Writing Prompt #32--Take 1

You’re in the middle of a truly epic firefight. You and your elite marine space commandos are stranded in WWII Earth, surrounded by vampire Nazis and Japanese ninja with weird science and mystic fighting arts. The battleground’s a small village called Paris, which is in some country call Ecnarf. Most of the sprawling locale’s been flattened by weapons’ fire and Panzer tanks. Outnumbered and low on ammo, most of your men are dead and/or rapidly turning into vampires. There’s no rescue or means of escape. Worse, if you lose, then they’ll march over to Hawaii and burn the glacier into the sea. Just as you’re about to give a rousing speech of how Benjamin Franklin liberated the Spartan colonies from the Ottomans, in 1799, someone yells “Cut!”
A few seconds later, everything freezes: from falling shell casings to dying combatants—except for you. A tubby little German man with a bullhorn steps out of thin air and berates Histrionics for their piss-poor accounting of this historical battle. For one thing, they forgot to insert a swarm of mounted Musketeers charging up to defend the village. Secondly, since the vampire Nazis are fighting in broad daylight, they’ll need sunglasses (or they’ll burst into flames)—Duh! On and on he rudely rants, almost to the point where even you wanna shoot him . . . even though you’re beginning to realize that you’re nothing more than a slightly glitched holoprogram.
What happens next?

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