Project Overview: Untitled Document is a serial comedy novel dealing with the sort of topics that we so frequently make fun of here at Something Awful.
This Chapter: Oooooh Chapter 13! Spoooky! In this almost action packed chapter a lull has erupted in the whole aliens versus earth thing, but a decrepit Nazi has other plans for this momentary peace! Beset on two fronts, Raylene hatches a scheme involving a bunch of chumps and Captain Patrick "Liberty" Henry that might just save the world. Meanwhile, in space, Maximillian throws a tantrum and demands an acceleration in the plans to re-invade earth after the last invasion sucked so bad. This is all leading up to the next chapter when they will get picked to live in the same house, stop being polite, and start being real.
The crowd was gathered in the shell-pocked husk of Wrigley field. The fighting had ended in Chicago, as it had across the globe, and an uneasy fatalistic calm descended across the regions afflicted by war. Power was out and in the late light of summer dusk the sun lit red through the plumes of smoke roiling up from the Loop.
To a casual observer - and there were many that evening - the gathered crowd seemed to be some sort of well drilled military unit wearing civilian clothes. There was a house wife, her face smeared with grime and her eye stuck shut by congealed blood, a Kalishnikov at her shoulder and her body rigid and at attention. Next to her was a fat teenage boy, his shirt and trousers ripped immodestly away by a blast, he stood cradling a rocket launcher against his shoulder. It continued like this for row upon row, the entire field and the bleachers filled with ordered ranks of average citizens. They were all armed and many were wounded.
Around the edges of this gathering were perplexed onlookers. Some called to those at the periphery of the formation, but their questions and cat-calls went unanswered and they too fell curiously silent. A large white projection screen had been unfurled over the scoreboard and a projector set dead center in the formation was displaying the words "STAND BY". Sirens wailed in the distance and all along Chicago's Gold Coast the looters finally set upon the shops and boutiques with vigor. The formation remained motionless, maddeningly still, oblivious to even the occasional fly or mosquito that landed on their face.
Two men in navy blue coveralls and ski-masks emerged from the locker area. Each had a sidearm clipped to a plain black utility belt but they otherwise wore no identifying marks or symbols. They approached the projector situated on a worn metal cart in the center of the formation and as they worked to attach a laptop to the projector the screen went dark. A murmur went through the audience watching outside the stadium and on the nearby rooftops. Then the projector flickered to life, and focused in to video of an impossibly decrepit looking old man seated in a wheelchair. His rheumy eyes flickered with life on the screen and his jaw quivered with emotion.
"Achtung!" He shouted abruptly, startling the onlookers and inspiring the massed formation to click their heels together and stand up even straighter. "Night falls in the places where my voice is being heard. Know that the coming night brings the dawn of a new day for the eternal Reich. You, my faithful army, have driven the enemy from the cities and towns. You have sent them running in terror, reeling from the spinning hammers of your righteousness. Many of you have sacrificed your lives for the greater good, and many more will fall in the coming day. But be proud my sons and daughters, for you work together to build the foundation of this glorious new empire of peace, prosperity, and strength."
A hand entered the frame holding a red handkerchief and wiped spittle from the old man's chin.
"Now that the alien has been crushed beneath your boots it is time to turn your attention to the false prophets of democracy. Tear down the republic! Eviscerate the socialist! Burn the synagogues and cathedrals! Fascism now! Fascism tomorrow! Fascism forever! Sieg heil! Sieg heil!"
The camera zoomed back and fought to stay in focus as the old man sprung woodenly from his wheelchair trailing hoses and intravenous tubes. He shouted "sieg hiel!" over and over, his arm flying out in a Nazi salute each time. To the horror of the onlookers the enormous crowd gathered on Wrigley Field began to follow suit, their emotionless echo of his action loud enough to be uncomfortable.
The video ended abruptly and was replaced a moment later by a looping animation of a Nazi flag accompanied by a Wagner overture.
The crowd turned as one and began to file out of the stadium's dilapidated exits. On the chaotic streets outside they pushed past the horrified crowds and began forming into smaller groups of a few dozen. It was in one of these groups that Dale McElroy again found Cokey Washington. He had watched her file into the stadium an hour earlier, but had been too intimidated by the sight of the militaristic ranks to follow her.
"What's going on?!" He asked pleadingly. "What was that? Nazis? What are you doing now?"
Cokey didn't seem to hear him. In fact she hadn't seemed to hear much of anything he had said for the past day. During the long drive from Fort Wayne to Gary she had only ever spoken to give him directions. Once she had armed herself at some sort of cache in Gary - a terrifying development for Dale - the conversation had ended on both sides of the car.
"Really, Holmes!" I dropped into my seat, shocked. "You are remarkably tall! What are you, six foot six? Six foot eight?"
As the 19th century diver approaches a giant clam, a flash of brilliant golden light flares from within the shell. I emerge in a swirl of bubbles and do the timeless universal underwater hand signals for the following: ZODIAC KILLER, KKK, BLOOD OF YOUTH
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