Invel, a tall shopkeep in his 30's, enters a tavern. Here he stumbles upon a group of fools, all praising the portrait of a man.
"He was a brilliant entrepreneur," one degenerate says.
"He built the foundations of this country," claims another creature.
"He is like us!", a third laborer exclaims.
Incel seems to recognize their faces. Johnny the town beggar sits among them, and so does Chad, the art teacher from Rural High. Grant, a well known criminal, stands near them too. They had never accomplished anything, had never been given accolades, nor had they ever written a piece.
"Men," incel speak, "why do you claim to resemble the fellow in the portrait? What similarities do you share?"
Their heads turn to face you.
"Do you not see our skin color? Do you not observe the resemblance of his nose to ours? We are all alike! We are like him! Glory to our race!"
Incel takes his belongings and leaves the tavern. He lays in his bed and rests for the morrow. Johhny, Chad and the rest of the men at that tavern pass away only a few years later. They were quickly forgotten, nobody but their families moarned their losses and their niches in society were soon replaced by other commoners. The protrait of Benjamin Franklin remained where it hung. There it was praised until the end of times.
"He was a brilliant entrepreneur," one degenerate says.
"He built the foundations of this country," claims another creature.
"He is like us!", a third laborer exclaims.
Incel seems to recognize their faces. Johnny the town beggar sits among them, and so does Chad, the art teacher from Rural High. Grant, a well known criminal, stands near them too. They had never accomplished anything, had never been given accolades, nor had they ever written a piece.
"Men," incel speak, "why do you claim to resemble the fellow in the portrait? What similarities do you share?"
Their heads turn to face you.
"Do you not see our skin color? Do you not observe the resemblance of his nose to ours? We are all alike! We are like him! Glory to our race!"
Incel takes his belongings and leaves the tavern. He lays in his bed and rests for the morrow. Johhny, Chad and the rest of the men at that tavern pass away only a few years later. They were quickly forgotten, nobody but their families moarned their losses and their niches in society were soon replaced by other commoners. The protrait of Benjamin Franklin remained where it hung. There it was praised until the end of times.
