Gruben looked up to Gunter 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. Gunter 
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 Fuhrer 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 Fuhrer'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 Fuhrer 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 Fuhrer's glasses 
appeared to waggle. 


Gruben went rigid. How? How could he not notice what had just 
happened? Someone must tell the Fuhrer 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 Fuhrer 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 Fuhrer 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. Gunter 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 Fuhrer 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 Fuhrer. 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 


SCP-568: Dismemberment Strap 


Item #: SCP-568 
Object Class: Safe 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-568 requires no unique 
considerations and is stored in storage locker 28-002 in Sector 28. 
Testing with SCP-568 must be authorized by Level 3 personnel. 


Description: SCP-568 has the appearance of a flexible white strap, 
70x8x0.2 cm. An unbroken seam on one side runs down its length, 
precisely along the center. The other side of SCP-568 is smooth and 
identical in texture to the seamed side. The material SCP-568 is 
made of is unknown, with some similarities to leather. 


When the smooth side comes into contact with the seamed side, the 
two surfaces will adhere firmly to each other, as if glued. The 
surfaces can be peeled apart with moderate effort and no damage to 
SCP-568. 


When SCP-568 is wrapped around an object with both ends 
overlapping at a minimum of 1 cm, the object may be split along the 
seam. To bisect the object, one half must be twisted 
counterclockwise one half-turn, as if loosening a screw. The surface 
of the cut does not display a cross-section of the object, only an 
impermeable white surface. To reassemble the object, the cut ends 
must be in contact and twisted clockwise one half-turn. SCP-568 
cannot be removed when split in this fashion. 


Experiment Log #568-1: Tests conducted by Dr. Weiss and J. 
Candle, dated / /20 . 


Item: 1 steel rod 
Result: Item bisected and reassembled, with no observable 
damage. 


remains of the stage props from his suit coat. 
"It worked! | 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 Fuhrer 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 soeed 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 Osterreich, lady." 


The ostriches seemed to be gravitating to where Hitler had landed. 
The Fuhrer 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 Fuhrer! Protect the Fuhrer!" 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 
Fuhrer'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 | 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?" 


"| 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 | 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. 


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A Darke Tale - New Age 


The perpetual fear of every slave owner, spanning not 
only these years, but of slavery as an institution, is that 
of rebellion. African slaves were frequently taken from 
warring tribes, speaking different languages, and with 
known grudges, so cooperation might be mitigated. In 
some circumstances, males of fighting age were killed or 
mutilated. 


On the plantations, rules created for the safety of slave 
owners were paramount. Farmers prudently forbid 
materials that could be turned to weapons in or near 
slave quarters. A slave master was often employed for 
their brutality in enforcement.