{The Most Interesting German in the World}
a.k.a. Moments that Ludwig Beilschmidt regrets and then some.
"I really see no reason to be doing this at all," he said, crossing his arms, his brows creased into his signature scowl as the make-up artist fussed with softening the creases "I'm a respectable politician, not a mere actor or model."
"You need to loosen up a bit, Luddy boy! You were chosen for this
because you are a respectable politician with the
hot bod of your so-called 'mere actor or model'. It's even up for debate that you have an even hotter bod than your average actor or model. Doesn't that boost your ego just a tiny bit? You'd be doing a disservice to your country by refusing to do this," said Michael Collins, director of CI. He, of course, had no bearing to Beilschmidt's public relations organization. Beilschmidt's bid for Prime Minister was well locked-in as the leader of the Labour Party. All he had to do is make certain that the Labour Party continued to cipher popularity from the other parties. Make some public appearances here and there, go do some volunteer work, show that he is for the people. The usual stuff. But that usually didn't include
this.
"I don't need my ego boosted, Michael. I need to work. I could have had something else scheduled for this time slot. You know my schedule is very tight. But no, I came here, assuming I was doing a serious commercial for a respectable company, promoting healthy hydration in the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, but no! I'm doing an alcohol commercial! That wasn't in the memo!"
"Alcohol is a strong word. It's a beer commercial, and it'll get you a lot of press. And anyways, your public relations office went with the idea. They
really went with the idea, actually."
"
Verdammt, Lena..." Ludwig said, massaging his temples. It really was funny that the only person that really had autonomy over him was his publicity officer, Lena Märzstadt. She booked all of his public appearances and advised him in regards to public response. However, she had a tendency to make his life harder. Ludwig wasn't very thrilled with the blind date last month, nor was he thrilled about the Labour Party calendar shoot.
"You're not wiggling out of this one, but don't you worry. I'll be watching here to make sure no one will try any, I dunno, terrorist tactics in the studio," Michael said with a bit too much amusement in his voice.
"Mr. Beilschmidt, you are ready for shooting," the make-up artist said. Ludwig groaned, getting up from the chair.
"Go get 'em, Eismann," Michael laughed.
"Eisenmann," Ludwig growled, stepping into the studio.
--
When he holds a lady's purse, he looks manly. Enter shot walking down the street with a Gucci purse. Several extras look at him in wonder, but some of the extras nod in approval. That man looks good with that purse.What a poisonous, poisonous lady he offered his heart to at the time. Her brother was agreeable, and she was sweet— when money wasn't involved. It was understandable for her to miss her lifestyle, but damn, why was it so expensive? He risked much for her besides his wallet; her family's reputation was filth to the general public, while his name was clean as a name could be. A little too clean.
He admits that it was a risk he never calculated, but oh, the things he did for love. The poisoned apple herself never saw the venom within herself, and only those who dared take a bite could tell a little too late.
For now, though, he'll tote her purses as she walks around the Versace store in wonder, as if she just landed in Oz. There may have been some giggles, but all he needed to do was shoot them a look and they would cower.
After spending a day at Versace, he came out of the store with an amazingly functional shoulder bag for himself.
He brought it to work the next day. No one dared call it a purse.
He once won the Tour-de-France, but was disqualified for riding a unicycle. Pick up unicycle and cross arms, unicycling like it's no one's business. Cars in the background are slower compared to the man on the unicycle. She happened to really like cycling. And because he happened to really like her, he allowed himself to be talked into participating in the Tour-de-France. It made some headlines and really boosted up his PR. The two of them trained together for the Tour-de-France, but it really was difficult to rival her cycling skills. Even if she didn't have to typically use a cycle as a child to get to places due to her family's fortunes, she made it a habit to cycle often as her brother often did. She was fast, though she claimed that it was only to "keep up with broer". Broer was pretty damn fast if she had to be that fast to catch up with him.
"Liebling, I'm not so sure I'll be able to keep up with you or anyone in this race," Ludwig said as the two settled in their bed. They had checked in to quite a ritzy hotel room in Monte Carlo for this race, which she said would 'ease up the nerves and be quite a comfort for pre-race jitters'.
"Mon canard, don't worry about it," she said, tapping him on the nose gently. "I wouldn't put you up for this if I didn't think you could do it. You are very fast and you will make it. I know you will."
He offered her a tired smile. She often reassured him that everything would be alright, even if it was often he that had to tell her that. She went through much stress with the press and with the Board of Directors in regards to the fallout of the scandals involved with the liquidation of her family's assets. He was there for the tired nights and the tears with each legal document she received, but she had strength lift up his spirits when the political scene caved in on him. He held her hand, reassuringly rubbing it with his thumb. Tomorrow would definitely take a physical toll.
No unicycle was involved in the day's proceedings, but damn, did both of them do fairly well in the race.
His blood smells like cologne. A close up shot of people smelling him seductively. Goodness does that man smell good. Probably one of Ludwig's more awkward shots, actually. He was uncomfortable with all those noses pressed up against his pectorals. All he could do is glare at Michael behind the camera, but that only warranted another shot. Ludwig was not much of a party person.
Charlotte definitely was.
It's certainly ironic that the two of them had met at a party, given the prior's aversion to such frivolous social gatherings. He wasn't quite sure how he had made the decision to come up to her in the first place, given her family's recently tainted reputation and his social awkwardness. It just seemed to happen that way.
Perhaps the biggest reason he decided to go up to her was his new cologne.
"Heh, Ludwig. You've been looking at her for a while," Elizabeta smirked, a glass of champagne between her fingers.
"It's nothing like that..." he said, his eyes dropping to the floor, his cheeks brightening.
Elizabeta set down her glass and put her hands on her hips for emphasis.
"Out of all the people on the Labour Party, I would know when I see the wings of l-o-v-e," she said, over-articulating every letter.
"It isn't that!" he protested. That only warranted another smirk from Elizabeta.
"Just be careful. A damaged woman is just as dangerous as a whole one."
Ludwig was usually good at following the rules, but not this time. After Elizabeta left, he approached her.
"H-hallo, ich heisse-- Scheisse. Lass mich versuchen nochmal auf Englisch."
His shirts never wrinkleSporting an Armani shirt, he gets down on his back and starts doing crunches... and look there, his shirt isn't wrinkling at all!Sometimes, you have to make good use of your time. Unfortunately, he really didn't have time to iron any of his clothes or go back home in that period of time. He had a press conference in thirty minutes. London traffic would not permit him to call Lena to get a new, fresh-pressed shirt to the hotel on time. Not that she would give him a shirt of that description, with her skills with the iron. Desperate times called for desperate measures.
He wouldn't have time to take off the shirt and fix the wrinkles. With the suit coat already buttoned, that would be inconvenient. Plus, he tried to avoid being shirtless when he was expecting a knock at the door at anytime. The press
loved to milk shirtless moments as scandals. Ludwig Beilschmidt was particularly good at avoiding scandal, and he didn't intend to start any. Plus, he really had to address these wrinkles. They seemed to multiply the more he looked at his shirt.
Grabbing the iron from the closet, he plugged it into the wall socket. With his left arm outstretched, he gently placed the iron on the sleeve.
He let out a loud, manly scream that brought half the press in the building right to his room.
At least he was the most neatly dressed politician at the press conference.
He can speak Russian... in French.A chilly backdrop featuring the Kremlin and fake snow. The famous Russian model Svetlana Mikhailnovna walks in his direction. He looks her passionately in the eye, says "Ich bin verliebt in dich." Of course, because she is no German, she gives him a questioning look. He then takes her in his arms, and French kisses her, long and hard. Of course, Michael is silently laughing behind the camera like a buffoon. He mouths at Ludwig "Smooth there, buddy. Smooth."He may have a good understanding of German, English, and French, but damn did he stumble on his words when it came to any language when he felt awkward. He certainly wasn't in the running for most eloquent politician to roam the planet.
And he didn't happen to know Spanish.
"Ay carramba, Lucho, you aren't smooth on your feet. Where is your soul?" she said for the umpteenth time. She often questioned his dancing abilities— not that they didn't exist. Charlotte had coerced him into learning tango among other things during their time together. She often challenged him, saying things like 'Broer could show more passion that that— but he chooses not to, or the public might tarnish our name with charges of incest.'
He took to the challenge, and damn, that was the most passionate he danced before.
He doesn't dance like that anymore. He really wants to give some of that passion to the Spaniard in front of him, but he can't get his feet to cooperate anymore.
He feels the swell of the music, really digs deep into his soul. He puts another foot forward as she arches her back backwards. Hot damn she's flexible.
She reclaims dominance when she sees he's got a little fight in him.
"Are you there, mi corazon?" she smirks, turning him, to his surprise.
"Esta aqui," he says, barely a whisper.
"Say it again."
"Esta aqui."
She laughs. His Spanish really is atrocious, but there was soul in it. She had to give him that.
"
Estoy aquí, mi querido."
He is the life of parties that he never attended.
A party scene ensues... but he is absent. However, you can clearly see all the Ludwig Beilschmidt memorabilia in the room. A close-up on a group of people... with one person presenting a Ludwig Beilschmidt bobblehead.
He spent his Friday nights alone. While the others usually go out for a drink, he preferred the solitude.
Though sometimes, he receives rather unwelcome company.
"Ludwig. I
need to come over. This is urgent," a hushed voice said through the phone.
"Are you okay, Roderich? It's Friday night," Ludwig asked.
"It's very important that I go to you. I can't stay here any longer, I fear for myself—"
"Where are you?"
"I'll be heading over to your house, It can't wait any longer, Ludwig. Everything is at stake. I can't tell you over the phone, who knows how many people are tapping this line, but Ludwig,
thank you."
The phone was dead silent. Ludwig grabbed his copy of this week's Die Zeit, waiting for the door.
Roderich arrived fifteen minutes later.
"Are you okay? Do you need anything?" Ludwig said, taking his friend by the arm.
"I need... some of your chocolate cake."
...He is the most interesting man in the world.
--
He sat down in the leather chair, grateful for the last scene.
"How do you feel, Michael?" he said, scowling.
"You looked pretty good out there, macking on Mikhailnovna! I'll have to say, watching you get sniffed by those models was amazing," Michael laughed.
Ludwig rolled his eyes as the camera began to roll.
He leaned forward to the camera, holding a bottle.
"I don't always drink beer, but when I do, I prefer Deutschlander."
He unscrewed the cap, and slowly took a sip. With a small "Ah..." he gave the camera a pensive look.
"Haben Durst, meine Freunde."