Heute nacht regnet es rot

Three bullets were lodged in his back, and probably more in his shoulder, but those were the least of his worries. He had to get back home before the Poilzei came. The blood ran down his arm, dripping off his fingers. It was red, like those damn Commies. Those fucking Soviets were the last ones who put bullets in him before tonight. He opened the closet and searched for some hydrogen peroxide. None. He searched for some rubbing alcohol. None. He went back outside into the rain. It was a good thing they lived with lots of air pollution. The acid rain was the next best thing to hydrogen peroxide. It cleaned his wounds before he pried the bullets out with the tip of his sword. Going inside, Holger grabbed some of the rising dough from what would be a loaf of bread and plugged the holes in his body with the yeasty wheat dough. He used dough to plug wounds before. The yeast helped coagulate the blood. When the bulletholes healed, the dough plugs would fall out. Holger didn't need to worry about that though. He had a new employee. Better yet, she was a woman. Despite the 19th amendment and all the feminists, she would still do her natural job. She would still cook and clean. Hopefully she would be there on time. Most women were always late. Making excuses for everything. Unfourtunately, the Butcher was still alive, but he listened to George Jefferson's words. Perhaps they could make an alliance.

Odin's Sword

Holger woke and from within his straw mattress, he found the only item he inherited from his parents. Wrapped in a white cloth, the ancient heirloom was passed down generations.

Holger Vollsunger is the descendant of Sirgurd the Dragon-Slayer son of Sigmund from the house of Odin. The only item inherited from his parents was the great sword Sigmund pulled out of the hard wood of the apple tree. The heavy double-bladed iron sword measured almost six feet in length. The hilt was almost a foot across curling upwards into branched points that would kill anyone who would have lived through the initial thrust of the blade. The blood that stained the sword's iron antlers continued along the entire blade of the sword. The cold iron grip of the sword fit comfortably in Holger's warm calloused hand. The broad blade imbued by Thor never broke or lost its sharpness. It could hack through the strongest armour, yet it could still slice a tomato. The sheath was made of the same material as the sword with the owners' names etched into the metal. On the side of each name were notches, a tally of those killed by the sword. Over eight hundred years of the sword's existence resulted in almost a thousand dying at the sword. The past few owners had no notches next to their name, but Holger knew that two more would be added, soon. If not, Holger would meet his death.

Holger knew in the entire area there were only two people that might be able to rival his size, George Jefferson and Oscar the Butcher. He knew that soon the time would come for them to fight for control of the town since the mayor sat in his office embezzling money and the true police officers were corrupt or weak. Holger had no love for Jefferson or the Butcher. He needed to take control if the neighborhood would thrive. The Butcher would make money but only for the corrupt. Jefferson would clean the neighborhood, but then would lose control as his idealistic views for a clean neighborhood would die with him. The door knocked. He wrapped the sword and hid it in the mattress again. He answered the door where a Latin American women was standing. He sensed some German in her though.

Help Wanted

Holger wiped the sweat off his brow. Even though autumn was already half-way over, the heat was still there. That didn't matter though, the bakery had fires going two hours before sunrise until he closed at dinnertime. He took a loaf out of the oven. A savory steam escaped through the cracks of the hard brown crust. But at that moment, the bell rang at the front of the store. A man stood there with two crumpled five dollar bills in his hand.

"Hello? The sign on the gas station said to come over here for service."

Holger's frame almost filled the doorway as he walked through. "Yes? I own the gas station next door."

Looking up, the man rather timidly said, "Could I get some gas? - and then I'll get on my way."

Sighing, Holger grabbed his keys and locked the bakery, walked across the parking lot, unlocked the gas station door, and unlocked the pump with the switch next to the cash register. The couple of months were filled with this tedious process because his two eldest sons, who used to help run the bakery and gas station, left to live with their mother. After the man left, Holger saw the Help Wanted sign on the floor - the suction cups were not air-tight. He never got used to the cheap plastics made by those Commies from China.

Despite the slight annoyance of the poor plastics, Holger's entire life was spent dealing with Reds. Grabbing some duct tape Made in America, Holger taped the sign to the window, going through the same tedious process, made his way back to the bakery. There were a few war veterans outside waiting for some food. Holger let them in and gave them the loaf with the hard brown crust, which retained most of its heat since it left the oven. He also gave them the bread from the day old racks. Even though he paid his taxes, he knew that next none of it went to supporting the veterans eating the bread in his store.

The already hazed sunset completely disappeared as black storm clouds rolled into the city. Seeing their refridgerator boxes already half soaked, Holger invited them to the back of the bakery where he used to live with his family. With three extra beds, the homeless graciously slipped under the covers. Like a heavy oak, Holger fell onto his bed. He was asleep before his head even touched the pillow.