Lord Major Commander Admiral Mister Vitalstatistix (real name unknown though he insisted it was Abraracourcix, real title also unknown) was blathering on again. He stood atop the jeep back, impressive paunch hanging over the edge of his pants. His two Jeep Drivers were miserably hunched over the wheel, as he stood on their shoulders.
Gathered around him, were the last remnants of a proud country now subjugated under the fist of Adolf Hitler, the German. Their tiny village was surrounded by four camps of Nazi's, which would send any normal town into a blathering panic. These people were busy eyeing each other as the smell of rotten fish permeated the air.
"Now Men, I have gathered you together today to let you know that the camps surrounding us are having a personnel transfer."
Heads everywhere suddenly turned around, stopping the traditional fish-fight before it could begin. The tallest, big-boned'iest of them all spoke up hopefully, "Really? We get to thump some Nazi's?" He clapped his hands together joyfully.
The small dog next to him barked hopefully, tail wagging. Slow smiles spread across the gathered villagers. The wanna-be song-composer, Cacofonix, shredded his out-of-tune electric guitar. "Then in preparation, shall I compose a song?"
He was thoroughly knocked out, tied up, and left behind. It would do no good to warn their potential victims to their plans- or heavens forbid, slow them down from the resulting storm!
There was a clang of a bell being rung, as the single doctor came strolling out of his home. In his hands was a crate of bubbling green liquids contained in clear glass bottles. Nobody knew what exactly were in those bottles- the current betting pool ranged from steroids to sacrificial blood of the wild boar that Obelix liked to stroll out and hunt bare-handed. Everyone agreed not to pry too deeply. Panoramix, or Getafix as a few of the villagers had nicknamed him, was not one to cross. Besides, everyone had seen what had happened to Obelix when he fell into the cauldron (and who used cauldron's in this day and age anyways?) and drank all of that liquid- broken bones were forever common after that. And so were the broken tanks that made up the wall around the village.
"Gather around." Getafix called, holding out the vials.
A young man, his bomber jacket embroidered with two wings stepped up first. He grinned at Getafix, his blond hair peeking out beneath the battered beret. "Yo."
"Ahh, Asterix, will you be flying today?" Getafix gestured to the small airplane waiting faithfully for its owner. Asterix nodded.
"An Obelix bomb, right in the center of the first camp." Asterix cackled evilly, as Vitalstatistix began throwing a temper tantrum that he would not be the first to hit some Nazis. Impedimenta quickly put a stop to that with a glare and a brandished fist.
"Now you look here Asterix, my husband's the chief, and as such he gets to go first!"
"Begging your pardon Ma'm," Asterix said politely, bringing his hat to his chest, "The last time Vitalstatistix went first, he got stuck in the doorway. It took us ten minutes to get him unwedged and by that time all the Nazi's had fled."
Sharp eyes narrowed at him, as Impedimenta seemed about to continue- Mrs. Geratrix stepped in. She tossed her head back, long hair falling back across her shoulders, and the very latest fashion clinging to her shapely figure. "Oh my, is someone getting nasty?" She laughed behind her hand, an epitome of beauty.
A fish was flung with deadly accuracy, hitting her right in the eye. "OH!"
The men of the town quietly snuck away under the cover of the ensuing lady-fight.
Asterix headed directly for the airplane, whistling cheerfully. Obelix bounded alongside him, cracking his knuckles. Oh weren't the Germans in for a surprise tonight?
"And finally, watch out for those French."
The Commander laughed out loud at that suggestion. "The French? What are they going to do? Wave their flags at us? Summon the ghost of Napoleon to fight their battles for them?"
The battered, bruised, weary, and desperate man across from him stared at his replacement with dead eyes. "Bullets bounce off of them."
The Commander howled at that, slapping the back of the other. "That's a good one! Anything else I should worry about while I'm here?"
"There's a group of useless British Pirates, that sometimes comes by asking for you to fix their boat after our submarines sink it. Well, they're not actually British. They're American's pretending to be British, by singing songs like Gilbert and Sullivan. Oh- and there will be freak weather storms from their composer. Good time to catch a meal." The man paused, looking at the sky, nerly shedding a tear of relief. "Ahhh, today is going to be a good day. We're finally getting out of here."
It was easy to see who was coming in, and who was heading out, even without noticing which direction they were headed in. Those going out were haphazardly piled in Jeeps and Tanks, with a few helicopters flying out, huddling in small piles of unmoving flesh, but with wide grins missing several teeth. They were moving as fast as they could to get out.
Those coming in marched in, chests puffed out, weapons loaded and at the ready. They smirked a little at their contrapartes, judging their lackluster appearance. One man, with an E.O.D. insignia pinned to his lapel quickly located the unit waiting for their turn to get on the caravan. "Hey, any suggestions for what bombs we should plant?"
"None."
"Huh?"
"They have a dog that will dig every single last one of them up and bury it in the training yard." The man explained quickly, tossing his bag onto the transport. "So don't even bother."
The man rolled his eyes, wondering why the last bunch were all loonies. "Sure, fine, whatever. Have a good R&R. Maybe they'll swing you out onto the front lines after."
There was a hollow laugh. "I hope so. I refuse to ever come back here again."
The peace lasted exactly four hours after the last of the old group had left.
It started with the sound of a single airplane taking to the skies. It was a tiny two-seater, ANF Les Mureaux plane, traditionally a spying craft. The Commander of the base had laughed at the idea of it actually managing to bomb anything, and lazilly ordered for the anti-aircraft missiles to shoot.
The missile streaked upwards, white cloud streaming behind it- the white cloud abruptly turned around and came streaking back towards the men who had shot it, like something from a cartoon they were just beginning to show on the television. Though Disney cartoons were banned for their treatment of Hitler, they were still of great enjoyment to many. "How the He-"
The missile exploded against the bank of missiles waiting to be shot off.
Up in the aircraft came an amused voice, "You've been watching too much T.V. again Obelix."
"I can't help it Asterix, it's just so interesting!"
Obelix crouched down, looking at the army camp spread below. Asterix was busy attempting to keep a pane that was never really meant to hold one shortie, one fattie, and one adorable doggie in the air. The engine, still not fully repaired after a run in with a well-meaning kid and a vial of magic potion despite Fulliomatix's best swearing and repairing, spluttered fitfully.
"Okay Obelix, ready to drop on down below?"
Asterix turned to look behind him- only to be faced with empty air. Obelix had already jumped down, judging by the howls below. The short man sighed as he turned the plane around, circling above camp.
A few other planes were taking off, heading for the air. Asterix grinned, circling upwards, giving the Nazi airplanes a fair chance to at least try to hit him.
Out at sea, the faux-British Pirates with the (almost) French names looked up at the sky to see Asterix's custom-painted plane (Menhir and boars. Obelix insisted and Asterix had never been able to refuse his friend) and promptly began sinking their own ship.
The German planes weren't as smart- they chased after the plane, bigger and badder then Asterix's tiny spycraft.
The radio crackled loudly, "Asterix? Come in Asterix. Over."
Asterix shot a disgusted look at the radio. He had told Baltix that when he was flying, he wasn't to be interrupted! Oh well, the lad was a little on the young side. "Baltix, what is it? Over."
"Obelix wanted me to let you know that he's found dinner for tomorrow night since we'll be having the feast tonight." Asterix rolled his eyes- Obelix would want to interrupt his fight for that, wouldn't he- "Also, he said that the helmet game is on."
"THAT'S NOT GOOD ENOUGH TO INTERRUPT ME OBELIX!"
Asterix's howl was not picked up by the radio, as he was not holding the button.
Obelix still looked inordinately pleased with himself as he triumphantly held up what looked to be about twenty helmets. Asterix glowered at the larger man, with his measly three. If Obelix wanted to play the helmet game, he could've at least waited until Asterix was on the ground, as pilot helmets were notoriously difficult to get ahold of.. Of course, they were worth more points too..
Asterix sighed, as he glanced around camp. "What provisions are we getting this time?"
Although trade routes were open through a judicious amount of knuckle sandwich application, there were some things you could just not get through normal routes. Like Pork for one- all the wild boar in the area had long been hunted to extinction by Obelix's ancestors. There wasn't really any hope either of keeping domesticated pigs, as they were eaten far too fast. Plus, the grocer (whose fish were always stale) would complain about it.
Vitalstatix was already ordering out various villagers (mostly the children who weren't allowed to participate in the battles) to carry the pork to their home base. It came in the form of whole-frozen pigs. There was enough to last roughly two week- enough time for the food supply to come in again.
"Well, looks like we've wrapped up everything here Obelix. Shall we head on home to get ready for the victory feast?"
Dogmatix barked cheerfully at Obelix's feet, as the huge German Shepperd behind him cowered pathetically. Obelix grinned, as he picked up the small dog. Gently he stroked its back. "Oh yes, let's. Oh, before we go, Fulliomatix said that there was a plane similar to yours, and asked me to carry it back to town to use for spare parts."
Asterix nodded, holding out his hands. "I'll take Dogmatix back home. I can start cooking then."
Obelix nodded happily as he placed Dogmatix back to the ground. "Now you listen to Asterix Dogmatix, and I'll feed you a nice big bone when I get back."
Dogmatix barked once, and trotted towards Asterix's heels. The moaning, badly beaten up Germans around them stirred fitfully, trying to recollect their wits. "What just happened?" One inquired fitfully.
"Isn't it obvious?" The one with the fancy insignia snapped, "We got beaten."
Obelix wandered off, not caring one whit about his fallen enemies. "For the holy Motherland, and our great Führer we should-"
"He can go stick his head into a crematorium. I'm not willing to go against those people ever again! Did you see them! They bent the tank guns like they were nothing! And you're not going to say anything either, or it's to the camps with you!"
"...Yes sir."
The crackling bonfire roared into the warm night air, as the gathered inhabitants of the town gathered around the wooden tables that had seen far better days. Nobody knew just quite how old they were, but there were rumors they had been around since Caesar's time.
Either way, they were the only tables sturdy enough to hold both Obelix and the food.
There was a bit of flailing from a thoroughly trashed tank as a tied and gagged figure could be seen wriggling and gnawing furiously at his bonds. His electric guitar lay next to him, forgotten about in the general rush for the food.
Cans of beer clinked together. Merry, joyful laughter rang up towards the skies. Dogmatix happily chewed on his bone. Asterix shook his head as Fulliomatix challenged Obelix (once again) to a eating contest.
Vitalstatix, unaware he was being ignored, prattled on about the greatness of their tiny french town, and how it was only fitting for they had voted him to be their mayor, etc.
Meanwhile, in Germany, Hitler glowered at the tiny little dot on his almost colored map. "Curse that tiny french town." For some reason, he really wanted to swear at it in latin.