London 1964, The new order.
It's a cold, dark, miserable and cloudy Tueday over the skies of Westminster in January of 1964. Nazi flags and German Swastikas fly through the piercing, bone clattering North Sea winds like the coldest Antartic storms like a dreadful, eternal reminder of the embarassing defeat and forced submission of Britain. A once colourful and warm looking London, full of prosperity and luxury now rests as a blank grey brick slate; a concrete jungle with an abundance of misery and an overflowing sea of Cameras and security. Besides this, the looming Tower and Palace of Westminster remains the only sign of luxury and propsperity in the once glorious Empire that was Britain.
The streets are clear. Not just of rogue drifting tumbleweeds of rubbish or carefully crafted graffiti on the sides of walls or other pieces of random clothing, furniture et cetera, but of cars. Of people. Of sound. Of Smell. Devoid of life. What was once a bustling, almost disgustingly jam packed city full of overcramped streets and endless waves of traffic, now quietly looms amongst the sea of Concrete and German Propaganda; and although everyone wished London hadn't been as busy before the war they sure as hell wished it was now. The people are absent still, forced to stay within curfew under the German Guise and only allowed movement when given permission. London truly had fell.
And soon, with the defeaning 8 chimes of the Westminster bell, the break in the silent desolate city's curfew now sends a signal to those in Britain that the work day has started.
Whilst the defeaning bell rings, I finish putting on my Ironed, jet black, white striped Waistcoat over my pale white shirt and sleek, slim fit black suit pants before putting on my belt and black slip ons; accessoring my outfit with a small gold pocket watch the size of a 2p coin and the weight of a feather with a final comfortable, loose fit, grey wool, trench coat which conceals my body for other eyes.
Picking up my mandatory Identifikation and house keys before arriving on the now bustling, yet silent streets of London outside of collective footsteps, coughing and the occasional sneeze of men and women; juxtaposing the complete silence that was the streets only 5 minutes prior, displaying the lack of willing autonomy and individualism that, only 15 years prior, previously riddled Britain as a whole.
Despite this large assortment of depressed or injured British men and women through Westminster however It's not long before I take the newly reinstated London Autobahn, which is now in place of the old London Underground where previous air raid bases from the Blitz during the war were stationed, from Westminster station to Brixton Station after only a respectable 15 minute body flooded train journey and walk to my place of work; an old bar 5 minutes west of the train station.
"Mornin'." A muscular, gruff, stubbly man with short black hair wearing a black apron over a slightly stained yellow shirt says with a gritty, low and hoarse voice; mimicking his already rough around the edges look in contrast to my formal attire as I walk through the oak wooded door.
"Morning." I longitudinally sigh out simultaneous to my monotonous, almost robotic, sounding tone of voice as I walk through the door, met with the man polishing a glass, a janitor sweeping the floor and a customer sipping his mildly overflowing glass of Beer in the right corner of the pub near the toilets.
"Lovely weather for it eh?" The man asks in typical British Sarcasitc fashion, as if intentionally attempting to further provoke me, like a toddler throwing a tantrum over his favourite toy to grasp his exasperated mother's attention.
"Can't complain I suppose." I reply whilst unequipping my trench coat with almost coordinated and effortless precision, displaying a clear demonstration of awareness of the man's obnoxious nature.
"Oh come on Arthur. You don't wanna humour me for one day?" The man asks, growing a wider smirk as he places the cloth and empty glass on the counter, which is covered in disgusting films of sticky alcohol patches and machines that assist in the creation of many beverages ranging from Beer to Wine and Vodka or even Champagne and Whiskey.
"Humour you with what? The same lobotomied nonsense you spew every other day?" I respond boredly as I enter the disorganised back room covered in a sea of boxes concealing the old faded out carpet, hanging my Trench coat onto one of the coat hangers.
"Always so pessimistic Arthur. Would you rather be in silence like those bastard Nazis force us to be?" He asks from the counter, which he now leans on, as I return from the backroom.
"Careful they don't hear ya. They got cams everywhere now. you'll get done for that, sent to whatever biased court they have closest to here." I point out as I sluggishly join him behind the counter, washing my hands and drying them before facing him again.
"Aw calm down mate. Since when were you such a paranoid git? They ain't comin' here." He raspily chuckles and shakes his head at the same time before going to serve a customer.
"Since a guy got dragged outta here last week for talking shit about the German Propaganda and burning the Nazi flag outside his house. Fucker got dragged out of his seat like a helpless crying child." I respond simply with a scrutinising tone, reminiscing the brutality of last week's events.
"Yeah but he was bound to get busted anyways; burning the Nazi flag is a bit more serious then simple chatter." He states confidently with his continued smirk, wiping his hands and crossing his muscular arms.
"Maybe but seriousness don't matter to those guys. You do anythin' they don't like and at best they'll send you to the kriminell Korrekturschule and at worst they'll execute you and your next 3 generations." I reply swiftly and unapologeticly with a shrug as I begin to wipe down the counter as a few more people enter the Pub to play pool, order a drink or watch Sports on their only day of the 6 day work week off.
"Holy shit that happened to someone?" He asks with surprised wide blue eyes, turning his head with genuine rising concern in his voice.
"Well- no. But I'm sure it did. Forget where you live?" I shrug quietly and look to him unamusedly, only barely sounding out over the sound of Sports announcers over the TV, Clicking Billiard balls and quiet chatter through the pub, the establishment becoming a bit more lively.
"Well, no but- I dunno." He loudly sighs, he muscular, gruff body shifting it's weight as he wipes his face; almost if he was hit by reality itself.
After his sigh of sefeat, the conversation dies with it and we tend to the work day ahead of us; cleaning, serving and cooking for and after the customers of today before finishing my shift at 6pm and returning home through the busy London Autobahn again.
Upon returning to the home, which is completely lacking any sort of security from the watchful Nazi eye, I decide to watch one of the many German propaganda filled movies and shows before wrapping the day up at 11pm, an hour after curfew ends, falling asleep in my standardised bed.