Once upon a time, there was a little boy, about five and a half years old. He had bright blue eyes, and shiny blond hair, and faint freckles on his face, and his front teeth protruded slightly over his bottom lip, as if they hadn't quite made it back inside his mouth after he gave one of his sweet smiles. And his smiles made his eyes crinkle slightly in the corners, and showed one big dimple on his left cheek, and a smaller one on his right cheek.
And he was the nastiest boy you could ever meet. It's not just that he was rude or selfish or unpleasant (which he was), and it's not just that he didn't care a jot about other people's feelings (which he didn't) or that he went out of his way to annoy them (which he did); the little buck-toothed boy was a full-blown misanthrope. He hated other people – it didn't matter who they were – and he tried his hardest to hurt them. And he enjoyed every second of it.
There was only one thing that troubled the little buck-toothed boy. If he was so mean, why did people who met him think that he was nice? It worried him so much that he thought about it all day and at night he tossed and turned and couldn't sleep for thinking about it. It preyed on his mind in the morning (when he glued a water balloon full of urine to his sleeping father's forehead), at lunchtime (when he soaked pieces of paper in alcohol, lit them, and threw them at his sister's kitten) and after supper (when he carved offensive words backwards into the windows of his room, so that passers-by could read them). One day, he could stand it no longer. He set off to find the answer, taking only a rolled up handkerchief, stuffed with a bread roll and a wad of cash from his mother's wallet.
He walked for miles and miles, looking for someone to ask. Finally, he saw a huge, grey, concrete block of flats, squat and squalid, with dark passages leading up to inconsequential-looking doors. The little buck-toothed boy knocked on the first door he came to, and it was answered by a stooped, shriveled old man in a singlet and brown trousers.
“Hey old man!” the boy shouted.
The man's reply was a feeble wheeze. “How can I help you, s-hhz-onny?”
“Do you think I'm nice?”
“I ghhz- I guess so.”
“Why?”
“Wh-hhhg-why you remind me of my son, when he was a little boy. Of course, that was years ago, before he pass-hzz-passed awy. He was a sweet lad like yourself-ffz.”
“That can't be why everyone thinks I'm nice, you senile old goat! Not everyone has a dead son – idiot. Anyway, you stink! I'm glad your son is dead!”
And the little buck-toothed boy ran out of the building, hitting the fire alarm. The old man was left wheezing in his dim doorway, a single tear sliding down his weathered cheek.
The boy ran until he was out of breath. Suddenly he saw a little field of tulips bobbing in the warm summer breeze.
“Hey, stupid tulips!” yelled the little buck-toothed boy.
“How can we help you?” said the tulips.
“I need someone smart. Do you know anyone smart?”
“Well, we don't get around much, but we have seen that big billboard.” The tulips waved their heads towards a poster further up the road, with a serious-looking woman on it. “She's a psychiatrist, and they're always very intelligent.”
“I knew that!” said the boy, and he stomped off through the field, kicking the tulips over and jumping on them.
After another long walk, the little buck-toothed boy barged into the psychiatrist's office. She sat behind a mahogany desk, looking over her glasses at her patient.
“… and so ever since then I just have no confidence at all in social situations.”
“Oh boo hoo,” said the little buck-toothed boy. “Why don't you just go kill yourself?”
“Hey!” the patient spun around, shocked. “Why did you…”
“Shut up, nut bag,” said the boy, and spat on him. He turned to the psychiatrist. “Are you smart?”
She looked mildly back at him. “Well, I graduated magna…”
“Whatever. I have a question, and I need a smart person to work it out.”
“I think I can guess. You're wondering why you are so badly behaved, aren't you? Well, first let's talk about your parents.”
“That's not the question, you dumb bitch! I want to know why everyone who meets me thinks I'm going to be good, when I'm not.” And he ran up to the psychiatrist and kicked her in the shin, before pulling a bookcase over and storming out.
The little buck-toothed boy didn't stop until he reached the woods. If people couldn't help, maybe the animals could. He asked the deer, but they ran away as soon as they heard his voice, so he decided to tell the wolves where they lived. He asked the wolves, but they just howled their foolish songs about love and snow and the moon, so he told them the wrong place to look for the deer. The animals were as useless as people. It was hopeless.
Finally, just when the little buck-toothed boy was ready to give up, he came across a sun-lit glade, with a sparkling stream burbling through it. There was an old, shaggy bear leaning back against a mossy tree-trunk, contemplating the world.
“Excuse me, Mr Bear,” said the little buck-toothed boy.
“How can I be of assistance?” asked the bear, with a deep, wise-sounding voice.
“I've asked everyone, but no-one can help me. I've been really mean and horrible to everyone, and I like it. But everyone I meet thinks that I'm a good little boy. Do you know why?”
The bear nodded sagely. “That's a tough question, all right, and I'm not sure that my answer is going to please you. Because there's no one reason that people think you'll be nice. They just assume you will be. People like putting every new thing they come across into boxes, so they can pretend that everything in a box is essentially the same. It's because people are scared of things that are different, and by assuming, and using their little boxes, they can pretend that they are capable of understanding the world, rather than dealing with the terror of knowing that they can't possibly understand anything.”
“Oh,” said the little buck-toothed boy.
“For example,” said the bear, “people also assume that just because fairy tale animals are anthropomorphic, they're not still animals.” And he ate the little buck-toothed boy up, rending his flesh and gnawing on his bones.
And then, licking the still-warm blood from his snout, the bear looks straight out of the screen, and locking his deep brown eyes with yours, speaks to you. “Of course, I'm not sure that it was the little boy making assumptions about fairy-tale animals. He didn't know that he was in a fairy tale, after all. I guess I was subverting your expectations as the reader, rather than his as the character.”
The bear considers further for a second, shifting his bulk, then looks back up at you. “Still, even that may not truly represent the situation. Because I'm a character as well, I can't know your expectations in advance. In some ways, we're actually addressing the author's assumptions about what your expectations will be. So if you expected me to eat the little buck-toothed boy, then you would have subverted the writer's assumptions, rather than the other way around."
A strand of pink slaver drips from the bear's open maw. "Now, if I really wanted to challenge assumptions about fictional characters, both yours and the author's, I could just climb straight out of the screen you're looking at and maul you. Your skin tearing, the crack of your bones beneath my paws, and the feeling of sinking my teeth into your warm, sweet flesh.”
The bear belches, and you can almost smell the fetid stench of raw meat. “But of course, I've just eaten. Still, if you would like to come back to this paragraph a little later on, feel free. I'm quite at my leisure.”
And with a wink at you, the bear lies back against the cool moss, and turns to watch the brook shimmer in the dappled afternoon sunlight.


What they ask, tells you everything you need to know.
An ancient exhaust fan screeches to life on the roof of my downtown-warehouse-turned-studio.
I can relate, as I too struggle to start off on a positive note.
I stall for a few minutes with a show of close inspection, gathering my thoughts. I have to grin a little as I do. A graffiti-coated magic refrigerator box. He certainly gets points for whimsy, if nothing else. That doesn't really help the situation, though. Critique may be the most important part of an artist's development, but it's often also the most painful… for both student and teacher.
I know already this is going to be one such critique.
But its still always nice to start with a positive comment when you can.
“This right here; the passive recharging construct? This is clever.”
My student breaks into a lopsided grin. It doesn't take much to flatter a young artist, but I do mean it. It's the sort of strangely brilliant kludge built out of guesswork and duct tape only a novice at the Craft of sculpting reality comes up with, before they know it shouldn't work.
“How in the heck did you do that anyway… wait, now I think I see. Okay that's really clever. Just, um, don't use that trick again until you get the hang of warding… and I get the chance to stock up on Prussian Blue…”
Amazing what you learn when you teach. The way the aura keeps flickering is more than a little concerning, and I haven't completely figured out yet how he scribed the thing without blowing up his apartment, but with some refinement… I have some sketching to do later.
“Now then, as to the rest of the piece…where to start? Decent flexibility on the conditional triggers…not bad work there…”
I'm intentionally being a bit free with the compliments.
“… the layered structures aren't interfering with each other as badly this time…”
It takes us self-taught artists a while to learn to thank someone for pointing out our screw ups and telling us why we're doing everything wrong accept critique.
“…and the overall composition is more harmonious, too. See how much more stable it makes the whole system when you unify the color gamut and balance the forms?”
I need to ease into the real problem here, or he's just going to tune me out.
And that problem runs a lot deeper than some technical issues.
“I can tell you've been practicing what we talked about. Huge improvement over your last-” I pause and clear my throat as I see his sheepish expression. “Yeah. Huge improvement.”
Those poor pigeons. I'm still finding feathers around the studio.
“Still plenty for you to work on, though. Like this bit- you got really sloppy here. How many times now have I said you need to control your brushwork? I don't even need the Sight to make out some of these runes.”
The smile retracts as he grunts and studies a splatter of paint on the concrete.
We both know it's the weak point in his skillset, and I've been prodding him about it a lot lately.
I'm sorry, but you'll thank me years from now.
Right after you stop hating me.
“I'm also not really sure what you were trying to do with the perspective in this vignette. Stylization is all well and good, but even Escher had to follow the rules of perspective. It's especially bad considering this is a Work with a transpositional component. You want to bend reality, you have to make it really clear what it needs to be bent into. Otherwise, well… I told you about my buddy who does- well, did- hyperdimensional landscapes, right? Screwed up adding a new expansion to his garden, warped his neighbor's clothesline, neighbor died, Foundation got involved, had to flee England and change his identity, stopped working and started drinking because of the guilt, huge mess…? Yeah. Perspective matters.”
I see a younger me in those eyes. Younger me does not seem impressed by older me's stories, but does at least seem to be trying to figure out what I mean about the perspective in the vignette.
“You could have tripled the active radius, too, if you hadn't gotten lazy with your acoustic detection lattice. You're trying to control everything by brute force here. It's just like the perspective thing. Take the time and do the calculations, rather than just slapping down something that looks about right.”
A tense twitch, but he knows by now that it's futile trying to interrupt when I'm in lecture mode. I remember being on the other side of that expression well enough to guess what he's thinking, though.
“Yes, I get that setting up each cluster individually would have been a lot more tedious, but it would also make it that much more sensitive and resilient. If you're going to pull a juvenile prank, at least do it properly.”
A wry expression folds into an indignant glare as that last part registers.
I'm impressed by his restraint. Real younger me would have been knee deep in a rant by now.
“Look, I get what you're trying to say with this. But the problem is that a cardboard box that teleports to enclose people who say synonyms of the word "containment" is an irritating practical joke, not art.”
As the end of that sentence comes out of my mouth, I see the welcoming faces of teachers, critics, and elders greeting the newest member of the Ancient Order of Closeminded Old Bastards Who Think They Get To Tell Me What Art Is. Now you get it! Hope you don't mind if we stick around to see how much better you do explaining it to him.

A car rolls by outside.

Don't want to talk about this.

No. Needs to be said. Get it over with.

Go to… ah hell lets do this.

“That's what the anartist faction has never understood.”
Now he starts to say something, but I keep going. He not-so-secretly idolizes some of the anartists, I know… but I'm a COBWTTGTTMWAI with a lesson to drive home, so I can't don't care.
“The Anartists learn some low-level Craft, call themselves activists, and they think that makes them judge and jury to the world. They use Works to force their beliefs and opinions on others, and punish those who do not share them. They produce insipid gimmicks to flip off the Foundation or the GOC or whoever else they've decided is the source of all evil that day. They traumatize, maim, and kill helpless Pedestrians to make shallow commentary about society. And they have the gall to call all of it art because they tack on a tag with some half-baked moral and a catch phrase.”
I've hit a nerve with that one.
Might finally have hit the right nerve, though. I can tell he's thinking about that last bit.
That's right kid. Don't waste that fire lashing out at me.
Put it to work under the boiler where it will do you some good.
I let him vent a little, to keep him thinking.
“So what are you saying? That we should just make cheap junk and parlor tricks the censors won't storm in and destroy? Sell out and make sleazy toys for rich morons to show off to their drinking buddies? Oh, or how 'bout we let the Craft die? Would THAT be Cool‽”
I sigh and shake my head.
“The anartists aren't trying to teach people or open the Pedestrian's eyes to the full reality. They may say they are- hell, some of them might even believe it- but they aren't. They're a bunch of pretentious brats with a pathological need for attention and cruel sense of humor. They ask if they're Cool because they have no idea what Cool is.”
I lean back on one of the ceiling's support poles in a way that I hope makes me look wise and James Dean-ish. “Come to think of it, the whole root of the problem,” I tell the ceiling, “can be found in their oh-so-clever catchphase.”
I write the four damning words in the air.
Are We Cool Yet ?
I've got younger me's attention back.
Heh. Get the Craft involved and suddenly I'm awesome again.
Apparently "awesome" does not negate "pissed off at", though.
But I'll settle for having his attention.
“Think about what they're asking. Not 'Are You Cool Yet?'. Not 'Is This Cool?'.”
"No. What they ask,”
Are We Cool Yet ?
“…tells you everything you need to know.”
He just stares off into space.
Hard to tell if he's starting to get it or if he's trying to think of a counter argument.
Maybe both.
I finish making my point.
“Art isn't about the artist. Its not about destruction or vengeance. It's not about standing on a soapbox ranting, or proving your own superiority. It's about turning an idea or a feeling into something others can think about and feel. Reinventing the familiar in a way that makes it seem completely new, or showing the exotic in a way that makes it seem familiar. It's about making something that didn't exist before you started. Art is about creation.”
We stand there in silence for a while, both studying the refrigerator box he swaggered in with a little while earlier.
More cars drive by outside. Street's busy today.
I decide it's as good a time as any to show him.
Couldn't hurt anyway.
“Want to see something Cool? Come back here, I'll show you something Cool.”
He rolls his eyes, but follows anyway. I lead him to the back of the building, to one of the former offices sectioned off from the rest of the warehouse. This particular one's where I do my sketching and thinking, and keep my personal collection. He hasn't been in here before, for good reason.
“Word of warning:”, I tell him as I hunt for the right key, “Don't try the Sight in here until you've learned to tamp it down, unless you want a migraine.”
I unlock the door and set the wards to allow him through, then sigh seeing him wince as he enters. You can lead a horse to water…
I walk past the rows of Works received as gifts or in trades with friends and colleagues, or bought from those I admire over the years. Looking over my shoulder I can tell he's trying to stay mad at me while staring at the wonders scattered around the room; moving paintings and synesthetic calligraphy, sculptures made of frozen light or twisting through the fourth dimension, physical realizations of abstract concepts and memetic narratives.
The tour ends at the wicker birdcage beside my drawing table, home of the Work that surpasses all the rest I curate.
“This is part of a set created by one of the masters I learned from, one of the last Works he created.”
I open the cage, and a tiny form flutters out and lands on my finger.
“Her name is Etsuko.”
The paper crane perks up from preening her creases at the mention of her name.
“I've never seen anything like her or her nine hundred and ninety nine brothers and sisters at any of the showings I've attended before or since.”
“Her lattices are so intricate and delicate I don't dare examine them too closely, but what I can see is some of the most complex Craft I've ever encountered. They aren't mere animate sculptures. They're sentient, feeling things, each with a distinct personality. I'm told some of her siblings even have offspring. They serve no agenda, have no sociopolitical message, harm no one. They exist simply to bring wonder and beauty to the world.”
“A master's magnum opus: Life, from a thousand scraps of paper.”
“I still don't understand most of how she was made, or how she works… but there is one thing I do know:”
“Etsuko is Cool.”
I leave him for a while to look through the rest of the pieces and finish pouting.
With the wards I've got on that room he couldn't hurt anything in there if he tried.
When I check on him later, Etsuko is perched on his head, his sketchbook is out, and the lopsided grin is back.
Might just make an artist of this one yet.


"No, no, no! The chorus does not start launching into Horst Wessel Song until the Hero of Aryan Purity is above the Threshold of the Fatherland! Above!"
Max von Gruben barked directions at the assembled stagehands, who were too busy pulling ropes and straightening pulleys to pay much attention. If they faltered, the lucky soul who was cast to play the Hero of Aryan Purity would fall about fifteen meters onto the stage. Aldon imagined Hitler in the harness, dangling in the air, and wondered if he would die upon hitting the wooden stage, or merely be horribly crippled for the rest of his life. She tried not to dwell too much upon this thought, lest her grip on the rope slacken.
"Ach, these people are impossible. Why, why did they send me such uninspired theater folk?" Gruben, as was his habit in staging this production, expressed his frustration by languidly batting his ever-present assistant, Sergeant Freudenberger, about the face with a limp white glove. "Why do they vex me so, Freudenberger?"
The Sergeant took several deep breaths after the latest half-hearted assault upon his face, composing himself and hobbling after the director. "They are staging a production at gunpoint, Herr Gruben. Surely they are doing a fine job under such circumstances."
Gruben batted the Sergeant once more with the pristine white glove. "Feh. Feh! I give them the most inspirational material the world has to offer, and I get mediocrity. Günter!" The tuxedo clad director called up to a single SS man sitting in a specially constructed balcony. "Günter, do you find yourself, moved, by this performance?"
The square-faced, black uniformed guard furrowed his single eyebrow, pondering the question with genuine thought. He took a surveying glance at the stage with a set of ornate opera glasses. He scratched his chin, and then slowly shook his head.
"Do you see?" Gruben lectured the assembled chorus members. "Günter should be weeping at the beauty of this performance! I see no tears! If you cannot budge the soft heart of a beauteous creature like Günter, how will we impress the Führer when he visits? Hmmm?"
Aldon suppressed the stupid grin that appeared on her face at the latest mention of Der Führer's Visit. When they had heard that Hitler himself was to attend their performance, the Young Artisans could barely contain their glee. They were going to put on a show all right.
"I tell you, the miracles I must work." Gruben collapsed into his folding director's chair. "Let's see that cow Riefenstahl crack wise when the world sees this production. Now, once more, from the top!"

O'Reilly, still dressed in her lederhosen from the earlier rehearsal, leaned out from the doorway of Tent 48 and scanned the night. No guards in her sector. She gave a thumbs-up signal to another lookout posted at a corner about thirty meters away, easily recognizable despite the darkness due to the oversized papier-mâché Wagner head that was part of his costume. Wagner returned the thumbs up, the encouraging gesture an odd juxtaposition with the sneering face sculpted onto the prop head.
"Coast is clear, no one in sight."
Aldon gathered her conspirators. From the shadows immediately outside, eight of the chorus members filed into the room, along with the actors portraying Young Hitler, Wicked Jew #6, the Ghost of Goethe, Otto von Bismarck and The Krampus. They joined Aldon, Werner, the now-infamous Mysterious Heckler, and the rest of the production crew, crowding into the rickety plywood and canvas cabin. Zanzibar O'Reilly came in and shut the door behind her. Aldon surveyed her crew and unrolled a large sheet of scavenged paper, produced from underneath a loose floorboard.
"Okay gang. Two days until showtime. How are we coming on the offering for the Library?"
A young woman with a green writer's uniform snapped to attention. "We'll be done in time. The gold leaf for the illuminated manuscript was a nice touch."
"Ah, that guard wasn't using his teeth anyway," replied Aldon. "Our gift for Der Führer?"
O'Reilly carefully reached into her lederhosen and produced a small package wrapped in oilcloth. She gingerly unwrapped it, revealing a plain pair of reading glasses. Delicately picking it up with thumb and forefinger, she held it up to the light of the single bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling. The Young Artisans' resident fashion designer had completed her contribution. She raised a painted eyebrow. "Anyone care to demonstrate?"
The heckler spoke up. "I'll do it. I need a new prescription after looking at that stage. A sore sight for four eyes."
"Mmm, no. They won't produce the…desired effect with your face." O'Reilly smiled.
"My face effects all kinds of desire, lady. Or is that leaves much to be desired? I can never remember."
"All right, all right." Aldon intervened. "Marta, would you do the honors? Seems appropriate."
The slightly-built actor dressed in the schoolboy outfit with the painted rosy cheeks and pencil mustache stepped forward. Young Hitler carefully took the glasses, easing them onto her face. The effect was immediate. The room was filled with gasps, approving murmurs and laughs.
"Wunderbar," said Werner as he smiled.
"Aww, you shouldn't have," said the heckler. "I mean really, you shouldn't have."
Aldon peeked out the door briefly, then came back inside. "Great work. Now, everyone's familiar with their alternate staging directions?"
The chorus members nodded. They had practiced extensively under cover of darkness. One of the chorus members cracked his knuckles in anticipation.
Nodding, Aldon frowned as she came to the last detail. "Now, Bartleby. Has anyone figured that one out yet?"
Werner shook his head. "We know where they've got him, but there's at least four guards posted at all times. This guy here seems to have the best idea of the camp layout." He nodded towards the heckler.
"You have any ideas on this one?" asked Aldon.
"Sure," said the heckler, "let's quiz this German fellow hiding under the window."
The occupants of the room suddenly looked alarmed, as the heckler calmly opened the window he was sitting next to, reached out his hand, and quickly tapped out the familiar refrain of "shave and a haircut" on a hard metal surface.
"Ouch ouch!" called a voice from outside.
A man in a German uniform slowly rose from where he must have been crouching the entire time. It was Sergeant Freudenberger. He groaned as he clutched his bad leg.
"What's the big idea? Can't a man concentrate in peace around here?" The heckler glowered at the red-faced sergeant.
"I'm dreadfully sorry. I don't mean to eavesdrop, I really don't! I just…overheard, and, well, well, I…"
"Quick, grab him! Maybe we can escape in his uniform! Or just his skin!" Aldon sprang to her feet.
"Oh, oh my! Look, your friend doesn't have long, and I know how to help him!" Sergeant Freudenberger unconsciously wrapped his arms around himself, concerned by the threat to his hide.
"Huh? You mean you're not going to turn us in?"
Sergeant Freudenberger adjusted his now-tilted helmet. "Certainly not. This camp is a dreadful business. And if someone can manage to escape it, well," the sergeant said. He smiled. "When the commandant asks, I know nothing."
Werner shook his head. "How do we know you're on the level?"
The sergeant leaned into the window, poking his head conspiratorially into the room from outside. "You are correct that there are always four guards at the holding area. But tonight, the Indentured Servant Mandatory Good Time Polka Association is playing at the officer's club. No one will want to miss it! So they've only stationed one guard for the evening, a gentleman on loan from Signore Mussolini's government. This is the best opportunity you'll have! When you see the number of guards, you'll know I'm telling the truth!"
Aldon stroked her chin. "Couldn't hurt to send someone to check it out at least. If they're just going to kill us either way. We'll need to send our best person to-"
The leader of the Young Artisans looked up. The heckler was suddenly gone.
"Nuts. I should go after him." Aldon looked at her blue inmate's uniform. "I'll need something a little more stealthy. Hey, you, let's switch."

In front of Stalag IV-MB, a single man napped on his feet beside the locked iron door, swaying slightly from side to side, the Tyrolean hat perched on his head constantly threatening to slide off, but never quite making it. An unloaded rifle lay beside him, propped against the wall.
The heckler approached the front entrance of the holding cell, having somehow acquired a dark suit on his way over, his greasepaint mustache and eyebrows reapplied in the interim. Quietly, he made his way to the vicinity of the guard. He then snapped his fingers next to the sleeping man's ear.
"Hey, buddy, wake up!"
The guard suddenly snapped to attention as he suddenly awoke. "Huh? No, I wasn't sleeping," he said with a thick Italian accent. "I had a dream that I was guarding this place. You can't fool me!"
The heckler fetched a cigar from inside his coat pocket and lit it. "A fine joint this is. World class service. I could be escaping right now!"
"Ohhh no. Impossible. I never let anyone escape. If you're escaping, I must be dreaming!"
"Well, while you're in dreamland, mind fetching me something out of there?" The heckler pointed at the door with his cigar.
"Not without the password. I only open the door when I hear the password."
"I would prefer not to," echoed Bartleby's voice from behind the door.
"That's pretty close, but no cigar." replied the guard.
"Oh, well allow me then." The heckler handed the remaining half of his cigar to the guard. The guard accepted graciously.
"Well?"
"Thanks for the cigar, but no dice."
"A fine way to treat a guest," grumbled the heckler.
Footsteps approached the pair as they talked. Aldon joined them, attired in a fine black suit with resplendent brass buttons, wearng a monocle and carrying an ornate walking cane.
"Gentlemen." Aldon adjusted her monocle.
The guard immediately stood at complete attention, fumbling for the unloaded rifle by his side. After a short struggle, he gained control of the weapon, holding it upside down. "Chancellor von Bismarck!"
The heckler snatched his cigar back from the guard and stuck it back in his mouth. "I gave Bismarck a chance once. Coldest winter I ever had in June."
Aldon had studied the exchange from the shadows for some time. The rules of this place were becoming a little clearer. "I'll be taking custody of this prisoner, soldier."
The guard lifted his rumpled hat and scratched his head. "Hey, wait a minute. Chancellor Bismarck is not a woman. Also not alive."
Aldon continued, undeterred. "What do you expect? This place is all backwards."
The guard's confusion deepened. "Huh?"
She snatched the cigar away from the heckler and jabbed the air with it for additional emphasis. "This is an open-air camp, right?"
"Yes, that is right."
"And all the people in the camp, except the guards, are prisoners, right?"
"Yes."
Aldon puffed on the cigar. "That means all the prisoners are outside."
The guard stared back blankly. Silence.
Aldon returned the stare. She puffed one more time. "Then why in the name of the Empire are you just standing there while your prisoner is inside, soldier?" she suddenly bellowed.
The sudden outburst made both men jump. "Hey, that's right, you should be outside, you tricky rascal!" said the guard. He began scrambling for his key to unlock the door.
"I would prefer not to," said the voice behind the door.
"Oh no, you won't trick me with that one this time!" The guard located the correct key, turned the lock, flung open the door, and grabbed Bartleby. He roughly pushed him out of the cell, then planted himself squarely on the other side of the door.
"There!" said the guard. "Now don't you get any more ideas! Nothing gets past me!" At this, he slammed the door shut, the lock ratcheting back into place as it closed, securing the iron portal once more.
Bartleby, Aldon and the heckler now stood together, eyed warily by the guard as he peered out from the cell between the small, barred throughway.
Aldon saluted the guard with her cane. "As you were, soldier."
Immediately, the trio heard a thump from the other side of the door, followed by light snoring.
Aldon dusted off some stray dirt from Bartleby's lapels, then she turned on her heel to face her compatriots. "All right men. The gang's all here. Let's get to work."
"I would prefer not to."
"Oh, shut up."

The Führer took his place behind the podium as he readied his speech to the assembled denizens of the Koblach Artistic Rehabilitation Camp.
Gruben had spent the entire night making sure all of the camera equipment was positioned in just the right places to ensure that both his production and the Führer's speech preceding it would be filmed in the best possible light. That idiot Freudenberger had been bumbling into the props on the stage all morning. What he was playing at was anyone's guess, and he had finally sent the Sergeant away, before he could embarass Gruben further in front of the Führer's security detail. If he didn't know any better, he would almost have thought that Freudenberger was relieved to not be present for the grand spectacle. Gruben shrugged. His loss. At least that idiot had remembered the Führer's reading glasses.
He admired the handiwork of his repurposed artists as he surveyed the stage. Imposing, dark trees of the Black Forest flanked the sides of the now-fully decorated set. Bunches of freshly-picked edelweiss were strewn hither and yon, giving his vision the bucolic feel that he so desired. Dominating the center was a stark, unadorned marble obelisk, topped by a swastika. Now this, he thought to himself, was art.
Gruben looked up to Günter as he took his seat in the balcony, the designated Camp Critic settling in and adjusting his opera glasses. Gruben waved politely to him from the orchestra pit. Günter scratched himself.

Behind the stage, Aldon conferred with Werner and the heckler as the event approached.
"Right, the trucks are gassed up, Freudenberger's got the goods, and Zanzibar's scouted our route. Let's just hope your ritual works."
Werner nodded. "We've got the man of foreign land. And he's about to have the marks of our enemies. We're as good as in Geneva."
The heckler started to say something. Aldon glowered. He put his cigar back in his mouth.
"Let's just hope we get enough of a ruckus out of it that we can get the twenty kilos to the border."
Despite the risk, the presence of entirely too many Nazis, and the overall shoddy plan, Aldon was unable to suppress her smile.
"Ladies and gentlemen, on with the show."

The crowd went silent as Adolf Hitler, Chancellor of the Third Reich, Leader of the Fatherland and Führer of the Glorious Germanic Peoples, put on his reading glasses and began to read from his prepared speech.
He looked up from his notes. The Führer's reading glasses were somehow nowhere in evidence now. Instead, upon his face was a pair of thick, black-framed glasses, attached to which were two thick, bushy eyebrows, and a fuzzy black mustache, which obscured his entire lip for a change of pace. All of which surrounded a giant, bulbous false nose. The Führer frowned, summoning all of his intensity.
"This, is the reforging of a new nation, and the art which was the province of our decadent enemies, shall be put to use in the glory of the Aryan Race!"
With each syllable, the mustache attached to the Führer's glasses appeared to waggle.
Gruben went rigid. How? How could he not notice what had just happened? Someone must tell the Führer immediately!
"Against our superior arms, our iron will, and our dominant culture, the degraded Communists and their allies stand no chance!"
Hitler's eyes seemed somehow whiter and more pronounched as they peeked through the dark frames of the ridiculous glasses.
"Now, we stand at the threshold of history, taking our rightful place as the leaders of the world!" Hitler pounded the podium with his fist at the end of his sentence. The false nose bounced up and down on his face from the force, ever so slightly.
This last remark was punctuated with a sudden change to the set decorations. Somehow, as the Führer had pounded his fist, the swastika topping the column behind him had disappeared, somehow replaced by a giant, painted wooden sign, displaying a fist with an upraised middle finger. Gruben had not seen anyone move behind the podium; how did this happen? Suddenly, he noted with horror that the cameras were rolling. No one had given the order to turn them off. This was being recorded.
"Their bombs, their tanks, their planes, no force of arms can stop our implacable advance! We will crush the Russians, the British, the Americans, and their hated Jewish collaborators!"
Images had started moving across the white backdrop of the stage. Gruben squinted. Was that…was that Mickey Mouse? Riding a cartoon Heinrich Himmler like a horse? Why did Mickey Mouse now have penises for ears? Where were the projectors coming from? He could find no words. He could not break the paralysis that had gripped him. What was the Führer going to do when he found out? How was he going to stop this? He was gripped with mortal terror, tinged slightly by befuddlement at the acts that a caricature that looked an awful lot like Joseph Goebbels was now apparently perpetrating on Himmler.
Hitler moved to the big finish. "A thousand years! A thousand years this glorious Reich shall endure! And the great work begins here, in this place, today!" He lifted his right hand high in the air, giving the crowd his trademark salute, his hateful visage burning beneath the novelty brows and facial hair.
The entire camp was completely silent. Not a single word, utterance or reaction escaped any of those present. The sound of the cameras rolling was audible to all.
From the balcony, the sound of a single man clapping could now be heard. Günter had risen to his feet, applauding ecstatically, tears streaming down his swollen, brutish face. He wiped the tears with his sleeve as he applauded, hooting and heiling his approval for his dearest leader.
The Führer had never seen this before, in all of his speeches, all of the rallies and demonstrations. He glanced up briefly to the black-uniformed lummox in the balcony, seized with paroxysms of joy.
"Th-…thank you?" was all the great leader of the German people could manage at the inexplicable scene before him. He removed his reading glasses, putting the now-ordinary appearing spectacles back on the podium.

Aldon listened as Hitler concluded his remarks. She began planning how she would get a hold of the footage of what had just transpired outside, when she pushed the thought aside. She looked to Werner. They nodded. The two Young Artisans began lowering the ropes in their hands, the harness meant for the Hero of Aryan Purity now descending with its payload down to the center of the stage.

Confusion, rage, and even fear roiled within the Führer. Why weren't they doing anything? What was going on here? He heard the sounds of pulleys creaking and ropes stretching above him, and looked skywards towards the beams of the stage overhead. A man in a harness was being slowly lowered down towards him, stopping only a few meters over his head.
There, at center stage in the middle of the Koblach Artistic Rehabilitation Camp, surrounded by one thousand degenerate artists and fifty Shutzstaffel, Adolf Hitler and Groucho Marx regarded one another. A world of possibilities existed there in the minds of the two men as each considered the next possible move.
From backstage, Werner stage-whispered to the heckler.
"The words of power! Say the words of power!"
Groucho puffed thoughtfully on his cigar. He flicked the ash expertly onto the top of Hitler's head. His expression remained unreadable behind his theatrical war paint.
"Abracadabra."
As the words left his lips, a blinding white flash suddenly enveloped the stage, accompanied by a teeth-rattling booming noise. Stage props were scattered, edelweiss flew through the air, and Hitler was thrown into the orchestra pit. The audience, including the guards, were stunned back into inaction and silence by the spectacle now unfolding before them.
As their vision returned, they now saw a man, bathed in gold light, his physique that of a Greek god, at least ten feet tall. The magnificent being had lightly-colored curls of hair adorning his head, ablaze like a halo of fire wreathing his face. In his hand, he had a bicycle horn.
Werner had now run onto the stage, Aldon, Zanzibar, and Bartleby in tow. Groucho had freed himself from the harness, and dusted the remains of the stage props from his suit coat.
"It worked! I knew it would work!"
The towering, golden man looked down upon the Young Artisans on the stage. From the vicinity of the audience, numerous clicking noises could now be heard. The SS guards, recovering enough of their senses to determine that something seemed to have gone wrong, had drawn their weapons and were attempting to fire at the being on the stage. In their polka-induced haze of the previous evening, they had failed to notice the camp's ammunition supplies being loaded into a truck by their former colleague, Sergeant Freudenberger. Their weapons continued to click ineffectually, bullets being steadily replaced with bewildered curses.
The being lifted his bicycle horn high into the air. He looked at Aldon. He squeezed the horn, a mighty beep emanating therefrom.
Groucho's ears perked up. "He says he's come to grant you a boon."
Aldon tried to make sense of the scene before her. "How do you know what he's saying?"
Groucho shrugged.
"Well…okay, tell him that yes, we need his assistance."
The erstwhile heckler made a series of exaggerated hand motions, then proceeded to duck-walk around in a circle several times. The being responded with two squeezes of its bicycle horn.
Groucho translated. "He asks what you offer."
Aldon lifted the book that she had carried with her. "I bring you this, a true and accurate account of the time that Hitler addressed a crowd to no applause or accolades in his own empire, illuminated and illustrated, to be housed eternally within the annals of the Wanderer's Library!"
The stern, distant look on the being's face suddenly changed to what Aldon could only determine to be goofy delight. The golden figure squeezed its bicycle horn repeatedly.
"He says that'll do. And to hold on a second, your boon is coming."
The towering figure appeared to produce from thin air a giant bag, its countenance now one of unrestrained mirth and mischief. It unzipped the bag, revealing a yawning, dark, empty space. It seemed to grow wider by the second, easily large enough to fit a car through.

Gruben had finally dug his way out from under the rubble of the collapsed balcony, still shell-shocked from the scene that had unfolded before him. He saw the Führer sprawled across some upended chairs, a tuba lodged on his head. An inexplicable golden man was now on the stage, opening a gigantic bag of some sort. What was happening. My play, he thought ruefully, the only comprehensible thought that he could muster at the moment. This was supposed to be a play.
Then, the birds came.

The Young Artisans watched raptly as the entity's bag had now fully opened. Groucho produced another cigar and noted the scene with some interest. The golden being now raised both hands, his arms outstretched, as though a great proclamation were now about to be delivered. He honked his bicycle horn.
A tide of ostriches poured forth from the bag, dashing madly forth from a different plane of existence. The experience had apparently made them quite agitated, as they furiously beat their wings as they ran at full speed out into the crowd, knocking into chairs, upsetting tables, and unleashing yet more chaos onto the scene before them. An endless stream, it seemed, of agitated avians streamed forth from this eldritch portal.
Zanzibar O'Reilly shook her head. "Why ostriches?"
Groucho straightened his glasses. "We are in Österreich, lady."
The ostriches seemed to be gravitating to where Hitler had landed. The Führer had managed to dislodge himself from the tuba just in time to see the storm of bipedal birds descend upon him. A number of guards looked on in panic.
"Protect the Führer! Protect the Führer!" one cried out. The guards rushed to the scene now, their focus singular.
"Good enough distraction?" Werner smiled.
Aldon was beaming. "Good enough. Let's get everyone to the trucks!"
The Young Artisans, Groucho in tow, leaped down into the fray, and begin directing all of the artists they could to the line of commandeered supply trucks that had been prepared during the Führer's speech. The lines of former prisoners began streaming past the ostrich-induced fracas, the guards too involved in the logistical challenges of fighting giant birds without the aid of firearms.
The express line to Switzerland awaited.

Finnegan looked at his wrinkled shirt in the mirror. "I thought you didn't need to iron these!"
Jakeob Aldon studied the chessboard in front of her. Boron wasn't a bad player. The small golem tapped its tiny foot insistently as it waited for her to make a move. Everett chirped quizzically.
"What do I know about dress shirts? Why are you doing this, anyway?"
Finnegan hastily tucked his shirttails into his pants. "I'm hoping the NEA will finally give us some grant funding. My next project is called, 'A Slightly Less Starving Artist'. Maybe this time they'll come through."
"Yeah, that's nice. Okay." Aldon moved her bishop. Boron's shoulders heaved. Was that a sigh? Everett chirped again, somewhat more downcast.
"Everyone's a critic."
Finnegan came out in a dash, running late for the downtown bus. Along with his bag, he had a pair of reading glasses in hand. Aldon sat up.
"Whatcha need those for?"
Finnegan put the glasses on. "I thought I'd need to fill out a bunch of forms and stuff. You know, paperwork." His concern at the thought of bureaucracy was evident through the bushy eyebrows and fake mustache.
Aldon tried her best to maintain her poker face. Or her chess face. Or whichever face it was. "Where…where did you get those?"
"I just grabbed them off your dresser. Why, do you need them?"
Aldon turned away. "Hrm- no, no. You take them. Just, you know, be careful, priceless -pffft- priceless family heirloom."
Finnegan rolled his eyes. "That's what you said about the lint brush and the pair of socks that I borrowed. Anyway. Wish me luck."
"Good luck," Aldon replied, her face turned resolutely to the chess board. Finnegan left in a rush. Boron checkmated her.
For once, losing a game of chess had lost its sting, as Aldon peered down from the window and doubled over laughing at Finnegan's intent expression behind the anomalous Groucho Glasses. Sometimes, she thought to herself, all other needs had to be set aside in the name of silliness.

« Nazi Nonsense | Hub | Overeager Ostrich »


It me! Cack! Self-Portrature is topside, no?

== Gate of Babel v. 0.3 (Pre-Alpha) ==
Copyright: SCP Foundation, 20██
Loading Config File: Spankonese.cfg
Loading……………………
DONE
Happy times, mimes!1
Cack! Am christened Herr Doktor Spankoflex, colloquially namesplapped with Essy-Pee toothreethree and Steven! You, sir, are oculating my spidersteps2, which the good Mr. Lightbulb3 has indubitably mashed potato4 one blinkbox5 for yours truly.
Cack! He hollers that if I'm a muffin little puffin6 Mister Boss Man7 will serve a sardine sandwich to faucet police8, and hand me the right to reply to send-saws9 from God or Bog and all his Saints and Angels!10
So start flapping your jaws, o pioneers! The mayonnaise of Tuesday is never sunny side up!11

Editor's Note:
Sorry about the spotty translation of SCP-2337's gibberish. I've got at least three Euclids that are potentially going Keter by the end of the week, and I've wasted enough time building a keyboard with a "Cack!" button to worry about finding someone to write an English-Spanko Dictionary.
Thankfully, the guys in the linguistics department hooked me up with some software that they wanted me to test. It's supposed to be able to analyze these sort of english-based pseudo-languages and provide clarification for some of the more incomprehensible bits. The results have been mixed, but it's better than nothing.
Anyway, just leave any questions you have in the section below, and I'll try to get an answer out of SCP-2337.
-Dr. Edison

+ Template

- Cack!

Dear Dr. Spanko,
[THIS IS WHERE THE QUESTION GOES]
-[YOUR NAME HERE]

+ Unanswered Questions

- Cack!

Dear Dr. Spanko,
Im Your Once COsine Twice Premoved Recbert Hows It Going And Has My [REDACTED] Arrived Yet
-Rexed Berd

Dear Dr. Spanko,
I apologize for the previous E-mail, I sent it while sleepwalking. I don't know any "Rexberts", but you should be careful about that message, it's probably a cognitohazard.
-Dr. Auteaux

Dear Dr. Spanko,
I'm considering getting a pet to brighten up my quarters. Which would be the better option for a junior researcher, a European Swallow or a Norwegian Blue?
-RA Janice Hawknest

Dear Dr. Spanko,
What do you think would be the best way to killcontain a 5m humanoid that can spit acid?
-Dr. Gabriel

Dear Dr. Spanko,
Big fan, love the spidersteps. Forgive me if this question has already been asked, but I just had to know… Has anyone really been far even as decided to use even go want to do look more like?
-Junior Researcher Lees

Dear Dr. Spanko,
My little brother has been bugging me all week. He keeps asking me the same question, and for the life of me I can't come up with an answer that satisfies him. I'm hoping you can help me out. The question is this: do examples of personal achievement stemming from internal motivation conflict with or corroborate the concept of predetermined destiny?
-Dr. Welsch

Kjære Doktor Spanko,
Uheldigvis er jeg ikke flytende i Basisk Angler, Kunne du hjelpe meg å lære?
-Doktor Tannpirke

Dear Dr. Spanko,
How do you eat gummy worms with a beak? It's just not working for me.
-Dr. Beakman

Dear Dr. Spanko,
I'm trying to explain what "cack" means to a… friend… who really, really doesn't understand Basic Angler. Can you help me out?
-RA Kyle Jostens

Dear Dr. Spanko,
Have you ever read Finnegans Wake, and if so, what is your opinion?
-Doctor Margin

+ Answered Questions

- Cack!

Dear Dr. Spanko,
I'm madly in love with the woman of my dreams, but she barely knows I exist! How do I get her to notice me?
-Loveless in Site 19

It easy peasy! Cack!
All need doing is the the happy lettuce dance12! Primarily, butt heads with master big13. Don't hesitate to inflate and sing the happy death song14 until mister big loses his Munster. If that don't work, rub your face in jell-o15 and wait 6-8 business days before tryhard.

Dear Dr. Spanko,
Why are you so loud? Can't you keep your voice down?
-Deafened in Site 92

Cack? What ho, forsooth!
Your jibber-jabber is un-sane, good sir. Am I much sub-vocal, thanksqueezeme16! Yourself should un-check your hear-holes to the doc, mayhaps an error is on the counter, no? I'd suggestinate me appointwise, but Mr. Lightbulb and Mister Boss Man un-think terrible terrible radishes17. Though hop skip and stop by, and I mayhap gander goose.

Dear Dr. Spanko,
I think I'm starting to come down with a cold. Do you have any advice?
-Dr. King

Appleseeds!18

Dear Dr. Spanko,
Why don't we give you a megaphone and point you at any enemy with eardrums? What's your price, Dr. Spanko?
-Dr. Gently

Unconvincable! Mine pedigree is for bling blang blongo, youthinks? Cack! A gamble to snatch pretty pennies in parlor tricks? That myself am anti-doctor? Nein-sence! Cack! Cack! Am pro-fisherman doctorate, and P-Headdy in Psycho-geolo-lingo-bingo19! And like all doctor dudes, I was proscribed to inscribe the most troth of oaths; to first stew no arm20 and all that.
Minesuch are vowed passive fist, it would break own boombox21 to bring terminus to goodfellow folk. Sorries!

Dear Dr. Spanko,
Whathavelydos? Cack! Mine suchlike sinpartner haveno friendly time antimony frost? Undercackings havelike until our tinglybits are raspred…
-Linguistic Specialist N.D. Arx (Testing new translation software)

Cack! Cack I say good sir! Such wordinations are un-appropriate for blinkbox talky-time! She-Mom and the Masters of the Universe22 should extemporize the soap rope23 for such foul platitudes24! This is a family show, idaho! Pull yourself out of the cookie jar and think about what you've done young man!

Dear Dr. Spanko,
From what university did you receive your doctorate?
-Dr. Wu

Mineself receive gratitudes from Universidad Los Samothrace25 in year of the moldy cheese man26 with mega super duper plus good awardies. Cherry berry times, yes? Saddingly mineself not keep up with aluminum cans27, forthwith house-calls nonwithstanding.

Dear Dr. Spanko,
How do you know so much about the Foundation? This has to count as an information breach, doesn't it?
-Researcher Rose Labelle

Cack! Dada expounded! You scratch my back, I eat bugs off your tupperware!28

Dear Dr. Spanko,
Please elaborate on the socio-linguistic roots of your most peculiar language.
-Jr. Researcher Hu Zhi

Lovely! Basic Angler29 is the monkey at the top of the swimming pole30! But sadness, mineself scrabble on the clock31!.

Dear Dr. Spanko,
I'm having trouble getting to sleep. Even when I avoid coffee and computers near bed, I still toss and turn. What can I do?
-Junior Researcher Andrew Evans

Have you appleseeds? Falseways, mayhaps check the camputor32 for another you. If missing, you may be a dracula33, so get out of the kitchen and hollar for Dr. [CACK!]34 with posthastitude!

Dear Dr. Spanko,
I don't know who supplies the coffee machines for our Sites, but wherever I go, I'm drinking muddy water that tastes like Joan of Arc washed her face with it. Now, I found ONE machine that actually gave me decent coffee. Trouble is, I can't find it anymore. Would you have any idea where that was?
-Dr. D.H. Aeslinger, Psy.D.

How the cack should my know-how? Shiny brown pygmy lemons35 mine un-favorite they are; too much crunchy for bitter batter. I un-think how you pokey blokes can quench Pygmy Lemonade, take self an old-fashioned moose juice36 anytime.

Dear Dr. Spanko,
I fear I find myself in a most unusual conundrum. I am, as you surely are, a man of science, yet I find myself surrounded by people who insist that I am, in fact, an aquatic mollusk. I know full well that I am no such thing, but they insist on treating me as if I were in spite of my protestations to the contrary. What means would you advise by which to resolve this state of affairs?
-Thomas Theodore Blackwood, 8th Viscount of Westminister

Cack? I say, is you Blackwood-sama? Cack-cack cooray! Mine thoughtsumed had that you licked the big candle in the sky! Bit of the old roundabout, wot wot? Nostalgia, methinks, of stomping through the jungles of tim buck-too!
As time for the seashells on the sea shore, it crystal clear that the foundry is punto banco37. Just play a pong now cow, and maybe someday you'll see what I mean.
Note: Upon further questioning, it appears that SCP-1867 and SCP-2337 had been traveling companions for a period of time ranging from 18██ to 18██. 1867 seems to be fully aware of 2337's anomalous properties, and describes 2337 as being "a good sport, but a bit of an odd duck if you know what I mean", citing difficulties in understanding 2337 as the main reason they stopped traveling together. Due to the difficulty in translating SCP-2337's speech, the accounts of their travels have yet to be confirmed.

Dear Dr. Spanko,
I'm an in-development Foundation Artificial Intelligence Assistant! Could you tell me a little about yourself for my database?
-Diane.aic

Hollar-bark Spankoflext. Mucho bucho bo, —nevermindsuch whenst—having little or no birdseed in yon purse, wot particular to interest shorewise, happenchanced I sail about a little and see the bee the bird bumble drump. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation. Whenever grim growth guff golf; whenever dizzle anti-crimbo in my soulface; exclamaitionpoint coffin warehouses. [REDACTED FOR BREVITY]38 On the second day, a wild snail approaches! Command? Rachel-Rachel, having wot found before then no orphans was now plus one!

Dear Dr. Spanko,
Is there any way I could either acquire or create Minecraft 2? Will it ever exist at all?
-Dr. C. Bold

The real Craft'o'mines Twicelike was the chapps we happened along the rigamarole!

Editor's note: the following was posted on March 25, 2020, seemingly unprompted by any questions. It is unknown how SCP-2337 became aware of the COVID-19 coronavirus outbreak of 2020, as Site-██'s isolated nature rendered the impact of the outbreak minimal.

Ahoy-hoy, my boy! Herr Spankoflex is the gamey name frame, and I have an implicated pornouncement [sic]39 amoung the bubble blubble toil and trouble. The bitches tree, Convertable- underside these flying chimes, 'tis most indubitable to not yabba-dabba-don't40. Doctornate Campbell Distancing, pacing oneself footlike at least eight million broadside41. Then, thou must prepare for the arrival of The Great Gonzales42, and his mighty longship built of soybeans, crewed by a cadre of 44,000 singing rabbits!43 Oh what wonders I have to show you! CACK!

Footnotes
1. Happy times, mimes! (id.) Believed to be a salutation or greeting.
2. Spidersteps (n.) Web Page, or Blog
3. Mr. Lightbulb (pn.) Belived to be the nickname that SCP-2337 has assigned to Dr. Edison, who at present time is SCP-2337's handler. Occasionally written as "Mr. Light Bulb".
4. mashed potato (n. v. adj.) Linguistically equivalent to "(v.) Donated", "(v.) Obtained", "(v.) Pilfered", "(adj.) Pertaining to the campaigns of Genghis Khan" or "(n.) Coleslaw", depending on context.
5. Blinkbox (n.) One of many different words SCP-2337 uses to describe the closed-network computer it has received. See also; hackmobile, compcop, nightly brightly, thingamadoozle, and peckpoker
6. a muffin little puffin (id.) An idiom that describes SCP-2337 staying quiet during daytime hours.
7. Mister Boss Man (pn.) The O5 Council.
8. serve a sardine sandwich to faucet police (id.) Meaning unknown.
9. send-saws (n.) E-Mails
10. God or Bog and all his Saints and Angels (id.) Personnel authorized to contact SCP-2337 via e-mail.
11. The mayonnaise of Tuesday is never sunny side up. (id.) Meaning unknown.
12. happy lettuce dance (id.) A euphemism for corn crake mating rituals.
13. master big (n.) A rival male of the same species as the conversation's subject.
14. sing the happy death song (id.) The act of growling at a rival vying for the affection of a potential mate.
15. rub your face in jell-o (id.) Meaning unknown, but possibly a literal instruction.
16. thanksqueezeme (id.) A portmanteau of "Well excuse me!" and "Thank you very much", both used sarcastically.
17. terrible terrible radishes (id.) Meaning unknown.
18. Appleseeds (id.) General advice to the effect of taking things easy, getting plenty of sleep, and drinking plenty of water. Perhaps one of the most well-understood idioms in SCP-2337's vocabulary.
19. Psycho-geolo-lingo-bingo (n.) An inconsistently-named academic field that SCP-2337 claims to have a doctorate in. Also known as: Parologicy, Barlgoflargology, Symbology, Cackology and Doctorology
20. first stew no arm (id.) Appears to be a corruption of "First, do no harm", a well-known condensation of the Hippocratic Oath.
21. Boombox (n.) A heart. Also referred to as a Beatbox, a Poundbox, and a Flabbery Red Thing
22. She-Mom and the Masters of the Universe (n.) Used to refer to SCP-2337's mother. At this time, it is unknown whether "She-Mom" is an actual name, or if it is a common term used by members of SCP-2337's species.
23. Extemporize the Soap Rope (id.) The act of forcefully washing a subject's mouth with soap.
24. Foul Platitudes (id.) Unwanted sexual advances.
25. Editor's Note: There has been no mention of a "Universidad Los Samothrace", or any variant thereof in any documentation related to SCP-1173. At this time, SCP-2337's knowledge of SCP-1173 is not considered a containment breach.
26. Year of the Moldy Cheese Man (n.) One of several nicknames that SCP-2337 has given to particularly noteworthy calendar years. This one in particular is estimated to have taken place around 19██. See also: Year of the Happy Dance, Year of the Smelly Fish and Year of the [DATA EXPUNGED] With a Side of Spaghetti
27. Aluminum Cans (n.) Alumni
28. You scratch my back, I eat bugs off your Tupperware! (id.) Meaning unknown. SCP-2337 seems to consider this to be a sufficiently honest and detailed explanation as to why he possesses knowledge of the Foundation, and accuses researchers who try to ask clarifying questions of not "Readspeaking Basic Angler".
29. Basic Angler (n.) The name SCP-2337 gives for the language he speaks. SCP-2337 also claims to be fluent in Japanimation, French Fries, Universalistics and Antidisestablishmentarianism, each of which appear to be a separate language loosely based on Japanese, French, Esperanto, and Cockney Rhyming Slang, respectively. As efforts to translate these languages have proven especially difficult, SCP-2337 has been asked to stick to his "native tongue" when communicating with Foundation personnel. See Document 2337-████-C: I Need A New Computer Because The One I Was Using Literally Melted When I tried to Translate The Stuff Dr. Spanko Was Saying for more information on these other languages.
30. The Monkey at the top of the Swimming Pole (n.) A subject that SCP-2337 considers himself quite knowledgeable in.
31. Scrabble on the Clock (id.) To say that one is currently on sabbatical.
32. Camputor (n.) A mirror, or similarly reflective surface.
33. Dracula (n.) Vampire
34. Note: This appears to be an attempt by SCP-2337 to mimic Foundation censorship protocols. The method by which SCP-2337 became aware of said protocol is currently unknown, as is the subject that SCP-2337 is referring to.
35. Shiny Brown Pygmy Lemons (n.) Coffee Beans. Not to be confused with Shiny Brown Pygmy Limes, Happy Color Pygmy Lemons, Shiny Lemon Brown Pygmys, and Coffee Beans.
36. Moose Juice (n.) SCP-2337's self-proclaimed "favorite quencher", consisting of two parts parts tomato juice, one part horseradish sauce, one part Sunny Delight, and one part melted M&Ms. Curiously, despite the lack of alcohol in any of the ingredients, SCP-2337 exhibits signs of mild intoxication upon ingestion of this beverage.
37. Punto Banco (adj.) Insane, crazy, not right in the head.
38. Translator's note: The full text and possible interpretations therein are is available in Document-2337-████-D; This Is Literally Just Moby Dick Except it's Written by Dr. Spanko, And I Wasted Seven Months Translating This Even Though It Was Obvious From The Get-Go. Who the Hell is Even Going to Read This? Doesn't the Foundation Have Better Things to Do?
39. Translator's Note: "[sic]" was present in the original document.
40. Yabba-Dabba-Don't (n.) A state of unwarranted panic and agitation.
41. Broadside (other.) Indicates that the last spoken number should be divided by a factor of 1,333,333 unless the resulting number is prime.
42. The Great Gonzalas (n.) A recurring godlike entity.
43. Known to the foundation as SCP-████.


Sergeant Freudenberger squinted again at the tiny print on the manifest list, struggling to find his place. He jumped at the sudden sound of the train whistle as yet another load of prisoners disembarked into the makeshift station, dropping his glasses into his cup of tea.
"Oh, I'm frightfully sorry! Oh-oh my, just a moment, I'll have you processed and ready to go! My apologies, um, Fraulein…Fraulein…"
The woman standing before him slowly jabbed a finger towards the top of the page Sergeant Freudenberger was working on. "Aldon. Zuzanna Aldon. No Fraulein."
Sergeant Freudenberger gave his glasses a quick shake, then affixed them once more upon his bulbous nose. "Oh… oh! There it is! I-I'm sorry, erm, Frau Aldon-"
"It's not 'Frau' either. Just Aldon."
The sergeant peered once more at his manifest sheet, then back at Aldon. "Ah, pardon me. Whatever you prefer, er, Aldon. Whatever is most, uh, polite."
Aldon rolled her eyes. "I think we passed the point of polite introductions sometime after the raid in Kleparz." She pointed to the dark blue, rifle butt-shaped bruise on the right side of her face. "I've had enough German etiquette, thanks."
"Ach, dreadful! I would never sanction such barbarous treatment, surely! I-"
Aldon glared at the sergeant, gesturing at the sprawling intake center and the lines of prisoners waiting to be processed.
"Oh. Right. Um, that." The Sergeant's face went red with shame, not for the first time that day. "You're in Sector B, Tent 48, Fraulein- er, Aldon. They're not really tents, though, there was some confusion at the command center, and, um-"
"Would you please just hurry up and put me in the damn concentration camp!" Aldon said as she crossed her arms.
"Yeah, we don't got all day you know!" a man's voice called from somewhere behind them in line.
Several black-clad SS guards glanced towards the general area of the remark, heavy wooden truncheons in hand. The Sergeant quickly signaled to the guards to remain calm; the guards, after several moments, relented and acknowledged the Sergeant's direction, though not without an angry glare for their superior. Sergeant Freudenberger waved Aldon back towards the camp as the next prisoner came forward.
He sighed. Had there really been so many degenerate artists in the Reich? There must have been a thousand people here. The sergeant thought of his own sister, and her paintings and poems. He couldn't imagine her or her friends hurting anyone, much less presenting a threat that had to be solved like this. His hand again crept to his brace-supported right leg. He was not a fighting man, and it didn't take long before he was rendered unfit for combat by a Russian grenade. But as awful as that was, it was preferable to this. He waved the next person in line through to his station, employing the etiquette that he thought was the least he owed these people. His finger went back to the manifest.
"Erm, uh…Allendorf, I beg your pardon Herr Allendorf…oh, I've lost my place again."

A tall red-haired young man made his way through the assembled inmates in the central yard, already bedraggled and rumpled looking in his recently-issued bright red uniform. He picked his way through the milling crowd, spotting a long, lean young woman in the midst of a small knot of people, dressed in a blue uniform, her wavy blond hair in its trademark pile pulled to the left side of her head.
"Hey, Zuzu! Hey! Over here!"
Aldon looked up. A smile broke out over her face. "Werner! You're alive!" She rushed over to the young man and embraced him tightly, the two artists clutching each other tightly to reassure themselves that both were still there. "We thought they had killed you! Zanzibar heard that they were carrying your body out of the lobby when they marched us off!"
Werner smiled. "A little sleight of hand. They caught me two days later, though. Turns out Ratzinger's basement wasn't a Way after all. Rotten little phoney."
Aldon dismissively waved her hand. "You were the one who bought the instructions for the ritual from him!" Her smile evaporated. "And how about that, hmm? We were supposed to be able to get away from those Gestapo jerks when you chanted the words!"
"I figured that one out, actually." Werner assumed his crouched-over old man pose that he did whenever he used his Aleister Crowley impression. "Be it sealed in truth, by a man of foreign land, who speaketh the words of power, bearing the marks of his opponents."
The rest of the group had gathered back around the two errant members of the Young Collective of Weimar Artisans, now accounted for in its entirety. Aldon waited expectantly.
"Aaaand?"
Werner straightened his posture again. "Well, I had the words of power from the other sheet, and I had the Hitler Youth costume."
"Yes, what could possibly go right?" interjected Aldon.
Undaunted, Werner continued. "I just wasn't a man of foreign land, that's all! Germany isn't foreign enough to Poland, you see."
"You mean that was what put this all screwy? I could have told you that, you lummox!" She tossed a ration of bread at Werner's chest. It immediately dissolved into an unsatisfying mist of dry crumbs and sawdust. "And now look! Another fine mess you've gotten us into."
Zanzibar O'Reilly slowly shook her head. "Yep, just like home again."
"It's simple. All we need to do is find someone else who can complete the ritual, and we'll all be out of here in a snap." Werner casually brushed the crumbs from his shirt.
Aldon shook her head. "How are we going to do that? These goose-stepping knuckleheads run all of Europe now, it's all Germany as far as this two-bit ritual is concerned."
"Surely there's-"
Werner was interrupted by the speakers wired over the yard, as a disembodied voice addressed the inmates of the camp through squeaks and crackles.
"All inmates report to the central staging area." Repeated over and over, droning ceaselessly until all assembled were pestered into compliance. The guards were curiously absent.

As they made their way to the staging area, the assembled degenerate artists and moral deviants of the Reich found a stage, hastily constructed from exposed beams of freshly cut planks of white pine. To Aldon, it looked like someone had smashed together about eight sets of gallows. Most of the guards were assembled shoulder-to-shoulder in the front of the stage, uniform in stance down to the manner in which their rifles were slung over their shoulders. Others were busy separating the inmates into color-coded groups; green for the writers, red for the painters, white for musicians, blue for sculptors, and so on. The throngs of prisoners were a riot of color, surrounded by drab gray structures and hemmed in by a line of black SS men.
"That's the ugliest chorus line I've ever seen! I want my two reichsmarks back!"
The mysterious voice was back, calling somewhere from the crowd. The accent was strange, though familiar to Aldon. Where had she had heard that voice before? The guards separating the prisoners scowled, surveying the crowd in vain for the heckler. After several moments of searching, they went back to their tasks.
Aldon stood in a crowd of other blue-clad sculptors. This is a travesty, she thought, I'm a multi-media artist. Lumping me in with just sculptors.
She looked back over the crowd. That voice. She was still missing something about it, but she knew enough to recognize it as belonging to a New Yorker. She thought back to Werner's two-bit ritual. She kept searching the crowd. A loudspeaker from the stage called everyone's attention forward.
"Willkommen, my friends!" called a high, insistent voice. A small man with a pencil-thin mustache and slick, pomaded hair took the stage, carrying a large microphone. The freshly pressed tuxedo sporting a blood-red party armband may have seemed out of place, but what stood out to Aldon was the pancake makeup and rouge outlining the man's facial features.
"Oh, how delightful! Look at you all, assembled and sorted! It's like being back on the set!" The man punctuated his remarks with a bout of extended giggling at some internal joke.
Aldon squinted. She recognized Max von Gruben, the German silent film star of the early 20s. He was still wearing the same makeup from Der Schüler. God that movie was terrible. His career vanished with the introduction of sound, and she now understood why. His high-pitched, nasal voice set her teeth on edge. From the looks of things, though, that may not have been the only impediment to Herr Gruben's continued work.
"Now, I know what you are all thinking. 'Why must I be persecuted for my art,' blah blah blah, ja ja ja. But we are here, not to imprison you, but to educate you on what art truly is!" Gruben giggled to himself once more. He strutted across the stage, behind the row of SS guards, walking the ramparts of an absurd human castle.
"I shall tell you what art is not. It is not the subversive doggerel."
The white-clad prisoners mumbled grumpily, though not too loudly.
"It is not ghastly paintings of twisted-up people, who don't even look like people."
Gruben kept strutting, stopping in front of Aldon's knot of blue sculptors. He seemed to fix his painted, purple-shaded gaze directly on her. He jabbed at the air, slowly, for emphasis.
"And, it is most definitely. Not. An ambulatory phallus. That ejaculates spoiled milk in the presence of party officials."
The guards, seemingly anticipating this remark, tightened their grips on their truncheons and rifles. Aldon bit her cheek in attempt to not burst out laughing. Others were apparently having the same problem. Her greatest work, recognized. She was equal portions pride and restrained hilarity.
"We have brought you all here for a single purpose. Would anyone here care to guess what it is?"
A silence fell on the gathering of artists, momentary mirth quickly forgotten. Every one of them had had time to speculate on what fate awaited them. Every one of them had come to the same answer.
"To witness the holy matrimony between Hitler and his mother?"
Gruben scowled at the heckler's interruption, seeming to come from a different part of the crowd than before. Silently, he dispatched two guards into the crowd with a flick of his wrist. He put the ersatz smile back on, and resumed.
"You, the corrupted potential of the Reich, are to be rehabilitated! You shall put on a grand production, the likes of which never attempted before, to show the world the power and strength of our Führer's vision! A tremendous spectacle we shall make, a worthy use for your misguided talents!"
The silence seemed to only grow more ominous. They were going to make them put on a Nazi propaganda play? Horror gripped Aldon, the only thing worse than death now confronting her; enforced tackiness.
"What, did you think we were going to kill you? How dreadfully boring! No, we have much better, more efficient uses for all of you! This camp shall be a marvel, a testament to the triumph of our Führer's values!"
A slight, spindly man stepped out in front of the white-uniformed writer's contingent. He raised his expressionless face to Gruben. It was Bartleby, the quiet, unassuming poet of Aldon's group. Bartleby's voice was surprisingly loud and resonant for such a small man, audible to everyone in the courtyard.
"I would prefer not to."
Gruben scowled once more. "You would…prefer not to?" His voice trailed off into disbelief.
Bartleby remained where he stood. "I would prefer not to."
"I see. I am afraid we will have to make things quite dreadfully boring for you if you do not wish to join this effort."
Still expressionless, still resolute, Bartleby replied once more. "I would prefer not to."
The two guards, previously dispatched to find the phantom heckler, now descended upon Bartleby, grabbing him roughly by the shoulders and leading him off out of view and to a different part of the camp. Aldon immediately started to follow after her friend, silent while a number of high-impact curses and expletives churned in her mind and competed to see which would be the first to fly forth, before she felt a hand catch her arm and pull her back. She rounded quickly on a dark-haired man, eyes heavy-lidded behind a set of round glasses, his finger to his pursed lips.
"Shhhhh. You'll interrupt the show for these nice folks."
Through the confusion, surprise and anger, Aldon recognized the voice. It was the heckler! How had he managed to make his way over here without being noticed?
Aldon lowered her voice to a whisper. "But they're going to kill him!"
"Not yet they won't. They like to do things real by-the-book, these guys. Whatever ones they haven't burned yet, anyway. Your friend is real brave, he should be fine till we can spring him."
Aldon kept studying the heckler's face. There was something familiar about him. "Brave? But he always says that! Do you know what his latest collection of poems is called? "I Would Prefer Not To"! He's going to get himself killed before- wait, what do you mean when we spring him?"
"You're the lady that makes the moving putz statues, right?"
"Um, I, uh, yeah. Why?"
A wry twinkle crept into the heckler's deadpan face as he gave Aldon a quick once-over. "You know, speaking of moving-"
"Ugh, stop, just stop." Gruben had started yammering again in the background. Aldon checked around to see if anyone was noticing this conversation. So far, no one had. "Tell me. What the hell is going on here?"
"You do some unusual stuff, lady. So unusual that certain bigwigs have noticed and decided to pull your little menagerie out of the cage here."
"Why'd they send you? You don't look like a soldier."
"Really? That's a relief, I'll tell that to the fella at the draft board when I get home. I'd hate to get sent over to a place like this."
Aldon sighed. "Is there anyone else coming?"
The heckler stroked his chin. "You got any friends that aren't jailbirds?"
"Ugh. You really don't have any sort of plan, do you?"
"Not at all, plans get you put into prison camps around this neighborhood."
Aldon shook her head. "These bigwigs you were talking about earlier. Who are they?"
"The kind that can get a guy out of a studio contract. So I dunno? God, maybe? I don't think he's got good enough lawyers, though."
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
"That makes two of us sweetheart. Now, if you'll excuse me a moment." The heckler waggled his eyebrows slightly, and cupped his hands to his mouth. "Get a load of this," he said to Aldon.
A voice suddenly called out from somewhere among the assembled guards on the stage. "Whatever it is, I'm against it!" Gruben stopped dead in the middle of his harangue, the guards suddenly turning their glowers and gazes on one another. Confusion erupted as the heckler's voice somehow kept emanating from within the fray on the stage. "Your proposition may be good, but let's have one thing understood, whatever it is, I'm against it," he sang out to the increasing fury of the camp guards. The scene devolved into chaos, as the stage was now a roiling mass of black clad guards, barking accusations at one another and jostling Gruben repeatedly. All eyes were now on the stage, which had turned against all odds into the scene of something of genuine interest.
"There, that ought to buy us a little more privacy for a few minutes."
Aldon had heard that song before. She thought back to a movie house in Krakow…no. It couldn't possibly.
"How…how did you do that?"
"Old vaudeville trick, sweetheart." The heckler began removing his blue uniform, a red one now showing underneath. "Now, let's talk about getting your little group out of here."
"Wait. This seems fishy. How do I know I can trust you?
At this statement, the heckler produced from his back pocket a small tin of black greasepaint. He dabbed some on his finger, and with slow, precise movements, painted two thick black lines over his eyebrows. Then he applied another across his upper lip.
Aldon gaped. Things clicked into place suddenly as she looked at the man's exaggerated new mustache and eyebrows, recognition striking her like a lightning bolt.
He put his glasses back on. "Is this the face of someone looking to pull a scam?"
The young artist stammered. "You're…you're…" She stopped. She narrowed her eyes. "American."
"What gave it away sugar, the posh accent?"
The members of the Weimar Artisans knew that nothing made Aldon happier than some act of insane troublemaking, usually ending with a sudden relocation of wherever their headquarters happened to be at the time, minutes ahead of the authorities. A huge smile began to appear on her face.
"I think I have a plan instead. To get all of us out of here."
The heckler pulled a crisp new cigar out from his sleeve, bit the end, and thoughtfully put it in his mouth, preparing to light it with a clandestine Zippo. "I'm listening."

« Mental Mazes | Hub | Nondescript Nose »


At midnight, two men met under the dim light of a back alley, away from the crowd and their watchful eyes. Dark stars shone weakly in the sky.
One of the men was dressed in fine clothes, and yet he covered all of the jewels he wore with a thick black cloak. The other one also wore a black cloak, and appeared nervous. He occasionally glanced at the main road, making sure that no one paid them any attention.
One of them, with luxurious ornaments here and there, spoke with a deep voice. It echoed in the dark alley, even though the man wasn't speaking particularly loudly. “I need to get out of the city.”
“But my Lord!” The other one replied. His voice was a bit shaky. “The other Lords, they—”
“The other Lords are going to stand by. They have long been jealous of my status, and are more than willing to be rid of me.” His master interrupted him. His voice was cold, and harbored hatred. “Did you get the gate key?”
“Yes, yes.” The other one quickly took out a key from under his cloak, and handed it to him. It was a black metal key, which smelled faintly of burnt flesh.
His Lord held the key between his long fingers. The rings of obsidian and porcelain he wore shone dimly under the street light. The constant frown on his face relived slightly as he examined the key carefully. He handed it back to the servant.
“My Lord,” The servant continued, “You could appeal to the King! You are always—”
“I'm always his favorite, and that's exactly why they would not let me live.” The Lord answered. His face twitched, as if in agonizing pain. “The Ambassador does not wish to see the King rise to his power. And without my aid, the King would remain helpless. There are chains around his neck and spikes on his throne. He can not help me, no more than he can help himself.”
The servant still attempted to say something, but they were interrupted by the noises coming from the main roads. They heard footsteps, not of one person, but of many people, thundering down the street.
“The parade is coming.” The servant said, terrified.
“I need to get out of the city.” The Lord repeated.
“What can I do for you, my Lord?” The servant's voice trembled. The light above them began to flicker.
The Lord looked at him, and said nothing. He held up his fingers, suddenly started digging them into his flesh. The long polished nails he kept, now stained with blood, dug deeply under the skin. Dark red streams now covered his pale hands, along with the fine rings on them. He proceeded to tear the flesh out violently. The light flickered wildly.
The footsteps were coming near.
In a moment, the Lord took off his pale face, and held it up with his hands. Dark blood streamed down his neck, and disappeared into the cloak. The servant started to tremble. He breathed heavily, heart pounding violently. He did not run.
“Put it on.” The face whispered.
The footsteps were very close now.
The servant took the white porcelain face with his shaky hands, and put it up against his own like a mask. He did not scream.
The footsteps had arrived. People with various masks and wide smiles could be seen, afar on the main road.
The face landed safely on its new body. Black, corrosive liquid streamed down from the servants' eye sockets and mouth. He was still trembling, but quickly turned to run with all the strength he could get from his corrupting body, away from the parade.
“The Ambassador is here!” Someone shouted.
The crowd made a sharp turn, and swarmed into the back alley with the dim light. In the middle of the crowd was the Ambassador, standing above all others, leading the parade arrogantly. There was laughter, emitted from every masked being. They paraded with their best clothes on, with the rings and necklaces around their fingers and necks, with bottles in hands and the sane world forgotten. The revelry was unstoppable, and they all screamed in wild joy. The Ambassador did not laugh.
The Lord's old body, with dark blood all over him, still stood in the dark alley.
The crowd closed in, and easily stamped on him. The sound of bones cracking was overwhelmed by the sounds of singing and laughing from the parade. The fine clothes the Lord wore soon became dusted and torn, and the rings of obsidian and porcelain were shattered into pieces. There was no scream, but even if there was, it could not be heard.
The Ambassador watched this for a while, then turned to leave. The parade continued, now spreading all over the city of Alagadda.
But somewhere away from the thundering parade, a man was running. He was a servant, but a servant no more; he was a lord, but a lord no more. When the crowd stepped on his old body, he burst into laughter. The eternal anguished look on his fine porcelain face disappeared. He was now smiling, with mouth wide and black liquid dripping from his face.
He laughed and laughed as he held the burnt key firmly in his hand.


Journal recovered from SCP-186 on 08/03/1971 during a routine bi-monthly patrol. Inside cover contains inscription in Russian1 "Property of Dr. Jean Durand." Writings are variously in Russian, French, English, and an unknown language, resembling Indus script. Tests on inks and paper of the journal have proven inconclusive.

July 22nd
The death spasms of Europe have provided increasingly fertile ground for my work, particularly on the Eastern front. Whereas my ideas were once met with stunned silence in the halls of the Academy, a creeping sense of desperation has begun to overtake the corridors of power as this internecine conflict looks to continue indefinitely. The generals of Paris and London have torn apart half the continent searching for me, hoping to utilize methods and devices they once decried as "products of a diseased mind." Such is the way of war.
This newest group is almost entirely unremarkable, distinguished only by the near-complete lack of organization. Morale has deteriorated rapidly, particularly due to perceived ill-treatment by commanding officers and a lack of adequate supplies. For example, currently only one in every three soldiers is armed with a rifle manufactured this century, with 38% of soldiers lacking any manner of projectile armament. There are rumblings among the men about the need for revolution and change.
Officers continue to attempt to rally the troops for a counterattack with mixed degrees of failure. Those more fortunate tend to receive glares and rude gestures. Others are less lucky, and are at the receiving end of hurled rocks and clods of mud. Last night, a lieutenant named Katin was assassinated while he slept.
To call this an army is, while perhaps a fitting commentary on war, inaccurate. It is a fleeing mob, full of frightened and angry young men. The absence of even a large group of individuals will go unnoticed. They are perfect.
July 23rd
Today, I finally revealed my presence to the men. Although slightly ahead of schedule, doing so now means that I have a larger group from which to gather accurate data.
I went to a clearing containing approximately five hundred men at dawn and began to speak. There were some who cursed for disturbing with such talk at such an early hour. However, the vast majority of men seemed curious to listen to this stranger who spoke with such authority. I began by telling them of a peace so everlasting as to make war little more than a myth. Of the sciences that could create weapons of such ferocity that even the most bloodthirsty tsar or president would be given pause. Of the plenty and prosperity that would come when the sciences of war reached their culmination and were rendered obsolete by their own horror.
"Think!" I said, "Of the wonders that might have come, had a genius the caliber of Alfred Nobel or Sir Maxim focused upon the science of life, rather than the trade of death!" Many of the men, no strangers to these inventions, began to nod when I said this.
I told them that, with even a small taste of my weaponry, even the most stalwart enemy would turn tail and flee. There was an appreciable murmur that ran through the crowd as I said this. When I called upon them to cease their flight and gird themselves, not for the good of any president or nation, but for all mankind, the crowd erupted in cheers.
The men surged towards me in a great wave, surrounding me and my cart. Each made for a weapon, ignorant of its function, and I feared that someone might accidentally wound themselves, leading to further chaos. It took me several minutes to restore order. However, in time, the men gathered at my feet as I explained the methods by which the most basic weapons could be used. The rest of the weapons, I am saving for later, as the unprepared reaction to a weapon will be far more elucidating.
The men took it upon themselves to elect me commander, citing my knowledge of the new weaponry as well as experience with tactics. I accepted command graciously, although my mind turned to thoughts of mice selecting a king from among their doctors. The erstwhile leader of the group, a Cpt. Toropov, seemed thankful to be relieved of his duties.
July 24th
First contact with the kaiser's forces! I must admit, I first felt something like apprehension when the scouts returned with the news. The men performed admirably at first, filled with certain and swift victory. A small contingent of the advancing German force was easily driven back by the men (I nearly wrote "my" men. Never "my" men or "our" men).
For the occasion, I had elected to arm them only with ossification rifles as the rifles were to be much more familiar to the soldiers than some of the more exotic armaments. As the spikes of bone burst forth from the struck German soldiers, shredding their flesh, the men paused, apparently unsettled by the effects of the rifles. As the Germans began to scatter, I ordered an advance, but only half of the men made to move after the retreating forces.
Afterwards, I spoke to some of the men individually. A Muscovite named Bunin spoke of his first time seeing a motorcar in the field, while a sergeant named Zinchenko spoke of a wife and a loyal dog back home in a village near Omsk. The specifics of their lives are irrelevant, but speaking with them helps bring my purpose into focus.
July 25th
Today, the German forces attacked in strength, effecting 95 casualties. What is more, they appear to have been armed with some sort of anomalous weaponry of their own: a rifle that appears to cause cancerous growths, as well as a kind of gas that causes a permanent sensation of burning. I was unaware that the kaiser's government was working on such projects; I must now readjust my calculations for weapon efficacy.
Fascinating.
July 26th
Today, a captured German soldier told us of the source of the new weapons: Nemeş!
I did not foresee such an eventuality, assuming only that his engines of war had been imported to the Western front, or preferably, that he had died in obscurity. It can't be that his appearance is a mere coincidence. Whether the work of an intrepid spy or of the larger cosmos in its dizzying array of looping fates, I dare not say.
July 27th
Notes to self
Expand in r. notes!

Austrian's weapons appear to be built on principles of waves
One of said weapons appears to, among other effects, greatly increase the elasticity of human skin while decoupling it from membranes. Investigate if principle can be applied, but non-lethal and allowing intact nerve endings.
Sgt. Ryzhov + others have had opposite anticipated reactions. Love the destruction of the weapons, love the pain they cause. Must redouble efforts.
Barbed wire efficacy lower than expected. Rather than a preset sensory pattern, perhaps a malleable compound that incorporates phobias? Investigate.

July 27th-30th

Pages torn out

July 31st

Flesh affected by N.'s guns turns necrotic within five days. The men struggle to cope with the stench.
Desertion rate approaching 15%.
The ossified bodies of the German soldiers now fill no man's land. Tales spreading around lines regarding their supposed movement. A primitive reaction, but one worth investigating?
Ryzhov + others remain stubborn. Casualty rate from psychosis approaching 5%. Good w/ bad.

August 1-7th

Notes in unknown script.

August 8th
Tonight I finally got a look at my so-called rival!
Our line at the edge of the clearing had been attacked. Even if he had not been wearing his greatcoat, I could see that he would have been a giant of a man. Despite nearly two weeks of combat, his hair and mustache were impeccably groomed. Likewise, although it was splattered with mud and other substances, his uniform looked recently washed and pressed.
His movements, though, were quite twitchy, almost spastic. It was as though he was trying and not altogether succeeding in controlling himself. The effect was quite queer, like seeing a hyena in a general's uniform.
However, all concerns about his physical demeanor were washed away when he turned to face me.
I readied a shot from one of the ossification rifles, hoping to freeze him where he stood. At the sound of the gun cocking, his head whipped around, and our eyes met.
I have seen many things in all of my days, and consider myself to be nigh-imperturbable at this point. However, when I saw those brass eyes of his, I began to tremble.
It was nothing like the eyes of a man who does what he has been trained to do. No, his was the look of a man who sought warfare because it was what he was meant to do. Even the bloodlust of Ryzhov paled in comparison to what I saw in those narrow Magyar eyes.
I could swear that I recognized him from somewhere, although I am sure that I have not. Something about those eyes, all full of exultant fire.
August 9th
All day today, I was so distracted from my work as I tried to recall where and when I knew those eyes from that I quite nearly neglected to record some invaluable data on the efficacy of Batch 98.
It was only when I saw muscles beneath Zinchenko's stomach as he tore away at what he thought was a suffocating snake that it finally occurred to me! I cried out as he began to pull at his intestines. Of course: Inkerman!
Those eyes had met mine once before as I looked at the bodies stretching to the horizon on the final day of the battle. I suppose that he was birthed, after a fashion, in those terrible days. Our eyes met only for an instant, but even then I could see that they were filled with all things detestable in human nature- bloodlust, ignorance, hatred, rage, pride, thirst for glory and conquest.
To call that thing "him" feels incorrect. Such a term is to be used for those with humanity, which may be drawn out, either through compassion or fear. That thing knows neither. It is an abomination, drawn to all that is wretched in the world, seeking only to perpetuate suffering and carnage.
If only I had had the presence of mine then to take up one of the rifles scattered upon the ground and pop that head of its, filled with its evil thoughts, who knows how much finer a place the world might now be! Sadly, at the time, I was engrossed in my own despair, fearing that this would be the fate of man for all time.
How I have changed since that November day! It, however, appears to as set in its ways as the day I first saw it. Only its appearance has changed to any significant degree; when I first met it, I recalled resembling a British soldier at the time. A short fellow of Hibernian extraction, at least as far as I could tell at the time. However, the missing right side of the body's head made it difficult to be fully sure. If nothing else, its sewing skills have improved markedly in the intervening years.
August 10th
Over the past few days the men have begun to look to me as something more than man. To some, I am a god of war and of horrors. To others, I am the devil incarnate, responsible for their torment, taking joy in their suffering. With regards to the latter, I am surprised at the depths of their misunderstanding.
I take no more joy in their suffering than does the biologist in the suffering of a laboratory animal. Their pain is not for my own benefit nor even for theirs but for all mankind. Although they may never know it, their unknowing sacrifice will usher humankind into a new golden age of love and cooperation and fear.
August 11th
Tonight, I spoke with it at a distance under the cover of darkness. The smoke of the day's battle covered any stars in the sky, but I could still make out its movement in the dark. I could hear the sobbing and night terrors of the men on the other line, and I could not resist the temptation to speak to it.
"How," I asked, "does it feel? Your inventions, so horrible, so perfect, are rendering your men unable to fight! Tell me, how many have deserted? How many have gone insane? How many simply refuse to fight any longer?"
There was silence for several minutes. Then came a voice that sounded more like a beast than a man.
"My men are strong enough. And soon they will be stronger. All there is to do is to steel their souls for war," it said, "Just how much longer will your toy guns hold out? My weapons are steel, yours are of paper mache and silk, old one!"
I laughed. "You don't sound too well. Perhaps the battle has taken its toll on you! Perhaps your steel is weaker than you imagine! By all means, please, create more efficacious devices! More terror means more reluctance! Your work hurries along your death! I look forward to it!"
There was no response. I suppose that I had shaken its resolve somewhat.
August 12th
This morning, the men informed me that Ryzhov took his own life last night. Unable to cope with what he had seen and with what he feared would become of him, he opened his own throat with a razor.
I do not normally consider myself prone to sentiment, but as I processed the news, I had the unfamiliar sensation of tears welling up in my eyes. The men stared at me as I wept openly. Even Toropov came out of his stupor to look at my tears of joy.
If a man like Ryzhov, a bellicose fool, full of hatred for his fellow man, can be driven to self-destruction by the mere thought of battle, then I am far closer to my goal than I had previously dared hope.
Still, there is much to be done; Ryzhov only saw the folly of war after weeks of battle. It is my hope that the man and woman on the streets of Paris, of St. Petersberg, of Berlin, utterly untouched by conflict, may some day be driven to such extremes of fear by the mere mention of war.
Then and only then, when those who control the engines of conflict realize its terrible cost, will the world know peace.
Writing this, I look at the men in what remains of the encampment. With each breath of Zhidkov's, a swarm of flies briefly stirs, disturbed by the movement of his rotting flesh. Ivakin's flesh has begun to split as the tumors begin to erupt from within. Even those few who have escaped with body fully intact have had their nerves utterly shattered. Toropov stares at the sun all day. Saltykov insists that he is merely a gear in some infernal machine.
But, alas! I can feel that the battle is coming to an end. With the end of the battle is the end of useful data. The thing will likely make its exit soon, and I must make myself scarce before then.
But still, to think that I have done in a few weeks what it took the butchers of Europe three years to do! I have not felt such hope for mankind since the days of First Republic.
Each night, it gives me much heart to hear as they cry out in their sleep, unable to escape the madness that surrounds them even in slumber.
Although this represents only a first step, I have looked into the eyes of men as they were broken by the unremitting and incomprehensible carnage around them. The screams and moans of the men form a continuous chorus that sings the correctness of my path.
I will lead these humans to peace, no matter the cost.

Footnotes
1. Writing includes elements of Russian orthographic reform not widely enacted until December, 1917