The Story of Hans Hasenpfeffer

Hans Hasenpfeffer tripped over a dozing man while strolling to the bratwurst barbecue. He simply chuckled and heaved his pudgy lederhosen clad body wobbly to his feet and brushed himself off. Hans counted down the days on his calendar for Oktoberfest. It was his promised land, a week of nothing but pretzels, bratwurst, oom-pah music, and controlled chaos of partying. His father took him to his first Oktoberfest when he was only six, and ever since he saw it as the holiest week of the year. He sat down on a birch wood bench, which sagged under in weight, and joined in a drunken rendition of “Take Me Home Country Road” with a droopy eyed American and Japanese man. He smiled to himself and began to devour a spit-roast chicken. Little did he know that a dark shadow loomed on the horizon.
The Oktoberfesters noticed the growing shadow as I darkened the stuffy tent, and they recognized it immediately. “Oh no, they’re back!” cried Hans’s friend Heinrich Von Vindow-Vasher. The Eiffel tower hovered over the green German horizon, massive rockets attached to its four bases. Piloting the evil construct was none other than Pierre the Fighter pilot.
“Denizens of Oktoberfest!” he shouted in a thick accent, “Cease this festival at ONCE! The consumption of alcohol is no stable activity for a cultural celebration! You should celebrate with paintings and class like we French!”
“Do you mean “we French” as in the group of you, or Oui French which means yes French?” shouted a German Tuba player from the crowd.
“It doesn’t matter,” Hans interrupted, “I’ve been to every Oktoberfest since I could walk upright, and no Legionnaire is going to stop me!” Hans grabbed every remaining untapped keg and barrel, hopped in his multicolored Volkswagen bus and drove to the Berlin science center’s centrifuge. After intense shaking and spinning, the canisters vibrated with dangerous gaseous tension. Hans Lugged the bursting barrels back to his van, and sped back to the festival, where Pierre and the crowd was still arguing about the “we French” statement.
Hans stood triumphantly and lined up his munitions, oompa music in his ears and pride in his heart.
“LE CHAAAAARGE!” Pierre shouted and the French monument slowly began its rocket boosted advance towards the puny beer tent. Hans picked up an oompa drummer’s mallet and struck the corks and taps on the barrels. The canisters shot at the Eiffel tower, foam trailing behind, driven by sheer gaseous pressure. After several direct hits, the tower was covered in ale, and the rockets combusted the monument into a massive flaming spire. “If I go down, I go down in flames!” cried Pierre as the Eiffel Tower listed to the side and exploded. Hans gave a hearty red faced smile, and with his friends hobbled back into the tent to have a congratulatory pretzel.
“Long live Oktoberfest!” cried Hans. They cheered and began devouring a savory pig roast, knowing that next year’s would be just as fun.