Best Served Cold

            Johan sat by the tiny fire, eyeing his surroundings for wood or paper or anything else that would burn. A puff of wind blew thin smoke in his face, and he crinkled up his nose. The fire smelled horrible, consisting almost entirely of burning garbage that had been dragged away from the village by the winter winds.

            It warmed his face and brought a thin sheen of sweat out on his forehead. It hadn’t snowed for the past few hours, so the air was dry and crisp. He was sweating, his armpits soaked, after running for what had seemed like miles. His uniform, heavy green wool marked by a red armband and various pins and emblems, had done its job well. He didn’t need the small fire to keep warm.

            But he did need it. 

            His present situation, in Johan’s opinion at least, served to prove all that Der Fuhrer had said was correct. These people were inferior and dangerous at the same time, relying on their trickery to undermine Aryan supremacy. 

            Johan looked at the fire and then at his problem. He checked his ammunition and saw that it was running low – his rifle was almost empty and then all he’d have were a few shots of his pistol. Not that it mattered. Bullets weren’t the solution to this problem; he knew that. He’d tried them, and they’d failed. 

            The fire would buy him some time – time to think, to figure things out. Unfortunately the fire was not a permanent solution. It had snowed quite a bit lately, and the sky had darkened, promising more. His fire was doomed.

            Johan looked at his situation again, and, finding that no solution would come to mind, muttered in rough, guttural German, “I’m going to kill that fucking Jew.”