Luck of the Draw

Hi! I hope you enjoy the story - it's just for silly fun! Nothing too serious...much! I sooooooo really appreciate the help some very special authors gave me - you know who you are! Thank you!

Summary: What if Hogan and his men knew they were characters in fanfiction? How would they deal with it? And what would they do if an author threw their universe into chaos?

Disclaimer: I don't own Hogan's Heroes!

"Another bloody author," Corporal Newkirk muttered as he stamped his feet on the cold ground. "You think they'd set the story for a warm day."

"Look on the bright side," Sergeant Kinchloe offered, his breaths steaming up the chilly air. "At least people are writing about us. That's something."

"But does it have to be so cold?" Louis LeBeau groused, his small body jumping up and down in an futile effort to stay warm.

"Well, it could be worse," Andrew Carter, the Sergeant-turned-bombmaker piped up. "It could be snowing. And the wind could be blowing, too-"

Just then, a chilly gust blew across the compound and through the bones of the assembled men. A sudden flurry of snowflakes drenched the Prisoners of War in white before tapering off.

"Carter," Newkirk growled, brushing the wet flakes off his uniform, "next time, keep your bleeding mouth shut!" The Englishman tried to shrink inside his blue jacket even as the door to the Kommandantur opened.

Colonel Wilhelm Klink, the Kommandant of Stalag 13, stepped out onto the small porch before his monocled eye surveyed the prisoners with a jaundiced glare. Colonel Hogan smiled cheerfully in response.

And here we go again, the American thought. Another author. Another story. He sighed. Hopefully this one won't have any plot holes! And maybe it'll have an ending this time, too...

"Prisoners of the Third Reich," Klink's annoyingly reedy voice began, "I bring you news of the war of which you are no longer a part..."

Oh, come on! Hogan fumed. Every author has done this bit already at some point or another! It does get old... The handsome officer, resigned to his fate, let a whispery breath of frustration escape his lips even as the German officer continued his predictable speech.

"...the war goes well for the forces of the glorious Third Reich," Klink continued. "We continue to advance on all fronts-"

Suddenly, a loud klaxon went off.

A startled Colonel Klink, along with everyone in the compound, whirled around trying to find the source of the deafening sound. To everyone's surprise confetti began to fall from the empty sky before the blaring noise finally faded away.

"Colonel Klink!" a manly, if not pleasant, German-accented voice boomed from the empty air, "You've said the secret words of the day! Congratulations!" More confetti, followed by a shower of brightly colored balloons, drifted to the ground before the astonished eyes of the prisoners and guards. "You've won the grand prize!" the announcer continued. "Tell him what he's won, Hans!"

"Right you are, Heinrich!" another German voice yelled from nowhere. "Wilhelm Klink, you've won...a brand new car!" As if on cue, a sleek and futuristic - not to mention driverless – red automobile rolled up amidst a triumphant fanfare of horns and music. The retracted cloth top revealed a rich leather interior that stood in stark contrast to the dismal camp surroundings.

"The 2016 Mercedes Benz represents the epitome of luxurious comfort in today's hectic world," Hans called out, obviously reading from a cue card. "The RE SUX features automatic driving, exquisite handling, free oil changes for life and also has a personal assistant to run your errands so you can just enjoy the drive! And it's all yours, Wilhelm Klink!"

The Luftwaffe Colonel's mouth flapped loosely up and down. "Mine?" he stuttered, disbelieving.

"It's all yours!" Hans exclaimed once more. "Come on down and drive her away!" At that, the car's engine revved up several times; Klink broke from his stupor and almost bounded down the steps to admire his prize.

"Plus, as a bonus, we've arranged a special date for you!" Heinrich yelled out. A spotlight, seemingly from nowhere, formed a perfect circle of the front door of the Kommandantur. "And here she is...Annika Hansen, better known as...Seven of Nine from Star Trek: Voyager!"

Every male in the compound - German or otherwise - immediately drooled as a buxom blonde, dressed in a silky long evening gown, exited the building. Oddly, the woman ignored the pointed stares and proceeded nimbly down the steps to the curious Kommandant.

"You are Colonel Wilhelm Klink?" she asked, her voice clipped and to the point. A silvery device above her left eyebrow glinted underneath the harsh glare of the camp lights.

"Uh...yes..." the officer stammered, mesmerized by her beauty...if not her ample, er, attributes.

"Excellent." Without another word she grabbed him by the front of his coat and dumped him into the front passenger seat of the car. Klink had just enough time to recover his senses before the woman slipped behind the steering wheel. "I am your date for tonight," she said matter of factly, laying a cool glare on his trembling monocle. "Resistance is...futile."

Without another word Seven shifted the car into drive and gunned the engine. The Kommandant, his face a mask of terror, watched in horror as his new prize squeaked through the rapidly opening front gates. Only the fading roar of the powerful engine was heard as the car roared off to points unknown. For a moment silence reigned throughout the disbelieving camp before a distinctly Cockney voice shattered the still air.

"You wouldn't be able to spare another one of those dates, would you?" its owner asked. "Mind you, I'm partial to brunettes..."

The invisible announcers failed to respond.

"It figures," Newkirk groused once they were back in the barracks. "The bloody officers get the best women," A faint sheen of red laced his cheeks as he flicked his eyes toward the Senior POW. "Sorry, Colonel," he said contritely. Colonel Hogan waved him off.

"You're right," he admitted. "However, I would have never figured Klink would go on a date." A faint smile graced his lips as the blonde walked through his mind. "That woman was a knockout." Several voices murmured in agreement. "The bigger question is the story line," he said, returning to the business at hand. "I think this is going to be some kind of humor story."

"Guess this leaves out your bombs, Carter," Kinchloe joked. Sergeant Carter merely grinned.

"Still doesn't mean we can't have fun, though," he said brightly. "That car was something, wasn't it? I wouldn't mind having something like that to drive around."

"Not to mention having someone in the front seat with you," LeBeau said knowingly..

"Yeah, that'd be something!" Carter went on, his mind in another place and time. "Driving down the road, looking over to see her tongue hanging out..." All of the men looked at him quizzically.

"Um...Carter...you do understand we were talking about a date, right. Involving a woman?" Kinch asked. The sergeant blushed.

"Oh, right..." he said, embarrassed. "I was just thinking about Roxie. She's a German Shepherd. You'd love to see her on car rides-"

"Carter," Newkirk's long-suffering voice piped up. "what am I going to do with you?"

"All right, back on topic," Colonel Hogan ordered. "This story's probably going to be a lighthearted one. Kinch, you might get to say a few jokes this time,"

"Don't I wish," the colored man grinned. "I could probably tap dance for laughs,"

"Sssh," LeBeau warned. "Don't give her any ideas." He pointed toward the ceiling. "Authors," he snorted.

"Bloody birds run the show," Newkirk groused. "We just do what they want."

"Keeps us going, though," Kinch interjected. "We could be one of those story categories that has only six stories instead of 1,700. Not bad for a fifty year old show. We even have people writing about us that weren't even alive when the show was on the air."

"You know, I wouldn't mind meeting some of those women," Sergeant Wilkinson, standing nearby, commented. "Yes, sir! I'd like to meat them and bake them out wheresome..." A frown crossed the man's grizzled face.

"You okay, Wilkinson?" Colonel Hogan asked, concern in his eyes.

"We...theresome..." The man visibly seemed to be struggling to speak. "Me...;" ""Notnoone...bowcow..."""";3 Suddenly, the sergeant's eyes rolled up in his head moments before he collapsed to the floor.

Hogan rushed over to the enlisted man and checked his vitals. "He's going into beta shock!" he gravely announced. "Kinch, get me the Emergency Beta Defibrillator from my office!"

The radioman had just turned around when a man suddenly materialized out of thin air. The stranger, dressed in a black uniform with blue trim, looked upon the scene with calm indifference.

"Please state the nature of the medical emergency," he announced. Hogan looked at the visitor with a calculating eye.

And what's with the gold triangle on his chest?

"And you are..." he challenged.

"I'm the emergency medical hologram. Specifically, the doctor from Star Trek: Voyager," the bald-headed man curtly said. "And you were expecting..."

"A blonde, for starters," the Colonel replied. The stranger rolled his eyes.

"I'm a doctor, not a floozy," he snapped. The man then knelt down and waved a lighted device over the prone body. "This patient is going into beta shock!" the medical officer snapped. "I can't do anything for him unless you find a suitable beta on fan fiction dot net!

"Fry! Leela! Professor!" Sergeant Wilkinson blurted out. He was ignored.

"We have a substitute here," the Colonel shot back just as Kinch pushed several objects into his hands. "Namely, these." He held the items up; the doctor blanched.

"That's too primitive!" the other man exclaimed, standing up. "He needs qualified help!" The hologram rolled his eyes. "Frankly, it it were singing, I could provide assistance," he said conversationally, if not arrogantly. "However this is just plain bad writing by an classically inept author-"

"If you'll shut up for a moment I can treat him!" Hogan interrupted. "Clear!"

The men stood back as Hogan raised his hands. Suddenly, they plunged downward...

...and slammed two thick books - namely, Webster's Dictionary and the Oxford-American dictionary (abridged, 2014) - on either side of the enlisted man's head. Sergeant Wilkinson groaned and coughed before his eyes fluttered open.

"I are's a collage student!" he blurted cheerfully. Hogan raised his hands once more.

"Clear!"

Seconds later, the NCO was shaking his head. "What happened?" he blearily asked. "I was standing, and then..."

"You're all right," the Colonel said as he and Newkirk helped the man to his feet. "Just a bad case of betaitis. You'll be fine."

"Happens to the best of us, mate," the Englishman reassured him. "Sometimes it only lasts for a chapter. Sometimes the whole story. You got lucky."

"Thanks," the sergeant mumbled gratefully even as he nursed his sore temples. The doctor, meanwhile, seemed somewhat put out to be ignored.

"Well, if there's nothing else..." the man dryly deadpanned, "i'll be going." He looked around the barracks with a casual disdain. "Not that I would ever be able to make these quarters...sterile..."

"Don't you have someone else to annoy?" Hogan snapped.

"Fine," the doctor annoyingly breathed before he slapped the golden triangle on his chest. "Computer, deactivate the EMH." Moments later, the stranger was gone.

"Holograms," muttered LeBeau, waving his hands in exasperation. "I hate crossovers!"

"You don't think the author is trying to do a Star Trek/Hogan's Heroes story, do you?" Kinch wondered. "I mean, we already did the one with the original series written by..."He frowned. "What was her name again?"

"Who cares?" muttered LeBeau before a smile brightened his face. "Do you think we could get that 'Annika Hansen' back?" he asked hopefully. "We could use her on some of the missions! No guard would be able to resist her!"

Newkirk stepped forward and slammed his heels into the floor before he popped to attention and saluted Colonel Hogan. "Sir!," he barked. "As a representative of His Majesty I volunteer to show Ms. Hansen around! I'll take her on an in-depth and thorough inspection of the operation and give her my upmost personal attention—"

"Oh, please," scoffed LeBeau. "You can also show her your dress collection, too!" He ignored the suddenly angry glare from the Englishman before continuing. "However, we Frenchmen are totally dedicated to our chosen profession—"

"-and with any Frenchman it's love first and work second!" thundered Newkirk, his hackles rising. "And if you think for one minute—"

"All right, KNOCK IT OFF!" the Colonel yelled, glaring at the combatants. "We've got better things to do." The two men grumbled before settling down.

"Like I said, this is probably a humor story," the senior POW continued. "Maybe a little bit of science fiction, too. We've got to be prepared." He looked over at the radioman. "Kinch, get on the horn with London and find out what's going on. Maybe the author will send us a mission and get the ball rolling."

"Got it!" Kinch replied. As he turned around, a man in a blue power suit and pink tie suddenly materialized from the far wall. He took a few seconds to orient himself before he strode over to his target

"Are you Colonel Robert Emmett Brown Hogan?" he demanded. The American officer gave him a bemused stare.

"And you are…" he challenged.

The man withdrew a blue and white paper from the inside pocket of his tailored suit. "My name is Jordan Miller, Esquire," he sniffed before he slapped the document against the front of Hogan's leather jacket. "I represent the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission. This," he declared, "is a restraining order barring you or any member of your command from using the radio in the tunnel below."

"What!?" Hogan exclaimed incredulously. He made no motion to take the paper. The stranger, still puffing wind, wasn't finished yet.

"Furthermore, no one – and I repeat, no one – is allowed to contact London in any way, shape or fashion before our investigation is completed. You're already caused enough damage to the plot line!"

"What plot?" the Colonel growled. "We haven't received one yet! What is this all about, anyway?" Suddenly, his lips curled into a fiendish grin. "Kinch, get Schultz," he ordered. "I think our friend needs to spend some time in the cooler."

"You may want to read that order first," the stranger smugly retorted. Hogan raised a curious eyebrow before he took the document from the man's pudgy hand and unfurled it. As he read it both eyebrows went up.

"You're kidding me…" he murmured. "Discrimination? What are you talking about?"

"Against that poor man there!" Miller exclaimed, raising his hand. Hogan's eyes, along with the other men's, followed the pointed finger to find…

"Kinch!?"

[Dramatic music as the screen fades into blackness. Suddenly, a cheesy-lawyer-who-can-get-you-loads-of-cash commercial appears onscreen. A rugged well-dressed man wearing a Stetson hat stands in a nondescript courtroom. Oddly, a small object – a pecan nut, specifically – lies on the polished table next to him. On cue he wags a stern finger at the camera.]

"Are you tired of not having your day in court?" he barks. "Sick of settlement offers that don't come close to meeting your medical or other needs? That won't happen with the hammer!" Suddenly, his large hand whips out a claw hammer from nowhere before smashing the peanut in an exaggerated slow motion closeup. Bits of wooden shrapnel fly every which way from the wooden gouge even as the man flashes a devilish grin.

"My name is Jim 'The Hammer' Slammer!" he boomed. "And I can get you what you deserve! Just listen to what my clients have to say!

[Unshaven white guy in a mechanic's shirt]: "I was out on a job site fixing a client's car when Wile E. Coyote rammed into me on his ACME rocketbike. I slammed the hammer on ACME and got $500,000!"

[Overly energetic black lady]: "I tripped over Jerry when he was running from Tom and fell down a flight of stairs before running into the hot iron which sent me into a pile of fresh concrete which caused me to break a nail. I slammed the hammer on Warner Bros. and received $800,000!" [starts dancing] "Woohoo!"

[Droopy, a cartoon character]" "No one would draw me seriously," he said in a leisurely drawl. "Mr. Slammer got the artists to draw me professionally and with a woman. My cash settlement was 50 cents." The cartoon character stared into the camera with a bored expression. "You know what?," he deadpanned. "I'm happy."

"Get your hammer time now!" an overly energetic announcer yelled out. "Don't wait! Call 'The Hammer' at 903-SCR-EWEM now!"

**Dramatization. Jim 'The Hammer' Slammer is still an attorney of record, appeals pending. Mr. Slammer is not board certified except indirectly through his brother's cousin's second roommate. Cases may be referred to newbie lawyers without experience but who are built like quarterbacks and rate as 'hideous' on a qualified facial and vocal ugliness sarcasm scale. If you win, Jim 'The Hammer' Slammer and undesignated accomplices…er, lawyers…will receive 42.5 percent of awards and settlements plus expenses and strip club fees. If you lose, you agree in advance to wash our BMW's and Mercedes for a period of one (1) year. Not valid in all states.

And so begins the fun! Like I said, no Mary Sues will rear their ugly heads! Of course, that won't stop me from playing with the Heroes...LOLOLOL!

Don't forget to review if you liked this! Thanks!

This story will be updated at 2pm EST on 3-25-15