilant to predatory.
She tried to stand her ground and failed. He was too close and it was painfully obvious how tall he was. Before there had always been a fortress or wagon walls between them. She could smell his sweat, a hint of petrol and something else that made her wish for a gun or at least a flail. Keep your wits. She stepped back and opted for casual conversation. “What do you want?”
“Brother wants to see you, so I am picking you up, Protectorate,” he ruffled her hair. “And I brought you your post.” He thrust a heap of letters in her hand.
“The courtesy of Deutschland, I see.” She shuffled through them. Same stamps, same sender. “Where's the rest?”
“Hmm, seems the postman dropped some in the gutter,” Weillschmidt shrugged, “when I dropped him.”
“Gotta check the Czech,” he continued inspired. Nothing compares to Prussia in the morning. Prussia in the morning should be outlawed by an international convention.
“No wonder everyone is so scared of you. Your jokes make one weep bitter tears of sorrow,” she told him amicably.
Suddenly there was a heavy hand on her shoulder.
“Let's see,” he leant closer and murmured in her ear, “if I can make you weep harder than the Bolshevik did.” She stiffened and Prussia swooned: “Oh, Ivan - sniff − You were right - sob − We should have fought.”
They were so bugging her phone.
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Prussia however pressed his advance. “Did you hope that he would gallop in on a white horse to rescue you?”
“Rather on a red one,” she made a strategic move North-West, but her line of retreat was cut mercilessly as he gripped her arm and her personal space screamed for enforcements.
“Didn't work out that well.” Weillschmidt held her tight. “Now you belong to us.” She wasn't fast enough with her left hand. He caught her fist just in time and damn triple damn, his grip was painful. She hissed and his warm breath tickled her hair. “You even look more suitable than your brother. Be a good girl, brush up your German and we might let you play along, Böhmen und Mähren.”
Her heart was beating so fast she thought it would explode. “Could please stop monologizing?” His maniacal laugh would come any moment now. Sweat, petrol, fear and control…
“Come on, baby! Try some basic phrases. Like “Ich bin geil. Helfen Sie mir”.
The phone rang and this time she would kiss it and profess her undying love for it. Prussia turned irritably and answered it. She made a move to the strategic position next to the lamp with the solid wooden stand.
“Ja, natürlich, Bruder. Ich nehm sie mit!” Germany, the saviour of her honour. The world turned surreal.
“Yeah, I was just monologizing on her!” Prussia smirked. “Sure. Picking her up. Easy.” He slammed the receiver down. “Spoil-fuck.”
The sky was grey and morose. The street was grey and morose. It was drizzling and the chilling air bit her face when she stepped out on the front path in her fittingly grey and morose coat.
There was a large black motorbike with a sidecar parked in front of her house. “Isn't she a beauty?” said Weillschmidt as he passed her on the way down. He patted the bike affectionately and the girl was wondering what he was compensating with it.
She grudgingly accepted his helmet. It is not like she had any pride left and there was a chance no one would recognize her when she was half-hiding in the sidecar. As they passed the people on the streets she was even glad to have the night pot on her head because they looked like they would spit on them. Most of the walkers looked empty-eyed, desperate or angry. There were some who raised their right hands to greet the albino officer and she realized that it did not hurt like it used to. She did not care.
The sodding helmet turned out to be actually handy as they drove on merrily through the streets of Prague.
“Get the fuck out of my way, you ponce! Wrong lane, you sod!”
“You are driving on the right!” she shouted at Weillschmidt over the roar of the motor and gripped the edge of the sidecar. She hoped that the freedom bread will stay in her digestive system. “Debile,” she adds under her breath.
“Exactly!”
“We are driving on the left!” They were going to die. She imagined the headlines. Two nations killed in Prague! (In a bike crash, the losers!) Rivals in life, united in death! Das Reich mourns and celebrates in his unique monstrous way!
“Not anymore! Germany wants to change that, so adjust yourself.” They avoided a lorry at the last moment and nearly ended inside a tobacconist's.
“Have you actually told my people?”
“You bet. Rules above all! Scheisse! Piss off or I will pave the fucking street with you, Wichser!”
“In German?”
“Na klar!”
She almost smiled at that.
“Explains a lot. Do you think that this tram will avoid us too?”
"the man in his fifties" - president Eduard Beneš, Czechoslovakia was his life project
Prussia makes an appearance because invading and/or annoying Bohemia has been his hobby ever since...ever. He is still sore about the 15th century crusades against the Hussites who kicked his butt and later they teamed up with Poland and Lithuania in the Teutonic Wars to kick his butt again while enjoying the seaside.
Beautiful Rides
Ich bin geil. Helfen Sie mir. = I am horny. Help me.
Ich nehm sie mit. = I take her with me.
Debile. = Imbecile.
Na klar! = Sure!
Reply
Cause, well... Ivan automaticly makes a story 573 times more awesome (not that you need any help). Plus, a chance for consensual "OMG YOU ARE SO MUCH LESS OF A DICK THAN GERMANY LETS FUCK" and then Czech relising that he is ONE CRAZY MOTHERFUCKER.
Reply
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