Original subtitles

One never truly believes what one believes

This document, long considered regime propaganda,

returns in its original splendour.

Over the years, while the villains were calling themselves heroes,

the Fascist regime was subject to an onslaught of vicious slander.

Yet a shining example was set by brave adventurers

who were always ready to conquer a new kingdom for Italy.

Pini, Fecchia, Freghieri, Barbagli, and Santodio.

Today history finally pays homage to them.

You, gentlemen, may believe what you wish:

call this film entertainment for women and children.

But we firmly believe it represents

an absolute, wondrous, and indisputable historical event

that is wholly captured in this simple, yet thrilling statement:

at 15:00 hours on May 10, 1939, Mars became Fascist!

FASCISTS ON MARS

May 1939.

After a thermodynamic journey under salt,

our heroes land on the Red Planet.

Mars is hostile, stubbornly opposing

the Fascist Revolution.

On Mars there is no oxygen

and even the most virile, dauntless thorax seeks relief.

Fecchia and Pini gasp for breath.

Even Freghieri, Fascist swimming champion,

has only enough breath to say, "There's no air!"

So it's up to Barbagli to reaffirm the value of man over nature.

Here he shows the power of will, tempered by the Duce's teachings

over physical impediments.

Proclaiming "I don't give a damn!",

he, red but not beaten, inspires his comrades to follow his lead!

Fecchia, who carries the bust of the Duce,

turns to reveal the eternally shining example.

The Duce never complains.

The men hesitate,

but then follow orders.

Soon they adapt to that uncharitable atmosphere.

A simple, "I don't give a damn!"

is worth more than the respirators and cutesy apparel

of those girly men from Britain.

They resume their march.

With or without oxygen, Mars will be conquered!

A band of heroes:

Fecchia, the first bastion of the "Whimbrel Squad".

Santodio, son of a millionaire industrialist.

Freghieri, as tough as cast iron.

Pini, who has melted the hearts of many day-dreaming girls.

And Barbagli, more devoted to the Duce than to his own mother...

and she did the same.

Our boys advance under the two moons, Phobos and Deimos:

one much smaller than our moon, one not much bigger than a potato,

an abortion of the Bolshevik society of a similar colour as our planet.

Our boys sense that someone is watching them.

But it's not an indigenous enemy that spies on them, it's History itself.

Behold the first flag to claim alien territory for our King and our Duce.

Freghieri plants it forcefully. But the soil denies him asylum.

Barbagli orders Freghieri to plant it again.

Mars puts up a struggle,

but in the end, a victorious salute.

They advance, with repeated tests of their courage,

but the only enemy they encounter is the sand, the stones,

and the simpering purple dunes.

For mile after tedious mile, they advance.

Barbagli moves like a jaguar.

His men, exhausted, throw caution to the winds.

They pitch camp.

Without diminishing the importance of this venture,

the Red Planet appears deserted and desolate.

The men fall prey to the venom of defeatism.

Barbagli seeks the Duce's advice.

Like a divine, Roman father, the Duce speaks,

giving their leader comfort, respite, and encouragement.

A distant breath that spurs our hero on.

Reassured, he heartens his men.

"Be proud, calm. Take a well-deserved Fascist sleep."

The Mars campaign has begun.

MARS IS FASCIST

Dull insomnia or wild dreams.

Fecchia fears he will be betrayed by the lovely Mariolina,

whose praises are sung by a host of nightingales.

He imagines her atop a haystack

beneath a horde of lusty Moors.

But morning comes. They attend to nature's call.

The Fascist soldier extracts his manhood

without hands and without peeking.

One never knows the perverse thoughts that may arise

from one's own or someone else's trousers.

Arms on hips, eyes forward, proud and carefree.

Then, without delay, a curt order: retreat...

and they're on their way. Forward glorious ranks!

The interplanetary Fascist's body should be like steel,

like the bow of lthacus, of Aneas, of whatsisname!

lmpervious to the slings and arrows of destiny,

Barbagli lines up his men for the Fascist horse vault.

He sets the example.

To us!

His gesture is worthy of an Olympiad.

Now it's the others' turn.

Before his jump, the gymnast salutes the Duce and then Barbagli.

He jumps and salutes again.

Then he salutes Barbagli, as the Duce's representative,

and the instrument serving as the horse.

Jump, salute, jump: Pini, Fecchia, and Freghieri.

The valour of Santodio!

"Through you I salute Italy, through you I leap over the horse!"

Notify the King, notify the Duce. The Mission has succeeded...

but the radio doesn't work.

Electro-magnetic sanctionism robs Rome of victory...

and what about Victor Emanuel III?

Never before has such a short man had such a large empire,

and news of its expansion would have helped him grow a few inches.

With a few able moves they advance down the glorious road of conquest.

One by one the names of bookish British discoveries

are discarded by history:

Jones' volcano is now Gionazzi's.

Thomas's valley is now "Predappio Marziano."

The British were running around naked, hunting woodchucks,

when we were already stabbing Julius Caesar.

In just a few days of brilliant military manoeuvres,

the daring band has given the Roman Empire acres of alien land,

but not a trace of fauna, flora, or water.

And supplies are dwindling...

They survive on pieces of stock cube that briefly visit their stomachs:

the flavour of a far away home they may never see again...

Their stomachs may be empty,

but their hearts are filled with manly desire for the atmosphere of home...

and for a little atmosphere in general.

REAR-LIGHTNING

It's 1938:

38 °C - like the fever the Fascist revolution gave history!

Italy expands across the Mediterranean.

Blinkered by two dimensional, liberal vision,

everyone makes a fuss of Africa, Greece, and Albania.

But Barbagli's audacious voice stands out from the crowd:

"ltaly has the right to expand upward, too!"

"But where? How?", people ask incredulously.

Not to the moon, that pale, mawkish stone

for tearful, Sodomite clowns.

No, to Mars! Mars must go from red to black!

Hear the unjust criticism...

Dreamer! Science fictionist! Charlie-tan! Lunatic!

Here comes "the flying nuthouse!"

He was as lonely as Columbus in pre-Franco Spain...

still he did not lose heart...

For the design of the ship,

he had the willing collaboration of a promising local physicist.

Finally it was ready for take-off.

Six tons of home-grown steel,

propelled by gas and impoverished, but still-dignified uranium.

The Hazard IV: Hazards I, II, and III landed in Libya by mistake.

Sooner or later they'll make us pay!

Pini at the helm of the "Fa-ship".

Everybody is ready.

But here comes a peculiar, dancing infant.

Bruno Caorso of Rimini's Fascist Youth, who dreams of being a hero...

"What do you want?" Barbagli demands.

"I want to come with you, to serve the Duce!"

The men are convulsed in laughter.

- "You? You're a schoolboy!" - "But I'm 37 years old."

"Scram, midget. The circus is leaving town."

Four human missiles silhouetted against the future.

You know the rest.

They travel light: certain they'll find food on the planet

and to avoid looking like immigrants with suitcases of macaroni.

But it's too late to turn back.

We're here to stay...

And we'll establish a realm if he so commands.

Why the long faces?

A good Fascist laughs at adversity and boldly pokes fun at it with wit.

"Bosoms!"

Here they are again, the heroes of May 10,

back to the usual ready, willing, and eager.

And then there's the usual copy-cat.

"Big Bosoms!"

But he still gets a laugh.

Now that's what I call good clean fun!

It's another lousy night watch for Pini,

who accompanies his vigil with the gramophone.

The music melts his heart.

And sends his thoughts to mother...

But now he's back! Pini scrutinizes the horizon.

His thoughts return to mother...

But now he's back again.

Another march, another mile.

Fascist pride has vanished from our boys' faces.

They realize they've conquered a planet

with no life, no food, no lavatories.

Nothing. A nothingy nullishness. A nothingy nullish none-ness.

Barbagli spits on the ground, furious.

The others, demoralized, almost give in to liberal laxness.

But Pini makes an amazing discovery.

There's water on Mars!

Everyone is amazed.

Barbagli seeks to regroup his men but fails.

"It's my spit!"

As only great leaders can,

he sets discipline aside and celebrates with the lower ranks!

"There's water on Mars! Water on Mars!"

To the buckets! Jubilation abounds. Talk of showers and personal hygiene.

Barbagli follows the dancing trio begrudgingly,

while Fecchia guards the camp and writes to Mariolina.

How can they pull up the water?

The gallant sons of Italy rummage

through the ship to find the right tools.

Pini asks: "What can we do with this?"

Freghieri tells him.

But the ingenious Pini lights up with a telescopic idea:

"Drinking straws! Connected to each other for miles!"

And here it is: useful and practical, the first Martian pipeline.

But what's that noise from the hold?

Who goes there? Who can it be?

All four of us are here, plus Fecchia outside.

Muskets, everyone!

Drat, we forgot them at camp.

No matter, from a Nipponese friend

Barbagli learned the martial art of feline moves

and his men can get by with them too.

Freghieri lingers behind, doing the awesome "Mongoose Move".

Ready for attack, our boys wait in the hold.

Is it an alien? Bring him on! lt'll be like our victory in Fiume...

One sound and he's toast!

Here he is, in the chill cabinet, invented by Italian fishmongers.

And he opens the door!

A black-shirted surprise!

Like salted cod, as Italian as pizza pie,

is little Bruno Caorso, the mental retard...

"I salute the Duce and beg forgiveness", he exclaims.

The salute is okay.

But forgiveness? There's always the example of Carthage...

Is he the infiltrator?

THE INFILTRATOR

This is serious! Naughty children deserve the strap!

Africa has already learned. Europe is about to.

And you, little black Sambo, are wasting our time,

and on hostile soil!

What are you doing here? How did you get on board, you mutant?

"I wanted to come to Mars,

so I wrote a letter to the good Fascist witch

and she pointed the way to the ship."

So let's punish the old witch!

Barbagli makes a mental note of the first thing to do

when he's back in Rome...

But back to you! To the strap! Belts soaked in castor oil...

Let the punishment begin!

But the men want their underground oasis.

They dig and dig, naive little Italians,

thinking they might find voluptuous slave girls to wait on them...

Water, as we'd already guessed, not a drop...

but they continue to dig, and dig, and dig...

until Mars starts to look like the famous Neutral cheese...

But it's just a drop in the bucket... What bucket?

The mutant is back...

If I were his mother, I'd beat him.

If I were his father, I'd beat him and his mother!

The sun sets on Mars' gloomiest day.

The men's morale is lower than where they expected to find water.

When will reinforcements arrive? We'll die of hunger and thirst...

Reinforcements? But the radio plays dumb.

Barbagli attempts the impossible: to reach the Duce telepathically...

Shielded from his men's scepticism,

he says the Duce in his prodigious head, recently rid of useless keratin.

A click of the heels and he becomes an antenna for the Fatherland.

Oh, Duce, Mars is yours!

All night long he stands to attention, becoming anode and cathode...

...preferably cathode, but in the morning, exhausted,

he surrenders to his migraine and returns to the old rhetoric.

Cursed art thou, arid Mars,

red beach without sea and without umbrellas!

We were fools to think we would find water: nothing.

Our water from home evaporates so quickly you barely can drink.

The radio doesn't work, our supplies are almost gone.

And now fate torments us with the most tragic misfortune:

a Fascist infant under our feet, one more cretinous mouth to feed.

That noisy little pain! God knows where he got the ball!

Freghieri warns him: "Watch out, worthless child.

Here you're cannon fodder.

Go frolic elsewhere, this is a grave situation."

But once he turns around, the child breaks out in bovine imitation!

Coward! Pitiful kindergarten scum! Nursery school faeces!

In the meantime, Pini, the plucky and proud guard,

thinks of mother...

Now he's back again!

Yet again the Leftist ball...

"I warned you:

To the stake, son of a lesser she-wolf!

Try it again, I'll cornhole you like the Mamluks!

One hole above, one below: the proverbial egg for sucking."

What shall I do, Duce? I am your arms and your ears!

Tragedy erupts. An attempt on the Duce's life!

The news sails across the Martian sky.

Barbagli is at the child's throat like Isadora's scarf.

An assassination attempt on the Duce!

For the extreme crime, the extreme punishment!

Death! Without a last supper!

Let us pull the plug on this stupid, treacherous child!

The die is cast: he shall not live to see another multiplication table!

Our men drool at the thought of the fatal telegram home.

But the dwarf makes a run for it! Fire! Fire!

Fire! Loud and proud!

Treacherous fugitive! Go, run for exile.

We'll find your carcass in the sand, like an English carriage.

But the Duce comes to, Barbagli begs forgiveness.

He swears he heard the bronze mouth utter:

"It was fate's little joke."

Kind Duce, please accept this Roman kiss.

The evil child flees across the Martian desert.

He heads towards the void of no return.

Behind him the musket. Ahead of him, the categorical unknown.

And here, the dwarf makes a terrible discovery.

And here he is again, shrapnel of infantile Communism,

returning to the camp,

where our heroic platoon awaits him.

Will they ever forgive him? I think not.

The most important Fascist advice is: "Run for it!"

But the little boy spills the beans.

Shoot me in the chest or in the thigh, he tells our five heroes.

I'd rather die by Fascist hands

than be devoured by the terrible monster of Mars!

Monster? What monster? Little bastard!

Listen, if this is one of your tricks, it's worked!

THE TERRIBLE MONSTERS OF MARS

Down there! As high as a mountain.

Menacing, flower-like ears and a huge mouth!

It advances like a wardrobe on a landing.

He swears he heard it say: Mimimmi!

Barbagli checks with the portable half-a-Duce.

The infant has no doubts, better to flee.

Climb back on the Hazard and run, casting honour to the wind.

But our hero won't give in. The Duce urges him to resist.

To resist and to resist again.

To soothe them, he tells a manly joke about priests and big bosoms.

The orders arrive.

"I want four volunteers."

Like a malarial toxin,

the child's cowardly soul has infected our hardy revisionist heroes!

They're making a thousand excuses.

Busying themselves in trifles to avoid going to the front.

But their leader is a straight-shooter.

His pride and his downfall, which tricks him on the tennis court.

If the story of the stone Godzilla is a joke,

we'll drain you like the Pontine Marshes.

Barbagli sets off down the road indicated...

but, a man of a very Italian sensibilities,

he decides to pounce on the monster from above.

Like a billy-goat, he perches on the ridge.

But where are they?

There they are!

The planet is teeming with stony life!

God, they're horrendous: Jewish vessels filled with Communism,

with a dose of guilty pacifism that offends progress

and casts a nasty odour on all of Italy.

Stand down! Stand up! See them again!

So Mars is not yet Fascist, after all!

MARS IS NOT YET FASCIST

A grave moment. Time for a meeting of the supreme leaders.

The great Fascist council is immediately convened.

The child is confined on a marble baby-holder,

where he can't hurt anyone except, one hopes, himself.

On the agenda: We are not alone!

"Let's ship them back home!"

"But they are home!" "That's their tough luck!"

Time's a-wasting.

Santodio, mechanical engineer,

rushes to finish the very latest miracle in assault weapons.

Barbagli, by unanimous vote, chooses a frank encounter of the third kind.

A salute to the Fascist light bulb!

A lonely, distant sound of Mimimmi from the herd

as it lingers on seditious thoughts of surplus value.

Burumbubù, burumbubù burumbubù goes the black rocket.

Burumbubù, burumbubù, burumbubù goes the blue rocket.

"Let's go!"

"Good Health!"

This one doesn't have the guts to open his mouth,

and the castor oil spills out...

They might slip but they will not break...

One by one the various party cells are closed.

In a burst of generosity,

Barbagli proposes himself as a mediator to calm the hotheads...

they're just kids, after all...

And nominates himself as the absolute ruler of the planet...

My friend Mimimmo... we belong to the Kingdom of Italy,

you to the mineral kingdom, let's not step on each other's feet!

You are hard stones, with no historic density.

Do you believe in an inter-planetary alliance, as non-equals?

But the stale creature ignores Barbagli's offer of friendship.

The brazen hyper-Semitism!

"They're hostile!"

Barbagli fumes.

The mineral phlegm reminds him of the flabby Sterling Pound peoples,

as soft as dry biscuits in the middle-class broth they call tea!

Brick-tish! He calls them with scorn.

Brick-tish... Still no reaction?

Do as you wish, but remember: woe betide the helpless!

And now, we interrupt our usual programme,

with a cartoon from the Regime.

On board the "Donna Rachele",

the jewel in the crown of military engineering,

Freghieri scours the horizons and waits, days on end,

for the static enemy to deign even a tiny reaction...

But nothing... you'd think that they liked him... Homo-Saxons!

Slimy circumcised creatures!

Claiming to be the finest spirits of the Left,

which turns the other cheek so we will look like hooligans.

But in foreign policy the Right tends toward an economy of concepts.

Everything that breathes and is not in uniform is anti-Fascist:

no one will be fooled if you hold your breath!

The "Mimimma" area is explored for hidden resources

and weapons of mass destruction: edible, if possible...

Our boys take the enemy territory inch by inch...

sometimes the same inch...

but they find nothing,

and nothing is the most deadly weapon!

So they were dragged into the conflict...

But Barbagli is still sincerely inclined

to the word "peace",

to which these aliens pay only lip service.

Yet he can no longer tolerate their provocations.

"Let him try falling next to me!"

Especially the kind blurted out over beer.

"I'll call it an assassination!"

They'll have to go to what they've elected as the local parliament,

to make a last desperate appeal for harmony between peoples.

Friends from Mars, I stand before you.

Let history judge me.

If Fascism is only violence and terror,

I take full responsibility.

Yet you see that I still have respect for this hall:

we could have filled it with an carousing army.

Instead we bring you civilization and trains that run on time...

As homage I bring you the Italian fork.

The Fascist fork, symbol of civilization and good manners.

Let us salute... The Fork.

We lay down the sword and shield.

Return to the spade and plough, however much it hurts our necks.

But the Duce demanded his place in the sun,

and since he never speaks in metaphors,

he didn't mean Africa, he meant THE SUN.

Barbagli never recovered from the blow...

Critics will say that the Mimimmi was pushed,

but more careful observers

will have noted unguarded intentions...

More dies have been cast than we can use for "Snakes and Ladders".

Extreme evil demands the extreme Right...

Not long after:

before a perfect sand copy of Palazzo Venezia,

an event equal to the crossing of the Rubicon takes place.

It'll take a thousand deaths before they can sit down at the peace table.

There is only one, categorical, and binding password for all.

It is sailing like a guided cucumber through the Martian skies.

Victory! We will be victorious!

In a powerful chorus, our popular war song swells up.

Look out below!

WAR HYMN OF FASCIST SARDINIAN SHEPHERDS

THE LIGHTNING WAR

The German strategy of wedge and pincer

has been modified by Barbagli into two pincers and one tong.

The enemy is surrounded, the rearguard overcome,

the avant-garde... well, we never understood it.

The Martian who dares to risk attack on his home ground

is caught in the middle, petrified with fear.

Barbagli, the Duce's musketeer, in an ardent duel,

like the romantic hero of Dumas père, Dumas fils and even Du-mamma!

But why spill blood if they have none?

We are Romans! Let us be inspired by the Horatii and the Curiatii.

Two champions face off in a one-way round: Mars or death!

A general characteristic of Martianoid combat is the fake.

One of their favourite tricks is faking the fake,

and faking the faking of the fake.

For example, forcing the enemy to do a summersault.

But simulating, without moving, an anti-summersault.

But Barbagli is no fool.

Anticipating its lightening-quick reflexes,

he grabs it by the throat and doesn't let go,

in a Fascist strangle-hold, until the monster gives up.

If there is a God in heaven and He has Lateran sympathy for us,

please give me the voice to reach the ears of the peoples

of the heavens, the earth, the sea and the lakes,

so they complain no more.

The Martians have been defeated.

For them the era of Fascist domination has begun!

LIGHTNING WAR - 15 MINUTES!

WORLD RECORD!

NOW MARS IS TRULY FASCIST

So begins the long coexistence with the enemy.

History will have much to say, as we know,

and from the demo-plutocratic sewers slings and arrows will rain down!

Some will tell you that with the Mimimmi people

our men descended into savage cruelty.

Were there excesses? Maybe!

In this sequence, probably a piece of Soviet propaganda,

Santodio imitates the nocturnal walk of Martian girls,

making fun of the stone's mother.

The child treats the alien guest like a penalty,

which Pini actually saves!

Anyway you can tell the footage is doctored!

If the things you are seeing actually happened,

we would not be afraid to submit to a trial.

But in our defence, let it be said that you should not look

at the single episode, but rather be distracted by the whole.

THE FASCIST STATE

The defeated population of Mars is herded into camp

under the peaceful but vigilant eyes of the Duce.

Except for the so-called mountain Mimimmi,

cowardly non-interventionist rebels entrenched behind unreachable ridges.

But they, too, have been promised pax romana and the new civil code.

In primis, should they find food and water,

a government agency will be created to retrieve these precious resources.

In its shadow, two smaller agencies are established:

W.H.A.T.I.F. and W.A.W.A.

The board of W.H.A.T.I.F. consists of Pini, Fecchia, and Freghieri.

The members of W.A.W.A., dissolved and reborn as NEW WAWA,

are Freghieri and Santodio.

Barbagli establishes public order.

The first neighbourhood policeman,

who the neighbourhood thief will have to answer to

if he continues his life of crime.

Technicians and engineers are given new life through TEMPIA.

Its members are Pini and Freghieri.

But suddenly an argument breaks out.

Pini resigns,

provoking a crisis instantly settled with the entry of Santodio,

former executive of AFROC, as a state-controlled member

responsible for relations with MINCHI, in the SCAFA framework.

The historic salute.

Last but not least they found BIMBO, the agency for abandoned children.

The board consists of... the abandoned child.

Great works were promised, and behold,

in the teeth of the nay-sayers and their evil crows.

But where should they build the great highway

that will live on for centuries as a double-laned testimony

that the first foot on Mars was Roman?

Over there!

The others protest, but our man yields to no one.

Not to mention all this sand... Away!

And here this specimen of manhood stands,

breaking the ground for the project.

The man of tomorrow who can be everything and refuse nothing,

president, labourer, astronaut, leader, mason.

He inspires the others.

The emotional salute...

But the example has not ended...

Here he is again, with the pickaxe,

exciting his fellows,

who are wiping away the emotional tears, ready to begin.

But first another example...

The emotional seizure of the pick-axe.

The naked surface of Mars is now enriched

by the Duce's most celebrated sayings.

Pearls of martial wisdom that nourish the soul and furnish it tastefully.

THE PLOUGH DIGS THE FIELD BUT THE SWORD DEFENDS IT

The quickest is Santodio, the redeemed daddy's boy,

but with a shaky grip on the Duce's sayings.

NO POUTING WHEN IT'S YOUR TURN

- Who said that? - The Duce.

- He did not! - Yes, he did!

The Duce didn't say that!

He didn't say that, daddy's boy!

WHAT GOES AROUND COMES AROUND

Until the indigenous mineral starts to share,

rations are drastically cut...

The men complain that ever since the alien appeared,

they work harder and eat less...

The alluring gaze of Pini, the irresistible seducer,

on whose chest are entwined the sighs of a thousand girls.

His rapacity with the weaker sex is a national pride.

His vanity is so well tolerated that he is even permitted make up,

but with the manly odour of forest pine.

Another generous concession that cheers and refreshes the men

is the Fascist Saturday: a day of rest, also from food,

dedicated to sports and culture...

Today they're playing slap the soldier,

in the noble Lictorian variant.

The Fascist soldier never strikes from behind, only face to face,

boldly and brutally, easier but also more rhythmic.

It safeguards honour and forces rotation...

Their faces covered with slap marks,

the three go back to work... led by Pini,

the Valentino of outer space...

His thoughts return to mother...

Now he's back again!

Behold the sand Coliseum,

the super-well-known amphitheatre

that will stand as testimony for thousands of...

March!

A month has gone by but nothing from the colonies.

They're still getting by with supplies from home, which are dwindling.

The natives are no help.

The only thing they know how to do is to sit still.

So we're back to the drawing board.

This vile population is worthless: they're slow and resist fighting,

preferring to be comfy and warm

and to send more lively creatures to the front.

We have brought them civilization, giving them many things of our own,

but their heavy sanctions persist.

What game are they playing? Who is paying them not to move?

So much the worse, so much the better, so much the same!

Barbagli has been watering the Roman seeds

sacrificing their already meagre water rations,

and now he announces the day of the official harvest.

He falls into a pothole left by the previous government.

THE GRAIN WAR!

Their naked torsos shine in the blazing sun...

scythes clenched in their fists...

Slow motion suits rural life.

Here is the field, here the harvest.

A single blade of wheat in a mile of seed...

single, but blonde and rascally peasant!

Let's eat it right away, say the men,

make flour for a sandwich!

No, says Barbagli.

We will place it in a reliquary to the undying memory

of the victorious Fascist seed on Bolshevik soil!

The next job: to drain the marshes. But first we have to find one!

The next day Pini collapses with a lament:

"I'm hungry."

Barbagli, promptly and with a rare sense of politics, wastes no time

and founds "ENFAM", the Agency for the Hungry.

On the board are Fecchia, Freghieri, and Santodio.

But I'm hungry now.

Pini makes a motion to amend.

A short crisis ensues, leading to a quick reshuffling of the board.

ENFAM is dissolved, and from its ashes rises ENFAMAD,

the agency for those who are hungry now.

Its leaders are Freghieri, Santodio, and Pini.

But now begins the so-called dark period,

payday for the seditious historian.

Still no credit is given to Barbagli for the things he did for welfare,

fighting blamelessly despite an evil alignment of the planets.

He kept his promise to increase the daily ration of bread...

With a slight dip in the ration of meat

But compensated for it one month later.

But evil propaganda is always on the look-out for a catastrophe.

Discipline suffers the consequences.

Freghieri was caught drinking motor oil,

not knowing the difference between carbohydrates and hydrocarbons.

Fecchia faints from hunger. Liar! The economy is doing great.

THE CRISIS OF THE FASCIST STATE

We can't go on like this.

The men are indignant over the sanctions...

But the one thing that gets them is seeing Barbagli unhappy...

Santodio intervenes with the leader, who greets him as if he were a son.

- A quick word, sir! - What the fuck do you want?

We'd like to go back to Earth.

What?

- We want to go back to Earth. - What do you mean?

We have no proof, the radio is broken!

We have the photos and films...

There are the photos and films that I took, sir.

But they're photos of sand, of rocks.

Things that could be found in a local quarry...

What can we take back?

Mimimmi.

Let's take Mimimmi.

And if it starts to leap around like a madman?

Don't come up with any more ideas like that!

Clear? Now bugger off!

Forget about going home without proof we've been here.

Glory demands invoices!

Better to die! You're talking science-fiction!

- Did you hear any of that? - No.

Let's go home!

- To Earth? He's mad... - What about the proof?

Enthusiasm for the venture is the same as on that historic May 10!

They're ready to die for a good cause.

If there isn't one, they'll die anyway.

Mars is not a planet: it's a religion!

If there is a risk of losing command,

he knows it won't be over a trifle like hunger.

But a Fascist who can't fight is like a fish out of water.

They've had peace up to their ears.

Even the dumbest schoolboy knows that without wars,

history grinds to a halt.

The cries of Pini...

His thoughts return to mother...

Son of a bitch!

The mother of Freghieri.

I WROTE "DUCE" IN THE SAND

Every day Mars comes up with a new joke to torment our heroes.

One quote from the Duce was erased from its surface...

Who dared? But the men know nothing.

They'd always been together, and yesterday it was there...

So who is this joker playing with our own censorship?

It's a media campaign, everything's up in the air again.

MARS IS NOT YET REALLY FASCIST!

Barbagli has them redo it and guard it all night.

A ghost haunts Mars, and now he'll be busted.

Nothing doing.

In the morning the names of the Rovignano fallen are gone,

"Comrade Castralepe" is missing... one "victory", two "obeys",

and three "combats" have been erased.

Barbagli has them redone, but crime spreads.

It's an insult to go any further, and to do anymore.

Once again the eager Santodio.

Will someone please take the brush out of his hands.

On the third day a sandstorm grants an unjust truce.

The villain is also aided by the rumblings of mutiny.

Who cares about the writing? We must make reforms!

Freghieri complains he has painter's cramp...

Pini is allergic to sand and his skin is covered with big blotches.

He runs to refresh his make-up, using a foundation by Adonis.

History coughs in disdain...

sceptic girly-men, I'll go alone.

On board the "Donna Rachele",

whose fierce head instils terror in every Martian, the hunt continues.

Barbagli the space cadet, tearing up the road like a maniac.

When suddenly, an ambush!

The men race to him! Maybe he's dead!

Mars the executioner, attempts a quick rout.

Everyone holds their breath!

Actually, they've been holding it since day one.

But it'll take much more to defeat his iron spirit.

He's back on his feet, more eager than ever.

"It's his fault!"

"He came out of nowhere."

But what do we see?

Santodio playing red-cross nurse,

French-kissing the highway robber?

Fix the car instead!

The second assassination attempt...

Keep a file on the terrorists...

They must have a tacit agreement with our mysterious enemy.

Yes, a tacit agreement,

and their obstinate silence is proof...

They have a scheme.

First eliminate our resources, finish us with hunger,

and then erase every proof of our conquest,

to give Mars back to the Leftists as if nothing had happened.

I DON'T GIVE A DAMN

Finally special laws to deal with the terrorist emergency.

The food is almost gone.

In its place are brand new ration tickets

that can be freely used in any state cafeteria.

Bread, chicken, mineral water, it's all written down...

I'm one of you, Barbagli repeats, I'm president, labourer, etc.,

but still one of you... in this case, the boss.

Grim days go by.

The eagle resumes its rounds, but on only one cylinder...

the enemy is still on the run.

Every now and then an inscription vanishes and has to be redone,

but the men are getting more lazy every day...

Disheartened and far from Him, heedless of danger

since their good leader is there,

it's easy to be a fair weather Fascist and eat beans!

To listen to them you'd think that Mars was a disaster,

not an adventure.

Keep an eye on them. Keep an eye on them, too.

Keep an eye on everybody...

Barbagli tries to keep watch 24 hours a day,

but slowly finds himself in another time zone.

By day he sleeps and by night he wanders,

so at least he avoids the whining of his men.

Now they'll tell you that in reality he didn't know which end was up,

and that the mysterious enemy, whose very existence the men doubt,

was just an excuse to avoid the real problem and to save his pride.

Or that he was going crazy, and who could blame him?

He had to do everything by himself.

Schizo? If only there two of him!

He was as alone as the man from Genoa... I already said that.

Only when cat-napping, does he receive a vision of the strong jaw

jutting out with incredible ambition toward the infinite,

coming towards him to offer comfort, medals,

and hot cups of ersatz coffee.

Leaving him racked with doubt.

The Duce appears and speaks, but in a soundless idiom.

What are you telling me? What am I supposed to do?

Please, Duce, Mars is yours,

should I gift-wrap it or will you take it as it is?

Roll-call for the heroes of May 10, which seems like a long time ago,

swallowed up history.

The hours and days are counted by the cramps in their stomachs.

We can only wonder where Pini got the bongos

that he beats with delirious fervour,

inciting his mates into paroxysms of nostalgia...

Once again his thoughts return to mother.

Now he's back again!

Freghieri has retired from political life

to dedicate himself to the study of esoteric Fascism:

"Kabala and Billyclub", "Magic and the Black Shirt",

"Hey, Hey, Hereafter",

and a tome that feeds his desperate fatalism:

I SEE DEAD PEOPLE

Santodio asks the oracle for advice on love.

Worse for him.

Fecchia despairs, thinking of poor Mariolina,

dressed in mourning till the end of her days...

The child grows up like a wild creature,

in the absence of a father to break his back with tough love.

It's Barbagli's job to keep order...

But the hero of Africa is tired,

the regime just a faint star in the sky...

He needs a vacation... lucky they that can afford one...

CAMP CHEERFUL CONFINEMENT

Barbagli is atheist and a priest-eater,

but he appeals to Virgin Mary of the billyclub, Fascio-Catholic saint

through a concordat of dual faith and double morals... Why not?

Atheists but not atheistic, shit!

And She appears to him.

She immediately declares a Lateran pact for Mars.

Churches everywhere, ecclesiastical tax breaks and dodges.

Homosexuality only in the seminary, in the presence of an adult.

No research on embryos if they don't pay for it themselves.

One night, the enemy reappears...

with a bone-chilling noise.

A rhythmic grating like scoured stone, like a dog scratching at the door...

Where does it come from?

He sticks close to the wall in the twilight,

and tiptoes to feed it a lead sandwich.

But the noise vanishes quickly...

...leaving behind a silence devoid of crickets.

Barbagli rushes to wake his men. To arms! On your feet!

- A fru, fru, fru in the night. - Fuck off...

How can I catch it?

Everyone knows that Communists eat children.

What if the opposite should happen?

Okay! Since we have one extra,

we'll use him as a bait for the enemy, so we can catch him in the act...

Then, a show trial and a firing squad.

- Let's eat him ourselves. - Communists can and we can't?

Why do Communists eat better than us?

The men protest and cry "Injustice!"

But we are not savages.

Civilization does not always go hand in hand with appetite.

The paedo-phagic trap is laid.

Pini ties up the child with his ball

and leaves him exposed to the saliva of evil.

Then he returns to camp with the others.

I'll catch him, thinks Barbagli, like that lion in Africa.

The brave are not afraid to die, it makes them laugh instead of cry.

Man and beast face to face, equally armed. They hold their breath.

DESTINATION: ROME ZOO

And finally the prize that goes only to the brave.

And here comes that point of no return

that divides a story into before and after.

But right where today's historian needs it,

the newsreel, inexplicably, is missing.

The child has slipped unctuously through the ropes

and abandoned the altar of Abraham.

No problem, I'll bring you back for the sacrifice,

but first Barbagli realizes he must rid himself of the ball.

The youthful acne, the more you squeeze it, the bigger it gets.

So farewell vile boil.

A kick from the feet of Italy, that shafted Hungary in the World Cup.

Words fail to describe what has happened and to allot blame.

But if there's enough tax money left over,

an official inquiry will go ahead for years.

As we have said, the pictures are missing...

...and behold, more footage from the Leftists.

Partisan and cow-towing to left wing prosecutors.

The usual Communist shindig. Drunk on wine!

The only thing missing is the sausage stand.

But the ship is gone and here we stay.

Free from rhetorical misuse,

they can now recover the true sense of the word "irrevocable".

What'll we do?

It was blown up. That's what spaceships do.

We'll never get back.

Glory matters!

What glory!

It's time to make a big din.

We'll discuss this later, now we have to face:

the Mimimmi problem!

They're treacherous creatures...

They must behave according to Fascist ideology!

Their immobility is contrary to Fascism,

which is dynamism.

I don't like their attitude.

They destroyed our ship!

- They destroyed our ship. - Well, it happens...

- They destroyed it! - Yes!

The theory is a success...

- They're bastards! - How will we get back?

- They even took the ball. - It was them.

How can you recognize a great statesman?

One who doesn't make mistakes? Of course he makes them!

That's how you can tell he's a great statesman...

the more he fucks up, the longer he stays in power!

In the end, you might think, they're just stationary stones,

but that is our lot...

and who says that a final solution

has to correspond to an initial problem?

That one's moving too.

That one!

Barbagli has won his men back.

Now they believe there is an open hidden enemy.

Once again they trust him and his mental abilities.

- The Virgin Mary! - What?

- There's nothing there! - There's nothing there...

His popularity is on the rise.

There goes that rhythmic scratching again.

That deep, menacing breathing.

Barbagli tries to trap it however he can,

but never manages... sometimes he thinks bitterly,

courage is not enough, you need Lady Luck on your side.

Two more inscriptions are erased.

He responds with the usual look.

The last straw is reached when Pini drinks the last of the paint.

A sudden omen.

An attack from the sky!

"Meteorites!", shouts Fecchia,

but Barbagli knows that nothing is more deceptive than evidence.

On guard! Here comes one!

What a scene! What great special effects!

The attack has gone smoothly and uncovered the long awaited oasis.

Water!

Balbo sent it, the great Galeazzo Ciano sent it!

Pure Italian water!

Which corporation holds the water supply rights?

We do!

- Hold it! - You resigned!

Fecchia and Petacchi were nominated,

you stepped down.

Let me see your work permit!

But a fight over jurisdiction breaks out

between the federal, state, and local government.

We can't drink, we must return to the camp and decide together...

Come on! Don't drink! It's an order!

You want to drink like that, like slaves at a well?

But our man is categorical.

No drinking until we find the agency in charge.

For 2 hours Barbagli works tirelessly,

no offence intended, but he gets nowhere.

Finally he gives in and creates a new five-member corporation

so that they can all enjoy the MANNA from heaven.

There's no rush, we've got all the time we want!

We can build a bridge, Barbagli dreams,

like the one to Messina that must have been built by now...

Calm down!

Fascists use a mess tin this way. Observe the movement!

Draw and imbibe slowly. Never drink in a hurry!

Clear?

Wait!

What will we call this lake?

Lake Barbagli!

No, it makes me sound ruthless...

- Let's call it Lake Dux. - Acqua Dux!

Doesn't that sound like a seedy seaside resort?

Lake Petacci!

Let's drink!

Kursaal!

But they'd counted their chickens before they were hatched.

The water has evaporated into the atmosphere.

Who removed it?

We didn't!

It was probably a mirage!

It must be underground.

Even more is wasted in useless tears and complaints.

Let's not make a scene, today's really been a...

- His fault. - Now we'll have to drink sand!

It's one of those things.

So it went...

Some start digging again,

but it's like looking for a lake in a haystack.

When night falls they are all beset by terrible dreams,

the noises become voices,

voices of dead grandmothers calling out.

Gaetano...

Gaetano...

- Is he crazy? - Take him away!

YOU'RE USELESS

YOU'RE A DUMBASS

DUMBASS

Your Excellency...

Who's there? Where are you?

Fecchia wakes him. That sound again!

That the leader has described so often. He hears it, too.

There it is again! Barbagli's ear is so perfect he only needs one.

It's coming from headquarters, where the men are asleep!

It stirs their pride as Italians, deadly and infallible!

Stop!

What are you doing? Stop!

Stop, for God's sake!

You dishonour your weapon!

- She's not like the others. - Snake!

- How disgusting! - Leave her alone!

What should they do now?

This damned night time noise has cost them sleep and sanity.

But look: it was the sonorous fruit of lust!

A vast left-wing conspiracy has erased the Duce's writings,

corrupted a man with the disgusting arm of mineral sensuality.

If memory serves me well, it also blew up the spaceship...

In primis, revise the history books, Russian style, to erase the dishonour.

We landed on Mars on a heroic May 10.

There were four of us: me, Pini, Fecchia, and Freghieri.

The same for the exercise on the vault.

It was just me, Pini, Fecchia, and Freghieri.

To build the ship we were willingly helped

by a promising local physicist.

There was just Pini.

This guy was making a mockery of the Geneva convention.

The only prisoner in ropes was a Fascist...

But where is he? Where is he?

How can we rewrite history if it won't stay still one second?

Let's build a life together, away from this madness.

The traitor has fled,

pursuing the obscene dream of interracial love,

dragging into the orgy the "Donna Rachele",

which they thought was broken like their honour.

"Death to sexual tourism".

I wouldn't be surprised if he was the infiltrator.

Let him elope with that dog!

All she cares about is his money.

We'll go back to the enemy of the inscriptions,

but how are they scratched away?

He simulates natural erosion!

Night casts its pall over the residual heroes' camp.

Fecchia hasn't come back.

Tensions are so thick you could cut them with a knife,

which unfortunately would not make them edible.

Freghieri convinces the others to divine fate

through an oracular game of bingo.

Barbagli, undaunted, faces it down with the usual two cards.

The numbers come out like prophetic dates.

- 8! - 8!

- 9! - You've got it!

43!

It's come up twice!

- I see death! - Carry on!

- 25! - I haven't got it.

4.

45.

Double!

Double! The consummate hero calls out defiantly.

I say double to adverse destiny, double to a cowardly enemy,

double to the salons of the pinko intellectuals.

He's mad.

And here you see what only he can see.

Who goes there?

Freghieri, give me the rifle!

Give me the rifle!

- Aim! - He's gone crazy!

Double!

Is he crazy?

Remember there's a thin line between genius and folly...

Crazy, yes, but only by a little!

THE IDES OF MARS!

"I was always one of you."

No night, no matter how dark, can stop the sun from rising.

The next morning, the sky is terse with a strange calm.

Fecchia has returned at dawn, empty-handed.

The men are docile, tranquil...

except Pini, who is trapped in a noisy fixation.

Today Fascist free time will give every soldier a pyrotechnical toy.

Look at those virile stars!

- It's a real Fascist sky! - Let's salute it!

That star's so beautiful!

Close your eyes and make a wish!

Salute! Another!

Close your eyes! Salute!

Another one. This is wonderful.

What's going on?

What's happening?

Why are Italians always so mistreated abroad?

Trench warfare is revived, but memory recalls

that unlike Austria, the guns here shoot from above.

Where is the helmet of Scipius when you need it?

The Mimimmi mountain partisans are finally attacking,

backed up by international Zionism.

Don't shoot!

Fecchia throws down his gun

and gives up during the battle they've been awaiting for 6 months...

...and you viewers for two hours.

The infant monstrosity is already a deserter.

Beware, kid, there are no pardons here!

But in the end, even history is at its worst.

Then, for some strange reason, the bombardment ceases.

FREE SPACE FOR BILL POSTING

Puppet!

- There'll a be court-martial! - Goodbye!

Watch this!

- No! - Look!

- The Duce looks great. - Let's go!

Leave him alone!

This is your first warning!

I'll count to 3!

1!

2!

I'll count to 6!

They leave him to recount the votes.

The Grand Council table has degenerated into a rowdy camp.

Noisy and indignant, feet on the table, cigars in their mouths,

the traitors let themselves go, berating the prisoner.

Even Fecchia sings coarse songs and jokes about the leadership.

They talk about political absurdities, as if they were at a bar.

"Let's privatise everything", Pini proposes...

"lmagination in government", echoes another imbecile.

Why fight?

Agreements are drawn up for a cowardly separatist peace.

Having stolen the key to the field canteen,

the traitors shamefully break into the last supplies,

like liberal locusts, drinking, singing,

and never thinking about tomorrow.

But the war continues!

SISMI, the agency for detecting telluric movements,

gives a disastrous reading.

The army is broken, lost without orders to follow.

Fecchia falls into the Badoglio crater.

The good Freghieri tries to extend a hand,

a talent that nature failed to give him.

So he bids him goodnight.

The man who denied Mussolini is now crying crocodile tears.

Barbagli is left to die in jail like a drug addict,

but his glorious scalp will not be taken by a stone.

Now for revenge and blood,

for five more years of the Martian miracle.

FASCISTS ON MARS: CHOOSING SIDES!

Here are the marksmen.

Now what?

It doesn't look like the eagle or the fasces.

If it's reinforcements, they're not here for us.

But revenge is blind.

Massacre, state massacre or right wing massacre,

the distinction is made later at the morgue.

- Traitors! - Sorry!

Forgive us!

We didn't do it on purpose!

You're really pulling my chest hairs!

- Look! - Go ahead, you're our leader!

And he finally sees the problem: flying saucers...

expressly forbidden by the Duce!

All this fuss over some miserable women

who've come to admire the black shirts and make their friends jealous.

Welcome to our planet. Here's to us!

On behalf of the Duce...

They dropped in by surprise, like we did with the Abyssinians...

But we're polite to these poor souls,

who are dreaming of marrying a uniform.

But where are they going?

They come by UFO to our planet and don't even respect protocol?

Where do they think they are? Shopping in a department store?

Ladies of outer space, we'd...

"Buzz off", she seems to say.

What are you doing?

A globe of Mars suspended in the air through some trick.

What a useless invention: it spins round by itself...

the only thing to do would be to give it a good wallop.

Shall we go onto the pitch?

- It's lovely! - It's a coloured ball!

It's a coloured ball...

It turns, but it doesn't bomb.

Let's go to the pitch. Tell the ladies to come.

Ladies...

Barbagli is amazed by our boys... at least they could molest the ladies.

Seeing the girls' outfits, no judge would deny the men were provoked.

But instead, this conjuring trick has dummified them.

Come here right away!

Barbagli calls them back to order.

But women are fickle.

It doesn't matter...

And you always get the cart before the horse.

What are these interstellar housewives looking for?

They ignore men and do what they want...

They'll want to vote too!

Young Fascist girls!

And here is our national ladies man...

She doesn't speak our tongue, the sour-puss,

but she does try to study it.

Water!

- Thanks! - What are you doing?

- What are you doing? - Let's drink!

- Who gave you that? - They did.

Take this water, thank the ladies

and give it back to them!

- No! - Yes!

Fascists don't accept charity! I'll do the talking.

Ladies, what are you doing here?

Mars is Fascist, it's ours!

Is that clear?

Not at all...

they disappear and reappear like the Cheshire Cat,

and laugh at an object with no name...

It's not an invasion, not a war, though the danger seems great.

A defiance of our cultural values.

The pacifist tanks advance, filled with cupcakes and gum.

This is the Marshalls' plan!

The proud Fascist eagle is now a begging puppy.

But we'll see,

nothing about these aliens worries us.

We grow the crops, they just make the circles.

Barbagli faces her down,

but gets caught in a web of apathy.

You're our guests,

but this materialization thing...

What are you doing?

They abase themselves with contemptible neorealism...

Shame on you, Italy, trading your honour for a scrap of bread.

Useless, harmless, pointless tricks...

The only science is military science and Italy sets the standard...

On parade, the seductive flowers of Fascism.

The Fascist soldier.

The Fascist aviators.

She's crazy for him.

Barbagli has won,

superior racial pride fills the hearts of his men once more.

The sons of the she-wolf.

The royal scuba-divers.

Where are they going? Too much humiliation maybe?

Didn't you watch the parade?

Something that...

A periscope...

Thanks.

Freghieri, show the girls what a Fascist rifle can do!

Now I'll show you the power of this lethal weapon.

- Attention! - It's from WW1.

Cover your ears, fire!

- Impressive, eh? - Careful, it's hot.

Go and get the prisoner...

Go!

This being was Communist and was subdued by Fascism!

You'll see how our military might

forced this creature to bow down to Fascism.

Thank you.

This creature

was subjugated...

Finally they understand and speak our language.

It's a stone, she says. Very good.

Did you need a degree for that?

She continues to scold: "What are you doing here?

Moochers, morons, radiation victims!"

She talks about UVA rays... where did she hear about those?

We can take you home.

She said home!

That sounds like the song of the sirens.

And the worst of the worst comes tumbling after.

Where there used to be a mountain

OUR mountain,

there is now bubbling lava, with the flying whatsitsname bobbing above.

They have a secret weapon...

a double-dose of shame... shame upon shame,

as that left-winger from Asti would say.

So they just came here to fill up with gas?

Is that any reason to destroy a kingdom?

What are you doing?

Here we go... The ship sinks and the rats start packing.

Our hero still has the strength to get mad.

But the Fascist leaders suddenly look like dinosaurs.

You used to command what? Now Barbagli has time to think...

One of his men fled with a frigid lover.

One is lost, who knows where.

One, uninvited, has the mind of a child.

and he didn't have time to execute the last two.

Stones and sex: that's all Mars had to offer.

But does it matter that from a Nipponese friend

Barbagli learned the art of... oh, forget about it!

The women have finished.

The baleful hour of the deserter arrives.

Are you ready to leave?

Yes!

We're going home!

What can our poor man do?

All is lost, and his rebellious mind is playing tricks on him.

We should give them something.

Let's give them that magnificent Fascist lamp.

It's down there!

Go and get it, it's only two kilometres.

We'll wait for you. Go on, hurry.

Ladies...

You can go, they're not coming.

Don't worry.

They changed their minds, but they're a bit timid.

Faced with those ladies... On your way!

He imagines what he will say to his men back at camp.

"They ran away. Never trust women.

I begged them on my knees but it was breastfeeding time."

But they won't leave.

"Sure you don't want to come? You poor puppies!"

What happened to the right to euthanasia?

I wear my jacket to salute a lady who's leaving!

Touch the button and look what happens...

Zorro's cape gives us style.

They disperse and reassemble the atoms of Italy...

it will lose its identity.

Take a look around. It'll make your blood run cold...

that place they chose for take-off is the same where he sent his men.

Quick! Before it's too late!

It would serve us right if the pre-, post-,

or whatever you want to call those Fascists,

didn't notice what was flying overhead.

Can you believe that Fecchia,

returned to camp secretly and, after a mystic crisis,

founded a new order of monks that do not take a vow of silence.

Repent!

The spaceship.

And your ass is grass.

But the rustic funhouse hovers around and doesn't take off.

Its landing lights go on and off like a neon sign.

Are you a sniper or do I have to take it out with my musket?

Barbagli can't run fast enough.

To better express an emotional farewell,

he takes an eloquent bow.

Let's banish the inventors of etiquette!

But no sooner does the woman vaporize

than a horrid creature jumps into her lap...

and the dwarves make off with the ballerinas.

That weasel Freghieri also arrives... he, too, is lucky!

Did the Pope die meanwhile?

The last to arrive is Pini, completely covered with make-up,

ready to jump on the winner's chariot. But enough of jolts and jiggers!

At the crack of the rockets' whip the earth cracks open,

releasing more springs of water from below.

Women drivers!

But Pini keeps running till he falls into the crater.

Resist, Barbagli shouts... undaunted by the vapours,

he extends the paternal hand that everyone decided to bite...

Take one last look before it shakes, because here, for the last time,

unabashed heroism is repaid by bitter surprises.

Pini is a Negro!

The waters of Mars have washed away the shame, the deceitful make-up,

that betrayed Rome's trust... Pini is a Negro.

And he dances!

Black and treacherous. Both Othello and lago.

And now Barbagli recognizes him.

He's Abdul Ali Dumbuti, the famous Abyssinian spy,

but he's gone.

The spaceship saves the coward.

Again his thoughts run to his mother.

Another well-known spy.

The leader has lost his energy.

He looks sadly at the scene of his defeat and at the departing ship...

Run toward the coloured lights, he whispers,

and you'll see in the end you'll be their slaves!

EPILOGUE

What hath the twentieth century wrought,

and what can we expect from the next?

In the Fatherland the Leftists won,

and have governed forever after and written the history books.

So our adventure, like a thousand other glorious feats,

was deleted by the red pens of schoolmarms.

It was so heavily revised that even I had trouble narrating it.

Everything was blown to smithereens.

But it doesn't matter. We fear not your judgment.

The truth is that the regime did not fall because it had failed,

but because of opportunism and conspiracies

by squalid historical scrap!

Quislings, turncoats,

those who suddenly declared they'd always been anti-Fascist.

They burned their black shirts and quickly donned

their smelly old civilian clothes,

urbane manners, and formal language.

Look, Miriam,

see what a state that bastard Barbagli, is in?

- Poor devil. - Santodio!

The same people were ready to deny everything

for the Yankee dollar: their history, their faith,

even their humanity.

And many never again set foot in the Fatherland.

And those who supported Fascism as long as it was useful to them.

Once they had made their money,

without dirtying their lily-white hands, they turned their backs on it.

Those who were consumed by a futile sense of guilt

would cry for years over the blood that had been spilt

and start looking for God knows what absurd Marxist truth.

Maybe unlike the Earth, and for Christopher Columbus' joy,

Mars is really flat...

But in the end what do true and false matter?

Is Italy a peninsula or is the rest of the world an appendage?

These are air castles that no one buys.

I'm telling the truth.

The problem with Italy was not getting to know it,

but that once you knew it everything stayed the same.

Because the Italians are like Mimimmi.

Everything flies right over their heads.

Do you think you're free?

Ten times a year, you vote for people you don't even know.

And once they're elected, they do whatever they want.

A small group of people trick you into thinking you have power.

What do you get out of it?

Dictatorships oppress the people.

Democracy forces people to oppress themselves.

But remember, a people that loses its memory... what was I saying?

Oh, yeah.

Is there life in the cosmos? Apart from women and moss?

Who knows... If there's life, then there must be order!

I've always thought that the Copernican system was too lax.

But they say that starlight, unlike the national train system,

can be years, even centuries late...

So when we look at the sky we don't see how it is today,

but a kind of newsreel of the past

that shows the lights from a time long gone.

So let us hope the alien observing us from another shore of infinity

sees the images of the Duce on horseback

rather than the pettiness of today.

And a shimmer of light,

a good thunderclap that will make tomorrow brighter.

You'll say that he was a one-man band.

You're right. This is the meaning of autarchy.

Gaetano Maria Barbagli was above all a man of order,

and moreover the son of a cleaning woman.

He left life the same as he had found it.

Whatever you might think, he was the greatest statesman that Mars ever had.

You have no right to judge him.

Let us await the judgment of history,

which always has a nice reform ready to pretty up the bad news.

I leave you with one question together with my farewell.

Are we Italians, still enslaved by outmoded ideologies,

ready to face the challenges of tomorrow

and understand the great mysteries of the universe?

FASCISTS ON MARS A VICTORY DENIED

Subtitles: Laser S. Film s.r.I. - Roma