LIBERAL FASCISM

As Markus settles onto a beige sofa, chaos erupts nearby: frat boys grappling with the task of ejecting a violent intruder from the balcony. They stand on the twenty-second floor, Markus's fear of heights palpable—he dares not look down. A glance at the table near the sofa surprises Markus: there's a book or DVD box with his full name and the title 'Psycho Path.'

In the aftermath of ejecting the brutal rapist from the balcony, one of the frat boys leans too far over the railing, his muscular torso dangerously close to tipping him over.

Markus stands up and walks to the balcony, now eerily empty. Where did they all go? Markus's mind races, trying to grasp the sudden stillness that replaced the chaos.

He gazes out over the vast urban landscape below, where surreal skyscrapers tower above the ground like sentinels of glass and steel. The dark blue mountains, velvet green forests, and the vast Western ocean stand as testaments to the fragile timelessness of Mother Nature and the mysteries of life.

Markus peers into windows, glimpsing the souls of lovers as they embrace and kiss. His eyes glaze over with pain, and he shifts his perspective, as if looking through binoculars from the wrong end, seeking a more distant view.

He places his hand on the railing, looking down at the people heading to work and school, the buses and taxis below -- the mundane yet overwhelming noise and emptiness of a world he fears, despises, and occasionally admires, always from a distance. He lowers his left arm, intending to grasp the railing, but to his amazement, his hand passes through the air and touches the ground below.

His heart skips a beat. Am I dreaming? Markus pulls back, blinking rapidly, and when he looks again, he's no longer on the balcony but standing on a nighttime sidewalk, neon lights blinding him. He didn't feel himself move, yet here he is, surrounded by casinos and a community college, miles away from where he stood moments ago. He strides towards the dimly lit community college, purposefully turning his back on the alluring grandeur and splendor of the casinos.

As Markus approaches the college, the shadows deepen, enveloping him in a cloak of darkness. Several others--mostly domesticated and damaged millennials--slouch toward the college entrance, flashlights in hand. The college buildings, predominantly beige and gray, bear an uncanny resemblance to the Egyptian pyramids of Giza, though they are barely visible in the dark.

Markus instinctively follows his contemporaries into the Primary Pyramid, where flickering fluorescent lights illuminate the hallways, reminiscent of a horror movie. The murals on the walls depict everything from aliens to child abuse in disturbingly graphic detail. Fearing he might get lost in the college's labyrinthine hallways if he doesn't keep up with his fellow students' brisk pace, Markus barely glances at the grotesque artwork.

Most of the students come to a halt outside classroom B808. In eerily synchronized movements, all the students — except the unprepared Markus — put their flashlights into their backpacks and take out a required textbook titled The Rich and Poor: West or East? They open their books and read the same sentence aloud: "The poverty of Heaven is a child's paradise." A minute of silence follows, during which the students appear engrossed in a chapter of the textbook.

Markus quietly observes the students, noting their intense focus. He mentally rehearses his words, then says, "Hi, I'm Markus. I'm new here. Do you know where I can buy the textbook you're all reading?"

A woman in magenta glasses frowns briefly before saying, "We're studying for a test. The class will be starting soon," she adds, glancing at her watch. She generously hands Markus her book, offering him a small, reassuring smile.

"Thank you," Markus replies, not realizing that she hasn't actually answered his question. He begins reading Chapter One ('Poor People') in silence: 'Western decline is wholly attributable to immigration from communist and third-world shitholes* (i.e., Penian and Slavic shitholes).' What the fuck is this crap? 'Childhood abuse (e.g., sexual and physical abuse) tends to be more rampant and terrifying in the East; the West is the Best; the East is the Beast. Penians and slavish Slavs attempt to escape their shitholes of abysmal poverty (or overpopulation) by immigrating to the West. Unfortunately, the end result is that the West gradually begins to resemble a shithole itself.'

*'Marc Lazarus's politically incorrect term for economically, socially, and politically inferior nations.'

Markus stops reading -- partly because the content is so hurtful to his sensitive soul, and partly because the flickering fluorescent lights make it difficult, even though none of the other students seem to be affected. He silently watches them, absorbed in their reading. What have I gotten myself into? I should have gone to a casino and had a strong Rum and Coke instead.

Markus tries to read further: 'Of all the world's shitholes, Pussea is by far the worst. The Pusseans are terrorist sympathizers, spies, and hackers determined to destroy modern Western values and civilization. Other Pussea-adjacent shitholes like Morantea also harbor anti-American hackers, abusive parents, bitter failures, nervous or hysterical women, and violent, misogynistic men (i.e., losers and criminals). A pervasive poverty of spirit and culture characterizes this corner of the world.'

I really wish I didn't have a Pussean name. Markus decides to voice his own opinion: "A world without child abuse would be like heaven. If the government improves childrearing both at home and abroad, future generations will be more joyful, productive, and less angry. They need peaceful parenting courses, parenting centers, and enlightened psychologists and social workers to provide education and therapy, helping potential parents learn to raise children without resorting to violence, abuse, neglect, or projection. Why judge other nations so harshly and call them shitholes when we could take a stand against child abuse and set a better example for them to follow? They could exchange their spiritual and economic poverty for a poverty of child abuse, leading to less violence, corruption, authoritarianism, homophobia, homicides, suicides, and rapes in these Eastern and Southern nations. Capitalism, multiculturalism, and diversity don't have to be failed experiments; they can thrive with the right values and actions (such as peaceful parenting; non-violent communication; and respectful, sincere, open, peaceful dialogue)."

From the midst of the students, a loud voice cuts in: "Sorry, multiculturalism and diversity are overrated clichés, and we refuse to waste money on futile attempts to level the playing field." His charming, somewhat handsome face holds a striking and unsettling resemblance to historical figures known for their intense charisma. Though not exceptionally attractive, a very pretty woman sashays up to him in the blink of an eye and gives him a kiss, prompting a collective "aww" from those around.

"This is Marc, the love of my life," the pretty woman declares with a radiant smile. “He co-wrote the textbook you’re trying to read. I’m Sadie. I don’t like Pusseans. You’re Pussean, right?”

“Quarter-Pussean,” Markus replies meekly. “My parents were from Morantea, and I’m more Morantean than Pussean. In addition, I’ve lived most of my life in America and the only language I know is American, so I should be more American than anything else.”

“He has a very Pussean name,” Sadie says. “But it could be worse. Don’t fuck with us and you’ll be fine . . . as long as you’re not a Pussean spy posing as a radical. And I recommend you read Chapter Four,” she advises Markus. “It’s not our fault the fucking immigrant started this semester so late in the game,” Sadie whispers in Marc’s ear; and he smirks, kisses her again, and Sadie looks at Markus with a mordant smile of sassily disguised, supercilious repulsion and mockery. Ivan could hear at least part of what she whispered, yet he doesn’t let on.

The teacher, Rosemary Plant, arrives and unlocks the classroom door as the sound of melodious and dissonant church bells flood the hallways to herald the eternal return of the midnight hour: the beginning of a new class and day. Markus awkwardly returns the textbook to the woman with the magenta glasses, and an oppressive wave of overwhelming frustration at having wasted his opportunity to study for the test makes him succumb to an alienating sense of distraction. The teacher, Rosemary, commands all of them to rearrange the desks so that no one can cheat on the test. Ivan isn’t exactly sure how to go about this task, and the other students are growing impatient and start voicing empty admonishments and taunts: “It’s not our fault if you’re new and just started here.” “Some of us would like to finish this test before 2am.” “Slowpoke, go faster.” Markus looks behind him to see who said that, and of all people, it’s the insipidly feisty and comically shocking Margarita Sutones. He remembers her from American Idol, which he doesn’t watch anymore—too much mean-spiritedness, negativity, and hypocrisy (especially at the start of each season). Markus follows the teacher’s further clarifying instructions and then sits down at his desk with Margarita sitting at a desk to his right.

“The government made me take this politically incorrect, culturally insensitive course,” Margarita Sutones explains.

“Why?” Markus asks.

“The government made me do it; that’s all I’m allowed to say.”

“Silence, s'il vous plaît,” Rosemary Plant intervenes. “It’s all for your own good. Please don’t burden us with your infantile, narcissistic nihilism and persecution complex.”

“You’re all a bunch of prejudiced idiots,” Margarita mutters under her breath.

“Politeness,” Rosemary reminds her. “Now, let’s start the test.”