Mafia, Raise Your Heads – Bavaria's Red Dawn
"Suppress it right now—what the hell are you waiting for?"
"If we send in the troops recklessly, Berlin itself could become the heart of the revolution, Prime Minister."
"…"
"Let's watch and wait. They might just be demanding a more equal footing. Those Bavarian hicks, what else is new?"
No one believed that for a second, but no one dared say otherwise. And why would they? These were soldiers. No one knew better than they did how vital Bavaria was—along with Czechoslovakia, it formed the backbone and framework of the current Tripartite Alliance. Crush it with the army? Those bumpkins who already refused to bow politely to Berlin—what would they think then? With Germany facing ever-deepening diplomatic isolation and on the verge of losing every last wild rabbit ally, Bavaria was a house rabbit they had to keep.
The problem was that Bavaria had now become the very heart of the revolution.
"What about the special budget?"
"Bonds, of course."
"Turning even more money into toilet paper here?"
Ever since halting reparations, the German mark had become little more than ass-wipe.
"If this won't do and that won't do, then figure out a damn solution!"
The Kaiser, irritated by the parliamentary squealing that sounded like pigs at slaughter, slowly raised his hand.
"Mighty Germany struggles—and if we do, what of them?"
Chatterers fell silent, sitters shot to their feet—militarists, imperialists, nationalists, reds, Jews, all stood at that imperial timbre.
"Mortgage every acre of German farmland. If that's not enough, take French and Russian fields too. Trust in Germany's power. As they crumble, we shall rise."
Hail the Kaiser! Germany endures!
What the Kaiser had spat out—something along the lines of "print bonds, flood with cash, run the scam, just crush those Bavarian reactionary bastards however you like"—struck the virgin-eared German generals differently. They heard hints of future conquest: French and Russian farmlands as collateral. Their Kaiser was signaling war in the near future. Smash agrarian France for a promenade zone, pulverize true breadbasket Russia for Lebensraum. To panic-stricken Germans, it struck a resonant chord.
Our leader. Our Kaiser.
But there was one tiny snag: all this hinged on crushing the reds first. You couldn't strike France and Russia with reds lurking in the rear. To those reds, borders meant nothing—least of all the German nation. Fundamentally, reds were no different from Jews. Given the chance, they'd sell Germany out without hesitation. If the reds heard that, they'd nod eagerly: Spot on.
"Ah, so you're asking to delay the construction payments, then."
"That's right."
"Fine. In exchange, we'll take equity. Exactly fifty-fifty—how's that? Your half is fifty."
What the fuck is this robber saying?
I'd demanded half the Panama Canal shares, and America was throwing a fit: No way in hell.
'America, America, this isn't about ripping off half your canal.'
'What bullshit are you peddling now?'
'Wouldn't it be great if just the two of us owned it outright—one hundred percent?'
'I'm keeping my hundred percent.'
'Suit yourself. I'm out.'
Come to think of it, America owed Korea big time—relocating blacks to Safari Land, the beef deals, and more. If we Koreans bailed on Panama over unpaid bills?
'Do you know how much we've sunk into this? For labor costs?'
'Don't like it? Tough shit.'
'You bastard!'
America grabbed our ankle. This is bullshit! Real bullshit!You know you can walk if we don't pay, right? Wrong or not?Still, there's such a thing as business courtesy. This is too far.
A toppled project like this was a live bomb—taboo even to mention. Why pour national budget down to the percentage point if not to amplify ripple effects and recoup the insane costs? And now, telling us to find another contractor and get lost because you're skimping? Fuck, at least finish what you started before bailing. Leave mid-build—what am I supposed to do?
America knew it well by now. That "construction" wasn't construction—it was war. Daily disinfection and baths, roll calls. Daily blasts, casualties, evacuations.
"Thirty-minute break over! Everyone up!!"
What blacks would call a death jungle tomorrow, those tough yellow bastards endured daily. What turned coolies into this?
Still, fifty percent is highway robbery!
America whined, squeezed out the "nonexistent" funds, wired to Panama. Crisis averted—at least on the surface.
"Eh, we don't need fifty percent anyway."
Just one hundred when we need it. That answer—why those mongrels were sent to the green hell—was known only to their superhuman sender, incomprehensible to whites or fellow yellows alike.
Why do they only imagine invading through Panama—never being invaded via it?
Because they started building it? Hmm. Hard to say. About time they learned a bit about me. Half-butchered Russia wasn't lesson enough?
If war ever came with America, Europe, or both, I had zero intention of slogging through their multiplayer traps like Suez or Cape of Good Hope to their demon kings' castles. If needed, no declaration—just punch through the vast Pacific, over Panama, straight decapitation squads to DC or London.
International law violation? By then, that "international" would be gone—what meaning left?
I knew fair play. All too well. So I distinguished who deserved it—and who didn't. Just as those self-proclaimed civilized folk divided savages from civilized.
For now, I played fair enough with Yangtze Lenin-types. At least until their revolutions blatantly failed—no world war scheming. Just neatly shelved.
'I'm an atheist. I don't buy doomsday cults.' Like a whisper from Lenin himself.
"Do whatever the fuck you want," the Supreme Leader—no, General Secretary—muttered, pulling his hat low over his eyes.
The German uprising sent a different wake-up call to the world: You bastard—you're mafia! No, a red!
Red-baiting birds sprouted everywhere. Spot a neighbor lifting his head at night? Cry "Red!" first.
'What? Max Weber? Red bastard!'
'Dancing with beards? Red!'
'Winnie the Pooh? Red anyway—lock him up!'
The snag: there were tons of real reds right now. So their hunts actually bore fruit.
"Workers' national betrayal has reached critical levels! They're collaborating with enemy states to build their own paradise!"
Snag number two: reds were mostly workers. Paradoxically, the world couldn't function without them—the dirty, stinking, boring, vile jobs fell to them. So they endured persecution, but their existence was tolerated.
Until the intolerable reds.
"Jews!"
"?!"
"Jews! Traitors! Communards! Communists! Shadow capitalists!"
Jews. The usurers who'd raked in the most during the CDO frenzy. Con artists pooling land for Jewish settlements, claiming God allowed fleecing goyim but kosher/halal spending only for fellow Jews. Building their state within states, pickled in chosen-people sauce. They'd inertia'd from finance to investors to rich—but must it continue?
Europeans pondered. Concluded: no.
How can no house open to this starving old woman?
Blamed for crumbling capitalism and Christian socialism, Jews knocked everywhere—groups, organizations—but no one opened in these times.
'Pray to your God.'
Even true communists turned away in disgust. Overnight, Judeo-communists, public enemy number one—stoned everywhere, properties seized "by God's will."
Gulp.
Forgiveness and tolerance spring from full bellies. Starving Europeans devoured the Jews who'd starved them to sate the hunger.
Even liberty-singing France raised no questions over vanished Jewish neighbors. Only Jews unaware of their own Jewishness saw it as someone else's problem.
One aspiring painter calmly sketched amid the madness.
"Hm, composition's off here."
He drew the street, ignoring Jews dragged by in real time.
"Huh, thought you were Jewish 'cause you're short—but nah, low nose."
What the... Rudolf—no, Adolf—felt vaguely insulted. No, not now. He refocused on the street.
How those degenerate Jews fared wasn't his concern. He had to draw—this street. Recent patronage had slashed Vienna Academy admissions; he'd scraped in by the skin of his teeth as a cadet.
"Hm, still not right. Buildings lack cohesion."
Something missing. Something grander, more majestic. All artists destined to be architects? Despite shitty art grades, Adolf had picked architecture as a double major.