It appears as though you have stumbled upon my fanfiction. Just what are you about to face, you may ask? Well, an attempt at producing a story of the so-bad-it's-still-bad variety, a parody, satire-schmatire, you name it. Filled with oh-not-so-clever wordplay, under- and overstatements, deliberately stilted phrases, a lagging pace and meta-references to Italian horror movies. Jabs made at homophobia, patriotism, paedophilia, militarism, chauvinism, fascism and traditionalism. Modelled after a 1969 war flick "The War Devils", now in public domain and available on Youtube. Enjoy (or preferably not) and, please, leave some feedback. Just remember, the worse it is, the better.
"The Heat under the African Soil"
A1
Oberleutnant Heinrich Meinike was one trouble-making individual. His early days spent among the ranks of Hitlerjugend had made him sensitive to little Tunesian boys overwatching his daily washing activities. Which would have been completely innocent, had it not been for the fact that the children would always erupt into a truly obnoxious vocalise, eventually resulting in the deafening "War Devils March" assaulting the ears of a hapless cinemagoer to the point making his eyes bleed, even though they had come solely to scoop some partially undressed Wehrmacht deliciousness. The movie dared criticize considering drilling an ununiformed officer: this is a good start, as it firmly established the confines of the genre.
But the decadence did not end here, naturally. For our Heinrich had his principles all over the place. He claimed to be willing to combat what he playfully referred to as "the anarchy of Communism", which may have served to unsettle the viewing audience at first. However, as it has soon been revealed, this did little to prevent him from traversing the North African desert atop his cutting-edge motorcycle with the movie's theme blasting away at full volume. Even when fully attired, it seemed, he had playfulness on his mind. His external dirt may have been removed, but what resided within the commander of the "Wolf" unit has remained a mystery, especially to his old-guard superior officers, operating under an offensively hetero-evocative "Mädchen" codename...
Unable to fully appreciate such a versatile sharpshooter, the high command unintentionally has granted him a fantastic gift. In an ill-conceived to effort to increase his distance from the more generic hardware, they assigned his outfit a guarding duty near an emplacement of cannons of a spectacularly large caliber. Officially to prevent any attempts at sabotage conducted by the American forces on the eve of yet another insignificant offensive, but the truth was easy to see through. The latest medical examination had revealed Oberleutnant to be affected by the Stendhal syndrome. They conceived a foolish idea of making him shoot straight after being overwhelmed by the sheer size of the most state-of-the-art armour piercing defences. The naivety...
Enter the American Captain George Vincert, a head of a commando unit with a penchant for blowing up sizeable cannons. What a lovely coincidence. Or is it? The Allied intelligence has been in contact with a particularly fancy-dressing Bedouin tribe, the mutual co-operation clearly facilitated by the Captain's dashing boyish looks. Perhaps, however, the interests of the thobe-adorned gentlemen extended far beyond the Allied ranks? Maybe the Americans' presence in this area was actually due to their reports of one extravagant Wehrmacht member? The history books, written by the winners, refuse to shine light on the truth. Even in Italy, the 1969 scholars were still swinging one way, therefore Bitto Albertini, the unsung spaghetti queer cinema pioneer, was truly in the dark in this department.
The hastily thought-up explanation was a mission to disable the aforementioned massive anti-tank weapons. Why would the GI boys want to do that shall remain an eternal mystery, yet this gives a glimpse of the extent of creativity required from the filmmakers. In a valiant attempt at queer symbolism, the operation was codenamed "Red Devil". Undeniably, a reflection of the American commando commander's unrelenting desire to conquer the heart of his German counterpart, the existence of which was imparted to him by his loyal Arab friends. In a subtle critique of imperialism, Captain Vincent's otherwise merry and peaceful boys were to turn into inexplicably trigger-happy automatons. Love has had its darker sides, even if it meant tarnishing the spotless reputation of the US Army.
The American team was deployed into action on the same day that found Oberleutnant and his men wandering aimlessly around the desert in some suspiciously post-WW2-looking vehicles. The relationship between the pack of wolves and its leader has revolved around delightfully exercised submission, one certainly based on mutual appreciation, inhibited only by the prospect of goggling at the glorious guns upon return. It was just a matter of time before the two contrasting concepts of maintaining a chain of command would clash amid a blazing outburst of live ammunition. The clock was ticking, as the Allied command has also strategically placed their Sherman tanks in the rear, their barrels pointed firmly at the GI butts for additional motivational purposes.
The group rendezvous took place at an interesting venue, dilapidated building fragments, most likely stemming from the Colonial period, serving to further illustrate the invasive nature of the United Enslavers. Fire was exchanged passionately between the two sides, the first penetratees already being comforted by the warm sand. The Americans were initially pushed back by the German small-arms cannonade. Captain Vincent inspected the surroundings and, having hastily glanced at map, realized their mission objective was located on the top of a small hill they were now facing. Some more physically able teammates were fitted with explosives and sent to reach its top, the Captain crouching at the bottom, ready to forcefully embrace any of his men, should they get slippery. Covering fire followed suit, as the Germans have now dismounted and were dashing for a safe spot on the ground.
The queermongering has also found its way into the Oberleutnant's mind, as he ordered his men to push ahead, now having noticed a well-shaped figure in an American uniform assisting a careless companion in the distance. Nevertheless, the mountain of bullets leaving the sleek Grease Guns proved a bulge he was not yet ready to climb. The sharply-pointed objects kept kicking up the sand, only occasionally opting to offer additional warmth to a battle-embroiled uniform on the opposite side. Eventually, the selected GIs have set foot on the hill top and, upon seeing a small cavity in the ground with an enormous gun barrel sneering at them with its blackness, tossed all the explosive materials inside. The resulting explosion quashed Heinrich's fantasies, which put him in an understandably enraged state.
He was lying on the ground, pinned down by the unrelenting suppressive fire, his movements further restricted by the ruins scattered all over. He lifted his submachine gun and unleashed a salvo blindly. Little was to be achieved, though, now that the unforthcoming men on the top have joined their comrades in the fiery tormenting. His eye was now focused on the enemy leader, visible through a tiny hole in the structure acting as his protection. The green uniform was now beginning to seize the elevation himself. The Lieutnant's eyes followed every graceful movement of the uniformed body clinging onto a rope. The Captain now turned his head for a brief moment to rejoice at the sight of the prostrate German soldiers, delighted at how his twisted pursuit was unfolding.
The Americans have now began carrying out their Captain's devious plan. The few hands remaining on the ground level have now been prepared to launch their tiny Pineapple Hand Grenades in the direction of the German vehicles, now sitting abandoned in the distance. This display of possessiveness was an admittedly risk-involving one. What if one of the explosive materials found its way into the appealing German commander's throat? Nevertheless, the American was not going to allow his dream to escape unfulfilled. The eternally loyal troops, wishing to avoid butt-perforation by their comrades up above, were now sprinting furiously towards the black cross-adorned automobiles. Well-aimed bursts from the other side could not prevent the tiny objects from engulfing the machines in a fatal eruption of shrapnel.
The force of the impact blew the German officer into temporary unconsciousness. Many of his comrades were nowhere near as fortunate, as their fragments scattered all over were no longer in a shape to admit it. The commando leader has now attained the top and took a glance at the area down below. He scanned the battleground, pleased to see the most targeted Wehrmacht member in a relatively untouched condition. He gave a helping hand to one of his compatriots still lagging behind and proceeded to move down the other side of hill, leaving a smoke-emitting puncture in the ground behind him. A joyous smile has appeared below the two white vertical rectangles residing on his helmet. The fore-play may have been paused, but more adventurousness was definitely in stock.
A2
Thanks to the hastily executed commando operation, the panzer-to-anus intervention was rendered unnecessary. The American armour was now advancing magnificently towards the German lines, undeterred by any spontaneous cannon fire. The commandos were now moving in to regroup with the column to assist it in penetrating the enemy defences. A German reconnaissance plane has happened to be flying over the area, its pilot's attention attracted by the sight of burning vehicles and flame-engulfed limbs resting nearby. Before he could revel in the scene's aesthetic value, the ground below the aircraft became filled with steel behemoths, a white star decorating their fleshless green bodies, trampling the sand-covered surface down below. A panic-filled voice of his crewmate seated behind him has soon filled the German headquarters' radio room.
Only now was Lieutnant Meinike beginning to return to his senses. He slowly raised himself from the prone position to notice a small handful of his companions acting likewise. A half-dozen of intact uniforms was rather ill-equipped to exact passionate vengeance, yet the sight of the friendly khaki-coloured Sherman tanks seemed to increase their level of hopefulness. This was especially the case with their commander, who found himself torn between his sudden loss and the newly-acquired feeling of attraction towards that Grease Gun-wielding bullet-spewer. He rallied his comrades-in-arms and sprinted towards the oncoming column. He was hoping these new-found toys would be enough to impress his dearly despised yet desperately craved Stars and Stripes counterpart.
What followed was a battle sequence whose finesse and subversiveness was unsurpassed for many years that followed. Two lines of a half-dozen tanks of the identical type and somewhat different camouflage were facing each other at a really marginal distance. The thick guns pointed straight at the vehicle opposite, as was the case with the smaller-caliber weapons held by the hands on the ground, positioned tactically in between their metallic friends. Each projectile jettisoned with the same amount of dedication that made scoring a single direct hit impossible despite the closeness. One valiant GI trooper has even managed to mount a khaki horse and proceeded to discipline it with a swift burst right into its hull. Thankfully, not a single armoured brother was harmed,, apart from a random soul ventilated by crossfire and one caterpillar-flattened mannequin.
The glorious status quo was maintained until the plot progression has called for some serious casualties. All in a sudden, as if through some ghastly divine force, the tanks have acquired impeccable accuracy. One German Sherman has fired into a large Ranger group standing glaringly out in the open, scoring some major hits. The American response was equally swift, as a hail of gunfire from a tank-mounted weapon has finally reached a lone exposed infantryman. It was when this stalemate was beginning to diminish that the men under Oberlieutnant Meinike's command have been within the stroking distance of their panzers. The man searched for his preferred target among the line of crouched GIs blasting away, yet he was nowhere to be seen. He did notice a small group separate from the rest and head off sideward and further away, though.
Captain Vincent's commandos were indeed hit quite hard and were now heading for safety, best found in a nearby cave formation. Their supreme gun-blowing training seemingly futile in a confrontation with machines housing a crewful of closeted marksmen. Now reduced to a mere half-dozen, their raiding party was about to enter the darkness-covered earthhole. The Oberlieutnant, seeing the unfolding chaos, realized that this was a strictly now-or-never situation. He sprung into a frenzied run after the vanishing green uniforms, ignoring a bullet that has just entered his body, as his men followed in his footsteps right behind him. The tanks have also decided to become more lively, as the plot dictated them to suddenly start moving backwards and away from each other, given the lack of troops to fire at and the otherwise brilliant director's sad realization of this combat scene clearly going nowhere.
The American group has began their emergency accommodation inside the cave, their leader fully aware of the visit they were about to be paid. The confused expressions on the Captain's subordinates' faces was begging for an explanation. How could they have been beaten at their own game of shooting just too straight to appear decent in his rainbow-blushing eyes. Yet the triumphant look he was now giving them expressed more than a thousand fake cartridges stolen from the prop man's basement. The master strategist facing them frontally knew the usefulness of his men and they themselves were all too pleased to satisfy his needs, especially by getting torn apart by tank shells or barely surviving such a treatment just to be able to serve him yet again.
The unchained wolves were all too contended with their devotion to notice a blood-soaked German uniform sneaking up on their master from behind. The American felt a forced intrusion into his anal cavity, as the Oberlieutnant proceeded to insert his most treasured stick grenade into his adversary. The object stuck there securely, he used it to turn the already aroused GI 180 degrees. Recalling his first Hitlerjugend target practice, he headed for the lips, only to find his own trapped by the finest product of American dentistry. His profusely bleeding head now immobilized, his throat has become an easy prey for the Captain's powerful grasp. Only now did he realize a wound in his upper-left limb, which significantly lowered his defensive capabilities. To add insult to injury, strangulation has never been within his coveted range, so his demise ran the risk of being entirely pleasure-free.
Unfortunately, one underdeveloped secondary GI character, his only characteristic feature being the fact he had endured similar procedures before, has displayed compassion by performing a limp-wristing shoving maneuver on his superior officer. The unwiseness of such an act was quick to dawn on his instantly .45 ACP bullet-violated brain, naturally. Ultimately, landing on one's anus with a hand grenade still lodged inside has ranked among Captain Vincent's least enjoyable experiences. Therefore, he has decided to postpone his post-colonial clutching until a later date, especially given the present feeling of butthurtness. He removed the object and tossed it cautiously to his surviving subordinates, only now catching their breath following such an intense spectating session. The other German soldiers have joined them instantly in this lower-class free-for-all doggedness.
With the superfluous characters now engaged in reciprocal wound licking, the breathless Wehrmacht officer was approached by his sharp-toothed counterpart. The men, having realized their mutual interests, have proceeded to exchange fluid statements regarding their present situation. The Captain revealed to Oberlieutnant Meinike that the latter long been No. 1 on President Roosevelt's "Shoot to Thrill" list. The German opened his blood-drenched mouth in disbelief upon learning of both the Arabs' unsurpassed stalking skills and the US establishment's progressive views. In exchange, he has decided to openly condemn those NSDAP members who not only enjoyed underground manga of the more questionable variety, but also put their ideas into practice.
The subsequent scenes were filled with more completely irrelevant character-enriching dialogue, possibly enforced by the twisted female demographic. Eventually, the newly-formed international commune of brotherly self-appreciation has decided to head back to the American lines. However, their trek through the no man's land has proven unexpectedly challenging, given the harsh shooting conditions typical of the pasta movie industry. Of the 12 actors, only 3 have survived this production stage, the third soul only thanks to Captain's recently-developed affection for his neck. Many aspiring performers have perished as a result of encounters with long-forgotten minefield used in the previous Macaroni Combat epics. The shortage of water and fool have contributed greatly as well. And so has grenade mishandling.
Eventually, the completely disoriented actors have stumbled upon the set used for the German headquarters. The merry trio was on the verge of turning its back on it in unison, until a sudden thought has appeared inside Oberlieutnant Meinike's head. He realized the fate of these shower-admiring children was solely in his hands. This sudden realization has prevented him from succumbing to the decadent mindset exhibited by his American comrades. All of a sudden, it occurred to him that they themselves may be prone to similar children-devouring tendencies, owing to the Italian filmmakers' flair for putting equality into every humanly possible aspect. The honorable officer's heart has suddenly become filled with an instant aversion to the green no-longer-to-be partners-in-crime, as he headed for his countrymen's quarters, surrounded by his deeply conflicted inner ramblings and a visually compelling camera shot worthy a poster artwork.
"No Footprints in the Snowy Inferno"
B1
The passage of time has transported everyone elsewhere, this time into occupied France. In the winter season, which indicated the creators' desire to cash in on "Battle of the Bulge". A middle-aged man, a hunting rifle on his back, was gradually making his way atop a small elevation, knee-deep in the white substance. Having reached the peak, he lay himself down, unzipped his backpack and put out a handy pair of binoculars, now bringing them closer to his eyes. He used them to overwatch a German truck convoy travelling by road down below. Having satisfied his eyes with the sight, he hid the device and embarked on a journey down. The camera hovered ominously over the tracks genuinely left by the man's boots, clearly indicating him to be a character not worthy following anymore.
What was contained inside the passing vehicles was of great importance to Heinrich Meinike. In fact, the very convoy was a result of the now Wehrmacht Major's dedicated efforts. Thanks to his defiance in depriving the Arabic children of innocence, a feat made doable by his conflicted desert-heat encounter, an unforeseen rise in the military hierarchy had been bestowed on him. Nevertheless, in view of his currently far more refined and profound patriotic ideals, he continued to have mixed feeling about his bravery. For the key factor had been his interrupted intercourse and short-lasted interaction with a man who, despite most likely sharing similar views, had dared show interest in the middle-aged man that Heinrich carried on being. The Führer's new 1944 policy has, after all, initiated a fierce offensive against same-sex contact between equally-aged individuals.
In keeping with the new guidelines, Major Meinike, has put his now even more plentiful underdogs on high alert. The intelligence had been flooding them with reports of a renegade fraction within the American high command, displeased with the mundane homoeroticism prevalent among their ranks. According to the nest of blond spies, they had been running a bootlegging operation whose sole focus were the more obscure and morally unsound kraut manga strips. The only problem being their stubborn refusal to indulge in the mutual delectation with their German counterparts. A group of recently captured Allied airmen was being delivered to Major's well-manned and seemingly impenetrable mansion, for one such rebellious American was confirmed to have mingled with the inmates, now only a matter of time before having his cover blown.
Unfortunately, the remainder of the US military had opted to remain loyal to the more traditional values. Worse still, some have continued showcasing a nowadays rare tolerant attitude towards the opposite sex-preferring men! This uncalled-for open-mindedness have allowed one American division to enlist the services of France's top male espionage agent, one with inexplicably straight tendencies. More frighteningly, despite the man's female partner having been thankfully omitted by the script, he also possessed a grown-up daughter. Nevertheless, every cloud was said to have a silver lining, which was indeed true, considering the fact that this US outfit not only happened to be stationed in a close proximity to the area controlled by Major Heinrich, but its commanding officer was none other than the freshly-promoted Major Vincent as well, whose report of his half-successful manhunt had been warmly received by the top brass.
The omni-seeing French spy known solely under his "Luc Enfer" moniker, whose dedication must have stemmed at least from his still unrealized bisexual leanings, has now returned to his daughter-infested château and proceeded to notify his American comrades of his most recent discovery through his concealed radio set. Major Vincent, seated comfortably before his personal transmitter in the GI-filled military barracks, was listening to every word leaving the friendly agent's mouth: the news of yet another high-ranking officer unveiled to have a flair for child-drilling. And worse still, one that could potentially defected to the enemy in pursuit of his sinister urges. The Major's terror intensified as he heard a loud noise render the sweet-sounding French voice silent, for it to be replaced by an all too familiar comforting Teutonic monotone, followed by a loud female squawk just as someone has disconnected the radio on the other side.
The male solidarity wad not bound by orientation. Even though the agent has managed to pass on all the crucial details regarding the German's current mystery man number one and the incoming convoy's destination, rescuing him may have been an interesting experience as well. However, Major realized that the Frenchman, for all his obedience, may not be particularly inclined to leave his captivity accompanied by a spotlessly clean half-dozen of GI boys whose Grease Guns could go off at any minute. Therefore, he has set the course for the spy's dwelling, prepared for the dangerous task of requesting his daughter to join the all-men outfit, even though her usefulness was arguably limited in the homocentric world of the eternal Allies-on-Axis power struggle. Nevertheless, maintaining the purity of the queer ways by purging them of these under-aged influences was a cause worth fighting for using all means necessary.
The Kubelwagen with Major Meinike on its rear seat has just departed from the impressive dwelling, its owner now sprawled uncomfortably on the officer's lap. Such were the war-time limitations of prisoner transport. The Major was just being notified by his headphones-wearing personal driver that the special package had just arrived at the "Wolf" unit's headquarters. Thinking nothing of his wriggling middle-aged captive, he proceeded to lecture the steering wheel-holding man ahead of him on what interrogation techniques he was to transmit over the radio. The former Captain, despite his drastically shifted interests, has remained a man of a very sensitive nature. For instance, unlike his SS counterparts, he has never had to resort to physical violence. A few days' confinement in an enclosed space filled with manga-despising comrades-in-arms would be enough to make every ardent reader crave a more Teutonic companionship.
"Boys, we're picking up Jeanine", the voice of Major Vincent has filled a GI-occupied male-only tavern. A gruelling terror has intruded the hearts of the man's five most dedicated little commandos. However, a blink of his blue eye was quick to reassure them that their Captain's tongue was placed firmly in his cheek. The especially loud sigh of relief came from the same pint-sized soldier who had been the only other American survivor of the North African ordeal. The man was now fingering his constantly irritated neck in anticipation for deployment. The five boys sprung up into action and they hurried towards the sole historically accurate Jeep Willys that the Italian crew had at their disposal. The château's location was an area that was falling into Allied and Axis hand interchangeably, rendering any attempts at stealth needless. A carful of six merry GIs squeezed into each other to the point of falling out would in no way appear alerting to their German foes.
The tormented moans of the Air Force Captain James Steel have made the walls of the "Wolf"'s mansion tremble. The man had successfully convinced his co-prisoners about the soul-enriching virtues of childsploitation and was now engaged in a sophisticated cosplaying routine to further elude his captors. He had violently deprived a young Ensign, the tailgunner of his bomber crew, of his uniform, and proceeded to put it on himself amid his own pain-filled sounds due to its mismatching dimensions. The other prisoners have also decided to swap the garments, the commotion caused by their rapid costume change successfully leading the inexperienced subordinates of Major Meinike to imagine a delightful comeuppance unfold in the closed quarters of the makeshift prison cell.
Thankfully, the occupant of the Kubelwagen, who has just poured out of it, was soon to be at hand to dispel the confusion. The other two men, one doggedly defiant and held at gunpoint and the other wolfishly submissive, have followed him closely. He entered the edifice and began to seize the sophisticated combination of stairs leading to his personal quarters. His driver headed for the armory to supply his master with a freshly-reloaded flesh-piercing submachine gun, as the French saboteur was quickly swooped on by the room servicemen and hastily laced in an isolated cell, due to his atypical preferences. The Major has entered his cherished room, adorned with trophies awarded to him personally by the Reich Chancellor for his contributions to the queer avant-garde. He lay himself on a comfortable bed, confident in the success of his upcoming efforts to obtain yet another ally.
The American commandos, delighted at their tightly-spaced journey, have reached their destination. It was when their enthusiasm was to wane. Four hounds were tied to the now parked jeep, only one of them was given the privilege to accompany his owner. The cautiously stepping male duo, the smaller of them acting as a meat shield, were now closing in on the female-populated building. Much to their relief, the woman that soon materialized to greet them has reciprocated their views on brotherhood. The petrified scream during her father's capture resulted from an overly sensual grabbing technique utilized by the German Major. Moreover, she gleefully approved of Major Vincent's plan to use her as a bait for Meinike's wolves, for the sight of suffering being inflicted on overly promiscuous males was revealed to be one of her primary sources of enjoyment. The American strike team has gained a valuable first-wave feminist sister-in-arms.
B2
It has taken Major Meinike less than a split second to figure out which of the Allied prisoners-of-war was the top priority of his snatch-list. The year-long gap that had elapsed between his chance stars-and-striped smattering had served to broaden his senses. The American Major may have been perceived by him as threateningly frivolous then, but right now this was no longer relevant. His own acquired taste had been established firmly and anyone daring to turn him from his ways was to face a grisly end. He has become so refined that an individual's smell alone was sufficient. He would sniff out everyone not adhering to the Reich's modern standards. Even that briefly encountered American, whatever his true nature, may have long ago become a case of the master having been surpassed by his pupil. The Yank being his own private schoolboy? Now that was a funny prospect.
The dogmaster and his company, accompanied by an unlikely female companion, were now heading towards the Villa of the Wolves. On foot, of course, for females aboard beloved Jeeps were said to be bringers of bad luck. Which is exactly the reason the vehicle had been carelessly abandoned in plain sight at the château's courtyard. A spaghetti war flick sans one glaringly obvious plot-hole, even if purely made-up on the spot, could never come into fruition. The major was lenient with the leash, allowing his heavenly hounds to enjoy the merits of frolicking amid the forested surroundings. Only his most loyal playmate was given a somewhat unfortunate muzzle-flesh treatment, since every female in the vicinity, no matter how ideologically sound, has rendered protective gear advisable. A joyful stroll has eventually lead them to the bottom of the majestic Teutonic fortress, a checkpoint manned by two watchwolves being the first hurdle to overcome.
Major Meinike was becoming increasingly startled. The always ambiguous time of the day in Italian cheapos made it difficult for him to specify the time, yet he has already seen enough peculiarities for a single day. Never mind that enigmatic French saboteur with no man-on-man inclinations, but that American flyboy was truly one of its kind. He has managed to convert his fellow inmates into worshipping the same deranged subject-matter it has taken him a handful of weeks o fully embrace. Not least because of his inability to adjust his anguish-increased brute force to the fragile flesh, but it took the Yank a mere half a day to make the idea appear appealing. And worse still, the men behind the gun were not only willing to assist him once finally released from the cage, but were also keen on paying him in kind to support his bootlegging endeavor. The perplexing smell of Captain Steel's soul was beginning to tickle Major Meinike's nostrils.
The American commandos have temporarily retreated from the view, as the scene was now dominated by a Medium-Sized Red Bicycle-Riding Hood. The vehicle had been obtained from a civilian passing by. Unfortunately, his agreement to temporarily share it with Jeanine had been ended with the phrase "nice lady". Such violation of the non-heteronormativity left no other alternative but the filthy-mouthed gentleman's throat having been "Suspiria"-fied, canine-style. With the coast now clear, the fairy tale was now ready for a modern reinterpretation. The two furry guardians saw the frighteningly feminine creature advancing on them and began to huddle in terror. Their pathetic whining quickly subsided as both were put of their undeniable misery by a pair of daggers tossed simultaneously at their throats by the merciful Major. The dark blue uniforms have been consumed by their own flaming embarrassment, rendering carcass concealment needless.
Heinrich has now decided to produce a case study of the American airman for the Field Marshal, confident it would help turn Wehrmacht into the most progressive queermongering military formation. Yet he found himself hopelessly unable to focus. The versatile nature of his current captive kept reminding him of his North African scuffle. His thoughts departed into the bygone time. What if his revolutionary views had been somewhat implanted in him by the neck-treasuring Gi warrior? Then this would have meant his pursuits had been ultimately detrimental to Germany's war effort. Yet the tide was clearly not turning in the favor of these usually restrained Allied traditionalists. But if everything had been working out so seamlessly for him, then perhaps there was a hidden meaning behind the incarcerated Air Force member? After all, one surviving Tunisian boy was still locked in the lower section of his mansion's basement...
Further contemplation was cut short by a full-blown barrage of unflinching American glory. Major Vincent was taking potshots at the every non-commissioned head on strings trying to bark orders. His underdogs were contended with gnawing on the bones of the lesser shots, now scattered so abundantly that the mansion's dignity was slowly being wolfed down. The young French lady was in a state of elation as her bicycle kept performing emergency plastic surgery on the heads of the silver bullet-pampered we-were-wolfies. Only one person was majorly displeased, the tiny commando's eyes glancing sorrowfully at a chain connected to entrance gate. The attacking party has now began penetrating deeper into the web of narrow corridors of intricate staircases, enriching their visual assets with every bullet-stricken enemy uniform they have stumbled across. A large door, its two guardwolves having devoured their faces reciprocally, was now in their sights.
Major Meiniker was in for a slow start. The weapon prepared by his chauffeur had its magazine stuck upside down, forcing him to bite the culprit's ear off. Then he rushed all the way downstairs to release the young Tunisian, in an effort to pour some confusion into the attackers. Finally he checked up on "Luc Enfer"'s place of confinement, to ensure the lonely guard had not defiled the door in a thrill of unreturned affection. Once these matters have been seen to, he proceeded to pursue the trespassers. In the meantime, Major Vincent had his men bash their heads against the door to create a huge puncture in it, enabling them to reach the hands trapped inside. Their uniforms were unusually disheveled, owing to a unique stress-combating procedure performed single-handedly by the American Captain. The flyboys pouring out of the hole, two GIs have fearfully yet obediently obediently separated from the pack to assist Jeanine in tracing her father.
Upon witnessing the results of the Americans blood-lavish carnage, the German Major was even more confounded. After all, whoever conceived such spectacular disfigurements must have been an able-bodied craftsman. He headed in the direction of the overheard gunfire salvo, taking great care to temporarily intrude the set of Ginafranco Parolini's "Cinque per l'inferno" for the viewers' satisfaction. In the meantime, the lifeforce-drained protector of the French spy has effectively swallowed both his eyeballs, therefore being unable to view the gloriousness of two GIs squishing his skull in between their Grease Guns' butts. The other American hands have caught up to witness the horrific sight of Jeanine welcoming her conceiver in an enthused embrace. The pilots, weakened by their confinement, have perished in unison. All of them, save for the impeccable manga krautist Captain Steel, were now awaiting consolations in the netherworld.
Being a merely secondary objective, their demise did little to upset Major Vincent. He grabbed a hold of his man-shaped priority and commanded everyone present on the spaghetti set to head for the extraction point, which Bitto Albertini had ingeniously situated in the very same position as the entry area. Little did they know that not every member of the enemy unit had been wolfin'-stained on the floor. For Major Meiniker has just learned the hard way the consequences of altering the third letter in the other Italian director's surname and was now heading back to the valid stage, full of new-found angst towards every unprofessional English-uttering dubbing actor. The ordeal had ultimately succeeded in killing something inside his unrelentingly sensitive mind. He was aware that the Air Force Colonel may have legitimately opened the seventh Gate of Hell, but the snow-covered setting continued to baffle him.
As the Americans have successfully departed the building, the haplessly wandering Arabic child happened to be noticed by Captain Steel's eyes. He attempted to speed off in the inappropriate direction, which resulted in his sudden inability to move. The French ex-captive, spectated by both genders in sheer horror, was now dripping pus from his mouthful of elongated and pointed demonic mouth. His clawed hands raised above his head, "Luc Enfer" was approaching the literally frozen imperialist child-driller. A deep grunt has filled the scene, ostensibly Bitto Albertini's most recognized quotation: "Even I occasionally draw the line at drawing", as the fatherly figure has meticulously deprived the unfulfilled offender of his head and playfully tossed it towards the continuously gambolling child. Unintentionally, the airborne body part put an end to its playful routine by causing a hard touchdown resulting in cervical fracture.
Delighted at the belated revenge for interrupting his daily ablutions, the constantly late Heinrich Meinike has now emptied his submachine gun, all low-ranking American commandos having unwillingly assisted him in this activity. The sole survivor capable of firing back was so shocked by the appearance of a familiar face that his weapon jammed. Jeanice too amused by watching her father's hunger games, the Major realized his relative defencelessness. With the MP40 submachinegun's desire to violate his neck only restricted by the German's trigger-finger, an emotionless voice has filled the set-up: "I knew I'd meat you someday", However, the romantic scene was interrupted by a chain wrapped around the German's throat and an ensuing decapitation-inducing squeeze. The self-liberated small-sized commando complained to his superior officer: "I heard you talking to him". Disappointed by his own inertia, he nodded in agreement: "In war there are no friends"...
"Cue: Another Ear-torturing 'War Devils March'"
C0
The surviving quartet was slowly stepping out of the spaghetti masterpiece production site. The Major has finally learned his lesson, for war was an environment solely suitable for producing passionate lovers. All his previous courtship has confused the unlucky German soul and made it prone to fantasies so horrific that the Dark Lord himself, despite his own orientation having fueled his hatred for the Earthlings, was forced to conduct his personal non-divine intervention. The young Jeanine has proven the stereotype of female aboard any man-made vehicle being bringers of bad luck to be true, as she proceeded to discuss with her father the ways of making straight people less frightening to the dominant queer population. The less sizeable soldier, still unnamed by the persistent Italy-manufactured script, has decided the check the state of his commanding officer's oral cavity.
Major George Vincent did not object to such a role reversal, realizing that only full commitment to the love production, the reality-defying yearly economic plans notwithstanding, could have spared this rainbow planet from this kid-napping Order of the Black Eagle and its ever-reaching influence on their own ranks...