Hitler sat in his special chair, at his special desk, in his special, one-of-a-kind office in the newly constructed Federal Building. It was a large room with a warm orange-yellow colour scheme. Light poured in through the tall windows, bathing everything in a soft glow. It was quite the welcome change from the claustrophobic bunker.
The Führer was immersed in various state memos, so much so that he failed to hear Fegelein sneak up on him before the Obergruppenführer snatched the paper right from his grasp. "<redacted> you, Fegelein!" he snapped, leaping to his feet.
"Good God," the officer muttered, skimming over its contents, "A year in power and you still haven't sorted out the executive pecking order?" Hitler tried to grab the sheet back, but Fegelein was too agile.
"Being the decider is a <redacted>load of responsibility, not that you'd understand," he sneered.
"Haase is Minister of Health? I guess no-one knows hospitals like the guy with TB," he nodded in mock approval. "Oh, I see I have a special appointment."
"Don't get cozy. I'm upgrading it: Minister of Epic Failure." He made another lunge forward; Fegelein spun to the side, waving the sheet like a toreador. "Don't you have some <redacted> to <redacted> up somewhere else?"
"I was telling the next generation of Nigerians all about your war exploits, but their parents came to pick them up from school. Then I reasoned you'd probably had too much time unsupervised, so I thought I'd check in before you burned the country down."
"Well I haven't, so piss off."
Fegelein returned his attention to the roster. "OK, I'll grant you: I didn't expect you'd slot Magda for Trade. But come on: Göring for Transport?"
"It was that or a military post, and he sure as hell isn't touching the air force," he parried.
"Still, at least you're making a local outreach," he muttered, skimming further down. "One can only appoint so many generals to domestic portfolios before it starts to look like a game of Tropico." He held out the paper, then yanked back at the last second and set it on the desk.
At that moment, there was a knock on the door. "Ah, Speer," Hitler quickly assumed a calmer demeanour. "Come in, come in; Fegelein was just leaving." The Obergruppenführer gave a smart, yet somehow condescending salute, and marched out. "Pull up a chair," he continued, seating himself.
"There are no chairs, My Leader."
Hitler shot up and leaned over his desk. "The <redacted>?!" he breathed, incredulous. He shot a glare toward the open doors and into the hall, then slouched backwards, defeated. "So, apparently Tani keeps track of national religious affiliations, at least until this turn. I want you to organize a poll to find out what ours is, since I strongly doubt 90% of our strip of Africa believes God's Kingdom on Earth is in America."
"Does it have an effect on the game?"
"I have no friggin' clue, but we can milk it for PR."
"Certainly, My Leader. ...Is there anything else?"
"No. Wait- yes." He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a piece of paper, passing it across the desk. Speer looked at it carefully, then nodded in understanding. "Throw some cash into that. And whatever you do: don't tell Göring."
.
