Sentence The Fivehundredandfortysecond

  

By which time, Gertie and Gunther had joined Palestrina at her table and were soon matching her, drink for drink, and Palestrina had her hand deep in the pocket of Gunther's black breeches, playing pocket billiards, as she asked in her usual style: "so, SS-Obersturmbannführer, may I call you Major?" and he smiled as she gave him a gentle squeeze, and the mutable Grebeling, putty in her hands said:"you can call me Gunther if you like," and she smiled back at him, while Gertie clapped her hands and let out a whoop: "gotcha, Hunnybun – ya went to the Pitchas, saw Catherine the Great and next ya gonna see Olympia! ama right or ama righter than right?" and she snuggled up under Gunther's arm and gave him a kiss full on the lips: "oh, take us, take us, I'll do anythin', for you dear, anythin', I'll do anythin' for you – take us to the pics, we love the flicks, an ah'll suck yer dick, that's troo!" and Gunther flushed, less with embarrassment than with pleasurable anticipation, and delight at meeting these two Britisch – no, he corrected himself, Scottisch Frauleines! they were so unlike the German girls he met, particularly the ones who were in the Party and were very prim and proper Madchen, wanted to be virgins when they married, and it was a fact that his uniform didn't help with non-Party girls, they simply didn't want to party with him at all – oh there were whores a-plenty, but he didn't want whores, and he didn't want to marry; he'd been married, in Zurich, but after that fiasco – the Bitsch's affair with that Dada Bastard Licinic! oh, he'd put paid to that: shot the creep, blew up their Cabaret; but then he'd had to leave Switzerland in a hurry and come back to Germany; then, after the War, he'd met up with his old chum Adolf and things really took off; okay he was just an SS-Obersturmbannführer but things were looking up – he had his fingers in lots of pies and tonight he'd have them in pussy-pies: he clapped his hands and stood up, "come with me, girlies, I have some of your famous Scotsch in my apartment, and three glasses waiting to be filled, and my Balls are at your service!" and, arm in arm, the three – already schozzled – ran up the stairs and into the cold, dark, rain-swept night and piled into a taxi which, luckily for them, had just arrived to collect another party, the leader of which glared hatefully at it's departing tail-lights and vowed revenge on that upstart schweine Gunther Grebeling, a future posting to The Zaporozhian Sich would be ideal, for no-one crossed that nemesis, Joseph Goebbels, and got away with it!