Playboy's Conclusion
To cut to the chase on the playboy matter: most of my foreign currency turned out to be genuine. Fortunately, the counterfeit damage was minimal.
But it wasn't zero...
The problem was that about 10% of my pounds, 15% of my dollars, and 10% of my francs were fakes. I let out a deep sigh. It was a relief, sure, but losing that chunk of hard currency outright was a painful hit.
Money might get tight...
No immediate crisis, but that 10% would be precious later on. My head was spinning with complications.
"Um... Lucas? You okay?"
"I'm fine. Just a bit tangled up in my thoughts."
The bank informed me they'd dispose of the counterfeits themselves and that I'd need a police investigation too. So I spent the next while at the station, grilled on the bills' origins. Naturally, explaining that they came from selling smuggled Ruhr goods to British businessmen—without tariffs, no less—was awkward as hell...
"Good thing I'm a Junker..."
What's so great about being a Junker? We're the old Prussian nobility. Meaning, we're loaded—or at least perceived that way. Centuries of knightly service and serf labor piling up the wealth. So I leaned on the family name a bit. Times like these, the Falkenrain legacy pulls its weight.
But the tail's dragging now. Wonder if this'll screw my political debut.
What would Hitler have done...? He started from nothing. Worst leader, best agitator. The guy had overwhelming talent for conjuring something from nothing. Never envied it more than now. Without that gift, I needed more prep and planning.
"You don't look okay at all."
"Just a slight plan adjustment. I'm good."
"Hmm... Wait here a sec."
Catalina said that and vanished somewhere. She told me to hold on, but took her sweet time. I used the interval to map out next steps.
Starting a party looks tough. Honestly... But Plan B existed. Like Hitler: latch onto an existing one and climb inside it. Can't lead Germany without seizing a party's command. Gotta win internal faction wars first to tackle national politics.
Plan B looks better now. Saves money too.
Launching from scratch costs a fortune and time. At minimum, solidify a base before the French occupy Catalina's Ruhr homeland. Complicates things again.
For now, scout nearby beer halls. In this era, Bavarian ones were basically political soapboxes.
"Lucas."
"There you are. But... what's that?"
"First time seeing wine?"
As I sorted my future, Catalina returned clutching two bottles. Cheap wine. No luxuries for us, but grape booze would do.
"You looked too stressed. Let's drink. Drown it all."
"You escape reality like this often?"
"Hah, that's why I'm saying it!"
"My apologies, lady. Care for a drink together?"
"Should've led with that."
She laughed and set a beer mug before me. Yeah, a wooden beer mug. She poured wine in sloppily. Then offered me the bottle straight.
"No cheers?"
"Cheers."
I clinked my mug against her bottle. She was right—no need to overthink. Drown the worries moderately; time's on our side, take it slow.
I chugged the wine. The booze warmed my gut—first real drink in ages. Back in my networking days, it was routine; not since.
She flushed fast too, eyes softening. Mine probably matched.
"Whew... hahahaha! Look at your face, Lucas. So red. Communist?"
"Harsh joke. You're no better, Catalina."
"I... hic... not drunk!"
"Chugging from the bottle and not drunk? You're no Viking, Catalina."
"Hah! I'm Viking blood!"
"Not all Germanics are Vikings."
"Whatever! Ah... hot..."
Suddenly she stood, fumbling at her clothes. Wait, has she lost it...? In seconds, down to underthings. She slipped on a white negligee and plopped back down.
"Hold on. Catalina. Are you insane? Put clothes on."
"...Lucas. Why so dense?"
"Huh?"
"Nothing. Drink. Before I finish it."
She gulped the rest and cracked the second bottle. I clinked along in a daze. Soon she leaned into my side.
"Catalina."
"Lucas..."
"You're wasted. Take the bed tonight."
"Lucas. Look at me."
"Huh?"
Then suddenly—her face closed in. Lips met; her breath reeked of sticky booze. Cheap grape and alcohol diluted her scent. I jolted back, but her arm hooked my shoulder, pulling tighter.
"Why'd I follow you..."
"Catalina... yeah, you're hammered."
I scooped her up princess-style. My buzz made walking tricky. On the bed, she clutched my collar, refusing release. Her heated breath tickled my ear. Hiked-up negligee bared skin and lingerie.
"I like you, Lucas."
"..."
"Do you... hate me, Lucas?"
"No... not hate."
"Good..."
I'd been dense. Too dense all along. Damn. I'm a married man wedded to the nation. Fine. Just tonight. Cheat once.
Screw it.
I converted some foreign cash to marks, bought decent clothes, and hit a beer hall.
It buzzed with crowds. Heated debates on Germany's future; some scapegoated groups for defeat. The Social Democrats—SPD—were the perennial punching bag.
"It's the SPD making us live like this! What've they done since the Great War loss these past two years?! Huh?!"
"Right!"
"So let's go independent! Our own government! Bavaria must split from Germany!"
"Yeah! Better than sinking with failing Germany!"
"... "
The hall was noisy. But most didn't buy the speeches. New party hacks yelled, backed by a few shills, but little impact. No persuasion.
Timing's right.
My goal: fully replace Hitler. I'd even confirmed him with a grenade. I closed my eyes, recalling past speeches and practices.
Not random, though. A familiar figure nursed a drink in the corner—one I knew well.
Anton Drexler... if memory serves.
Pre-Hitler Anton Drexler. Founder and current head of the "German Workers' Party." A 40-50 member hobby club now, but its future impact across Europe? Unforgettable face.
Time to play my card.
"Bavaria separate! Germany its way, us ours!"
"We're all Germany."
"Hah, who're you?"
"Lucas von Falkenrain. Former captain in the 6th Bavarian Royal Army, assault company commander, artillery battalion leader, operations staff, wounded veteran for Germany. And..."
I rose quietly. Voice low on purpose. Silence answers better than noise. Shout, and rebuttals fly. Learned from watching Hitler work the crowd instinctively.
"...one German."
"Hah, German? That accent says not even Bavarian."
"Bavaria's not my home. But I served its army. For Bavaria. For the fatherland's victory. And you? Drinking here, singing its doom. Right?"
"Keep talking."
Bam!
"That's the problem! You scream 'speak up' but lack ears or will to listen—that's our biggest issue!"
I slammed the table, climbed a chair. Careful now—mess up, just another raving kid. I scanned the eyes. Gathered them successfully.
"Germany's greatness and sanctity aren't illusions. Our foe is ourselves. Our apathy, eyes averted from reality. Aren't you ashamed?"
"What?"
"I'm asking if you aren't ashamed singing Germany's breakup! For who? Bavaria? Hah, when unity's short supply and France-Soviet glare, you push split? Communist?"
I pointed accusingly. All eyes swung to the rebuttal kid. His face crumpled.
"You singing division? Soviet spy or British! That's the issue! Spies strut free, no one cares! Apathy's the true enemy! Listen! We're one Germany! We can be great again! Sing unity, not split!"
Some nodded quietly. Yeah. Unified Germany's pull beats silly secession.
Separatist scowled, rose, left. "We'll see, speech boy." Disruptor gone.
My real speech started now.