A Final Dreg [Eisenhauer]

[werwolf]

The winter was closing in, and so was the dreary weather. Dietrich Stahl gazed out of the Tavern window, the wind howling, the rain battering the ground. It was a depressing sight. As was his life right now. He had been thrown out of the Werwolfs, his troop unsuccessful, had no family, and had disappointed the Führer. Now he had no where to turn, apart from to join some band of Volksgrenadiers made up of boys and old men. Stahl doubted he could stand such a thing.

He turned back to his empty table, slightly sticky from the combination of spilled beverages over the years. Just like him, a combination of failed dreams and a hard life, with little end in sight. Stahl took a long sip of his Schnapps, liquor appearing his only escape. He drummed his hands against the top, and looked back at his life. No parents, brought up in an orphanage, and expelled to the world when he had barely reached his late teens. He fought through hardship, to become an SS man, then offered the job as a Werwolf, only for it to fall apart, such as his life. What a life!

Stahl took another long dreg, letting the fluid flow into his system. He hoped it would be a medicine, yet all it seemed to do was make him feel even more depressed. Maybe it would click in if just kept drinking. Now he really was getting drunk. He looked himself up and down. He wore civies, with just an Obersturmführer’s jacket hanging limply off his shoulders, un-buttoned, un-ironed and un-cared for. And he called himself and SS man. Ha! He knew of men that would have him hanged, or close to it for his appearance right now. What could they do to him now, though? He life was already shit, and going down the drain faster than he could slur it. A few extra duties here and there wouldn’t change his life standard.

The failed man lifted up his bottle, and took a final dreg.

[thechidg]

The night was young and the air felt cold as Marx made his way to his usual bar. Since joining the army his life had been improved and his drinking problem was starting to fade. However, every man likes the odd drink now and again.

Marx enjoyed his time at the bar; chatting to the locals and sometimes if he was lucky he would start chatting to some of the local ladies. Marx was reaching the door and pushed it opened and walked inside and made his way towards the bar.

The usual bar tender and land lord were standing behind the oak bar smoking cigars and yelling the odd comment to the youths sitting by the jukebox. The youths were loud and looked extremely drunk. The atmosphere was like it usually was on a Friday night. Men from work coming in to “kick the weekend off” by some drink and socialising with friends and playing the odd game of chess and cards.

Marx was sat at the bar and was about to order a pint of whisky before noticing Dietrich Stahl. Dietrich was a usual at the bar and was never seen without a drink in his hand! Marx ordered his drink and shouted over to Stahl, “can I get you anything mate?” His head was hung low and it sounded as if he was humming to himself half drunkenly.

Marx moved over to where Stahl was sitting and smacked him around the back of the head with his hand.

Marx was the sympathetic type of person and had a lot of experiences of bad times in his past and took pity on the poor fellow.
“I’ll have two pints of whisky please my dear friend” Marx said to the bar man and then turned to Stahl who still had this head hung low and offered him a cigarette.

Marx in an instance pulled out his and gave him a light. A few moments later the drinks arrived and Marx turned to Dietrich and said, “get this down you my friend, it looks as if you need it!” Dietrich did as he was told and seconds later the men started sipping away at whisky and smoking Marlboro cigarettes.
Marx just sat and drank for a while and did not know what to say to Stahl but, finally he managed to pluck up the courage to ask, “What’s up then my dear fellow”?

[werwolf]

OOC: Two pints of whiskey! And I thought I was the one who wanted to kill myself...

Stahl watched the large hulk of a man wander over to his table and attempt to make conversation, but the soldier was really not in the mood. Conversation seemed so...pitiful and unimportant in the grand scheme of things. What was its use? All it seemed to do was make a situation worse, all the communication. It started fights, ended relationships, and began wars. It was a terrible thing that should have been wiped from the earth.

The brute of a man smacked the officer around the back of the head, and action which nearly brought tears to the man’s eyes. Did this bastard know his own strength!? He was in a juvenile mood, which almost seemed to insult Stahl. Everyone else was insulting him. Whispering about him behind his back; talking in hushed voices, constantly attacking him about all his mistakes. Everybody hated him, and this whore’s son was just trying to rub it into his face. But what could he do against someone that size? Well, he did have his bayonet...

The soldier sat down beside him, and again asked an insulting question. Having taken his fair does years ago, Stahl launched himself sideways, while drawing his blade. He landed on top of the man, and pinned him down in his seat on the small bench, pushing the flat of the bald against the bastard’s throat. Insult him, would he? Just another little joke, was it? Stahl snapped like a twig.

Ignoring the attention he was attracting from the rest of the tavern, he roared out at the man. “Wünschen Sie zum Bumsen sterben!? Weil Ihr gehen die godamn Rechtweise über sie!”



Translations:

“Wünschen Sie zum Bumsen sterben!? Weil Ihr gehen die godamn Rechtweise über sie!”
~ Do you want to fucking die!? Because your going the goddamn right way about it!

[Christopher J. D'Dario]

Due to the members no longer being on the site, this will be moved to the Archives.

-=[SeeJay]=-