June 1965: Arizona, U.S.A.
12:30 P.M.
Listening to the desert wind was an old man in a olive sweater. Both old friends, cast aside for newer technological marvels. However, why he was wearing a sweater in such scorching weather remains a mystery, unless he was preparing himself for the cold desert night.
A mere seven hours away.
He sat on a white plastic bucket covered in specks of red paint. The bucket itself sat on the sand in an uneven tilt, the old man stretching his legs balance himself. It was after a brief furrow of the brows and downward quirk of the lips that he slowly rose to stand, the bucket tipping to the ground with a muffled thump.
"It all empty, Johan, at least until Sunday."
Behind the old man, there was another, albeit thirty years younger, who wore a light grey suit and appeared to be in his early 20's. Crazier than the other man he was accompanying.
"That's because you're late. Our eagles aren't able to fly so close to high noon, not when the sun shall melt their wings," Johan said. "Besides, if they were to spot and recognize you, how would you defend yourself? Hand to hand, father, against the American military?"
The old man held up his hands, "Watch yourself, boy. Back in my prime-"
"You cling to your glory-" But Johan was silenced by his father. He didn't dare lift a hand to inspect the wound on his cheek.
"Don't interrupt! You have always been quick to waive off the past and not appreciate the brilliance that came from it, from your people. Mein Führer would never have spared you a glance."
'Then perish like the Hitler you so admire, coward.'
Johan's father grinned, a grim sight to behold. "Now, don't go wishing for my death just yet. You want what I have, here," he pointed to his head, "and what kind of father would I be if I didn't pass down the family legacy?"