Are we, perhaps, going to see a Red Otto Skorzeny?
Benito Mussolini's bed was shaking.
"Typical." he remarked to the empty room. Recently his life had been one headache after another, the fiasco that had been the attempted liberation of Austria, the Comintern's breach of the Alpine Wall, the uprising in the Po Valley, the fall of Milan and then Rome, why wouldn't an earthquake make it so that we couldn't even get a decent night's rest? No doubt an avalanche would soon follow.
That would just make things even more perfect, the Italian dictator thought to himself. Messe and Wavell had insisted that this mountain lodge would allow him to stay near the frontline whilst out of the range of enemy artillery, as if they didn't just want him to leave them alone to the "real work". Was inspiring the Italian people not real work? Was inspiring the continued resistance for the glory of fascism not worth the time to the two generals? He couldn't help but feel that an avalanche would be an ironic punishment for the two of them, if he had to be killed by falling rocks, then at least he would embarrass those who had humiliated him so many times in this long, long retreat.
Mussolini could hear shouts of panic from outside, followed all too quickly by gun shots and screams.
His bed shook again, and all of the sudden it became clear that there had been no earthquake. Jumping out of bed, he ran to turn on the lights, only to realise the power had been cut. He tried to glimpse out of the window from the darkness, only to see his face reflect from the light of the full moon. For a moment, his old military training took over and he dived to the floor as a grenade flew through the window. A loud crump, and then only ringing, he realised that half of his room was in flames, as he noticed a large man in a coalscuttle helmet standing in the doorway.
Despite the ringing in his ears, he could hear the shadowed figure barking with laughter as the dictator realised that he was still in his pyjamas.
"Benito Mussolini, in the name of the Italian people, you are under arrest." The soldier sneered in a thick German accent.
Pyjama clad, Mussolini attempted to assert as much authority as he could muster, "You're not Italian! Who do you think you are to arrest me?!"
"My comrades have killed all of your blackshirts, this hotel is ours," the shadow from under the coalscuttle laughed again, "we are all the world to you right now."
That much was certainly true.
Mussolini looked around for a weapon, but there was nothing left that was useful, even the shards of glass had been caught up in the blaze. All that was left was to face the enemy, and die with some dignity. "If that's the case, then it's time for me to die. I would try to wrestle your weapon off of you but I'm much too tired. You've come at a rather late hour."
As the Austrian walked into the room, the shadow over his face was lifted, replaced with a horrific grin that was putting undue pressure an old but grevious scar. The fire reflected in his eyes all too well.
"My dear Duce, I'm afraid it's far worse than that."
---
Nah, not sure it would work.
