[h2]BERLIN, GERMANY[/h2]
The night of the European Conference

As his father took to the skies for his "European Concert", prince Friederich took to the streets of Berlin in his black Königswahl Gepard. As the sports car glided effortlessly through the streets, Freddy occasionally caught camera flashes out of the corner of his eye. Stifling a laugh, he shook his head.
'Not even five minutes out and they've already noticed me. Oh well. I'll lose them after the next alley.' 

With a quick, precise turn that only a Gepard is capable of, Freddy glided down the alleyway, hearing the screech of the paparazzi's tires followed by the telltale thud of a collision, and finally, angry Italian yelling. Smiling to himself, he flicked on the radio, to finish his drive in peace.

"That was Damen von Swing with their hit song, 'Am die Steilabfall.' Next up on Schwingradio Deutschland is Spinnende Netze by your favorite young man out of Switzerland, Julien Schmidt!" 

As the voice faded and the upbeat swing music started, Freddy lost himself in the music, time speeding along with the fast beats, until he finally arrived at a small pub off the beaten path; The Dicke Frau. It was out of the way enough that the paparazzi never found it, yet easy enough to get to that Freddy could enjoy a drink with his less than noble friends. 

"Are ye serious?" Came a voice from behind him speaking English. "Me mates back home won't believe it!" 

When Freddy turned around, he saw a dark haired Scottish man, kilt and all, fumbling to pull out a camera. 

"Oy, you there!" He said in German, oblivious to who he was talking to. "Can you get a picture of me under the sign?" 

Smiling, Freddy obliged, taking the small camera from the Scots hands, and snapping a couple pictures of him making lewd gestures underneath the sign, as well as a more proper one, supposedly for his family scrapbook. 

"Thanks, I owe you one! In fact, first ones on me!" Said the jovial man, slapping his arm around Freddy's back. "Who, may I inquire, am I buying for?" 

"Friederich." Replied Freddy, trying to keep casual. "And who is purchasing for me?" 

"My name's Lewis! Lewis MacLean!" Replied the Scots as they marched inside.

"MEINE PRINZ!" Shouted the patrons the second they saw Freddy walk in. 

"MEINE LEUTE!" Came Freddy's bombastic reply, as the bar spring to life, almost as if it had been waiting silently for him to come along. Within seconds, the rusty jukebox began to play the same radio Freddy had running in his car, and people began to get up and dance.

Navigating through the crowd, Freddy and Lewis made their way to the bar itself.

"Meine Prinz! Good to see you again! Who's your friend?" Asked the fat, balding old man standing behind the counter.

"Ah! This is Lewis! He'll be treating me, so… Bring a couple bottles of Rote Hütte for us!" 

" Sure thing!" replied the bartender, retreating into a back room.

"Rote Hütte? What's that?" Asked Lewis.

"What's Rote Hütte?" Freddy asked incredulously. "Only the best beer you'll find in all of Deutschland, No, in all of Europe!" 

"Well, I guess I'll be the judge of that!" Lewis snapped sarcastically. "There's some stuff back home that I'd bet my mother's couch on!" 

"Is that so?" Freddy said with a smile. "We'll, Sigmund here carried drinks from all around the world, so let's see about that, why don't we? In fact, why don't we make it a challenge?"

With a wry smile, the Scots jutted his hand out toward Freddy, who met it with a hearty shake. Just then, Sigmund came back out, bottles in hand, and smiled. 

"Ladies and gentlemen, it looks like the Prinz has a new challenger!"

A cheer from half the patrons followed, and people began to line up at the counter, rifling through their wallets, as Sigmund grabbed an old, ratty hat from a nearby doorknob, and a pencil and pad of paper.

"Get your bets in before it's too late!"

-----------------
[h2]Berlin, later that evening[/h2]

Prinz Wilhelm sat in a recliner, reading a book titled "The Art of Manipulation." As his dark eyes glided over the pages, his lips donned a smile that would look innocent on anybody else, but made him look like a villain out of a horror film. 

"Interesting." He muttered to himself, writing a small note in an even smaller journal at his side.

Just as he went to turn the page, the phone next to him began to ring. Normally, he would wait for a maid to get it, but this time, he decided to pick it up personally.

"Hello, Wilhelm speaking." He said into the reciever.

"… Yes. Okay. Yes, I understand. Yes, thank you." He said, before putting the phone down with a sigh.

"And the younger brother ruins a pleasant evening once again. I swear, if we were not family..." 

Putting his book aside, Wilhelm stood up, and made his way to the door of his study, opening it.

"Dear, I'm going out for a while." He shouted into the empty hallway.

"Alright, don't get into trouble!" Came a reply from somewhere else in the house.

"You know me, darling. I'm only ever the one fixing trouble…" Wilhelm numbed, as he out his shoes on, and made his way to hair garage.

Inside sat a Falke, by Handwerker. A sportscar made by a rival company to Köningswahl, that supposedly controls better than the Gepard, and is after, to boot.

Wilhelm pressed a button next to the door, and within seconds, a pair of agents came from inside the house, ready to escort the German heir wherever he was going. As they all piled into the car, one of them asked the most obvious question first.

"Freddy?"

Nodding, Wilhelm brought them up to speed about how his younger brother drank too much, and got into a fistfight with some drunkard named Louise. Freddy, if course, was fine, but the other man was carried out on a stretcher. The only reason Wilhelm was sbihered at all was because Freddy passed out immediately after, and nobody was able to get him to move.

Upon arriving at the bar, gaudily named "The Dicke Frau", which Wilhelm was sure was a joke in English disguised as a play on words in German, the eldest prince swing open the doors, secret service agents in tow. Sure enough, the first thing they saw upon walking in was the massive form of Freddy sprawled on the floor, with some blood on his shirt and a bottle of Röte Hutte in the other.

"You" Wilhelm said to the bartender. "Help me get him upright. I'll take his left, you take his right."

Nodding, the ugly, balding man waddled over to the princes, and did as Wilhelm instructed. With a great effort, they got Freddy propped upright against a table, his eyes slowly opening.

"Hey, look at me." Demanded Wilhelm. "And let go of that shit beer, for God's sake."

Freddy, who's eyes still were barely open, growled, and threw out an arm towards his older brother, hitting him square in the chest. Wilhelm, not expecting this response, fell backwards, putting an arm out to catch himself, only to have it catch a table, and bend backwards. The elder prince let out a hell of pain, and immediately cradled the injured arm with his good one. 

"You fucking idiot! I think you broke my arm, you fucking giant idiot!" Spat Wilhelm angrily. "Get up, you imbecile. I need to get to a hospital, and I can't leave you here, as much as I want to!" 

"Mmmhm." Replied Freddy, as he stumbled to his feet, while Wilhelm's guards helped him to his.

"You, take the idiots car, and get him home. The last thing Father will need is a scandal on his hands." Hissed Wilhelm. "Again."

Nodding, the agent moved away, steering Freddy to the car while also grabbing the princes keys from. His pocket. Once the younger prince was in, they drove off into the night, to the sound of loud swing. 

Gritting his teeth, Wilhelm got into the back seat of his son vehicle, as the calming sounds of classical music came on. Without a second to lose, the white sportscar pulled out of the bar, and headed back into the busy night in Berlin, as a cigarette butt fell from the sky, landing in the garbage behind the Dicke Frau.