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. 


"| think | have a plan instead. To get a// 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 » 


Nondescript Nose 


"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! | give them the most inspirational material the world has 
to offer, and | get mediocrity. Gunter!" The tuxedo clad director 
called up to a single SS man sitting in a specially constructed 
balcony. "Gunter, 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. 
"Gunter should be weeping at the beauty of this performance! | see 
no tears! If you cannot budge the soft heart of a beauteous creature 
like Gunter, how will we impress the Fuhrer when he visits? 
Hmmm?" 


Aldon suppressed the stupid grin that appeared on her face at the 
latest mention of Der Fuhrer'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 | 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- 
maché 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. 


Date: July , 19 
Subject: SCP-567-9-5 


Description: During testing of SCP-567-4, when the cell door was 
opened, SCP-567-9-5 manifested and immediately attacked and 
killed Dr. without warning. It took the form of [DATA 
EXPUNGED]. Due to the presence of high-value personnel, 
standard containment procedures were not feasible. After a total of 7 
casualties, [REDACTED] was able to lure SCP-567-9-5 back 
towards SCP-567-4, at which point it activated, drawing 
SCP-567-9-5 back into it. 


Date: December , 20 
Subject: SCP-567-9-8 


Description: On December , 20 , the door to SCP-567-7 was 
observed to open and close via CCTV, but no instance of 
SCP-567-9 appeared on the monitoring system. Two weeks later, 
[REDACTED] was found dead in his bed, in circumstances identical 
to those of deaths involving SCP-966. Mobile Task Force lota-1 was 
dispatched, and located SCP-567-9-8 within Site 41. SCP-567-9-8 
appeared similar to an instance of SCP-966, with variations in 
[DATA EXPUNGED]. SCP-567-9-8 was successfully contained, and 
facility cameras were upgraded to observe additional wavelengths. 


"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 Fuhrer?" 


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. | 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? | 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. "| 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. | don't mean to eavesdrop, | really don't! | 
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 | 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, | 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. | 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, | wasn't sleeping," he said with a thick Italian accent. "I 
had a dream that | 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. | could be escaping right now!" 


"Ohhh no. Impossible. | never let anyone escape. If you're escaping, 
| 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. | only open the door when | hear the 
password." 


"| 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. "| gave Bismarck a chance once. Coldest winter | 
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. 


"| 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." 


"| would prefer not to." 


"Oh, shut up." 


The Fuhrer 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 Fuhrer'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 
Fuhrer'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 Fuhrer'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.