The bionic hand of Iris Dark was an impressive piece of anomalous hardware. Outwardly, it resembled a dark purple gauntlet of exquisite craftsmanship. It connected at the elbow where the original limb had been severed, embellished with calligraphic thaumic runes in gold inlays. Beryllium-bronze filaments perfectly mirrored the nerves in her original arm, which had allowed her to control it effortlessly from the moment it was installed. Neodymium magnets in the fingertips allowed her to sense magnetic fields, and a small Philosopher's Stone in the palm let her feel aetheric currents.
The mechatronics were largely based on Mekhanite designs, but a set of seven concentric runic dials on the back of the hand, which Iris could configure into spell circles at will, rendered it heretical. It also had the more modern addition of a micro-USB neural port which she most often used for a smartwatch, controlling not only it but anything it was synced with like it was a part of her nervous system.
Though the alchemical alloy was several times more durable than bone and the hand had improved grip strength, it lacked superhuman lifting power as it was still integrated into her natural musculoskeletal system. The only real downside to it was that the tactile feedback felt like she was wearing a metal glove at all times, but she considered that a more than reasonable trade-off.
But now, for the first time since she had donned it, it was off, leaving a useless stump and a loose sweater sleeve in its place. Percival Darke was examining it on his electro-thaumic workbench, peering through concentric lenses and assessing the damage it had taken at the hands of his treacherous brother. Iris merely sat by sullenly, uncharacteristically idle, her one remaining hand holding a chalice of strong wine instead of her usual cocoa.
"The good news is there's no trace of the vile Rust, but the nerve filaments have been corroded and at least six gears have been broken," Darke reported. "I can have a replacement calibrated in -"
"But can't you fix that one?" Iris interrupted, her tone demanding and desperate at the same time. A slight chortle escaped from Darke's wizened lips.
"It's not like you to be sentimental," he noted. Iris hung her head dejectedly, staring into her midnight dark wine.
"It's been part of my body for five years. I don't need to justify myself," she muttered.
"No. You don't," Darke agreed. He carefully placed the prosthetic into a vat of green liquid, judiciously setting dials and striking buttons, then finally flipping a switch that sent the liquid bubbling with an electric current. "The thaumo-electric plating will restore the nerve filaments along with any other minor wearing. We ought to do that once every five to ten years anyway. Once that's done, I'll change out the damaged gears, and it will be good as new."
Iris nodded gratefully, but said nothing. Darke raised his hooded head, slightly tilting it as he gazed at her inscrutably.
"Iris, you know I'm not mad at you for -"
"I'm mad at me!" she snapped. "I, I honestly started to believe my own bollocks. That I was an invincible, cyborg sorceress whose name was only spoken in hushed whispers. That there was no moonshot project I couldn't accomplish, no adversary I couldn't vanquish, no ruler or magnate who would not be forced to humble themselves before my greatness. I walked right into the bloody Factory, thinking I was untouchable!"
"And you walked out after unleashing a swarm of Netherous Shoggoths on them as payment for their crimes against you," Darke reminded her, rising from his workbench and gliding over to sit beside her. "Iris, I don't know if you feel this way because you're the only woman on the board or if it's something else, but you don't need to be better than everyone and everything to prove your value. None of us, not even me, expect you to be omnipotent or infallible. You can't expect it of yourself."
"I should've realized what Manny was doing. I should have been more on my guard against your brother," she insisted.
"Nominative Magic is so dangerous precisely because of its insidiousness. Anyone could fail to notice being given a name," he countered. "And as for my brother, he's lucky he's dead after what he tried to do to you."
"And I'm lucky Isabel Wondertainment was there, and I shouldn't be lucky!" Iris claimed. "I should have been able to avoid or fight the Rust on my own, and the only reason I'm not chained up in a breeding pit right now is that someone who was actually prepared to fight The Factory happened to be there. I was in a torture chamber. I could have grabbed a blade, cut my arm off the moment it was infected and impaled your brother, but the Rust was just so… excruciating. I couldn't think clearly, I just collapsed screaming. I was helpless, and I don't know how to process that. I just, I feel weak and I hate it."
"You are many things, Iris, but weak is not one of them. The mere fact you survived such an attack proves how remarkably strong you are," he assured her.
"Grandsire, please. I know you're trying to help and I do appreciate your being sympathetic, but I don't want platitudes right now," she said with a shake of her head.
"Very well. Let me ask you this then; why didn't you feel this way after you lost the arm the first time?" he asked with a quick gesture to the missing limb.
Iris paused, the question seemingly having not occurred to her yet.
"Well, in my mind – and I realize this is debatable – I lost the arm on my own terms. I chose to sacrifice it to survive. It was a simple cost/benefit analysis, not a failure. And, even though I wasn't exactly humble back then, I still didn't expect to come out unscathed against some humanoid abomination. And if nothing else, I can always blame it on Ruprecht. None of that applies now."
"Are you sure? I find that with enough effort, Ruprecht can be held responsible for nearly any calamity," Darke suggested with a droll chuckle.
"I'm sure," Iris smirked. "This was no one's fault but mine."
"But you acknowledge that you're holding yourself to unreasonably high standards?"
"No, I acknowledge that five years ago this might have been acceptable, but not now. It's been a long five years for me. I'm barely even the same person I was back then. I've learned a lot, experienced a lot, accomplished a lot. It seems like the only thing I didn't do, thought that I couldn't do, was fail. I'm going through some pretty bad ego-shock right now, and I'm not sure how to move past it."
They both sat in contemplative silence for a moment, each unsure of what needed to be done.
"Well, if nothing else, let's take advantage of this rare lull in your schedule to work on that side project of ours, shall we?" Darke suggested. Iris half-scoffed at the idea.
"Now? I'm shell-shocked, missing an arm and half-drunk," she reminded him, draining the last of her wine. "…three-quarters drunk."
"You're still the only person I would ever entrust with the task," he assured her, taking the chalice and handing it off to the Alagaddan servant that always appeared exactly when needed. Darke rose to his feet, holding out his hand to help her up. She reluctantly accepted, forcing herself to stand and follow him through the halls of his Sanctum.
He led her to the main Occult Laboratory. In one corner was a large, copper contraption for distilling Aether into ichor, divine blood useful for any number of practical applications. Darke slowly turned a creaky old faucet, releasing an ichorous rivulet to flow into a spellcasting array carved into the floor. The raw philter circled over and over again, accumulating more occult energy each time.
In the opposite corner was a small, portable server rack of bespoke electro-thaumic computers, hooked up to a high capacity Everhart resonator for power, an omnidirectional ectoluminescent projector for casting spell circles, and a rather ordinary laptop for a control interface. Darke had entrusted Iris with producing the hardware and software required to emulate the large scale and complexity of rituals needed for their project, and today seemed as good a day as any to find out if that trust was well placed.
At the center of the room, upon a stone altar and under a glass dome, laid a small sample of anomalous biomatter that had once belong to Yaldabaoth Incarnate.
Iris bent down to examine it curiously, noting the changes from when she had seen it last.
"You were able to get His Tears to work on it then?" she asked.
"Oh, the little devil put up quite a fight," Darke smirked as he lifted the glass. "It took longer than I had hoped to create a formulation of sufficient potency and amplitude, but this scrap of unholy mummia is now exactly what we need it to be. You showed remarkable bravery and cunning acquiring His Tears, you know."
"It's only bravery when it works," she lamented, flapping her empty sweater sleeve. "When it doesn't, it's just reckless."
She walked over to an enormous spool of thread spun from Morgana Silver. Pulling off a length, she plunged the thaumically conductive alloy into the Flesh on the altar.
"The Fairy Silver was your doing as well. Who else could not only survive an abduction attempt, but intimidate her abductors so terrifically that they would agree to buy her wares at ten times the going rate as contrition?"
"I was actually just going to kill all of them and walk out with the small sack of coins they'd already given me. In hindsight, that was probably an overreaction," she claimed, sitting down in front of her computer and booting it up while hooking herself into the Everhart Resonator. "I was so furious with Lolly at the time, but she probably did us an enormous favour by getting me to spare the council. She, she saved my life during the Unclean mission, and I didn't thank her. I don't think I even acknowledged it. She's been a better friend to me than I deserved."
"Yet befriend her you did, and there are few who can claim to count a Bozomorph among their allies," Darke said, pulling down the black Daevite greatsword to use in case the Flesh started growing out of control. "This was a kingly gift, and should be taken as proof that even otherworldly demi-gods regard you as someone who must be appeased."
"No. She's just nice like that," Iris claimed. "Alright, the thaumaturgical emulator is online, Erikesh program loaded. Aetheric resonance imaging and Kant Counters are active. I need you to drop the Hume Levels in here as low as you can without anything falling apart. Once the threshold for Aspect Radiation is low enough I'll start the emulator."
Darke nodded, and the doors to the lab slammed shut and were automatically sealed by a complex locking mechanism, sundering the chamber from the rest of reality. With another gesture, the Spectral Flames in the braziers suddenly intensified to a roaring, white-hot brightness to gobble up what little reality remained.
"The ontological seal is now set, and the Flames are as ravenous as I can make them," he informed her.
"Confirmed. Hume readings are dropping. Stand ready with the sword and recite Keshpeth's Objurgation of the Dread Devourer."
Darke posed himself directly in front of the altar, both hands on the hilt, head bowed, powerful words of a dead language reverberating from deep within his throat. Iris kept her gaze fixed on the Kant Counter, watching the ambient Hume levels slowly but steadily fall.
"Seven Seals, Seven Rings, Seven Thrones For The Scarlet King," she whispered along in English as she patiently tapped her finger on the laptop. When the Hume levels were finally low enough, she hit enter.
The electro-thaumic computer hummed to life, its inner workings reproducing the EVE manipulation of a hundred mages, at a hundred times the pace. Incredibly complex spell circles of smouldering blue-green Aspect Radiation rapidly appeared on the walls, constantly shifting to accommodate the now fluid laws of nature. Iris kept her eyes on her screen, turning certain values up or down and even swapping out entire modules to get the results she wanted.
The Flesh upon the altar began to quiver and pulsate, the ichor on the floor flowing upwards to feed it. Finally, when the surrounding reality was weak enough, when the right combination of spells had all been cast, the Flesh shot upwards along the thread of Morgana Silver at an explosive rate, greedily encasing it in a strange leather carapace as the spool spun round and round to feed it more. Faster and faster it spun, until the very last of the silver was spent, and the newly formed leather chain dropped limply to the floor.
The Spectral Flames suddenly died out, leaving the backlight from Iris's laptop the only illumination.
"And The World Felt Like Nothing, Amen," Iris said, adding her favourite mantra to the ancient poem.
The door creaked open, letting air, light, and reality seep back into the laboratory. Iris and Darke both rushed to inspect their creation; long looping coils of braided, crocodilian leather chains, midnight blue with a strange metallic lustre.
"How much Akiva is it giving off?" Iris asked softly.
"A lot," Darke smiled. "Stand back."
He clapped twice, and his servant immediately appeared and picked up a length of chain, holding it tautly between his hands. With one swift motion, Darke brought the Daevite greatsword down upon the chain. Forged in the Darkness Below, imbued with the primal chaos magic of the Scarlet King to destroy anything its infinitesimally thin edge touched, the sword did not so much as nick the leather chain.
"Brilliant!" Iris exclaimed, the spark returning to her eyes and a proud smile spreading across her face. The servant extended the chain to her, letting her hold it in her right hand. "I honestly didn't expect this to work the first time."
"Humility does not become you, Iris," Darke praised her, coiling the chain up upon the spool. "You have, through your own genius, created a device capable of emulating the work of ten thousand Erikeshan mystics, lost for nearly four thousand years. You have reproduced Apollyonic bindings, capable of restraining even the mightiest of incarnate primeval gods. Literal Titans now have cause to curse your name, and you did all of that on your worst day; not unscathed but still undefeated, bloodied yet unbowed, with only one hand, and three-quarters drunk."
Iris actually blushed, though it was more out of embarrassment of having ever doubted herself than at her Grandsire's excessive praise.
"Do you still think your reputation as an unstoppable cyborg sorceress is bollocks?" Darke asked.
"No," Iris smiled. "I think that we should have the Foundation, Coalition and Chaos Insurgency try to outbid each other for exclusive rights to this stuff."
Darke tossed back his head in a joyous cackle.
"That's my girl."


close

Info

X

More by this author

storkshead 09/13/07 (Tue) 06:13:52 #64762349

Dimethyltryptamine, or DMT for short, is one of the strongest hallucinogens in the world. Being a Schedule I drug in the US, it's fairly hard to come by— but God, are some people desperate to get their hands on it.
Why? Many people say that when you smoke or inject it, it's like being thrown into an alternate reality. Intense visual and auditory hallucinations combined with an altered sense of space and time that lasts for only about five minutes, but for its users can stretch on for entire lifetimes. For some it's like a near-death experience.
But back when I was in high school, my brother died while on it. He was in a van with some of his dumb stoner friends, smoking the rumored 'magic drug' as they drove along. They ended up crashing that night, and the paramedics said they weren't sure what killed him first — the impact or the fire afterwards.
They also mentioned the drug— mostly due to the fact the cops were getting involved and they planned on interrogating the survivors— and that small note led to my extensive research of DMT. I just wanted to know how he felt when he died, but little did I know I'd opened up a rabbit hole beyond my understanding.
In the early '70s, Terence McKenna and his brother set off to the Amazon basin to research hallucinogens. The shamans there used a medicine called ayahuasca as a means to emotionally heal, speak with the dead, and see the future for hundreds of years.
While the effects of the DMT you normally buy in the States only last for a short time, ayahuasca is brewed from the leaves of plants containing the drug, and a single brew can result in up to fourteen hours of hallucinations. The brothers, intrigued by this, dosed up on ayahuasca for a whole eleven days.
At the end of their binge, they claimed to have come into contact with a "raging universe of active intelligence that is transhuman, hyperdimensional, and extremely alien." They named these otherworldly beings "self-transforming machine elves."
They seem to be a common link in all DMT hallucinations. In fact, Terence spoke of the elves in one of their lectures:

"I sank to the floor. I [experienced] this hallucination of tumbling forward into these fractal geometric spaces made of light and then I found myself in the equivalent of the Pope's private chapel and there were insect elf machines proffering strange little tablets with strange writing on them, and I was aghast, completely appalled, because [in] a matter of seconds… my entire expectation of the nature of the world was just being shredded in front of me. I've never actually gotten over it. These self-transforming machine elf creatures were speaking in a colored language which condensed into rotating machines that were like Fabergé eggs but crafted out of luminescent superconducting ceramics and liquid crystal gels. All this stuff was just so weird and so alien and so un-English-able that it was a complete shock — I mean, the literal turning inside out of [my] intellectual universe!
This went on for two or three minutes, this situation of [discontinuous] orthogonal dimensions to reality just engulfing me. As I came out of it and the room reassembled itself, I said, ‘I can't believe it, it's impossible.' To call that a drug is ridiculous; that just means that you just don't have a word for it and so you putter around and you come upon this sloppy concept [that] something goes into your body and there's a change. It's not like that; it's like being struck by noetic lightning."

Notably, all those who have encountered these beings claim they traveled to an alternate dimension. But the most interesting part overall?
Researchers speculate that DMT is not only found as a natural chemical in certain plants, though.
Some believe our brains release it when we're dreaming.

storkshead 09/13/07 (Tue) 06:18:24 #64765342

I've been investigating into DMT and these machine elves myself. Firstly, I tried to take a drug that is said to increase the chances of you remembering your dreams, Huperzine A. Was damn expensive (twenty bucks a bottle), but at least not illegal like DMT.
No luck, though. It was interesting, but I wasn't able to recall anything special. I even ended up having a lucid dream with this handy trick where you look at a clock twice. Shouted into the sky 'I want to see the machine elves!'
Nothing responded.
At this point, I was getting a bit… Frustrated, to say the least, so against my better judgment, I got into contact with one of my old marijuana-dealer pals, who managed to find a guy selling DMT.
It cost me a lot of money— he said it was in high demand— so I pawned my phone off. No use in having one if there's a computer at home anyways.
I went home afterwards and injected the drug into my shoulder. The effects were pretty much immediate— I was thrust into a world of cascading colors and symmetrical shapes— it's impossible to describe with words. It truly was otherworldly.
Then, I saw it, a machine elf looming above me with long, spiraling horns. "What are you?" I asked.
It replied in a ruby Fabergé egg-looking object, which floated down and phased through me. "I don't understand. Can you… speak English? What are you doing here?"
Nothing. I could feel a strange fragileness in my heart as I screamed:
"Answer me!"
A blast of scarlet eggs shot out towards me as its two symmetrical arms raised up slowly. And for a moment, through all the strange collapsing sounds and spiraling shapes and colors and synthesia… I could hear a single, quiet whisper:
"Wake up."
My eyes shot open to our dull world in a cold sweat as I looked over to my clock. Only a minute had passed.
Nothing, nothing, nothing. I had learned almost nothing of worth. If anything, it just gave me more questions, driving me deeper into the rabbit hole of this magical drug.
Had they cast me out for a reason? I had no way to know. The DMT I had bought was the last of it the dealer had. I tried to find some more, I really did. Everyone known for selling it was either out of stock or rotting in prison. I needed to know. For some odd reason, I just had to. Had the elf done something to me? I'm not sure.
But shortly after this, I came across another interesting piece of data:
Not only is DMT produced when we are dreaming, but also during birth and death.

storkshead 09/13/07 (Tue) 06:26:41 #64766461

We're all familiar with dreams. There's no way to describe them overall— they can be intense dystopias to mundane little adventures. But how are they connected to these strange DMT trips?
It's simple, really. When humans are under the influence of DMT, they're able to see the inner workings of the world— the machine elves. They keep the world together and write our destinies. Everything that happens is because of them.
But when we dream, we no longer exist in this world. Our brains create a new, temporary universe to exist within. Or, in other words, we become like those machine elves. We construct our own world— however, that is never remembered— and we place ourselves into it. This can be further proved by the concept of lucid dreaming, where we can consciously control what happens.
However, DMT also appears in our brains during birth and death. Why? Because when we are born, a new conscience is formed and inserted into the world. And when we die, that conscience is freed. We're able to create our own universe. Our own Earth.
Can you imagine what that would be like? The power you could have? The life you could create for yourself? It would be perfect.
I just have to experience it for myself. But how? There's still so much to learn, so much to do, so much to think about…
Could it be that this world is but a dream, an illusion?
That we're the same beings as those elves— albeit on a lower level of power?
That we're going to die, only to find that we created the universe we had been living in for such a long time? I'm not sure. Of course, nobody can be sure.
But… when I look back on my experiences— when I had met the machine elf who struck me down, demanding that I wake up, I heard something else in its voice. I heard it clear, clearer than anything else I've ever heard in my entire life. The elf's voice…
It was that of my brother's.
Well, there's only one way to answer all of my burning questions.
I hope that you're all real. But I have to figure it out, I have to know if I can meet him again. Do with the above information whatever you will, but my curiosity has been chipping away at my sanity ever since my brother took his final dose of DMT so many years ago. Nothing else matters.
Goodbye, Parawatch. You won't be seeing from me again.


The news has always traveled fast,
you've seen it times before.
The number of fatalities
will soon be many more
Texts, emails and message boards;
you watch them for the news.
The breach occurring miles away
still feels so close to you.
You grit your teeth and pace the room,
your jaw begins to hurt.
There's nothing you can do and things
are only getting worse.
This shouldn't even bother you,
There's no one there you know.
Your heart, it bleeds for strangers-
you can't seem to help it, though.
A deep and hollow hopelessness,
the feelings start to mount:
Exhausted, helpless, frustrated,
a thousand miles out.
It's hard to keep your chin up
in a world this dark and cold.
You can't afford to care this much,
or so you're often told.
Detach yourself from everything,
stay numb and blind and sane.
You can't look after everyone,
you'll drown in all the pain.
"But it must be good to hurt for them,"
you echo to yourself.
"If we become indifferent,
nobody left will help"
The bodycount is rising now.
The aching wrings your heart.
It's apathy that lets corruption
tear our world apart.
When past the sea of red alerts,
a message makes it through;
a single volunteer's request
for “something I can do?”
Perhaps you're ineffectual
and powerless and small,
but if someone cares like you do,
there's hope here after all.
We face our bleak reality,
too stubborn to resign.
We must let misfortune spur us
to be mindful, brave, and kind.
May tragedy inspire us
to make it through the night;
we can all endure the darkness
if we choose to be the light.


by Captain Kirby

The funeral service was larger than Jack expected. It must've been against regulation for this much of the Foundation's senior staff to be in the same place at the same time. But then again, so was recruiting discarded GOC agents, and Alto had been the exception for that as well.
“Exceptional is a good word for him,” Jack said to himself.
“You'd never say that to him in person, would you?”
Jack looked over his shoulder. Sophia stood behind him, dressed in a pair of black slacks and a white button down.
“And give his ego another boost? Hell no.”
“You make a good point.”
“It's good seeing you.”
“It's good to see you too, Jack.”
“We need to grab drinks sometime that's not, you know, after a funeral. It's been what? Five years?”
“Seven I think.”
“Hmm. Close enough.”
Sophia nodded, and they both fell silent. Jack's gaze wandered to the tombstone again. It was small, which Alto would've hated. It didn't even have the name “Alto Clef” on it. They engraved the name “Jonathan Sealee” instead. But such is life in the Foundation, die in the dark and all that.
“Did they tell you how he died?” Jack asked after a while.
“No. You?”
“Nope.”
“Did you ask?”
“At least a dozen times,” Jack replied, “Classic Clef, isn't it? Even dying in mysterious and classified ways.”
“Only thing that'd make it more him is if he died horny.”
Jack cracked a smile. “He was a rat bastard, wasn't he?”
“That he was. A brave bastard, but a bastard.”

The last time Jack saw Alto, it was at his son's wedding. He threw Alto an invitation just on the off-chance to see the bastard again, but didn't really expect much from it. He missed the ceremony, and most of the reception. But as the night drew to a close, and people started to shuffle toward the door, a familiar face sifted through the crowd toward Jack.
“Look who decided to show his ugly mug!” Jack called out.
“I'd be a shitty god-father to miss the whole thing now, wouldn't I?”
“You missed the ceremony, you're still a shitty god-father,” Jack gave Alto a hard slap on the back, “You want a drink?”
“No, I'm good. I need to drive myself home anyways.”
“Oooh, look at you. Mr. Responsible.”
“I've been playing it safer for a few years now, you know.”
Jack took another swig from his beer, “Don't give me that. It's only been like, two months since we got into that knife fight down in Bolivia. Nearly getting your fingers sliced off isn't very safe.”
“That happened five years ago, Jack.”
“Wait, really?”
“Yeah.”
“Huh, I guess my sense of time must be screwed up.”
Alto smiled and guided a wobbly Jack to a seat, “How much have you had to drink?”
“This is like, my eighth I think?”
“Please don't get alcohol poisoning on me. Remember that time when you drank too much before that full site meeting?”
“Not really, no. I blacked out hard.”
“… that's fair. You died.”
“That sounds a little dramatic,” Jack replied, a wide smile plastered across his face.
“They got you a replacement body.”
“I see…” Jack eyed Alto suspiciously. He could've been making it up. This was twenty years ago, at least. He could've been pulling shit out of his ass. “Well, how about you champ?”
“You never call me champ.”
“I'm fucking wasted, ok? Now tell me what you've been up to.”
“Classified.”
“Oh fuck off. You go off saving the world by yourself all the time, and I have to stay in and do paperwork. The least you could do is give me some good stories.”
“Trust me, the stories aren't even that good.”
“C'mon, please. Just one.”
“I don't know. I'm getting old, man. They don't send me out to do the interesting stuff like they used to.”
“You still kill type-greens.”
“Sometimes.”
“Well that's still interesting.”
“I wish it wasn't.”
“Come again?”
“Interesting isn't really what I'm looking for anymore.”
“Huh.”
Jack just stared at Alto for a few seconds. Alto waved his hand in front of Jack's face.
“You there?”
“Yeah, yeah. I'm just thinking, it really has been a long time since we talked.”
Alto let out a little smile, “I guess it has.”
“Did something happen to you?”
“Probably.”
“Probably?”
“It's classified.”
“Oh fuck you.”
Alto clapped Jack on the back and checked his watch.
“Shit. I really should get going.”
“Really? You've been here for like ten minutes!”
“I have a meeting over at nineteen. This place was along the way.”
“Of course. Had to be convenient for you.”
“See you later, Jack.”
“We need to get drinks sometime!”
And those were the last words he ever said to him.

Sophia and Jack stared at the grave until they were the only ones left. Sophia had brought an umbrella, but it turned out to be unnecessary; even the forecast said it was going to be a sunny day. So there was no real reason for Sophia to start back to her car. She was just bored of standing there in the silence.
“Hey, can I get a ride to the reception?” Jack asked Sophia.
“You didn't drive yourself here?”
“I took the bus, but I don't think there's a line that goes to nineteen.”
Sophia smiled to herself, “You're more useless than Alto.”
“I can't tell if that's a high or low bar,” Jack replied as he caught up, “How well did you know him anyways?”
Sophia shot Jack a piercing glare. He put his hands up in surrender.
“No, like, I just rarely see you come out of your office, and I'm another director. I just can't imagine why you'd talk to Clef all that mu—“
“Who do you think managed his missions?”
“… Overseers?”
“You're not funny Jack,” Sophia replied. She unlocked a white Toyota Camry. She could've afforded something fancier, but Sophia was always the minimalist. Jack got in on the passenger side and the two took off.
“Is that what you spend all your time doing? Managing Clef?” Jack asked.
“Of course not. But I'd be lying if I said this didn't open up my schedule some.”
“And you don't know what happened to him?”
“Not a clue.”

The last time that Sophia saw Alto was in a standard debriefing meeting. The man couldn't seem to look her in the eye. His head drooped and his spine shaped like a question mark. The few times Sophia did get a good look at his face, it was obvious he hadn't slept well.
“Mission status?” Sophia asked. She knew the answer, but the formal corroboration was standard procedure.
“Success.”
“All objectives met?”
“Yes. The target was eliminated.”
“Any witnesses?”
“Yes. His two sons and his wife.”
“Were they aware that the target was anomalous?”
“It appeared not. I still amnestized them after the deed was done. They think he died in a car crash. Standard procedure.”
“Anything else to report?”
“Yes.”
Sophia tilted her head to the side. Normally this was where the debriefing ended. Alto would walk out the door, and Sophia wouldn't have to see his unshaved face for another few weeks. She wanted this over with.
“What is it?” Sophia prompted.
Alto finally looked up for the first time all meeting, “I would like to be put on reserve.”
Sophia stifled a laugh. “You? On reserve? Did you hit the bar before you came in here? Request denied.”
“What?” Alto stood, and approached Sophia's desk, “Why?” She could smell the after-mission fumes coming off of him. The man had stopped bathing during missions about a year ago. When Sophia complained Alto blamed the stress, but no one really believed that. It took all Sophia could muster to maintain eye contact.
“You're our most reliable agent at neutralizing type-greens. No one comes even close.”
“I'm getting less reliable with each day!” Alto said. He put his hand out in front of Sophia. It shook like an earthquake. “Does this look like the hand of a sharpshooter?”
“Well, you must do something to make it work.” Sophia could feel tears forming in her eyes. They stung from Alto's scent.
“It only works until it doesn't. One of these days I'm coming back in a body bag.”
“What makes the great Dr. Clef so afraid of death all the sudden?”
Alto leaned over the table, “Maybe I want to spend a few years in peace, you ever think of that? Given my liver I can't have more than seven or eight left. Maybe you could let an old man live a little.”
Sophia's nose couldn't take it anymore. She turned away from the man and started rubbing her eyes.
“Request still denied. If you want to quit for real, take it up with the council.”
And those were the last words Sophia said to him.

The two arrived at Site-19, nodded to each other, and then went their separate ways. They mingled with the others at the reception, trying their hardest to talk about anything except the pain in the ass they just buried. But they could still feel the heaviness in the air. That “you don't know what you got ‘til it's gone” vibe that comes with the ending of things.
Meanwhile, somewhere deep inside Site-19, an administrative assistant entered death certificates into the Foundation Database. He has higher clearance than every site director, and a few O5 members. But it's mostly because they needed someone to enter this information, and they weren't going to waste O5-3's time.
Not that the assistant understands what's so confidential about the death certificates. He doesn't know any of the agents or doctors or the Foundation, so he can't put a face to a name. Besides, for most of the certificates the cause of death was unknown anyways.
But he knew the importance of bookkeeping, and since that's what he got paid for, the assistant did it. He sat in his own little closet office, closed off from the rest of the Foundation, and continued to enter in names, times of death, and “N/A”s. However, about halfway through his current stack, he ran into a card that finally gave a cause of death.

Name: Jonathan Sealee
Time of Death: 04/19/2019, 16:33 hours EST.
Cause of Death: Killed in a car crash on his way to pick up his daughter from ballet practice.

"Hmm."
And then he moved on to the next card.


July 5, 2022 was almost a normal day. There was green grass and birdsong, happiness and sadness. Eight billion ordinary men and women went about their everyday lives, and eight hundred thousand equally ordinary men and women toiled in secrecy to ensure that these everyday lives could go on tomorrow. These eight hundred thousand had been successful for a long time.
Yet decades, even centuries of progress can fall in a single moment.
On July 5, 2022, a swarm of locusts escaped from a facility buried deep in the Nevadan desert, and the end of the world began.

Five months later, a concealed emergency beacon in rural Idaho did not receive its daily signal from Site 19.
The machine pinged Site 31. It received no response. Nor did it get one from Site 84, Site 119, or Site 12. The machine methodically worked its way through its list of 3,547 sites, facilities, and research stations. Not a single one replied.
So the machine waited 24 hours, and tried again. And again. And again and again and again. And after a full year, after confirming for the 365th time that none of the Foundation's facilities would respond to it, it moved to the next step in its protocol.
The machine deactivated its antimemetic cloaking system, and began to call for help.

"Hello? Can anyone hear me? Hello? If you can hear me, push the red button!"
For far too many days, the voice had been speaking to nothing but dust and rubble. But today, a woman heard this voice, and followed it to its source. A dull grey rectangle, the size of a digital tablet, but a good deal thicker. She pushed the red button.
"Oh, thank god! I've been calling out for the past… I don't even know how long. I was afraid I was just yelling into the void. You can understand me, right?"
"Y-Yes. Can you hear me?"
"Loud and clear, ma'am. Now, where do I begin…"
And as the machine's electronic brain whirred, it remembered a critical detail.
"Wait. The locusts. Are the locusts still out there?"
The woman sighed. "No, not anymore. I haven't seen a live one in… half a year, maybe? Died off because their food supply's gone, I guess. Everything's gone."
"Oh. That's… somewhat good news, I think. May I ask your name?"
"Caroline North. Who're you?"
"I'm a third-generation artificially intelligent construct built by the SCP Foundation. My creators named me Solomon."
"You're a what?"
"I think you'd better find somewhere comfortable to sit down, Ms. North. This is going to be a long story."
And after Caroline North had found a rock to sit on, the machine began to talk.
"First off, some background. The SCP Foundation is a clandestine organization whose primary goal is ensuring the continued survival of mankind, by protecting it from anomalous threats — aliens and monsters and demons that by all means should not exist."
"You're joking."
"I assure you, Ms. North, that I am completely serious."
"No way that's true."
"It's not a lie, Ms. North. The Foundation is very real — was very real, at least."
"What, you expect me to believe that you guys are like the- like the Men in Black or something?"
"That's not quite how I would've described us, but it's close enough."
Caroline began to speak again, but the machine cut her off. "Ms. North, I know all of this is hard to believe. But I need you to do just that. You've seen your world quite literally torn apart by flesh-eating locusts. Those were real enough, weren't they? There are more monsters just like them. Worse, even. The Foundation has been protecting mankind from them, until very recently."
"No, no. The locusts were… I don't know, different. There can't be more."
"Ms. North, what would I have to do to make you believe me?"
"Show me something, I guess. Prove to me that this sci-fi bullshit is real."
"All right."
And the machine played a disharmonious series of notes, terrible shrieking sounds that sent shivers down her spine.
"Okay, now try lifting your left arm."
Caroline tried, and found that she couldn't. "What did you do to me?"
"A cognitohazard, Ms. North. Certain stimuli can have unusual and even anomalous effects when perceived. Don't worry about the arm, it'll wear off in about a minute. But do you believe me now?"
"No. Maybe. I don't know. This is… this is a lot to take in."
"I see. Can I at least ask you to listen?"
"Yeah. I'll listen."
"Alright. This is the story of how the Foundation ended the world. In March of last year, a friend of ours introduced us to some locusts. They ate quickly and bred quicker, but they were harmless. We took them in, and it was just routine containment and experimentation at first. But about half a year later, some poor guy walked into the chamber, and the locusts just devoured him, flesh and bones and all. We didn't think much of that at the time — we were no strangers to flesh-eating monsters, after all. We just upped the security and called it a day."
Caroline nodded.
"We started worrying when they almost ate through their cell. Fortunately, we discovered early on that they couldn't eat through glass. Half an inch of reinforced glass in their cell stopped them from escaping, but some of us were worried it wouldn't last for long. These locusts weren't mutating before we took them in."
"You're saying the mutations were your fault?"
"I don't know, but it's a strong possibility. Anyways, our scientists were afraid that things would get worse, and on July 25 last year, they did. The locusts ate straight through their containment cell, the surrounding facility, and all the personnel stationed there. Even the on-site nuclear device didn't stop them. We received reports of the locusts in California around noon, and it just kept getting worse from there. And then…"
"We end up at today, right? The locusts are gone, but so is everything else."
"Correct. That about sums things up."
Caroline was quiet for a long time. And just when the machine was about to ask her if everything was alright, she spoke.
"How could you let this happen?"
"I'm sorry?"
"How the hell did you fuck things up this badly? You're some top-secret high-tech organization, right? You said you've been protecting us for- for- I don't know how long, but for a long time, right? How the fuck did you let this happen?"
"There were several developments we weren't expecting, Ms. North. The glass- we never thought they'd start eating glass- And even the nuclear detonation failed to-"
"No, that's not the problem! Why didn't you just kill the bastards when you had the chance? You had them locked up in your cage! Why didn't you end it there and then?"
"Because we couldn't. That's not who we were as an organization. Our motto was 'Secure, Contain, Protect'. And that wasn't just for mankind, it was for the anomalies too. We couldn't afford to destroy any more than we had to. We needed to learn all we could about these anomalies, because knowledge was our greatest weapon against them."
"And you couldn't have learned enough from their goddamn corpses?"
"We thought keeping them alive was the wisest course of action. We thought we were safe — more than safe enough. We didn't think any of this could have happened."
"And now the world's gone to hell and everyone is fucking dead!"
"I know."
Both of them were silent for a while. Then, the machine spoke again.
"I'm sorry."
"What?"
"I said I'm sorry. On behalf of the Foundation, I want to apologize to you. You're right. We could have done better. We should have done better. None of this ever should have happened in the first place. There were so many things we did wrong, so many mistakes we never should have made. I'm sorry."
"… I had a fiance, you know."
The machine did not say anything, so Caroline continued.
"We were going to get married at the end of August last year, but the locusts happened. When the government evacuated our area, we were sent into different trucks. I went back to look for him after the locusts died out."
"Did you find him?"
"I found his truck. Or what was left of it, anyways. There was nothing inside. No body left to bury. Not even bones."
"I'm sorry."
"Sorry won't bring him back."
"I know."
Silence again. If the machine had eyes, it would've seen the tears rolling down Caroline's face. And then:
"Why are you telling me all this?"
"Because we can fix this. We can fix all of this. The Foundation couldn't protect humanity this time, and I am truly sorry. But we can make things right. I just need your help."
"How?"
"We have a facility in Yellowstone, deep underground. There's machines there — a lot of machines. The details are complicated, but it can rebuild the world. It has everything we need, from arrays of cloning tanks to a complete backup of the World Wide Web."
"And what, you just press a button and it'll fix everything?"
"More or less. I just need you to go there. It has to be activated by a human being."
"You couldn't have done this earlier?"
"We weren't sure if the time was right. Using this machine is a difficult decision to make, Ms. North. It doesn't just rebuild the world, it resets it — it'll erase everything that's happened up to now and replace it with a false history, make it seem as if none of this ever happened. This really is our last resort. We didn't want to use it unless we knew there was nothing else we could do."
"But why me? Why not one of you guys?"
"We don't have anyone left, Ms. North. I was designed as a final contingency plan, the ultimate failsafe. I only activate when I fail to receive a response from each and every one of the three thousand, five hundred, and forty-seven Foundation sites in my database for three hundred and sixty-five consecutive days. If any Foundation personnel were alive, I would have received a signal a long time ago. I know it's unfair to ask this of you, Ms. North, but we have nobody else."
"You can fuck off."
"I'm sorry?"
"I said you can fuck off. Fuck right off with this bullshit. I don't want anything to do with this. All I wanted was to get married, have a kid or two, live the rest of my life as an ordinary human being. I can't do something this important."
"Please, Ms. North. It's just a button. All you have to do is push a button."
"It's not just a button. I don't know what the fuck you guys were thinking when you made this button, but there are things that Man does and there are things that God does, and resetting the entire goddamn world isn't something that mankind can go and do by itself, IS IT?
"We've done this before."
Caroline did not say anything, so the machine continued.
"We don't know when. We don't know why. We don't even know how many times. All we know is that the Yellowstone facility has been activated before. At some point in the past, somebody had to make the decision to abandon their world and everything in it so that mankind could live on. Maybe it was someone from the Foundation, someone who had spent their entire career dealing with things that should not exist. Or maybe it was someone like you, someone who lived a simpler life, a normal life. But I don't think that difference is important. All that matters is that one day, somebody looked at their world, and looked at the button. Somebody asked themselves whether mankind should dare step into the domain of God. Somebody asked themselves whether they had the right to do this. Somebody asked themselves if humanity would be better off just giving up. And at the end of that day, somebody pushed the button. Please, Ms. North. Be that somebody."
"Go ask somebody else."
"I don't know if there is a 'somebody else'. Ms. North, I am begging you. Please."
"I already told you, I'm not going to do this."
"I want to apologize again, even if my apologies don't mean much to you. I am deeply and truly sorry, Ms. North. I am sorry that we have failed you. I am sorry that you have lost so much because of our mistakes. I am sorry that I have to ask you to do this. But please. We fucked this up and we paid with our lives. We're all dead, Ms. North, every last one of us. Please, help us make things right."
And if the machine had eyes, Caroline would've seen the tears rolling down its screen.
Caroline thought for a long time. She thought about her parents, her friends, her fiance. She thought about all the people she knew, and all the people she didn't. She thought about the world she once lived in, the world she loved, a world filled with life. It wasn't a perfect world. Some days, it wasn't even a good world. But no matter how bad it was, it was still her world.
She thought about the world as it was now. A world so different from the one before. A world without green grass and birdsong. A world without the everyday lives of eight billion ordinary men and women. A world without life, all because some secret organization couldn't keep a few locusts in their cage.
She thought about the button. All she had to do was push the button. All she had to do was take on the role of God, to save mankind by destroying it.
She thought for an eternity, and then a bit longer.
And she sighed.
"I'll try. I can't promise anything, but I can try."
"Thank you, Ms. North. Thank you so much."


WAK3UPSH33PL3 04/12/18 (Thu) 12:06:22 #12766349

WAKE UP SHEEPLE

AL GORE IS AN ALIEN PUPPET
AL GORE IS AN ALIEN PUPPET
AL GORE IS AN ALIEN PUPPET
AL GORE IS AN ALIEN PUPPET
AL GORE IS AN ALIEN PUPPET
AL GORE IS AN ALIEN PUPPET
AL GORE IS AN ALIEN PUPPET
AL GORE IS AN ALIEN PUPPET
AL GORE IS AN ALIEN PUPPET
AL GORE IS AN ALIEN PUPPET
AL GORE IS AN ALIEN PUPPET
AL GORE IS AN ALIEN PUPPET
AL GORE IS AN ALIEN PUPPET
AL GORE IS AN ALIEN PUPPET
AL GORE IS AN ALIEN PUPPET
AL GORE IS AN ALIEN PUPPET
AL GORE IS AN ALIEN PUPPET
AL GORE IS AN ALIEN PUPPET
AL GORE IS AN ALIEN PUPPET
AL GORE IS AN ALIEN PUPPET
AL GORE IS AN ALIEN PUPPET
AL GORE IS AN ALIEN PUPPET
AL GORE IS AN ALIEN PUPPET
AL GORE IS AN ALIEN PUPPET
AL GORE IS AN ALIEN PUPPET
AL GORE IS AN ALIEN PUPPET
AL GORE IS AN ALIEN PUPPET
AL GORE IS AN ALIEN PUPPET
AL GORE IS AN ALIEN PUPPET
AL GORE IS AN ALIEN PUPPET
AL GORE IS AN ALIEN PUPPET
AL GORE IS AN ALIEN PUPPET
 [USER WAS BANNED FOR THIS POST]

🗿 mr_sen 04/12/18 (Thu) 12:19:20 #12766349

As if. Next time try something plausible.
Thread locked and moved.

🗿 mr_sen 04/12/18 (Thu) 12:06:22 #12766349

[IMG 3422523534.PNG]

YEARLY SHTF STOCK THREAD
It's that time of the year again boys. Post your SHTF supply list and discuss possible SHTF scenarios.
F.A.Q.
Q: "What is SHTF?"
A: Shit Hits The Fan. It's a term used here for when the impending paranormal apocalypse happens, whatever it may be.
Q: What can I do to prepare for a SHTF scenario?
A: To put it shortly, a lot. You will need to stockpile canned food, water, tools, weapons, resources, and many other things. Imagine emergency planning, but for a longer period of time.
Q: "Are you LARPERs?"
A: No. We are a group of people who know that something is lurking just out of sight. There's a lot we don't know about the paranormal, but that is why we are here; to teach one another and to learn about what lies beyond.
I'll start us off with what I think is gonna happen.
BIGFOOT UPRISING!!
Personally, I think the end will come about with a global, synchronized rebellion of the bigfoot, yeti, sasquatch, whatever you wanna call them, they're coming.
They're starting to get closer and closer to human civilization because they're analyzing us. We might outnumber them, but they're bigger, faster, stronger, and more resilient. Darlene Wuornos from that write-up two-egg did (By the way, great job, that was excellent.) had a run-in with that thing and took a hatchet to it, it didn't even blink. I think it's gonna take more than a few bullets to bring them down, and they'll have overrun the military before we know what happened.
I'm holed up in my little neck of the woods in Oklahoma. Nothing on earth can get past my bunker door, and I've got food and water for months. What about you guys?

so-many-lost-throwaways 04/12/18 (Thu) 12:17:00 #18937751

lol why do you have your guns displayed like that, you fucking tool
[USER WAS BANNED FOR THIS POST]

ursula_qu33n-of-the-C 04/12/18 (Thu) 12:18:06 #1897851

Sweet rack, 🗿 mr_sen. I love the work you put into presentation for us.
Anyways, my sister and I have recently taken up fletching to help us be more prepared for when SHTF. Neither of us knows how to use a bow yet though but we're working our way up. We also started pickling and pruning foodstuff, so we're increasingly ready. Thank you for all the useful guides!
As for what I think is gonna happen, I don't really know, global warming? My sister and I fucked because we're in florida lol.

CALEB 04/12/18 (Thu) 12:20:06 #18937751

you both are always welcome to come over whenever ;)

🗿 mr_sen 04/12/18 (Thu) 12:21:13 #12766349

Knock it off, CALEB. We talked about this. Don't creep on users.
Do not respond to this post unless you are staff. This comment thread is locked.

🗿 pandapandapanda 04/12/18 (Thu) 12:54:00 #18937751

Is this a joke to you, 🗿 mr_sen? :/ This kind of SHTF thread given what's happening?

🗿 mr_sen 04/12/18 (Thu) 12:54:56 #12766349

??????

🗿 pandapandapanda 04/12/18 (Thu) 12:55:10 #12768742

God, you are clueless. Get on staff chat ASAP. Code Red.

LLLLLLL 04/12/18 (Thu) 12:56:55 #65478245

WTF
THIS DIDN'T SAY IT COULD ERASE WHOLE FUCKING COUNTRIES I THOUGHT WE WERE JUST HUNTING BIGFOOT
GUNS DON'T WORK ON THIS!

alicia-en-el-mundo-d-maravillas 04/12/18 (Thu) 12:57:20 #18937751

dude what

LLLLLLL 04/12/18 (Thu) 12:57:33 #18937751

Turn on your tv to literally any fucking channel

SPONSORED CONTENT

cetaceanhussbuster 04/12/18 (Thu) 12:59:38 #12766349

IT'S HAPPENING

HOLY SHIT GUYS
TURN ON YOUR MOTHERFUCKING tvS!!!!!!!!!!!
IT'S FUCKING HAPPENING
IT'S FUCKING HAPPENING
IT'S GONE! IT'S ALL FUCKING GONE!
WTF DO WE DO HOLY SHIT
OMFG WHAT DO WE DO
AAAAAAAAAAA
ETA- OMFG THE ENTIRE COUNTRY IS GONE
ETA 2- WHO THE FUCK IS SCP
ETA 3- WTF!!!!!
ETA 4- WHY IS NO ONE TALKING ABOUT THIS?!
ETA 5- sorry i didnt notice there was a megathread
 [THREAD LOCKED.]

catlady92 04/12/18 (Thu) 13:00:05 #69998245
See you all in the next life. You were excellent. My boyfriend and I are going into our bunker. Wish you the best.
Good luck.
 [THREAD LOCKED.]

rex_alces 04/12/18 (Thu) 13:01:12 #65478245

Hi ^_^
im new to this forum, my name is rex, it's nice to meet you all.
i really like creepypastas and im excited to learn about the real ones

capitalism will win 04/12/18 (Thu) 13:01:25 #65478245

So do you think this means College Humor will finally stop with those miserable 'Adventures of Kim Jong Un' episodes?
 [THREAD LOCKED.]

t4ylor_itk1n 04/12/18 (Thu) 13:03:06 #63252222
World's coming to an end boys, post your supplies. Pic related, there is none, I'm fucked.
 [THREAD LOCKED.]

arthurisabitch 04/12/18 (Thu) 13:03:56 #65478245
This al Fine UN lady is looking All Fine if you know what I mean. 😏
 [THREAD LOCKED.]

fistulafucker 04/12/18 (Thu) 13:04:28 #65478245
Guys, I'm scared. Does this mean we're about to go to war with a bunch of other countries?
 [THREAD LOCKED.]

SPONSORED CONTENT

🗿 mr_sen 04/12/18 (Thu) 13:06:22 #12766349

Ground zero

NORTH KOREAN INCIDENT MEGATHREAD
ALL OTHER THREADS WILL BE LOCKED.
DISCUSS ALL GOING-ONS OF THE NORTH KOREA INCIDENT HERE.
THE FACTS

Most of the country of North Korea just vanished.
No exact reason has been given yet.
The United Nations secret paranormal group 'The Global Occult Coalition' stepped form and blamed a party named 'The SCP Foundation'.
The SCP Foundation is apparently a group similar to the Global Occult Coalition.
Relief efforts by the UN are ongoing.
al Fine, Global Occult Coalition and UN representative is demanding the SCP Foundation comment on the situation, nothing yet.

SPECULATION

The 'SCP Foundation' are likely another paranormal group, likely government funded.
They're not UN funded, because that's the Global Occult Coalition's business.
Might be a South Korean project?
Maybe even American?
Probably weaponizes the paranormal?

Though I doubt any of you have relatives in North Korea, we still wish no one any harm. Updates may be found on the thread below. This post will be updated as I can.

ursula_qu33n-of-the-C 04/12/18 (Thu) 13:17:00 #18937751

holy shit

rat-boner 04/12/18 (Thu) 13:19:22 #18937751

I never thought it would go down like this holy shit

two-egg 04/12/18 (Thu) 13:32:56 #18937751

UPDATE!!!
The SCP Foundation has hijacked all the tv stations I can get with a message saying they'll speak shortly.

CALEB 04/12/18 (Thu) 13:33:19 #18937751

ninja'd

cthulahoop 04/12/18 (Thu) 13:40:42 #18937751

i dont know whats scarier, whats happening or the fact that the scp foundation thinks a lab in a lab coat is gonna make us feel better

two-egg 04/12/18 (Thu) 13:43:06 #18937751

The dog just fucking talked.

rex_alces 04/12/18 (Thu) 13:50:10 #12766349

This is a really good ARG you guys are playing O_o

🗿 pandapandapanda 04/12/18 (Thu) 13:50:10 #12766349

I would say read the Guide for Newbies but I'm so shocked there's someone on this world who still doesn't know what's going on.

🗿 mr_sen 04/12/18 (Thu) 13:52:20 #18937751

Hello all. The following has just been confirmed by global news networks and my sources on the inside: The SCP Foundation is indeed responsible for the destruction of North Korea. They claim it's only spacially displaced, but they're also not sure if the civilians survived.
On another note, I know most of you are panicked as hell right now (as I see on IRC) but I'd like to make an official post here for all of you here and now. We are a family here on the Parawatch Wiki and we will all get through this. The Paranormal has come and it was not what we expected, but we are still prepared nonetheless.
Our new goal is to learn everything there is to learn about the paranormal. We haven't lost our purpose, we've merely shifted our goals a bit. And yes, I do find it funny that this is all happening the very same day our yearly SHTF thread goes up.
Stay safe out there, watchmen.

Three6serpent 04/12/18 (Thu) 13:40:19 #65814523

Hi! :3
I'm a member of the Serpent's Hand! We're all so happy to welcome you to the real awakened world.
I'm sure you have many questions, so AMA!
 [USER WAS BANNED FOR THIS POST]


Curtains. Light, a spotlight.
Applause, then silence. The curtains rise.
A Prometheus Labs-branded Temporal Advancement Anchor Chamber.
A female body, naked, soulless, a duplicant. The performance will be destructive.
A woman.
She takes the microphone.

"Maslow placed hunger atop his hierarchy alongside water, warmth, and rest. The need to satisfy one's hunger is instinct so primal and deeply rooted in our minds that we simply cannot ignore it. Hunger drives an honest person to steal, the proud to beg, and the devout to sin. Simply put, the human mind cannot stomach to be hungry for long."

Subdued laughter runs through the crowd.
The Anartist smirks.

"As citizens of the first world, this is not a problem for you and I, and likely will never be. Food is so plentiful we discard it if we are unsatisfied with it, we have food fights, we even hold contests to see who can eat the most. What we consider normal is luxury to those in less fortunate places.
Last year, Thailand was affected by the most devastating earthquake in the area of the last hundred years. Despite the United Nation's best efforts to feed the victims of this catastrophe, they only have so many resources. How cruel is it that I, someone who will starve for the sake of art, can enjoy the luxuries of replacing my body at will while they cannot so much as eat once a month?"

An uncomfortable silence.
The wealthy understand their privilege and do not like being reminded of it.

"Now, going without food for a few hours is not a problem. Even a day is nothing. But what about a week? A decade? A thousand years?"

Gasps, murmurs, and shocked whispers at her daring.
She strips, she strides towards the Chamber and sets it to 1,000 years.
It is small. It is uncomfortable. What flavor will her vintage bear?
An assistant rushes onto the stage, sealing the Chamber with the Anartist inside.

It has begun.

She twists.
She withers

She gnarls.

but she does not die.

She lives.

She looks like death

She is a husk

frail and brittle

a faint, pale shadow

surviving but not living.

in the clutches of life.

2368 Three-Ports Galleria Exhibit
Certificate of Recognition

Award: The Desai Prize
Recipient: Valerie Sinclaire
Aim: To recognize anartists who use the human body as a canvas for their art, and explore the medium to its depths.

More From This Author

More From This Author

Uncle Nicolini's Works

SCPs

SCP-5231 •

SCP-1799 •

SCP-ES-101-J •

SCP-7926 •

SCP-7727 •

SCP-4206 •

SCP-7221 •

SCP-4176 •

SCP-020-J •

SCP-PL-274 •

SCP-4003 •

SCP-4026 •

SCP-6057 •

SCP-7726 •

SCP-4046 •

Tales/GoI Formats

Spirit Of The Forest •

Ace Of Hearts •

I Don't Get It, But I'll Figure It Out. •

Being Dzhey Evervud •

Cool Guys Don't Look At Explosions •

Critter Profile: Maya! •

Adoption Poster: Bandit! •

Robin •

Dr. Cimmerian Hits Reply All •

GRANT REQUEST FOR THE RE-CREATION OF AN ADVANCED POSTMORTEM NEURAL PRESERVATION SYSTEM •

What Came After •

Borne on the FM Waves of the Heart •

Before the Storm •

Fifteenth Anonymous Donation •

Reality TV, Designer Pets, and Fine Dining •

Other

Ode To The Unknown Author •

uncle nicolini author page •

Sciptember 2022 Art Highlights •


wander-nameless 1/23/17 (Mon) 7:32:55 #92638920

I stayed up late last night after making a fascinating discovery, one that I wanted to share immediately. Of course, that was the exact moment my internet chose to go down. But today is a new day, and I'm here to share some knowledge you probably forgot.
If you were like me as a kid, you probably weren't interested in reading anything. Except, of course, the "Scared Stiff" series.
Scared Stiff was a series of children's horror books published in the late 90s and early 2000s, following in the footsteps of Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark and Goosebumps. It's hard to say how many there were, but a reasonable estimate places the numbers between 35 and 50 novels, each about 100-200 pages long. As I recall, these books were marketed towards kids who didn't like reading, and usually had a pretty dry and macabre sense of humor. Each book featured a different set of characters facing some unusual and horrific challenge. Despite the horrific premise, most books usually ended okay for their protagonists, but many featured some sort of ambiguous "or are they" twist at the very end. It didn't do too well in the shadow of the previously mentioned series, which were honestly of better quality, and it faded into obscurity by the late 2000s.

s0sp00ky 1/23/17 (Mon) 7:55:12 #28362710

You forgot to mention the author, H. O. X. Blackthorn. I always presumed it was a pseudonym (the initials spell out a possible phonetic spelling of "hoax"). I read several of them, and I read about half of several more. I could never really get to the end.

KatyDidnt 1/23/17 (Mon) 8:14:41 #48263911

I completely forgot about Scared Stiff until you mentioned it! Man, that series was completely fucked up. I gave my sister one of my copies, gave her nightmares for weeks. Good times. Doesn't surprise me that this series ends up memorialized here, but I'm wondering what horrific events/conspiracies could possibly be connected to this series.

wander-nameless 1/23/17 (Mon) 8:58:32 #82263919

No horrific events uncovered (yet), but a pretty weird conspiracy.
See, I did a lot of digging last night, and I'm pretty sure Scared Stiff doesn't exist. Stay with me for a second.
Like others, I thought H. O. X. Blackthorn was a pseudonym, and when I searched it last night my suspicions were pretty much confirmed, no surprise there. But searching for it revealed a shockingly small amount of information. I mean, wikipedia had a page for that god awful Goosebumps knockoff, "Shivers," but nothing for Scared Stiff. I was able to find a few forum posts that mentioned it in passing, and was able to discern from there that the books were released by "Lacuna Publishing." No record of such a publisher exists, and the word "lacuna" means a gap in language.
The few titles I can remember yielded no results when searched. I searched a few old catalogues and found no mention of the titles. Im stopping by my library later today, I'll check to see if they have any copies of the book in stock or on file.

KatyDidnt 1/23/17 (Mon) 9:20:29 #62378267

Weird! You know, I used to think those stories predicted the future. I remember reading the one about the horrible earthquakes that tore the earth in two, and the next week there was a pretty big earthquake in my neck of the woods. I was convinced reading the book had caused it. So I reread it that night, lol.

Whomst-Will-You-Call 1/23/17 (Mon) 10:42:16 #03642937

My brother read the one about the kids who turn into parrots, and the next day he swore he coughed up feathers. I always thought he was just being a little shit and pranking us.

wander-nameless 1/23/17 (Mon) 12:53:04 #38295661

So I just got back from the library. They didn't have any physical copies in stock, no surprise there, but when I searched it up on the computer catalogue, nothing came up. Like, straight up nothing. Which is weird, because I know I read several of them by checking them out of the library. I tried searching up Lacuna publishing, and again nothing came up.
It's funny that you guys mention the books seeming to predict the future, I remember thinking that the books caused the future. Like, I read a book where a guy was stuck in a time loop, and I had the weirdest deja vu for days after.

s0sp00ky 1/23/17 (Mon) 2:24:15 #14293674

It's probably just a coincidence. Like the Barenst(a/e)in Bears thing, you know, where there was some arbitrary decision made somewhere on the branch that has far reaching effects and causes people like us to go crazy searching for meaning. Still, it's a nice trip down memory lane. My favorite was the one where the girl turns invisible, though I didn't think I had turned invisible afterwards.

KatyDidnt 1/23/17 (Mon) 5:16:01 #14233187

> s0sp00ky: Thinks it's a coincidence
> s0sp00ky: Posts on Parawatch

Whomst-Will-You-Call 1/24/17 (Tue) 3:07:48 #03642937

So at first I thought you guys were being ridiculous, but I did some research. I did a lot of digging. A lot. And I'm back to share what I've learned.
We can be more exact about the release dates, the earliest was released in 1997 and the latest was released in 2003. By my estimates, there are about 44 books, plus or minus a few. Lacuna seemingly operated only to publish these books. My initial research led me to believe the books were distributed all over America, but I've discovered holes in distribution in the south, the midwest, and a few other places (namely Hawaii and Alaska). I kept researching. And the more I researched, the more I remembered, and I remembered something pretty big.
H. O. X. Blackthorn is mentioned in every single book. I'm nearly positive of this, every book I read had a mention of him and I've seen at least one other person mention that the author avatar appeared in the books. What's more, the reference is always the same every time, an unnamed man clothed in grey, who is looking for Blackthorn (to my memory, sometimes it was written as searching for "a black thorn" due to the characters' ignorance). To my knowledge, the later the volume was released the more desperate the man got, despite never seeming to get closer to his goal.
Here's where it gets weird(er): this mystery man exists. There are recorded web appearances of a man using a grey suit avatar to search for Blackthorn. At first I thought he was imitating the character in an attempt to find Blackthorn, but instances of his correspondence date back and to 1993, several years prior to the publication of the first novel. Somebody was looking for Blackthorn. Blackthorn knew and made this man a character in his books.
And the weirdest part, I don't know if this is a dream or a memory or a fantasy, but I swear, I met the man in the grey suit. And he warned me to avoid Blackthorn's books. Told me trouble followed them. And regardless of whether it's real, I'm wondering if I should believe him. Because I've only discovered one forum similar to this one where somebody mentions seemingly predictive/causal properties of these books in passing. But I've discovered at least half a dozen news stories of local disasters where the series is referenced as portraying similar events, or else being a catalyst or inspiration for the event. Something bad happened with these books.

KatyDidnt 1/24/17 (Tue) 9:34:21 #927648302

Holy shit. So all of that combined with last night and I'm getting a little spooked. Well, more spooked than normal.
I talked with my sister about Scared Stiff last night (she thought it was Goosebumps at first). The one that freaked her out was kind of a Toy Story Gone Horror plot, basically the main character's toys came to life and began plotting to trap mc as revenge for being trapped or something? Like picture the Sid scene but like the toys are actually evil. She said that she got rid of all her toys pretty much immediately. I asked if there was some other reason why. She said at night she knew exactly where each toy was placed, and when she woke they had all moved around, and had moved closer to her. She laughed it off, saying she had a vivid imagination as a kid. Now I'm not so sure.
I asked her if she remembered anything about Blackthorn. She said she remembered that scene specifically from the book because she had weird deja vu with a conversation she had shortly after reading it. She says she thinks it was a dream. I don't know what to think anymore. I know someone who knows something about publishing, I'll see if they can find out something about Lacuna.

s0sp00ky 1/24/17 (Tue) 5:35:17 #91627381

You'll never believe it, I found somebody selling a copy of the parrot book on eBay. I swooped in and outbid the maybe two bids it had received and asked for it to be rush delivered, should be here by Friday. I'm trying to get in contact with the seller, see what they know about it.
I remembered the invisibility book plot a bit better. Turns out, the mc isn't afraid of the invisibility, it's of being ignored. I definitely remember feeling overlooked at that point in my life. I'm not saying there's definitely something weird going on, but I'll look into what I can, when I have free time. Figure out if any of this makes sense.

wander-nameless 1/25/17 (Wed) 1:42:51 #91528364

Research into Blackthorn has yielded nothing. Research into titles has yielded nothing. I've been following forum threads and contacting people to see if they know anything, nothing yet. I'm visiting my parents' home this weekend, maybe looking through old boxes of books will reveal something. I'm trying to track this through every trick I can think of. Something's gotta give, we're close to figuring this out, I can feel it.

Whomst-Will-You-Call 1/26/17 (Thu) 8:30:37 #82619367

I'm looking into the guy who was looking for Blackthorn. Found a lot of weird things, but no luck yet. I'll keep you posted.

KatyDidnt 1/27/17 (Fri) 7:22:10 #92648302

So I have some bad news. Maybe it's good news? At the very least it's mundane news.
I talked with my publisher friend, and after a bit of digging, they found out about Lacuna. It was a small boutique publisher that seemed to be dedicated solely to publishing the Scared Stiff books in the contiguous U.S. They apparently were not able to distribute all over the country and had to strategically market which regions they thought the books would sell in, which would account for the apparent gaps in the regions.
I discovered something else fascinating if kinda dull. The books aren't originally English, they're German. "Angsthase" (roughly "scaredy-cat" in English) was a German children's horror series published from 1990-1996. 44 books, each one documenting a new cast of child characters facing some horror scenario, the titles and rough plots of the books correspond one-to-one with all our current information of Scared Stiff. The credited author of Angsthase was "D. E. K. Schwarzdorn" with D. E. K. being presumed to be a phonetic spelling of "deck" for "deckname," roughly "codename" in English and Schwarzdorn translating to, you guessed it, Blackthorn. Schwarzdorn's work is believed to be the combined works of several German children's book authors like similar serialized/anthology series before it (think Nancy Drew, Hardy Boys). Blackthorn is a mystery because they don't exist, and presumably the grey suit guy is just some guy who read the German and was roleplaying
From this I can come to one of two conclusions:
1. Lacuna was a small publisher that closed down a few short years after opening and for some reason was erased from records out of shame or just forgotten to time.
2. Lacuna attempted to rerelease the Angsthase series as Scared Stiff, and somebody from the original German team found out and told them to cut that shit out, removing every trace of Scared Stiff they could.
All of which is a long-winded way to say I don't think these books are that strange. Maybe we did just try and pin coincidences on these weird books during our formative years. Maybe there's a conspiracy going on, but it doesn't go all the way to the top. Sorry guys, better luck next time.

s0sp00ky 1/27/17 (Fri) 4:35:37 #62719362

Book arrived here. When I opened it, the first page comes with an attached bag of feathers and several sets of instructions for pulling off pranks with them. The seller was a German man, thought he had found a rare English translation of an Angsthase book, which in a way he had. That's why the auction was so hard to find to begin with, I was looking for the wrong name. I think we were just kids with active imaginations who got engulfed in the story yet again as adults.

Whomst-Will-You-Call 1/28/17 (Sat) 11:06:21 #16273521

Mystery man posts were a bust. The posts were just made to look weirdly old, and the person who apparently posted them said he'd never heard of the series in his life, leading me to believe the whole thing was faked.

wander-nameless 1/29/17 (Sun) 9:58:21 #56271425

I visited my parents this weekend, asked if they remembered Scared Stiff, they said no. I asked if I could look through the old books. After sifting through a few boxes, I found one book from the series, one that I had never read. Book 44. It was called "DevilsCrown.os" and it was about a kid who was trying to program a text adventure. The text adventure was a story about a playwright trying to complete a script. From what the story tells us, the script the playwright is working on centers on an artist dealing with deep depression, and much is made about a dream sequence the artist has (a narrative within the narrative), where every possible command must be accounted for, to represent the different paths the artist and thus the playwright could take. To handle the processing power of all these theoretical commands, the kid buys a new computer, a jet-black hard drive running an operating system called DevilsCrown. In typical Scared Stiff fashion, weird shit begins happening as he works on the game. Lines of code he never wrote show up, important stuff is deleted, and his home keeps experiencing power outages. Slowly, the dream sequence disappears, then the playwright's whole script, then the game with the playwright. The story ends with a power outage that makes the boy believe he's gone blind, as nothingness seems to surround him. He sees a blinding light, walks towards it, and the story ends.
The man in grey appears. He appears as a minor character in the game, a friend of the playwright, that begins speaking to the kid. Or so it seems. After the kid finally acknowledges that the man is speaking outside of his scripting and more towards the kid, the speech from the man moves from quotations to narration, a jarring shift that makes it feel like he's talking to the audience.

Stop looking for Blackthorn. You will not find him, and only misery awaits you on the path ahead.

That's not dialogue, that's not part of the character's inner monologue. That's said from the grey man to the reader.
I know, I know I'm rambling, but I don't know what else to do. I can't explain it, but I think I'm in danger. My power went out the second I got home. I swear I'm being followed by someone in a grey suit, and if I heard this from somebody else I'd think they were going crazy. Who knows, maybe I am crazy.
But how do you explain the terrible things that happened? I know humans can find patterns in everything, but every single person who remembers these books experiencing the exact same fiction coming to life bullshit is not a coincidence, it is definitely a pattern, and not one that bodes well. I don't think I scare easily, but I shouldn't have read this. I shouldn't have dredged this up, something bad is happening, and I don't know what. I'm scared to go home, and I know how pathetic that sounds, but I'm not crazy. Or maybe I am. But even if I am crazy, I'm not making this up.
If what happens in the story comes true, then I'm next. I'm the next thing to disappear. And I don't know how to stop it.

wander-nameless 1/30/17 (Mon) 8:23:16 #32719352

Haha, very funny. You got me good, whoever hacked into my account. Very clever story. The only reason you got away with this is because my wifi has been out for a week and I haven't been able to log into Parawatch. I'm changing my password, asking the site admins for an immediate investigation into who hijacked my account, and asking that this thread be locked to not confuse site visitors into believing this obvious hoax.


cthulahoop 04/12/12 (Thu) 12:06:22 #12766349

The premise of a real commercial "snuff film" has bewitched film-goers and film-makers over the years. From urban legends regarding a suicide in the background of The Wizard of Oz to the campaign of misinformation surrounding The Blair Witch Project, audiences and directors have indirectly conspired to achieve the appearance of an authentic "death on tape" for decades.
The irony is palpable: records of genuine deaths can be obtained near-effortlessly. News outlets provide endless footage of war; meanwhile, one needs only to crack open a history book to find countless images of execution, mass murder, and senseless violence. But these deaths are presented as informative rather than titillating — detached from the camera's hungry lens. They did not die for our viewing pleasure.
The snuff film is more intimate; more voyeuristic. Though it may frame itself as merely "instructive" (such as the seminal 1978 classic, Faces of Death), this contrivance is merely to placate our sense of guilt long enough to watch someone die for our enjoyment. And isn't that the whole point? When Hideshi Hino drugs, kidnaps, and dismembers a beautiful woman over several hours in the 1985 Japanese horror film, Guinea Pig 2: Flowers of Flesh and Blood, is it not clear this is for our own gratification? Doesn't the framing of the film (footage taken by the murderer himself) presume the murderer wants us to watch? Even participate? The harder it is to distinguish from an authentic murder, the more tantalizing it becomes. We soothe our conscience by telling ourselves it's just a movie — all while a tiny voice teases and thrills us with just a whisper: but what if it's not?
This zealous dedication to verisimilitude often has a cost. Hideshi Hino has had to demonstrate his special effects to skeptical authorities on multiple occasions (even going so far as explaining them in another film, The Making of Guinea Pig). The director of Cannibal Holocaust (1980) famously appeared in court with his cast to prove they were not actually dead. Even Faces of Death still receives periodic outcries for the "monkey-brain" scene (the monkey was not harmed; the mallets were foam and the brains were cauliflower).
In 1983, Goldhaus Distributors released Sunday Dinner. The most well-known version is two and a half hours long; it consists of cuts between six different cameras hidden throughout a home. Over the first forty five minutes, we watch a family — a father, a mother, two sons, and a daughter — having an ordinary Sunday dinner. The grainy, low-quality footage and lack of sound design helps sell it as genuine. Then, the footage cuts to the attic; messy, but seemingly uninhabited. Back to the family, heads bowed. The daughter is saying grace. Back to the attic.
Something lurches past the camera.
There are no musical cues, no shocking sounds; merely the silent intrusion of something that does not belong. The effect of this is stunning on account of how it doesn't try to be.
Back to the family, enjoying dinner and chatting about each other's day. We learn one of the boys is having trouble at school. Something about a bully. The mother disapproves of violence, but the father wants him to stand up for himself. The other son, desperate to avoid what is likely a recurring marital spat, interrupts by offering his latest scholastic achievement. He got a B+ on his math exam. The father and mother put their dispute on hold long enough to express their pride. Meanwhile, the daughter complains of a tummy ache.
Back to the attic.
The figure now paces. We cannot make out his face; it is covered in a crudely stitched burlap sack. It's only now that astute viewers start to identify clues that indicate his prolonged presence: Empty tin cans. A filth encrusted bucket filled with (presumably) excrement. Piles of clothes used as a bed.
The shot lingers. For eight minutes, we watch him pace side to side. When he abruptly stops, it almost looks like he's staring up at the camera.
Cut back to the family dinner.
All of them are now slumped in their chairs or over the table, paralyzed and whimpering.
At this point, the film proceeds much as you would expect: the figure descends, then methodically murders each paralyzed family member. The mother is crushed (bones snapping) when she is forced into the oven — then roasted alive. The father is eviscerated, his intestines forced down his throat. Both sons are placed inside the refrigerator, left to experience the agony of asphyxiation via carbon dioxide (the killer notably takes the time to carefully empty the refrigerator's contents before removing the shelves).
The daughter is the last and most disturbing. This is on account of the paralytic (presumably placed in their food) partially wearing off. The audience is subjected to an excruciatingly extended scene where she crawls out to the porch, sobbing and screaming for help — only to be dragged back inside by her ankle. Forty five minutes later, the film ends.
Unsurprisingly, this movie (made available on VHS through Goldhaus Distributors' mail-order catalog) caught the attention of law enforcement. The video was uncredited and the effects (combined with the grainy low quality of the footage) were good enough to make it seem "too authentic". Compounding this problem was that Goldhaus Distributors (operated entirely by a married couple out of their living room) claimed to have received the film from Crystal Elms Productions — a production company that didn't even exist. Goldhaus couldn't prove that the video wasn't real.
Was it, though? There were several clues, not the least of which was that no murder like this had been recently reported. The positions of the cameras implied that they were not hidden at all. The timing of the killer's movements (and that brief glance at the audience) suggested a director's hand. The daughter's complaint of a tummy ache sounded like foreshadowing. The mother's death, while shockingly graphic, had the killer obstructing our view at several key points (points where she could have swapped places with a dummy). The porch camera was used only once, at the end; its placement was extremely convenient. How could the killer have known the daughter would crawl out the back door?
But the most compelling argument of all was the simplest: Why? Why would someone go through the trouble of hiding several cameras in a family's house, secretly living in their attic — only to drug them, murder them, then send the footage to a film distributor for public consumption?
Despite these points, Goldhaus Distributors removed Sunday Dinner from their catalog and handed all extant copies over to the FBI. The ensuing investigation is still ongoing; the movie itself became a footnote in the history of exploitative schlock-horror.
Then, during an interview in 2010 on Troma-Vision (a podcast for horror movies from various genres), Brian Holdinger (an independent film-maker) professed his fascination with Sunday Dinner. One of the hosts (an actress named Susan White) confessed a similar fascination. During the following discussion, they realized they had drastically different recollections of what happened in the film. To settle the debate, they agreed to bring in their copies and watch them together.
They soon discovered that both owned completely different copies. In Holdinger's, it is a mother who lives alone with her two daughters. All three are drugged, butchered, then boiled alive. In White's, it's an elderly couple living alone — they are buried in a pit in their basement as they scream.
It wasn't until January of this year that they started finding bodies.


two-egg 09/18/18 (Tue) 04:12:59 #15072849

Pop culture iconography typically associated with the Skunk Ape.

The Skunk Ape is a hominid Cryptid. The name is self-explanatory. The smell's been compared to dog breath mixed with rotten clams. Common knowledge is that the Bigfoot family is the most well-known cryptid in North America and the Skunk Ape is one lesser-known subspecies. The largest population lives in Big Cypress National Preserve.
When living closer to humans, Skunk Apes are more likely to incorporate previously inhabited spots such as homeless encampments as dens. It is estimated that the Skunk Ape may become extinct by 2030, depending on the severity of climate change, saltwater intrusion and sea level rise on their habitat.
They are typically described as being of similar physical build to others in the Bigfoot family. The main differences are the Skunk Ape's shorter and more stout build, longer, darker fur, and extremely reflective eyes. Getting close makes you feel intense warmth and humid dampness hanging in the air around them. This is on top of the normal Florida wet blanket weather.

Contact with their fur leaves a burning sensation. If expecting to meet a Skunk Ape in the wild, dress in long sleeves and make sure you're wearing eye protection. The most reliable way to pinpoint a Skunk Ape dwelling is to check the internet and a local newspaper, if one is still printing, for a spike in missing pets, livestock, and alcoholic beverage kegs.
Tracks left behind show that they almost always travel in groups, and their tracks are infamous for meandering, back-tracking and dead ends. Skunk Ape fur is highly oily and plaster impressions of their footprints are some of the rarest of any cryptic tracks. They're exclusively nocturnal creatures, and their dark fur makes photographing them difficult.
While their diet isn't known, they've been recorded reducing lost house pets to the bone.
The Skunk Ape has existed in Florida for as long as humans have recorded history. The Miccosukee and Seminole Indian tribes wrote descriptions of a Bigfoot-like creature. Workers on the Florida East Coast railroad were the source of rumors about a captured Skunk Ape. Supposedly, railroad magnate Henry Flagler had it kept in a special suite in his Ponce De Leon hotel.
An apocryphal story exists which claims the 19th governor of Florida, Napoleon Bonaparte Broward, coined the name "Skunk Ape" from his reaction to seeing one of the cryptids when touring a dredging site in 1907.
During the construction of the C-38 canal in the 1960's, there was a boom of Skunk Ape sightings in and around human settlements. This caused considerable tension between the human and Bigfoot populations. Further human development into the everglades basin lines up with Skunk Ape sightings becoming much more common by the late 1970's.
In 1977 the Florida State Legislature failed to pass a bill which would have made it a crime to "harm or molest anthropoid or humanoid animals” as a response to the Skunk Ape encroachment. This did not pass, and is to date the closest the state has come to protect any form of Bigfoot through law.

Unverified photograph.

Now, the first time I ever personally saw the Skunk Ape, I was living with my first husband in Palatka. We'd just moved into a new trailer, the old one had floors sinking in and an unwelcome houseguest had left it smelling like a public shitbox.
I was working a lot then, and taking care of a feral cat colony that lived underneath my unit meant I didn't have a lot of patience for that shit. So it's the middle of the night, and I wake up because the smell's gotten so bad. I'm thinking aw shit, Rick's come back for his stuff. I grab a cleaver and run up to the door to tell him to fuck off.
Instead right there over the feeding dishes was this BIG thing. I was blinking to try and figure out what I was seeing. We froze when we saw each other. But I saw what he was holding. If he thought he could walk off with my babies he had another thing coming.
The cleaver didn't help much. I'm not exactly the most athletic person in the world but I got the first hit in about a nanosecond after I saw what was in his hand. But it just got tangled in that unkept bush of a coat. But he dropped Daisy, and started hoofing it back to the forest.
That's where it started for me. I found some blood on the fence where it had gone off. Never got my cleaver back. Nice cleaver, I miss it sometimes. But I'd pay that again to be where I am now.
I've never smelled anything like it ever again, but I know I will again someday. I'll be ready then.
— Audio log of Darlene Wuornos

two-egg 09/18/18 (Tue) 04:15:35 #15072856

Video Transcript of a kid's birthday party home movie. Video has been lost.

Candle-lit backyard. Young girl with parents seated at a picnic table. Checkered red tablecloth.
> FATHER: Happy birthday, sweetie!
>
> MOTHER: Blow out the candles!
>
> Child 1: I wish for no more school nights!
>
> ADULT 1:(off camera) They really went all-out for this one, huh?
>
> ADULT 2: Tell me about it. You just know they're trying to put the rest of us to shame. There's a guy in a bunny costume waiting in the garage to come out and play with the kids once they finish cutting the cake.
>
> CHILD 1: Oh, Mommy it stinks!
>
> MOTHER: Now, sweetheart, that's not… what is that? Oh, god, what is that?
>
> Adult 1: That's not a bunny.
>
> Camera is dropped, and only muffled voices are recorded until the tape ended.

two-egg 09/18/18 (Tue) 04:28:19 #15072918

Written Statement Provided to the Dade County Public Safety Office by Sebastian Coronado, 1961, transcribed.
Life is different when you've been widowed. I was widowed. I'm not a monster. You're not going to believe in the monsters lurking out there.
I was so lucky to have the insurance money, to be free. She wouldn't have wanted me bankrupted. I made our old place into something new, just like we'd always talked about. It was still so lonesome, and hard, but I was living. It was when I lived alone that I started seeing 'em.
Those swollen red eyes, always swiveling, turning, and stretching, watching. Through the sawgrass and the mangroves, deep in the swamp. I could smell them, even then. Like rotten eggs and cat litter baking in a fast-food oven.
I never have the comfort of privacy. God, we take that for granted, don't we? It didn't matter how far I went or how long I was gone, I always had to come back to the eyes. They studied me, always looking, waiting and waiting.
It got worse when I lost my dog. Poor Little Bit. Chewed through a fence and took off into the woods. No time to grab the flashlight. I'm glad I didn't. The crunch was bad enough. Red eyes and matted fur scuttling through the crack until all of them were free. All I could do was hide until morning.
The stink came the next day. I thought it was Bit at first. So I went out to find her. Should've gotten a decent burial just like her mother. All they left me was the joint bones. I didn't know what they wanted then, and I always thought it would be something that would leave me dead.
Wish I'd been right.
A lot of my neighbors were moving out, Big Sugar needed the land. But they left me alone. After awhile, felt like it was just me and them. They saw me through.
They stopped being as scary after that. Honestly, appreciated the company. Sometimes I went out in the woods and saw things. Little… bone sculptures, sticks tied together, rock formations and scuffs in the dirt. That was when I found it. Walking through the woods, they weren't around. But dug up in the middle of the trail, there she was. Or at least, what was left of her.
I don't know anything else about how it got there. But this is the god-honest truth, I had nothing to do with that skeleton they dug up out there. That's everything I know.
Coronado was charged with manslaughter, and reached a plea deal with prosecutors before reaching trial. He was released in 1976. Confirmed dead 1981.