As the flames erupted around the remaining fragments of the edifice, John Adams felt the weight of his burden lifted from his body. Geunther had told him to do it, and being a loyal Gauleiter, Mr. Adams fulflilled his duty without hesitation. "Perhaps now I can set my sights lower," John muttered to himself as he kicked his way toward the pleasantly soft sand on the opposite shore. History will absolve me...absolve me will history...Cuban cigars...ak-47s...the laberynthine city blocks of Havan...to each his own Mussolini. Again, the thoughts permeated his mind. This time, however, he would be able to control what he saw without experiencing the pain of the Fuhrer's iron grip. The days of Harsh were long gone...the mussolini-spouting roughian from the streets of Florida had made his triumphant return to the foothills of Alemania, and this time, the Fourth Reich would not fail. No, it certainly would not. A comrade knows where the power lies...and even a fascist is unaware of the hidden intensions of the crimson front...