Below we see the final draft of my Antelope Hill Publishing entry.
“This is a song that never ends,” was blasted on infinite repeat by a pack of young children far louder than one might believe possible, crammed together on a space shuttle, and eager to entertain themselves with a vain attempt at tormenting the experienced and unflappable driver. Not all of them were singing, with Marcus in particular trying to squirm his way out of the overly tight seatbelt and get a glimpse of New Alexandria on the approach. The best he could do was a sort of bounce just over the lip of the window, straining his eyes down in the hopes of getting a tiny glimpse of something.
He was not much rewarded for his efforts. A hint of a towering capital in the distance, residential areas passing by in a blur, lush green lawns, forested areas or perhaps parks, people walking underneath, blue ponds, or maybe pools. His short, six year old body made it hopeless to discern what was what.
Inside the shuttle and to his right, two troublemaking fellow classmates were trying to lick their window for some reason known only to them. Just in front of them, Madeline was stealing glances at him, trying to get his attention. But it was to no avail, as Marcus’ heart belonged to someone else at the front of the bus. Someone who he was convinced could learn to love him as he loved her, despite their almost twenty year age gap.
Marcus turned back, renewing his sightseeing efforts, only to be greeted with an unmoving scene outside his window. The schoolbus had landed, the inertial dampeners removing any sense of acceleration from the journey.
With that their first grade teacher and object of Marcus’ affection, Ms. Williams, quieted the children down in that voice of hers that he loved so much. Soon she had them disembarking the craft, and tried getting them to form a line on a cobbled road out in front of The Museum Of Past Heroes, unsuccessfully preventing them from sprawling out on the lawn, ruining their simple uniforms with grass stains.
As their heads were turned, watching the shuttle rapidly accelerate away, a deep male voice addressed them from the other direction. “By a show of hands, who would like to meet the engineers who designed ships just like that?”
It was the first words out of their tour guide’s smiling mouth, and responded to with genuine enthusiasm by the majority of the first graders. Even before they had all raised their hands the engineering team, last of them dead for well over a millenia, greeted them with waves and smiles from just past the doors, and most of the kids soon rushed over.
It was not the first time the children had interacted with AI recreations before, but they were still young enough to be excited by the facsimiles. Marcus was eager to join them until his six year old eyes picked up something disturbing; Ms. Williams, his love, was being chatted up by the handsome tour guide. He surreptitiously moved in for a closer look, his stealthy approach made easier by the attention the two adults were giving each other and the noise the rest of the kids were making.
“It’s really amazing how realistic they manage to make them,” Marcus heard her saying to him.
“They go in and tweak them a little,” he said in response,”make them more patient and agreeable and all that. Dealing with children all day can be impossibly trying.”
“Oh no, it’s always pure joy,” she said, as they both shared a hearty chuckle that seemed disproportionate to the humour. Unfortunately for Marcus, just as the guide went to turn away his beloved teacher moved slightly towards him. “So, are all of the guests fake then?” she asked.
“Not fake per se, just with the edges sanded off a bit,” he responded.
“Still, that’s a bit disappointing,” she continued. “It would be interesting to actually meet the real people, as best as they can be recreated, of course.”
“Well,” said the guide, “we have more accurate versions kept in the back. There’s something of an ongoing debate as to how realistic a version the kids should be exposed to. A lot of past heroes cursed more than might be appropriate, even in the company of children.”
“Which ones in particular?”
“Dr. Heidegger and Andreas Keymer are pretty much intolerable to be around. The archetype of genius jerks.”
“The man who invented antimatter engines and the one who,” Ms. Williams paused while thinking, “cured the Andromeda Strain,” she said, that last part as more of a question than an answer.
“Yes to Heidegger, but you’re thinking of Andrew Ketmer. Andreas Keymer was the botanist, Andrew Ketmer died long before recreation technology was invented, sadly.”
“Oh, of course, I always get them confused.”
“Expectations are low for a first grade teacher.”
To Marcus’ dismay his beloved Ms. Williams burst out laughing as if the guide had made the most humourous observation in the history of The Imperium Of Man, going so far as to put both of her hands on his forearm to steady herself. After letting her regain composure, the guide continued.
“Everyone’s always on their best behaviour when the capture tech is recording them anyway, so even the ostensibly realistic versions are a best foot forwards type thing. Maybe the scientists are just more honest than the politicians, who would all appear to be consummate well-mannered gentlemen with hearts of gold,” he finished with that same dazzling white smile that Marcus was beginning to loathe.
“I’m sure that’s very historically accurate,” Marcus noticed a smile mirrored on Ms. Williams’ sweet face.
“For some strange reason all the actors are the same way,” he replied, and they both shared another small laugh.
“The realism is probably a waste anyway,” she said after a slight pause. “I love these kids, but I don’t think they particularly care if Julius Bauer is accurately recreated. They’re barely at the age of remembering things, let alone remembering them accurately with an eye for details like that.”
“Right,” the guide said, looking away as if contemplating something, before turning back to Ms. Williams and leaning in again, even closer this time, gently placing his right hand almost absent-mindedly on her wrist. “If you’re interested, and have a moment after the tour, I could show you some of the more honest recreations that we have. Provided you don’t tell anyone of course,” said with a wink.
To Marcus’ eternal dismay, the lovely Ms. Williams nodded her head and slightly stumbled with her left leg, before her lovely lips parted as she said “I’d like that.”
“Great,” the guide said, returning Ms. Williams’ brilliant white smile with one of his own. He went to turn away before turning back, almost as if he startled himself. “It’s Chris, by the way.”
“Amanda,” she responded, as they shook hands, their eyes fixed upon the others, the touch lasting entirely longer than Marcus’ six year old mind felt appropriate. After they finally parted Chris addressed the rest of the class and began moving the children into the museum itself.
Marcus noticed with a further sinking feeling Ms. Williams staring after Chris, lips still parted, as she threw her long chestnut brown hair back behind her shoulders, and adjusted her blouse. It was only after she turned her head to and fro counting up all the children that she noticed Marcus standing just a few feet behind and to the left of her.
“Marcus, are you feeling alright? Are you feeling ill?” she said while touching his forehead, a concerned look spreading on her face.
Dying of a broken heart, is what Marcus felt like saying, but found his voice betraying him. All he could manage was to look down at the ground, hiding his face from her pretty green eyes, fighting back tears as she coo’d over him.
His sweet angel, soon to be stolen from him by a man who had actually gone through puberty, extended her hand down to his. “Marcus, you should have stayed home today if you were ill,” she said sympathetically, accompanied by a scritch under his chin, before guiding him into the open museum.
It was in this dismayed state that Marcus experienced The Museum of Past Heroes. Unable to focus, only bits and pieces were picked up by him, with much of the context gone. “Slipspace engines,” “Dr. Lantis,” “President Reonerson,” an exhibit dedicated to a common soldier in the 2787 Imperium Of Man military. It was an eclectic mix of heroes, and if his heart had not been broken by the evil tour guide he would have been thrilled.
At one point the class was even introduced to Elliot Kipling, the creator of Marcus’ favourite show, “Space Doggies Save the Universe,” a classic, and one he had long hoped to watch together with Ms. Williams. But Marcus simply stared forward glumly, ignoring the recreation of Elliot Kipling, even as he let the other kids sit on his knee as he read one of his moving books to them.
Normally the children would be given hover chairs to move throughout a space like this, but it was deemed that the kids would get a greater appreciation of past heroes through experiencing the world they way they had. Whatever the goal, after two hours of the tour the children were beginning to get restless.
While the children were distracted by the “Fascist Party of Virmire,” exhibit Chris, the hated teacher-stealing tour guide, used this as another opportunity to slink away and chat up Ms. Williams. She, still holding Marcus’ hand, explained to him that Marcus wasn’t feeling so well.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Amanda” the guide said, ignoring the look of venemous hatred that Marcus shot back at him.
“That reminds me, Chris” she said, “I think the other kids might need a quick break for something to eat.”
“There are benches at the top of the Hill Of The Faceless Men,” he replied as he gestured to a small hill, some statues at the front visible even from their perspective. “And it’s the first area that has a nice view of the capital.”
Ms. Williams nodded, and as Chris announced the scheduled break on The Hill Of The Faceless Men dragonfly skimmers sprung to action. Coming from the direction of the kitchen, their mechanical wings abuzz as they flew readymade wraps gently into the children’s hands.
“No hoverchairs, because they didn’t have them in antiquity, yet skimmers delivering our meals for us so we don’t have to walk.” As Ms. Williams spoke, Marcus looked up to see her, still holding his hand, looking down at him out of the corner of his eye, beaming that same smile that lit up his heart at the beginning of each school day. Lost in her affection he found himself almost appearing to teleport to the top of the hill.
Upon cresting the top, the class was greeted with a relatively flat square that housed some benches, foliage, and row upon row of human sized mannequins, all pointed towards them. Chris explained, while leading them to the center of the square, that the figurines were statues.
“This, children, is The Hill Of The Faceless Men,” he exclaimed, spreading his arms. “Later in the tour you’ll see many statues, some from before this time, others from just after. Euclid, Catharine the Great, Adolf Hitler, Jonathan Bartkiewicz. All who came before the invention of recreation technology have had their exact personalities lost in the sands of time.”
“And what year was that, class?” Ms. Williams asked them, to see one hand in particular immediately shoot up. “Yes, Madeline.”
“2329,” Madeline responded in her tiny, feminine voice.
“Very good, Maddy” said Ms. Williams, in that same voice the children loved so much. With that Madeline smiled, and stole yet another glace at Marcus, who was furious at himself for accidentally smiling back, when he actually thought that Madeline was gross and had the cooties.
“The Faceless Men being here as statues is not unusual for men of their time,” the guide continued, “What is unusual is that even our greatest historians do not know who they were. When our people were at their most downtrodden and oppressed, it was The Faceless Men who delivered our salvation. And yet, all we know of any one individual is some tiny fraction of their writings, and the names they chose for themselves. You can see these engraved at the base of their statues.”
The children looked around, as if seeing the statues for the first time. Marcus finally let go of Ms. William’s hand as he dropped to his knees to peer closer at the writing engraved upon statue in front of him, “Kikeslammer88.” The statue to the right, “AdolfKitler.” To the left, “TheGoyimNose.”
All three statues shared the same formless face as all the others. The only differences were the heights, shapes, and engravings on the bottom.
“PedalPoweredFactCheckingMachines,” “GeorgeFloydsFavouriteMethPill,” “Over9000Genders,” “TheIronYarmaluke,” “DannyTheTranny,” “GoTroonSuicideSoon,” “JonathanGreenblattsGoogleHistory,” “MelGibsonAfterFourBeers,” the statues continued on and on.
“Who were they?” he found himself saying to the guide before he could remind himself that he hated this man.
The guide just looked at him with a knowing smile, before raising his voice so all the class could hear. “They were the men who bravely ratio’d sitting congressmen with anonymous accounts, and in doing so, saved us all.”
Chris, slowly walked the class through the statues again, until stopping in front of another, much shorter group of faceless men. “There were many factions of The Faceless Men,” he said. “Near the dawn of the twenty first century these factions would have debates together. Sometimes over video, a primitive version of our holograph technology. Sometimes through written communications, mostly in places our historians believe were called ‘twatter’ and ‘telegram’.
“Our historians speak of only a few 10,000 post long ‘hellthreads,’ as they were referred to back in those times, that were preserved. Sadly, most of this crucial work has been lost. What we would give to be a fly on the wall during these titanic intellectual exchanges…” and with that he drifted off.
Again the children peered down to the base of these much shorter statues, where they saw yet more engravings.
“RepublicanPartyPlantruster,” “GoodOpticsCatboiRespecter,” “TuckerCarlsonFan69” “MestizoWhiteNationalist,” “HarveyWeinsteinGudBoi,” “BrownGaypersRUs,” “BlackSchizoRapperEnjoyer,” “WomanDisrespecter”.
Again Marcus found himself speaking before he consciously understood he had made the decision to. “Why are these ones so small?” he asked the tour guide.
“It’s because of the Great Starvation, you dumber,” said Frank, one of the kids who had been trying to lick the window of the flying school bus earlier. Marcus was going to respond, but was cut off by the tiny female voice of Madeline.
“He said the turn of the millenia. The Great Starvation happened a hundred years after,” she rebutted.
It was at this moment that three things happened. First, Ms. Williams admonished Frank. Second, Marcus decided that he should try making things work with the girl who was only six days older than him, as opposed to almost twenty years. Third, Chris, who Marcus was warming up to, congratulated Madeline.
“You’re very right young lady,” he said. “It is tempting to think that these great men were so small because they suffered through the Great Starvation, when the dying state of Israel launched nuclear bombs all throughout the world. However, that happened almost a full hundred years later. In reality, these brave men were born this way.”
“Were they all so small back then?” Marcus asked.
”No, just the men who were brave enough to defend Harvey Weinstein when no one else in the world would, except for his all Jew, all feminist legal team who insisted that White wahmens be hoes.”
”Who was Harvey Weinstein?” said Madeline, who Marcus was pleased to see had come to stand just a few feet away from him.
”Harvey Weinstein was a zionist Hollywood producer who raped White Women before destroying their careers and siccing the Mossad – basically the Jew Police – on them,” Chris responded, flatly.
A hush fell over the children, their confusion showing plainly on their faces. “Why was it so important to defend that man?” one of the boys asked.
“That is an excellent question,” Chris said, trailing off as he looked towards Amanda Williams, the teacher.
“Kyle,” she said, answering his unasked question.
“Excellent question, Kyle. It is reasonable to ask why one should defend a rapist zionist Jew. However, these men’s small bodies belied their galaxy sized brains. They correctly deduced that the real problem was White Women all along. After all, Johnny Depp got divorced by Amber Heard, so there’s no such thing as being alpha enough to keep the hoes from crapping in your marital bed.”
The children remained silent as they processed the wisdom of the ancients. That their small minds could not begin to make sense of this proved to them that they were in the presence of political genius on par with Aristotle, Bismarck, Machiavelli, Bauer, or perhaps even the God-Emperor himself.
Finally, one of the girls spoke up. “Was that the only thing they were debating?”
The guide looked at them with a kindly smile. “Not even close, children. For instance, two thousand years ago there was this institution, utterly controlled by zionist Israelis, that contested elections and was called the Republican Party. This first group of Faceless Men, yes, the normal sized ones, got it into their heads that there was no point in continuing to waste their time, energy, money, and votes supporting an organization that existed for no purpose but to subvert them.
“Their side of the debate focused on the policies of the Republican Party, their donors, their explicit disavowals of White nationalism, advocacy, or even equality. They focused on the Republican’s explicit statements denouncing any attempts at infiltration. They decided to make their own political parties, in whichever countries they existed, which advocated for our people.
“It appeared from the outside that they had a sure fire, ready made case.” With that the guide paused, anticipating the first graders response, which came after just a short pause.
“Isn’t that what the Great Julius Bauer did?” It was unclear which child had spoken, but the rest of the children nodded their heads in agreement with the question.
A faint smile made its way onto the guide’s face as he leaned forward to the children, his eyes glancing from one side to the other before he continued. “Get a load of this unserious wignat!”
The children sat there, stunned. Finally, the guide spoke once more.
”People who don’t support totally controlled fake political machines that exist purely to subvert normal people are just wigger nationalists, unlike constantly online cartoon pornography appreciators who make listening to schizophrenic black rappers a strong part of their identity. Their mantra was to listen to mumble rap while referring to normal White People as wiggers in order to save our people.”
”Is that what happened?” Marcus asked.
”In part, but it also took optics. I can see you children are already raising your hands, so let me explain. Optics are when you call yourself Hitler 2, 3, and 4, while making fun of the eleven year old White Children murdered by BLM supporting terrorists in Waukesha. Optics are when you aren’t invited to the local church BBQ, but you theorize that you can hoodwink the people there to vote for Sheldon Adelson’s GOP by telling them that if too many Mexicans come over the border, you’ll get socialism. Optics are going on dates with catbois while waving around Rosaries.
“Optics are no e-girls, except for zionist’s with nosejobs like Laura Loomer, who you must unconditionally support for congress. Optics are bringing retarded congresswomen to your twink festivals and then simping for them after they denounce you as evil.
“Optics are when you laugh at normal sized heterosexuals who get censored for talking about Jews, because srs bzns guys talk about infiltrating the Republican Party out in the open for years before not even attempting to do that. Then the real optics masterclass is when you promote a schizophrenic black rapper named ‘Ye’ who goes on a show with a dick pill salesman and says ‘there’s a lot of things that I looooooooove about Hitlerrrrrrrrrr.’
“Optics are when you call yourself pro-White TradCaths and then bring a weird negro faggot named Scammy Davis Jr into your party to groom and rape underage White boys. Optics are – yes,” Chris said, interrupting himself to point to Frank, who had, mystery of mysteries, managed to raise his hand.
”What’s a faggot?” Frank asked, for once making himself useful by speaking for all the rest of them.
”A faggot is a man who is sexually attracted to other men, and sometimes boys,” Chris said, and waited for the inevitable chorus of disgust from the children to die down before continuing. “Were it not for the excellent work of the great biochemist and DNA engineer Dr. Lantis, they would still exist. You’ve already met him in this tour. Right now we’re focusing on these great men, the pious Christians who gave catbois love when no one else would.”
The children looked around at each other, then their gaze wandered again through the maze of little statues, so small in comparison to the others. The more they learned about these serious intellectual titans, the more mysterious they became.
As if reading their minds, Chris continued. “Here’s something that might make these men more relatable to you. Those normal sized Faceless Men over there, the ones who placed themselves in opposition to these men,” Chris waited, making sure he had their full attention before continuing. “Those men were sex-havers.”
The children erupted in a chorus of blushing, giggles, and flustered laughs.
Chris smiled as Ms. Williams gently admonished the children. “The brave little men in this group had exactly the same reaction that you six year olds are having right now to the idea of having sex with a woman. It was basically ‘women have cooties,’ the political movement, but for adult men who enjoy being groomed by homosexual pedophiles.
“And it was these men who lead our people through the post-apocalyptic nuclear hellscape that was created when Israel ragequit and started The Great Starvation. It was tough, but the homosexual Catboi groomers were there to pull us through the fall of civilization.”
“What about those ones,” another girl asked, pointing to a different group.
”Another faction of faceless men. They were very active during one particular senseless war. No one amongst our people, not even the Catboi Respecters, had the courage to side with our international Zionist occupiers, except for all the NPC propaganda repeaters with pronouns in their social media bios. Those – yes,” the guide once again interrupted himself to point towards Marcus.
“What’s social media?”
“Social media was an extremely productive thing that no one ever wasted time on where you could scream into the void for a while and utterly change the course of history. It’s pretty much all that The Faceless Men did. They posted a lot and then basically White Race equalled saved at that point.
“Anyway, this faction of faceless men had the tenacity and courage to break from the echo chamber of people who didn’t want to support George Soros’ foreign policy adventures. They would use facts and logic, deep in the bowels of telegram, to ensure that our people supported the country run entirely by Jews.
“By facts and logic I mean they spammed racial fetish homosexual porn and pictures of dead White soldiers. Because to not have done that would have been very anti-White and extremely Dooginist.”
“What’s Dooginist?” Frank blurted out, after the children’s disgust reaction had subsided.
“He was the man who controlled Israel alongside Klaus Schwab, and basically everyone who didn’t support the US state department’s zionist foreign policy was a Third World Eurasianist Dooginist who wanted brownies to sleep with their wives. Also, diseases are fake and Bill Gates runs the New World Order. Vaccines are genocide.”
With that Marcus raised his hand, “Did these Faceless Men agree on anything?” he said after Chris had pointed towards him.
“They would occasionally post pictures of cute girls in Reddit threads dedicated to trannies in an attempt to get them all to kill themselves. They – oh right, trannies. Trannies were basically like if demons infested people and Reddit was basically like if trannies were a place. Yes Marcus?”
“Did they successfully get them to kill themselves?”
“It’s hard to say,” Chris replied. “Troons had lifespans that were little longer than mayflies, and which inevitably ended in suicide. No one can say for sure if this had any effect, but our historians have uncovered posts where all these groups agree that it was at least worth a shot.
”Children, I know this is a lot to throw at you, so let me make this simple. You live lives free from want. You have the luxury of doing this, because when times were darkest for our people, these men,” Chris turned towards the last faction, “spammed interracial gay pornography and snuff films starring murdered White soldiers when no one else would.
“Then these men,” he turned towards the small faction of Faceless Men, “defended Harvey Weinstein when no one else would, and also let negro homosexuals groom White fifteen year old boys. Finally, these men,” he turned towards the original faction, “would occasionally totally own the ADL on twitter, and hit the dislike button on internet videos advertising Hollywood product while leaving snarky comments.
“It is this last group that made the fewest contributions to our people, as they decided collectively that internet activism was gay due to mass censorship, and instead started forming real political parties and doing real life activism. It is the consensus of modern historians that this was undoubtedly less important than using novelty takes to start fights in online echo chambers, but there are some historians who believe that actual political action may have made some small contribution to our people’s efforts.”
He stopped then for a moment, before continuing, more measured now. “There were many soldiers who lost their lives fighting for our people. There were many men, and some women, thrown in jail for daring to fight politically. But most crucial to our struggle were brave men sacrificing the lives of their twitter accounts, and having to start over anew. Without that,” he paused for just a moment, letting the implications sink in, “none of this would be possible,” the guide spread his arms with a flourish.
“None of what?” asked Frank.
Staring him straight in the eye, Chris responded. “The whole world.”
There was silence, save for the faint rustling of foliage in the warm breeze of the New Alexandrian summer. Then, as if on cue, two skitters flew overhead, their nimbleness making the machines appear propelled by magic. Directly past them by line of sight hovered the proud Von Braun, the gargantuan warship hazy through the atmosphere, so large it appeared as a second moon, even in Low New Earth Orbit.
The skitters darted off into the distance in the opposite direction the children had walked in, leading their young eyes past fields of wildflowers, towards their first site of New Alexandria. The ground level of the imperial city was hidden from them by the surrounding forest, but behind the trees arose the gleaming white spires of the capital buildings, sharing the same xenonite construction as the Von Braun, impossibly strong.
Carved into the mountains above and behind the city they saw the terraced gardens of parliament, green and multicoloured with strange plants from all corners of the empire. And at every height they looked, steady traffic from aerial vehicles, buzzing around the capital like tiny bees around a blooming flower.
It was a sight so tremendous and humbling that even the most rambunctious of children stayed silent. The ever more distant buzzing of the skitters faded, but the last words of the guide echoed stronger in their tiny minds.
Without those ten thousand post long telegram e-debates, none of this would have happened.
It was a long minute before Chris spoke once more. “Let The Faceless Men remind us that we have an obligation to live lives worthy of their approval. Without them we would be nothing.”
With that he turned to get up, stopping for only a second to lightly place his hand on a statue engraved “CharlesBarkMitzvah,” silently paying his respects, before he extended his hand to Amanda Williams. “Walk with me?” he said, and she graciously extended her hand to him as well.
Despite his nerves and fear, Marcus was emboldened by the heroism he saw all around him. With one last look at the statue nearest him, marked “Dr. Dreidel,” he extended his hand towards Madeline. “Walk,” he said, meaning to say “walk with me,” before nerves turned his voice into a squeal. But it was enough, and their tiny hands joined together, not parting until they had to go back to their homes at the end of the day.
“I know that we’ve hit the highlight of the tour already,” said Chris, as he lead them down other side of The Hill Of The Faceless Men, “but we can’t ignore the many other great men of the past, even if their accomplishments were lower, due to them shunning social media. For example, here we see Archimedes, an important Greek mathematician, physicist, engineer, and astronomer.”
It’s good.
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