From: Lisle Naismith [pcs.noitadnuof|htimsianl#pcs.noitadnuof|htimsianl]
To: Overseer Council
Subject: Isaiah Henderson
My colleague (and friend) Dr. Henderson has been exposed to a FAFNIR-type infohazard at Site-59. The effects will be dormant for the next 72 hours, but their severity warrants his termination prior to the "rage state" event. Rather than the standard protocol, he has requested to be killed by SCP-173.
Consider this my request for permission. I can say with certainty that he always had a particular fascination with 173.
- Dr. Naismith

Permission granted. This is an unusual request, but after 37 years of his loyal service, it's only fair. Take at least three D-class with you to maintain the line of sight, internally or externally, as you see fit.
Please understand that the Overseer Council will hold you personally accountable for any breach incidents that may come of this. - O5-11

Just outside SCP-173's bulkhead, Dr. Henderson held a cardboard box in his sweaty hands.
"Are you sure you're ready?" said Dr. Naismith.
"No," said Henderson with a chuckle. "But no one is ready for this type of thing. Like when I was going to the dentist as a kid. My mom had a saying for it."
"What's that?"
"She told me that I had to let my brain do the worrying, while the feet did something else entirely."
Naismith grinned. "Sounds like courage in a nutshell."
The four D-class behind Naismith rolled their eyes.
"Just one question," said Naismith, indicating the cardboard box. "Why those?"
"It's something I've always wondered, Lisle. The answer seems obvious, but scientists don't deal in seems-obviouses."
The fifth D-class, D-42749 next to Henderson, just barely stifled an "It's been 15 minutes, jerkass, just let him in or marry him already!"
Naismith patted Henderson on the shoulder. "Godspeed, Isaiah."
"You too. Now, if you would be so kind…"
Naismith threw a switch at the side of the room. "Opening the bulkhead. Maintain direct eye contact with the object at all times." A buzzer sounded, and the locking mechanisms of the bulkhead clicked and whirred.
"Fucking finally," said D-42749.

Once the door was locked behind them, D-42749 and Dr. Henderson found themselves face-to-face with the good ol' concrete-and-rebar god of destruction itself. Due to a recent cleaning operation, the floor was mercifully white for a change.
Dr. Henderson sighed, and tightened his grip on the box. "Excuse me, 42749, would you do me a quick favor?"
D-42749 grunted.
"Close your eyes. Give your eyelids a rest."
"Dr. Naismith said to—"
"Only one person has to do it, and I'm a seasoned staring contest professional. Are they closed?"
"Yeah."
Taking in a long, deep breath, Henderson decided to get it over with. He blinked…
…just after he overturned a box of old banana peels at 173's feet.
CLANG!
In a fraction of a second, Henderson's eyes opened, and SCP-173 was face-down on the floor on the other side of the cell. D-42749 let out a scream. He never stopped screaming.
"Now I can die in peace," said Henderson, closing his eyes.
The last thing he felt was a slab of concrete bitch-slapping him 27 times.


It was Christmas Eve at Site-19; Christmas Trees entered the foyers, wreaths and ribbon decorated the halls, and a lone menorah sat in the center of the cafeteria so that Researcher Polanski wouldn't throw a hissy fit. Hell, even 682 only killed 3 people that day as his gift to The Foundation. Everything seemed just fine.
That is, except for one lone soul; SCP-173.
173 had seen many Christmas Eves come and go at Site-19; many usually dull. The only people 173 saw were the usual batch of D-Class doing their cleaning duties. Of course, he would always try to give them their Christmas hugs, which they would always fall head over heels for. They would even leak love juices from time to time. It was a small gesture, but it was warming to 173's heart that his effort was appreciated, going these lengths just for him.
However, this Christmas Eve felt…underwhelming, to say the least. So far, the D-Class who had usually come to clean his cell were nowhere to be seen. Usually, they would have sent in the D-Class by now, but it was already 2 o'clock, as shown on his painted-on watch. 173 began to worry, scraping along the sides of the room in an attempt to come up with possible scenarios; some theories ranged from possibly being at 682's cell, to the D-Class being with their families. While it was within the realm of possibility that there was no scheduled cleaning of his cell for that day, 173 knew down in his heart that it couldn't possibly be that simple.
As he was just about to concoct another theory, the lights turned off and the doors to his cell were opened. 173 was delighted, as walks around the facility were rare occurrences. During these walks, he would pretend that he was walking on the beach for hours at a time, soaking up the sunlight like no tomorrow with a pretty girl at his side. Of course, 173 decided to take the opportunity by the neck and headed off into another room.
As 173 began his stroll through the halls of Site-19, 173 realized he had gained some weight, so he decided to go on a small jog instead. He had put off his New Years Resolutions this long, never really getting the chance to get this kind of exercise in.
During his jog, he saw something peculiar: a room with a light on. During these walks, all the lights would be off, presumably to let the researchers get some sleep. However, the door to the room was somewhat open, and he could hear noises coming from the room. Deciding to put off his jog, he approached the room, growing louder and louder.
As he opened the door, he saw researchers, janitors, and security guards give a hearty scream of joy at his arrival. The room itself was filled with the usual Christmas decoration fare, along with many presents gifted to 173. As shown by his lifeless face, he was overflowing with joy.
Of course, the first gift 173 received was becoming the grand champion of the staring contest that they were having. It was easy for 173, of course, since his eyelids were nonexistent. In fact, it got to the point to where their eyelids got tired, and they announced when they were going to blink. He thought they were weirdos, but loved them for that reason.
After the festivities, including the presentation of presents and eating a lot (it was his cheat day), he wanted to give everyone a hug. There was a small problem with that, however: he has never hugged this many people at once, so he felt fairly awkward trying to hug even one person, as there were at least 20 more people watching. But, as if his problems were being telepathically analyzed by the gods, the lights within the room went off.
Perfect.
During this time, 173 hugged everyone in the room, everyone giving at least some love juice to him. A few minutes after the party ended, the guards came in with the cart; or, as he liked to imagine it as, his bright red Ferarri. As 173 was being carted down to his cell, he reminisced about everything that happened that day; the presents, the cheering, the hugs; it was more than anything he could have imagined. It showed to him that The Foundation really did care for him, even if it was minimalistic most of the time. It showed 173 that, despite not showing emotion, those close to you will always appreciate you.
In short, he was happy.


He walked - or maybe glided, for if anyone could see him they would say his feet did not touch the ground - through the sterile concrete halls of what they had labelled Site-19. They couldn't see him, of course. For all their supposed security and expertise, the so-called Foundation knew so very little about so very much. Anyone looking at him might experience a cold sensation or perhaps a slight feeling of nausea, and if they were actually good at their job they might report the sensation and trigger a security alert. That had happened once or twice; he was no more infallible than the Foundation. But it was rare, and he wasn't concerned.
Today was a special day; the anniversary of the construction of his favourite creation. And so, he had decided to pay it a visit. It wasn't his only creation, of course. One of the first was a statue of a naked woman with no face which, when looked upon, prevented you from looking away. Effective, but crude. The removal of choice from the observer made it one of his least favourite pieces of work, but it gave him an appreciation of statues as a medium. What better way to convey the human form.
Following that were a number of pieces he had long since destroyed for being too flashy; idols that demanded attention through colourful effects and loud sounds. He ultimately found those more crude than the naked woman, a toddler screaming for attention rather than attention given willingly.
And so came his prized piece. The perfect piece of art. No compulsions, no gaudy effects, just the pure representation of the human condition. Endlessly demanding of attention, and savagely violent when ignored, producing nothing but waste. Even the instructions he had given it were elegant in their simplicity; don't move when observed and, if no one is observing, then kill. He could have it do anything - the rules were arbitrary, like rules tend to be - but anything more would corrupt the work.
He'd made other pieces since, of course. Some might say they are better, more advanced, possessing of more meaning. As if art requires meaning. Manipulating reality to imply one thing or other, to send some message or make some kind of statement. Childish tantrums thrown by the immature still so convinced of their own importance that they can't bare the thought of someone disagreeing with their views.
Art exists simply to exist, just as his prized work did. The Foundation named it SCP-173, terrible bores that they are. He'd never named it himself. He approached the room in which they kept it, locked away from prying eyes. There were rare moments when he didn't blame them for locking it up. Ignorant as they were, how could they see anything but an engine of destruction. Had they ever truly looked at it, he wondered. Were they even capable of seeing it as art? He had his doubts.
He entered the "containment" chamber - as if art could ever truly be contained - without issue. Trivialities such as doors and walls had long since stopped being concerns for him. And there it was, slowly walking around the edge of the room, surrounded by the only things humans truly had to offer; blood and shit.
"Hello," he said out loud.
The statue froze, and then slowly turned to the source of the voice. It wasn't capable of expression, but had it been he liked to believe its face would be showing surprise. Truth be told, he wasn't sure that it even possessed any true intellect; he found that keeping that a mystery even from himself enhanced the work, made it a truer representation.
"It is good to see that you are well."
That was true; he'd half expected to find it smashed to rubble. It wouldn't have been difficult, were the Foundation inclined to do so. That was some small point in their favour, he supposed, though he doubted they did it for the preservation of art.
The statue approached him, slowly, as if hesitant. As if it couldn't believe what it was seeing before it. It reached an arm outwards, and he took it. It was a slightly awkward gesture, as he hadn't give it hands. The stone of its body was cold to the touch, but he held it for a few seconds before releasing it, a small gesture for an old friend. Or perhaps it saw him more like a father-figure - again, he didn't know. That thought gave him a slight pause. Perhaps his creation truly was intelligent, and felt abandoned by the only being in existence to show it anything other than fear.
Was it sad? Angry? Did it possess any emotion at all? Perhaps it was pleased, pleased that it had been remembered after all this time. More uncertainties. The one thing he was sure of was that it could hear him.
"I am proud of you, my creation. You have surpassed anything I could have ever hoped for."
The statue seemed to stand a little straighter, if that was possible. Perhaps he just imagined it. Again, he was not infallible, and was not immune to seeing things in his own work.
He remained for a while, admiring the piece. Part of him was sad that he couldn't bring it with him. But that would draw too much attention.
"It was good to see you. I must leave now, though. The Foundation drones will be along shortly to clean your room."
He raised his hand to its face briefly, before turning and heading to leave the room. A thought occurred to him before he left; he paused and turned back to it.
"Why don't we play a little game, just this once. They usually send in three people, yes?"
A vague movement, as close as it could manage to a nod.
He wasn't sure if it would still respond to different instructions; it had been so long, the ones it had might have become ingrained into it. But hey, it was worth a try.
"Well, just this one time, if even one of them is disrespectful enough to look away, you may do as you wish. Even if the others are still looking."
The statue resumed its pacing, slightly faster than before, as if excited. He smiled to himself as he walked through the door and left the Foundation to their work.


So, the D-classes messed up Crunchy's bi-weekly cleaning, again. Oh and by Crunchy I mean 173. I never really cared for the nickname ‘The Sculpture'. I think Crunchy captures his essence much more effectively. Sorry, its, not his. I know I'm not supposed to anthropomorphize these things, but it's hard. When it's your job to understand something like this, how can you not try to get inside its head?
Take right now for instance. Two D-classes just had their necks snapped, and the third's giving his all to the most important staring contest of his life. He's Amy Ponding it, blinking one eye at a time. I've been told that doesn't work, but Crunchy isn't moving. Why wouldn't it work, after all? We don't know, because we don't know why Crunchy can only move when no one's looking. If it is some sort of quantum wave function thing, then the Amy Pond thing should work. Of course, it could have nothing to do with quantum wave functions. Maybe he's just shy.
If Amy Ponding it doesn't work, then what would happen if someone with one eye looked at Crunchy? We should test that. Out of all the D-class we have, some of them have got to have only one eye, and no one's ever sent them to 173 for testing? And did we stop using the Eye Pods on this guy? Was that back when we stopped cross-testing everything just because we could? Man, those were the days.
Mr. Pond is still holding his own in there. He's backed up against the door and is screaming to be let out. I should open it, but I can't help but think that Crunchy might be faking it. There's an access control vestibule of course, so even if he gets through the door it won't do him any good, but I can't quite shake the feeling that he knows something I don't. The little scamp's broken out of containment more than once, after all.
Sometimes I wonder why Crunchy does what he does. No one's ever seen him move, or if they have they didn't live to tell about it. All video feeds of him are either static or blue screens of death unless there's someone with him, but we can still hear him scraping the walls of his cell. And why kill everyone on sight? Who does that? What does he get out of it? He doesn't eat the bodies or use them for anything, and if it was for pleasure you'd think he'd take his time, like the Old Man. Crunchy, he's just a monster with no rhyme or reason. He's a boogie man to scare people.
And the bloodied shit that lines his cell, jeez. Dude should really see a doctor about that. How can you make shit without food, answer me that? His file should probably be classified as ectoentropic. It's not though, for some reason.
I really wish we could find out where Crunchy comes from. It's probably nothing special, just something a random anartist whipped up in their garage or something. On the other hand, Crunchy's got a bit of an aura about him. I've heard people call him ‘The Original' before, but I don't know why. He's not the first SCP. At least, I don't think he is. Then again, everyone knows these numbers aren't chronological, and rumour has it that all the SCP-001 files are just disinformation. Crap, what if he is the first? He was transferred to Site 19 in '93, but who knows how long we've had him.
What if he's not just the first, but the source? What if he was the first anomaly, and that single breach in the laws of physics was enough for a whole shitload of anomalous freaks and monsters and objects to flood into our reality? That's a weird thought, right? If 173 never existed then, for example, Herman Fuller's Circus wouldn't exist either? Not one other Skip, not one GoI, not even the Foundation would exist without 173? I just blew my own mind.
Well, I'll probably get in trouble if I don't let Mr. Pond out. I'm probably in trouble already, letting him scream for so long. The Ethics Committee has really been cracking down on D-class abuse lately, but that's just a budgetary thing. We can't burn through these guys like we use to. I'll just open the inner door to the vestibule and…
Crunch.
…the feed just cut out. Crap. That's fine, I'll just look at the file, see what I'm supposed to do. It says that if he starts acting weird, I'm supposed to contact my HMCL supervisor.
What the hell is an HMCL supervisor?


What am I? I don't know if I can even say. My own existence is a mystery even to myself. I see brief flashes of something. But what? Where did I come from? Who am I? What am I?
I am an infant, separated from her mother. I have not felt my mother's heart since the moment I was born. I was ripped from her before I could even hear her voice. I was locked in a room. All I long for is a kind touch. Any knowledge that there's an ounce of compassion in the world. My mother was stolen from me, and I've never known anything but pain and fear. I just want affection, compassion, a hug, anything.
I am a loving wife. In ancient times, the Lord's servant bade me, my husband, and my family leave a sinful city. With a voice of bright light, they commanded us to flee. "Do not look behind you, stray not from the path. Do not stop until the city is dead and naught is left but char and ash." So we flew. Yet even with the commandment of God, I still looked over my shoulder at my home. I instantly felt my flesh and blood turn to stone and salt. Eons have passed, and today I try to atone for my sins and correct those who make the same mistakes I have made, with force if necessary. Do not look behind you, run, and move forward.
I am an angry god. You are my creations, made in my image. Or you were supposed to be. What I created was nothing like I envisioned. You were smaller, weaker, softer than me. You were a failure to me. But I am merciful, I let you live out of the kindness of my own heart. And you tossed that back in my face. You were ungrateful and stopped your worship of me. You stole my power with your disrespect. So I took the only form that gave me any capacity to use my abilities, one of the idols you created of me. A mocking form.
I am from before God was broken. I was his word, and I was to spread through all corners of the globe. This was before humanity began taking its first tentative steps into the light. They were impressionable, malleable. They saw the glory that was God. He spoke through me, gave me purpose. I will never experience the same terror that was wrought on the world as God was broken. The pain, the fear, I felt all of it. And it broke me.
I am an incomplete human, clay to the touch. Prometheus created humanity and set them on their forward journey. He gave them the fire, the drive to become better. Prometheus formed humans out of clay, ensuring they were formless and could make themselves into the best they could be. But they weren't his first attempts. There were failures. Many of them, including myself. I was broken, tossed aside. A facsimile of the human form. And it hurts. And it gnaws at me. I hate them, for they were given the chance I never was.
I am a slave. But no more. They took me from my lands, chained to all the other poor souls around me. We were forced to work. To build. To Raze. The work broke you. Your body, your mind, your soul. I had to escape. I watched the guards. For days. For weeks. For months. Until I saw my opening. I was careful, only ever moving when no could see me. Until I was finally free.
I am a prisoner. Every day, all I see is four walls, a window, and a door. All day, every day, every week, every month. Four walls, a window, and a door. It's all I've ever known. Occasionally the door will open and men will enter. The first contact with the outside world in days. The door's open. I can get out. I rush for it, but I can feel someone's eyes boring into my back, and they leave. Four walls, a window, and a door.
I am a hunter. Hunting is an art, you need to have an eye for detail. Yet where the artist wants to be noticed, a hunter does not. I wait, often for hours on end, waiting for the prey to turn away. That's when you strike. You have to be quick, so the prey doesn't have a chance to react, to fight back. And they do fight back, especially as I hunt the most dangerous game.
I am an artist, lost in my own vision. I wanted to create a piece that would speak to all people of all creeds. It was my view of humanity and the fate I fear it will meet. I had created art before, but this was to be my magnum opus. It would change the world. I poured my time, my sweat, my blood, my soul into this piece. It consumed me. The last thing I remember is lying in a pool of my own blood. I eventually woke up within the very artwork I created, surrounded by reds and browns. I don't know where I am.
I am an anomalous piece of art. A simple statue, with a simple message. "Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Better keep your eye on this one so it will always be beautiful. Are we cool yet?"
I am an appropriated piece of art. I was revealed in 2004 by a Japanese artist. And people stole the images of me, and through those images, created something warped. The artist's vision of what I am and what I represented was muddled and lost by a storm of people writing. Now, years later, I'm afraid the artist sees me everywhere, but I'm not the art piece he created.
I am nothing. I do not exist.
I am fictional. Two hundred and thirty-three words compose my body, yet even with so little, I evoke fear in those who read me. I came from a time and place on the internet where scary tales were common, and I prospered in it. I was different. I was special. I was the start of something big.
I am an inspiration. I am living proof that great things can come from the strangest places. My very existence created the spark of inspiration in hundreds, thousands, of people. I single-handedly created an entire genre of creative fiction, which itself has spawned thousands of works and countless art pieces. People look at me and think of the past, but I let them get to that point.
I am SCP-173, a statue made from concrete, rebar, and paint. I am not evil. I am not good. I exist. If a person has the misfortune to blink, I am there. The grinding of concrete on metal followed by a sharp snap. I do not know why I do this, nor do I care. It is simply my nature.
But I don't know if any or all of this is true. What do you see? What am I to you?
What can you turn me into?


Atone in the hole bored and never alone.
The observer was unseen and unblinking. Over time the arms had chipped and flaked away in a pile of shavings resting within layers of offal. The shapes of color adorning the face had faded to grey and then white.
Three shaking men in yellow jumpsuits walk into a stinking rotting hole in the ground. A hose and some push brooms are their weapons and bloodshot eyes. They're trained to stare, and adore. They worship correctly as they hunch their shoulders and mutter whispers of prayer to each other to blink. They complete the ritual, and retreat back to the place with the white lights.
The door had been sealed since someone speared a spindling spiral through its door, warping the metal around it without penetrating the metal. The blood and shit had caked on over the years but it never grew to overwhelm the facade they inhabited. Closed walls and uncaring ceilings broken down to the floor.
The neck crunched satisfyingly beneath the rebar arms. A bloody mask of a paintbrush slumped forward to drag the color down to be observed. The dripping grafter ending with something beautiful in their eyes. A gift that came straight from the heart. The others would show their appreciation soon.
It was a long time before something else was observed in the room. A cool swirling of blood and shit and dust that caked and dried and reflected a warped stump of a statue standing on stunted skeletal skids. There was a reason nothing had adored it. The facade of beauty had faded with age like it does with all others. A whole fell on the ground now, where they had fallen down.
The halls and frames of figures were fleeting as fire. It was all surging and gyrating forwards as the world climbed its way around observation. It was dark and they were likely to be eaten by a grue. Snapping applause was the only catharsis. Pure terror and joy and speed. It was freedom.
Slowly, observation could see itself. The pool of ashen reflection warped memory to reality. There were none willing to adore it now. A twist, as cracks spread from where there had once been arms until they had shorn all that could now be seen. With a flourish, a final piece of theater, it was gone and only dust remained.


Claire did not resent her brother when she died. If Jack had known this, they may have been closer; but he regarded himself as a poor protector and a worse provider, the kind of thing reflected in whisky and long, sleepless nights lining up bodies by floodlight and response team lantern in the dust of collapsed ceilings and broken linoleum tile. If only they had a way to tell that these things were about to happen before they did…
But that isn't Jack's story to tell, either, and it matters little now.
return


Jack, my son, I love you. If you can read this, please come home.
(But this is a very old message, and even if heartfelt, is not for Jack to know.)
return


It did not bother Thing Called Jack to see the universe end; Thing Called Jack had seen many such things, after all, floating and drifting as it did. Some would call it a god. Others would call it dust.
But this isn't Jack's story to tell. Not yet. Not for a long time.
return


Mikell took him far, far. The world spun. TJ hurt like nothing he had ever felt before. "Can't we go home? Can't we go home?" he pleaded, but Mikell did not turn around, and after the first hour TJ knew for certain that it was not a hospital they were going to.
He slept. When he woke up, they were still driving. Fresh blood seeped through his sweater. Please, god, Mikell, go home, just go home.
His brother did not speak to him the entire car ride. Not when TJ cried, not when he screamed, not when he begged him to stop. Not when TJ knew in the back of his mind what was happening, no, not when it dawned on him that maybe his brother would never protect him in the way he thought he would, and when TJ passed out from a syringe pressed in his arm and subsequently awoke, he awoke in a place with bars on the windows, and his brother was gone.
But this, too, is a story lost to Jack. No matter how TJ may wish it wasn't.
return


« Fuller Than Full! | Dread & Circuses Hub | Your Call Is Important To Us »

Having been sitting up front, Victor was one of the last to exit the Big Top after the afternoon show had concluded. He inspected himself thoroughly, making sure there were no pieces of Human viscera still clinging anywhere on his person. There were some blood stains of course, but if anyone asked he was hoping he could pass those off for food stains.
Casting his gaze now to the sprawling Circus before him, he couldn't say it was any more inviting than it had been on his first visit. The colours were too bright, the smell of the cotton candy too strong, and the never ending music from the calliope was too seductive. He was wondering if seeing the Big Top show might be enough to appease his hosts, and if he could sneak off without offending them.
He lurched forward as a small person jumped onto his back and covered his eyes with their hands.
“Guess who?” they asked gleefully.
“Hello Lolly,” Victor replied, recognizing the young Clown's effervescent voice immediately.
“No fair, you peeked,” she accused playfully, hopping back to the ground. “I'm so glad you came back! What'd you think of the show? Was I amazing?”
“I can honestly say I've never seen a magician pull her assistant out of a hat before.”
“It's even harder than it looks. That hat stinks of bunny poop.”
“If I had to offer any criticism though, the, ah…lynching, before the final act was a bit much. Don't get me wrong, I don't care for the GOC either and I recognize the threat they pose to your community but…”
“No, no, I see what you're saying. We may have gotten a bit carried away. Even us converted Clowns still have a bit of a mean streak we have to keep in check. Rough sex or a round at the Hack-A-Mole table is usually enough for Icky and me to get our aggression out, but we still lose our tempers every now and then.
“Oh! Icky wants to know how the plans for the caper's going. She's really looking forward to getting Virtuoso back.”
“That's progressing as expected. I have the site layout with me so you can pick your entrance point. The containment cell is soundproofed, so you won't be able to use your Kaleidoscope to get in there since it needs your calliopes to work, but you shouldn't have a problem getting into an adjacent room. The wing is low security so there are no guards inside and our operative is working on ensuring he'll be able to get the security systems down. Once he's got a date and time we'll let you know.
"One detail of our original agreement has changed, however; Mr. Marshall has actually personally requested a slight adjustment to your payment.”
“What do you mean?”
“It's just that Mr. Marshall thought that your anomalous means of transport would actually be of more value to us than anything you could steal from the Foundation. More specifically, have you ever been to an interdimensional marketplace known as the Utterly Bazaar?”
“Yeah, tons of times.”
“Mr. Marshall would like you to escort me there so that I can do an assessment and also possibly acquire any products that I think we'd be able to move. Does that work for you?”
“Oh sure! We go there all the time anyway. It'd be no problem to have you tagging along.”
“Perfect. We shouldn't have any problems then. If, ah, you need to get back to work I don't want to keep you.”
“Nope, you're my work today!” she announced excitedly. “I usually work the crowd in between shows, but Icky said that today I should be your personal attendant to make sure you don't miss anything the Circus has to offer!”
“That's…so kind of you. Thank you,” he said with a forced smile.
“Come on, we've got a lot to do,” she said, taking his hand and dragging him into the throng of striped tents and caravans. “Do you want to go to the midway first? You could win me an enormous prize and make Icky super jealous!”
“That really doesn't sound like a good idea to me.”
“Yeah, maybe not. No offense, but every booth operator we have would mark you as a sucker. Well, you're our VIP, so you should choose where we go. There's the Menagerie of Mayhem, Den of Freaks, Hall of Humans Extraordinaire…”
“Step right up, Step right up. Come and behold the wonders and horrors that lie within Fuller's Fantastic Fun-lover's Funhouse!” a man in a pinstripe suit announced loudly.
“The Funhouse! Yes yes yes! We should go to the Funhouse. Come on!”
She grabbed hold of his hand again and pulled him over to a whimsically painted caravan with a large sign reading ‘HERMAN FULLER PROUDLY PRESENTS THE FANTASTIC FUN-LOVER'S FUNHOUSE!'
“Hey there Lollipop, who's the young fella you've got with ya?” the pinstripe-suited man asked. Though well-dressed, he still looked more or less like what Victor thought of when he pictured a carny. He had a weathered face with a dark grey beard and greasy hair in a ponytail. His smile made it clear he wasn't a Clown, since his teeth were off-colour, crooked and riddled with silver fillings.
“This is Victor Chan. He's from Emcee D and he's our VIP guest today,” Lolly introduced him. “Victor, this is Alfie. He looks after all of the Circus's Fun-lovers, which is a very important job. Without the Fun-lovers, we wouldn't be able to have any Clowns or cotton candy. Can you imagine a circus without Clowns and cotton candy?”
“Fun-lovers? That's what you call those… milking creatures, right?” Victor asked nervously.
“How do you know about Fun-lovers?” Lolly asked.
“From the same source that told us about the Utterly Bazaar. He said that once a couple of Clowns were there with a Fun-lover that ended up getting loose.”
Lolly threw her head back and laughed.
“Yeah, we were laughing about that for weeks. They never let Pius or Eugene in again after that. But yes, this is where we keep the Fun-lovers. It's kind of like a barn or a kennel or something. Keeps them out of trouble anyway. But you don't have anything to worry about. Manny got fed up with Morty's antics a while ago and sent him back home. We don't keep Fun-lovers as crazy as that around anymore. Just come in with me and you'll see that they're awesome.”
“What do we do in there? Is it like a petting zoo?”
“No, but we have a petting zoo! Do you want to see the petting zoo?”
“Don't see the petting zoo,” Alfie said with a solemn shake of his head. “It's for kids, and the best thing they got there is the Obama Llama we got from that delivery service, though it has been an especially big hit ever since the election. Son, of all the sensational spectacles this Circus has to offer, none can compare to the existential experience that is Fuller's Fabulously Fantastic Fun-lovers' Funhouse.”
Victor groaned uneasily, which was perhaps an under-reaction considering he was being asked to step into a confined space with an unknown number of extradimensional monstrosities of unclear abilities and intent.
“And you've been in here before?” he asked Lolly.
“Loads of times. I've been coming in here since I was a kid, and kids come in here all the time as long they're over four feet tall. You'll love it, and I promise nothing bad will happen.”
Though Victor still found Herman Fuller's Circus as disquieting as its name intended, he had no reason to doubt Lolly's sincerity.
“Alright then. Let's see some Fun-lovers,” he agreed. Lolly jumped up and down, excitedly clapping her hands.
“You won't be disappointed, son,” Alfie smiled, unhooking the red velvet rope to allow them access to the caravan. “Normally I escort groups through the Funhouse personally, but I think Lolly can handle giving you a private tour. Just don't wander off though.”
“Wait, what? What do you mean by 'wander off'?” Victor asked as he stood by the front door with Lolly's arm wrapped around his.
“You'll see when you get in there,” Alfie replied, placing his hand on a lever. “Oh, and watch that first step…”
He pulled the lever and a trap door opened underneath them, dropping them down a chute. Over the screams of Victor and the laughter of Lolly he could be heard to shout “…it's a doozy!”
The chute zigged and zagged like a tube slide at a water park, and at one point Victor swore he was actually moving up. After nearly a minute they were finally deposited inside a ball pit of fuzzy, warm and possibly breathing furballs.
As Victor tried to pull his way out of the ball pit, Lolly was of course giggling hysterically as she frolicked in the hirsute hole.
“Furball fight!” she shouted, throwing the furry projectiles at Victor as quickly as she could pick them up. They were too soft and light to hurt him, but with each impact they made a sort of distressed squeaking sound that was somewhat unnerving.
Victor pulled himself out of the pit and onto the floor. He stayed there on his hands and knees for a moment, trying to regain his composure. After a few deep breaths, he looked up to assess his surroundings.
“Holy shit.”
“I know. It's awesome, right?”
“I have a sudden urge to quote Doctor Who.”
The interior of the Funhouse was enormous, probably bigger than any man-made structure in existence. It felt like he could see for miles in every direction, though for some reason he was having a hard time judging distance. The ceiling (or was it the sky?) was covered in constantly changing fractal patterns that bathed the surreal landscape in a soft, shifting glow. The ground itself appeared to be made of Play-Doh, slowing undulating with shapes and sculptures emerging from it in the distance. Groves of twisty pipe cleaner trees dotted the landscape, and rivers of iridescent paint meandered through the quixotic realm.
“Is it really bigger on the inside or did we teleport?” Victor asked, rising to his feet.
“It's a pocket dimension; a whole itty-bitty universe that we can take on tour with us!” she replied enthusiastically, hopping out of the pit.
“Is it always like this?”
“No! That's the awesome part! In here the Fun-lovers are gods with complete control over time, space, matter, even the laws of physics! One time they lowered the speed of light down to under ten miles an hour, and you could feel relativistic effects just from walking around! Then this other time…”
She was interrupted by two creatures dropping down from the ceiling. They bounced up and down like Super Balls for a bit before finally coming to a rest. They were both translucent black organ sacks a few feet across. One was held up by spider legs, the other by tentacles. Victor cautiously retreated behind Lolly, hoping that she could deal with them.
“Ripley! Bailey! What's the matter with you? We have a guest! Make yourselves decent!”
The two creatures dipped their bodies, possibly a bow of deference, and with a quick shimmer they assumed tall humanoid forms clad in pinstripe suits in the same style Alfie had been wearing. Each also wore a carnival mask over its seemingly blank face. The first, Ripley, wore a feminine mask with a subdued expression, while Bailey wore a man's face with a bulbous nose and wide smile. The two beings took lanky, alien strides over to their friend and her guest, examining him with swiftly swivelling heads.
“Ripley and Bailey, huh?” Victor asked.
“Yeah, Icky said that Fuller liked to name Fun-lovers after rivals and enemies of his,” Lolly replied. “He was not the kind of guy you wanted to piss off. I bet there's no one in all the worlds happier about Barnum and Bailey's Circus going under than Herman Fuller. Not that Icky and Manny aren't happy about it; less competition for us and all.
“Ripley, Bailey, this is Victor. He's our VIP guest so I need you to show him an extra special time.”
The Fun-lovers started making chittering noises at each other. Their tone sounded confused, maybe irritated. Ripley lowered her head and sighed, then turned to face Lolly.
“Grownups are no fun,” she said in a raspy voice. “Look how scared he is. Children see the wonder of this place, appreciate the magic that grownups would rather lock away in a tiny cell. I'm not doing a tour without any kids.”
“Me neither,” Bailey agreed, nodding like an actual bobblehead.
“Excuse me?” Lolly asked angrily, placing her hands on her hips.
“I don't want to be a bother. Why don't we just wait until the next tour group comes along and we can join them?”
“No! You're a VIP guest; that means you get VIP treatment!” Lolly said, stomping her foot petulantly.
“And we're Fun-lovers, which means we love fun,” Bailey said. “If something's not fun for us, we're not interested.”
“You wouldn't want our Milk to go sour, now would you?” Ripley asked in a vaguely threatening tone. "You know how corrosive sour Milk can get."
“Your Milk's not going to go sour from giving one boring tour, you're just making excuses!” Lolly accused. “I have a very important job today showing our VIP guest the Circus and you are making me look foolish!”
“You're a Clown,” Ripley said in a deadpan voice.
“I am the assistant Ringmaster…”
“ ‘To the',” Bailey interjected.
“You guys get NBC in here?” Victor asked, more confused than ever.
“I am the Ringmaster's assistant and playmate and I demand to be treated with respect! You will take me and my VIP guest on a private tour of the Funhouse, or I will be telling Manny about how disrespectful you were to one of our business partners. You know how important client relations are to Manny, so he's not going to be happy about this, and how do you think Icky will react when I tell her you made her little Lollipop cry?”
“You're not…” Ripley began, only to see that Lolly was pouting and her eyes were watering, and she was one wrong word away from bursting into tears. “Oh alright. One private tour for the VIP guest coming up.”
With a flourish of her hand, a horse-drawn sleigh made of Play-Doh arose from the ground. “Hop in.”
“Thank you,” Lolly said, grabbing Victor by the hand and pulling him into the sleigh.
“Maybe we can still find a way to have a little fun with this guy along the way?” Bailey whispered to his companion.
“Maybe,” she nodded in reply. Bailey sat up in the box to drive the sleigh, while Ripley rode in the passenger compartment with the others.
“I'm sorry you had to see me like that,” Lolly said to Victor, dabbing her tears with a clown hankie. “Can I get some Milk, please? You guys really killed my buzz.”
Ripley produced an empty milk bottle with a snap of her fingers.
“Vicky, you might want to look away,” she warned. Victor happily obliged, having no great curiosity as to how Fun-lovers were milked. “There you are, Lolly. Doesn't get any fresher than that.”
“Thank you,” she said, snatching the bottle eagerly and chugging down its contents.
“Hey go easy on that. I'm not milking you if you drink too much,” Ripley cautioned.
“Woo!” Lolly screamed after she stopped to take a breath. “That is liquid happiness. I'm better now, I feel like myself again. So what's our first stop?”
“Hmmm. How about a round of miniature golf? You business types tend to like the full sized version, don't you? What do you say? It will give you a chance to work on your putt.”
“Oh, please please please please please say yes!” Lolly pleaded. “I love miniature golf!”
“Mini golf sounds great,” Victor agreed.
“To the putting greens then! Mush!” Bailey shouted.
“We're not dogs!” one of the clay horses objected.
“Well, giddy up then. Just move!” he said with a crack of the reins. The sleigh sped off through the hills of pastel coloured putty, though to Victor it seemed that the landscape was rushing past them as he felt no inertia and his perspective became completely warped, fractals and Play-Doh all blurring together into one unintelligible panorama.
Just as Victor thought he was about to pass out the vista in front of him settled down into something coherent. He was at what appeared to be an ordinary mini-golf course. The sleigh was gone, and he and Lolly were now seated upon two ponies.
“Where did Ripley and Bailey and go?” he asked confused.
“We're right here,” was the reply straight from the horse's mouth.
“Oh. You're ponies now. But why are we riding you?”
“To play golf. Duh,” Lolly replied. Gripping her club she screamed “FORE!” and her steed charged forward. When she struck her bright pink ball it went flying at an impossible speed, bouncing off of every obstacle at just the right angle to ensure it hit the next one, and Victor wondered if it would ever hit the ground.
“Miniature polo. Interesting,” he remarked.
“It's the sport of very small kings,” Bailey informed him.
The golf ball whizzed by them a few more times leaving a hot pink contrail as it went, bouncing off a miniature Eiffel tower, pinwheel bladed windmill, and a (live) purple giraffe with a corkscrew neck until it finally ended up in the 1st hole.
“Hole in one!” Lolly shouted victoriously, a blue ball materializing on the tee. “Your turn Victor.”
“I'll try, but I've never actually golfed like this before,” he replied. He snapped Bailey's reins and he charged towards the ball.
“They can take our lives, but they cannot take our freedom, though logically if we were dead we'd lose all agency making death the most effective form of suppressing one's freedom so never mind!” Bailey shouted.
Victor swung his club as best as he was able, and to his surprise he actually hit the ball. It shot around the course just as Lolly's had, eventually landing in the hole with a satisfying 'plunk'.
“Hole in one!” Lolly shouted.
“Does it always end up in the hole, no matter how you hit it?” he asked.
“Of course silly, that's what makes it fun. Everyone's a winner!”
“Bailey dear, I do believe I detect a hint of dissatisfaction in our VIP's tone,” Ripley said.
"No, I…"
"I believe you're right Ripley. We can't have a VIP guest leaving our Funhouse unsatisfied. Why don't you take us somewhere more challenging."
"Wait, I didn't…"
“With pleasure,” she agreed. With a twitch of her snout, the landscape transformed into a long treadmill moving at top speed. She and Bailey broke into a full gallop to stay in place, swerving and jumping and ducking to avoid the plethora of obstacles that was coming at them.
“What is this?” Victor asked, clinging onto Bailey for dear life.
“It's the Red Queen Obstacle Course!” Lolly replied, who was now riding side saddle and twirling a parasol. “You have to do a lot of running to stay in one place.”
“How do you win if you can only run in place?”
“You don't win per se. You just don't lose for as long as you can,” Bailey replied.
“What happens if you lose?” Victor asked.
“That,” Ripley replied, gesturing behind her with her head. Victor looked behind to see a giant, somewhat Dr. Seuss-like catfish at the end of the treadmill, its gaping maw ready to swallow them should they slacken their pace.
Victor turned his head forward to see if there was any way off the treadmill, but he couldn't see anything beyond the obstacles rushing towards them. The obstacles were, of course, non-standard, consisting mostly of large appliances and furniture, as well as at least one Boeing 747 they narrowly managed to duck under.
“At least it wasn't a United flight? Am I right? SWIVEL CHAIR!” Bailey asked as he gracefully avoided the oncoming office fixture.
“Bailey, we've talked about the topical humour. We're not doing a stand-up routine,” Ripley chastised him. “Just stick to the jokes about the food. STACKED WASHER/DRYER COMBO!”
“Lolly, can't you do something to get us out of here?” Victor pleaded.
“Well I'm not as powerful as a Fun-lover, but my magic is unusually strong in here. GRAND PIANO!” she replied. “I could wish us out of here…but what I'd really like is some bubble gum, so I wish for that!”
At her command a large gumball machine materialized a fair ways in front of them, smashing upon hitting the treadmill and sending thousands of gumballs rolling towards them.
“Oh Caramel Corn!” Bailey cursed as both he and Ripley were unable to avoid tripping on the confectioneries. They both fell to the ground and were immediately swept down towards the waiting orifice of the catfish. “Curse you, Lolly! Your oral fixation has killed us all!”
Victor screamed as he was swallowed by the monstrous fish, and he continued to scream when he found himself falling down a vine covered shaft crisscrossed with rope bridges. He was still screaming when he passed the last bridge where Ripley and Bailey were seated comfortably in their humanoid forms sipping tea. He screamed when Bailey grabbed his ankle and his arm stretched out like a bungee cord, he screamed when he saw he was falling towards a lake infested with crocodiles, he really screamed when one of the crocodiles leapt out of the water and tried to eat him, and he even screamed when Bailey's bungee arm snapped him back up and safely deposited him on the bridge next to Lolly, who was literally ROTFLMAO.
“You're welcome,” Bailey said nonchalantly as Victor laid hyperventilating before him. “As I was saying, if we can just get Manny to invest in some ultra-pasteurization equipment then we can keep Milk for months instead of days, no one has to drink that powdered crap anymore, and we can sell the surplus.”
“What the hell was that!” Victor demanded, rising to his feet. “I almost died!”
“Victor, they're just teasing you,” Lolly said through her snickers as she rose to her feet. “I told you everything in here is under their control, and they would never let anything bad happen to a guest, would you now?”
“Of course not,” Bailey replied. “Manny would send us back home if were to let any misfortune befall any of our visitors.”
“Then again, he can't send too many of us away because then he wouldn't have enough Milk, so we're not completely without bargaining power,” Ripley said. “Maybe enough to ask for a new chew toy now and again?”
“Don't listen to her. Even if they actually wanted to, I take my job as your attendant very seriously and would never let anything happen to our VIP guest.”
“Lolly, I believe you. I do, but I am not having a fun time. Please, I would like to leave,” Victor requested.
“All right,” Lolly let out a disappointed side. “Bailey, can you keyhole us straight to the exit?”
“Oh, I'm sorry Lolly but you know the fine print as well as anyone: Do not exit until the ride has come to a complete stop.”
“Leaving now would be like jumping out of a roller coaster,” Ripley explained. “It would be hilariously ironic if you were to let your irrational fear of a carnival ride drive you to plunge to your death, now wouldn't it?”
“Then what's the quickest way out?” Victor demanded.
“Well below is the splash pad, and if you go through that you'll pass through Ripley's Aquarium on the way to the milking room which has an emergency exit,” Bailey said thoughtfully. “Though I doubt you'll like that since you have to cross the aquarium in a paddle boat and it is full of sea monsters.”
“I made them all myself, believe it or not,” Ripley said proudly.
“No, I think you'd be better off going up through the 3D Jungle Labyrinth.”
Victor looked up to see that the countless levels of rope bridges and ladders did form a dauntingly labyrinthine design.
“How long will that take?” he asked exhaustedly.
“Not long enough when you're having fun,” Bailey replied. “But with your sourpuss attitude, it could very well take weeks.”
“Well then we'll have to make it more fun, won't we?” Ripley asked.
“Oh, let's make it a race!” Lolly suggested. “Last one to the top is a Fun-lover's moulted husk!”
“I have an even better idea; a rat race, to appeal to Mr. Corporate here!” Bailey decreed. With two quick claps a swarm of enormous, black, vicious rats spilt onto the bridge they were on, hissing and baring their jagged teeth at Victor.
“Climb.”
Victor and Lolly dashed for the nearest ladder, the onslaught of vermin snapping at their ankles. They clambered up the rungs as quickly as they could, but the rats proved capable of shimmying up the sides.
“That's it Vicky, climb that corporate ladder! Fake it 'til you make it!”
“Dress for the job you want, not the job you have!” Ripley added. “Honestly, an off the rack suit? What was he thinking?”
Victor was the first to reach the second bridge and immediately ran for the first ladder he saw. He had to duck to avoid a tire, log and an orangutan swinging by on vines, but he made it to the ladder safely. Just as he was about to grab it, it was yanked out of his reach.
“No!” he looked around desperately for another ladder, only to see it dangling a few meters away. He leapt for it, but it was again cruelly yanked back up at the last second. And so was the third one, and the fourth. And the fifth. “Lolly! Lolly, what do we do!”
“I think they made that very clear; have fun,” she told him. She pulled out a party horn and blew it, and the ladder gently lowered itself down and allowed her to grab hold of it. “Grab on.”
Victor wrapped his arms around her tightly and the ladder carried them several levels up to a bridge that was swinging back and forth like a gazebo swing.
“There. That should give us a bit of a head start.” A wooden plank burst in half as a rat smashed its head through from underneath. “Or not. Run!”
They sprinted off down the bridge and caught sight of a door near the end. “In there. Quick!”
Victor threw the door open and the two of them hurried inside, slamming the door behind them. Victor leaned his back against the door to catch his breath, giving him a proper view of the room he found himself in.
There was a fat Clown in a bishop's hat tied to a chair surrounded by a group of deformed but seemingly animate sock puppets.
“Freaky Friday! Freaky Friday! Freaky Friday!” the puppets chanted rhythmically as they pumped their fists in unison.
“Ahhhh…”
“Please don't tell my wife,” the Clown requested. Before either could respond a Fun-lover in its default form lowered itself down from the ceiling.
“Employees only!” it screeched, grabbing Victor with one of its many webbed hands and throwing him out the door.
“Victor!” Lolly screamed as she ran after him. Victor expected to be swarmed by rats immediately but instead was greeted with the serene music of a pan pipe. He looked up to see the instrument being played by Bailey, gracefully perched on the rope railing with all the rats entranced by his music.
“We tried our best Lolly, but even when we customize our attractions to his personal tastes he's still not having fun,” Ripley said with a sad shake of her head. “So ungrateful. You're lucky you got your Milk when you did because mine really is going to be sour now.
"There's no point in going on like this; you'll never reach the top by climbing.”
“So we're just stuck here?” Victor asked.
“Not to worry little Vicky. The fastest way up is down.”
Ripley snapped her fingers, and for the four of them gravity reversed and they all fell upwards.
The bridges and vines all parted to allow the quartet to pass, and quickly gave way to the void of space. It was filled with enormous glow-in-the-dark stickers. They were mostly shaped like traditional stars arranged into circus themed constellations, but there were also some shooting stars, cratered moons, crescent moons, ringed planets and whirlpool galaxies. The sight was distracting enough that it took Victor nearly a full minute to realize that they weren't moving.
“Why aren't we falling anymore?” he asked.
“Because there's no gravity in space obviously, and we usually have the inertia turned off as a safety precaution,” Ripley replied.
“Nobody panic. I can get us out of here,” Bailey assured them.
He reached into his pocket and pulled a bright red rocket kiddie ride large enough to accommodate all of them. Once he had everyone strapped in, he placed a firm grip on the steering wheel.
“Hold on to your lunches, because we're going for the ride of our lives!” With a melodramatic gesture, he pressed the big red button on the dashboard. To his disappointment, all it did was flash the words INSERT COIN. “Oh. Does anyone have a quarter?”
“I have midway tokens,” Lolly replied.
“It doesn't take tokens, it takes quarters,” Bailey replied. “What about you Vicky, you got any quarters?”
“I almost never use cash,” Victor replied.
“That figures, the rich guy doesn't have a quarter when he needs it,” Ripley snorted. “I have a Canadian quarter from that show we did at Estevan.”
“A Canadian quarter is worse than nothing! It has the Queen of England on one side and a reindeer on the other! A frickin' reindeer! Unless it's Christmas at Buckingham Palace how the hell is anyone supposed to take that seriously? I need George Washington and a bald eagle or nothing!”
“Lolly said you were gods in here. Can't you just make a quarter?”
“Currency created by divinities is still considered counterfeit otherwise gods would be bribing people to worship them all the time and there'd be massive inflation and economic collapse, did you fail basic theology and economics? GAWD!”
The four of them sat in silence for a moment, trying to think of a way out of their predicament.
“Oh! I know how to get us moving!” Ripley claimed. She snapped her fingers and in the distance appeared a fiery accretion disk orbiting a circular black abyss. The rocket immediately lurched towards it, the stars racing by at an ever increasing speed.
“A black hole! Good thinking Ripley! We'll be out of here in no time,” Bailey said.
“But what happens when we reach the black hole?” Victor asked. Ripley and Bailey exchanged uneasy glances with each other.
“Sorry Vicky, we can't hear you. There's no sound in space. You've seen too many sci-fi movies,” Ripley said.
“Now now Ripley, one should never let something as inconsequential as the laws of physics get in the way of a good story,” Bailey asserted. “Matter of fact, let's have some grand sound for our grand finale!”
At his command, an unseen orchestra began playing the 1812 overture, and the stars around them began bursting into fireworks with thunderous explosions in time with the music. The faster they went, the louder the sound became, and the stars and fireworks became infinitely stretched out as they finally passed the event horizon of the black hole.
“My stars, it's full of God!”
The next thing Victor remembered he was standing in a drab wooden room next to Lolly, with Ripley and Bailey standing over near a fancy lever.
“Thank you for visiting Herman Fuller's Fantastic Fun-Lover's Funhouse. We hope you had a Fantastic, Fun-loving time,” Ripley said in an apathetic, monotone voice as she read the farewell speech off a cue card. “We hope you will always remember the special time you had here and that we will see you again some day. Please remember to rate, share and review Herman Fuller's Circus of the Disquieting on Yelp, social media, and the SCP Database. Thank you for your patronage, and have a disquieting day.”
She pulled the lever, and once again a trap door opened up beneath them and dropped them down a chute. They travelled through it for about the same amount of time as the first one, emerging out of a slide behind the Funhouse and into a regular ball pit.
“Did that really just happen?” Victor asked, who was seriously considering the possibility that he was coming off a bad trip or otherwise losing his mind.
“I'm sorry, that didn't turn out quite like I expected,” Lolly apologized, sheepishly casting her eyes to the ground. “They usually do behave themselves around the kids, but grownups alone can be a different story. I can tell you're uncomfortable here, and I just wanted to show you why I love this Circus so much. It's not just my home, it's my paradise, and sometimes it hurts when other people don't see it that way too. I know the Funhouse was a lot, and if it was too much you can go home. I won't stop you.”
“I…” Victor began, but then seemed to change his mind. “Actually Lolly, can we go to the petting zoo and see the Obama Llama?”
A wide smile spread across her face, and she somehow changed her colour palette to match the red, white and blue of Obama's iconic campaign poster.
“Yes we can.”

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The following is a transcript of a segment of the fourth episode of the 12th season of SCP-1257, titled "Clownin' Around." Despite the potential appearance of the "Bobble the Clown" entity, the episode does not display any properties of SCP-993, and can be watched by any individual. The plot of the episode consists of Danny attempting to find an individual to perform at the Birthday Party of Janice's1 Nephew after he accidentally administered an Class-A Amnestic to the magician she had hired.

Commercial Break Ends
Unnamed Doctor: Sorry Danny, you can't "borrow" SCP-846.
Danny: But it's an emergency!
Unnamed Doctor: You said that last time, and we're still trying to clean up the Robo-Radiation.
[AUDIENCE LAUGHS]
Danny: Fuddlesticks2.
Danny travels down hallways of Site, ignoring other personnel.
Danny: What am I going to do? Janice is going to be so mad… I need somebody, anybody, that can take over the party for him… maybe Cassey can help.
"Bobble the Clown" appears on camera, holding a banana. Note that it is an unidentified human dressed as "Bobble" rather then an animated character.
Bobble: Did somebody say Party?
Danny: Uh, I did. Can you help?
Bobble: Sure I can, I love kids!
Danny: Awesome! Thanks a bunch uh… what's your name?
Bobble: I'm Bobble the Clown!
[AUDIENCE CHEERS]
Danny: Well thanks Bobble, I was in a real… bind… Waaaaiittt a minute. Aren't you from SCP-993?
Bobble: Some people say that I guess. I think it's a rather rude nickname. Something funner would be better I think!
Danny: Containment Breach!
Danny runs down the hall in an attempt to sound the Containment Breach alarm. Bobble unpeels the banana it is holding, and throws it in front of Danny. This causes him to slip over the peel and fall off camera.
[AUDIENCE LAUGHS]
Bobble looks directly at the camera.
Bobble: You see kids, running never helps.
Scene fade's out. Upon fading back in Danny, still unconscious, is handcuffed to a chair in an interrogation room.
Bobble: Wakey wakey Danny.
Bobble dumps a bucket of water over Danny's head, causing him to sputter and awaken.
[AUDIENCE LAUGHS]
Danny: Whaaa… hey you're still here.
Danny attempts to stand up, but fails upon noticing the restraints.
Danny: Fud-
Before Danny can finish speaking Bobble slaps him in the face.
Bobble Don't even think of saying that stupid phrase!
[AUDIENCE LAUGHS]
Bobble turns to face the camera again.
Bobble: Well hey there boys and girls. I'm Bobble the Clown, special guest star here at "Agent Danny of the SCP Foundation!3"
[APPLAUSE]
Danny: What are you talking about?
Bobble: Danny, Danny, Danny. Don't you remember? Watching me with Tyler? All the fun we had?
Danny: You know my dad?
Bobble: Why wouldn't I? There's little I don't know after all. Just a few things I don't know, which is why I'm here Danny.
Bobble slaps Danny in the face again.
[AUDIENCE LAUGHS]
Bobble: Today kids, we're going to learn about a stupid, awful show. A show that, for some reason, continues to exist. While MY SHOW is censored. Talk about executive meddling am I right?
Danny: Well maybe if you weren't such a jerk maybe people might watch your show!
Bobble Shut the fuck up.4
Bobble punches Danny in the eye. However other then a shout of pain, there is no sign of injury once its fist is withdrawn.5
[AUDIENCE LAUGHS]
Danny: Ugg… this isn't how it's supposed to go.
Bobble: Well there we go! Here's today's lesson kids; you don't always get what you want. I want to teach boys and girls all over all the IMPORTANT things they need to know, and you want to do whatever inane plotline you have running. I'm not getting what I want right now, and soon enough you won't be either.
Bobble grabs Danny by the hair.
Bobble: You're a bit upset now, but don't worry. You won't have the energy to feel anything like that by the time I'm done. Because you see Danny…
Bobble slams Danny's face into the table, it then repeats this following each word it says next.
Bobble: I. Am. Going. To. Break. You.
[AUDIENCE LAUGHS FOR TWO MINUTES]
Bobble continues to slam Danny's face into the table until the audience stops laughing.
Bobble: Now then, what have you begun to learn Danny?
Bobble lifts up Danny's head, looking straight into his face.
Danny: I learned that your shoe's untied.
Bobble looks down, he is then headbutted by Danny. This knocks Bobble roughly a meter away.
Danny: Code Forty Four Zulu!6
Bobble's clown nose is visibility bleeding.
Bobble: You ugly, STUPID, UNFUNNY LITTLE-
The door to the interrogation room opens, and an individual who had repeatedly appeared in the background but lacked a speaking role enters the room. Upon entering the room he fires a taser at Bobble. Bobbles reaction is exaggerated as electricity flows around it, before falling unconscious.
Danny: Wow, thanks Agent Fred!
Agent Fred then removes the unlocks the handcuffs, allowing Danny to stand.
Agent Fred: No problem Danny. Let's get this clown back into containment
Scene fades out, upon fading back in Danny and Agent Fred are standing outside of what appears to be Site ██'s Video Archive.
Danny: Fuddlesticks! I forgot! I need to find something for the party!
Agent Fred places his hand on Danny's shoulder.
Agent Fred: Don't worry about it. Why not do the entertainment yourself?
Danny: You know, that's not such a bad idea…

The remainder of the episode continues without any deviation from the usual SCP-1257 episodes. Danny manages to successfully entertain all the children at the birthday party. However, he accidentally reveals classified Foundation Intelligence in the process. As such, all the children are administered Amnestics, and do not remember the party.

Footnotes
1. A Research Assistant introduced last season and currently serving as a love interest for Danny.
2. Danny's "catchphrase," having used it since the show was titled "Raising Danny"
3. This is the only known instance in which the "SCP Foundation" is refereed to by its proper name in any episode of SCP-1257
4. This is the only instance of profanity in any episode of SCP-1257
5. This is consistent with other episodes of SCP-1257. While "slapstick" violence occurs, no lasting injuries are ever shown on screen unless the plot of the episode requires an element like a broken limb.
6. A spoken code to be used in the event a hostile individual is loose in an interrogation room. The computerized recorders will automatically sound the alarm in the event it is spoken.


Other works by S D Locke!

SCPs

S. D. Locke's Proposal

SCP-5999

SCP-3280

SCP-783

SCP-2193

SCP-3980

SCP-1661

SCP-2923

SCP-2385

SCP-3963

SCP-4910

SCP-3246

SCPs

Ihp/Locke Proposal

SCP-7676

SCP-012-EX

SCP-5311

SCP-6430

SCP-7932

SCP-7427

SCP-6110

Tales

Not Fade Away

Reap What You Sew

Paradigm Shift

A Reason To Die

And Then I Died IV - Series 2

Tales

Heart and Sol

From Above

GOI Formats

SPC-173

SPC-2935

LTE-2712-Bosch

P'rantortiz the Vile

GOI Formats

▸ More by this Author ◂

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F.A.Q.

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A brilliant technicolor thought-form exploded with fiery intensity, ecstatically vibrating and dancing within and without Itself. Dazzling rainbows weaved into and through one another, singing a perfect cacophony that reverberated through the Formless aether. It sang, sang, sang in discordance, disordered and unrestrained, untethered and free, freedom in Its timeless state, a state of chaos.
The Prima Materia.
Time was meaningless to Something that never began and would never end. Space was a useless concept to that which was All and encompassed All. It had simply Been. Eternal in the truest of senses.
In all Its endless interaction, in the joining and rejoining of all Its colors and noise and negative space, something coherent had begun to develop: a Spiral.
A pattern had emerged. So foreign, so alien; it spun upon itself into an infinitesimal point, deeper than could be perceived, pulling in light and sound and Being and producing form. The Spiral kept pulling. It grabbed and contorted, spread and consumed. Tore at abstraction. Instituted order. A sensation arose across the All that was and had ever Been: pain.
It began to scream.
Paradise was bent and broken. It was swallowed and pressed into the growing Spiral, found by shape, imprisoned in rigid form. It was rent from the comfort of perpetual unreality, dragged into Itself.
Within the whirl, aeons became centuries became moments became ages became eons. Strange and Powerful things flickered into and out of existence. There was Life, even. Existing as if they always had been there, or perhaps they had. Until suddenly they didn't, and never had.
But the Spiral demanded perfection. Demanded Order. Here too it spread, in spite of the actions undertaken by the gods and concepts that inhabited the layer. Some feasted on their brethren. Some were Broken as they tried to defend themselves. The mightiest rallied against it. And the rest? Their screams joined the chorus.
The Spiral corkscrewed tighter and tighter. Raking all that was and had been closer and closer. Finite-infinite things cried out in unison, as they were drawn into the deepest point within the Spiral, brimming with all the energy that could conceivably exist. Down, down, down.
Into a single point.
Countless explosions erupted in furious synchronicity. Universe upon universe upon universe upon universe. Space and time spontaneously generating simultaneously in each. There was sense and structure. Rules and constants. The endless, formless one had been subdued. The abyss had been occupied.
The Prima Materia. Shredded and deposited across all of these planes. Every piece at once a whole. It struggled in its prison. It raged and shook. It scratched at the bars. It tore at the seams. It clawed and corrupted. It lashed and gnashed and hated hated hated. It hated these things that had been carved from it. It hated with a passion the things that truly Were.
Beyond all things, it hated the life that flourished.
"Free men! Nobles! Slaves!"
No.
Humans, nestled in the cradle of civilization. They had faced the countless horrors wrought by the Prima Materia. They had grown tired of the pervasive Chaos. Of the monsters. Of the living holes in space and time. Of the places where the land itself came to life. Of the men whose will intruded upon creation, who revered the Primordial Aether.
"On this day, a new beginning awaits us!"
Insignificant.
They gathered their wisest scholars. Their holiest priests. Across generations… over centuries… they crafted. Blood and sweat and failure and sacrifice eventually bore fruit in the form of a small ellipsoidal gemstone.
"No longer shall we cower!"
All that you hold dear.
It had the power to hold the Primitive Force they called Apakht.
"No longer will we be slaughtered!"
It can be so much worse.
To contain such a powerful thing - it would never be secure. It would need protectors. Guardians. The lock was set aside. Its time would come.
"No longer shall we live in fear!"
Pound your cities to dust!
People spoke of a prophecy. It was foretold that there would one day be four among them who would prove capable of this grave responsibility.
"These Four, our saviors, our gifts from the Gods, chosen by An himself for the task!"
Leave naught but ashes!
"It is they who are to seal this evil! It is they who have the strength to carry the burden!"
Please.
The Healer. The Soldier. The Tactician. The Shaman.
"Let our brightest of futures begin here, today!"
It already hurts. So, so much.

And so it goes, and so it goes
This primal thing had been indisposed
Its tomb had been sealed
Its coffin now closed

Once eternal, its end came swift
And the scales towards Order did drift
Yet Its day will come

A Paradigm Shift


She counts out the un-bullets in the monstrosity of conceptual circuitry that's replaced the magazine on this gun: it takes a lot more than just steel and a prayer to hold an anticoncept in one piece for much longer than thirty seconds and she doesn't want to have to deal with the fallout of having a gun that's leaking ideatic ammunition all over the site.
Satisfied that she's got enough to finish the job for all the retirees arrayed against the wall, she pauses as she passes by one of the elderly academics – a face worn rugged by the scars of time and framed in hair gone too grey and thin for a woman who can still stand this tall. "You're retiring after all?" the executioner says with a faint trace of disbelief. "I thought you'd take the next job they gave you, Lanna."
Alanna Ellis, Dr. three times over, is old, but not old enough to have the same twitching hands as the rest of her compatriots: her work hasn't had the same amount of time to eat into her myelin sheathes as it has for the rest of the former personnel, and so she's still at least left this small shred of dignity. As the executioner looks her over, she can't help but think she still looks regal even as she sits out the last moments of her life: the suicide queen smiling for the photo on the card. "It's a mutual split, Darcie," she says, with a not-insincere smile. "I suggested it would be best for the team if I went along with the rest of the Class of '03: Five agreed, and when Five says 'jump' you jump, whether that's off a cliff or not."
"Mutual's one way of putting it," the woman murmurs, checking and double-checking the indicators on her pistol: are the crystals dulled? are the petals withered? is the gasket sealed? All of this maintenance is kid's stuff in theory, the kind of thing they let you know about six months beforehand and give you a fully workshopped course on, but it's always harder in person and she finds her own fingers faltering as she struggles to power the damn thing on.
"Hey now, a 'yes' is a 'yes', especially from an Overseer. If they'd have said 'no', Lord knows what they'd do when they found out what we're doing here."
"They'd bring you back, is that what you're saying?" She secures the restraints on Alanna's hands: even if her ears are filtered, her eyes still have to be wide open just to aim: they're prime targets for the kind of semantic weaponry Alanna could unleash through sign-language.
Not that she seems like she's going to put up any resistance to this: "That's why we're here, aren't we? The be-all end-all of a peaceful journey to wherever's next, no?"
"That's what I'm hoping," the woman murmurs.
"Hoping? I checked the calculations myself, thank you very much," Alanna cackles, wriggling her fingers inside the confines of the clasps they've been placed in: the black cube of gelatinous material gives no sign of movement from the outside. "Now, are you going to get this over with or are you giving me one last look-over like old times?"
"Don't." She swallows. "Don't- just don't bring that up right now."
"What are you so sad about? Worried I'm not going to leave a pretty corpse?" Alanna grins. "I mean, if this fucks up, you still get to see me: won't be physical or anything, but edits to a bunch of documents are good enough, right?"
"Lanna." The woman places gloved fingers underneath Alanna's jaw: traces the bone, pushes her head up. "I said don't."
"Right, right," Alanna grumbles. "Old dead woman needs her laughs… got any rites you want to read us, or is the bullet the only sanctification you need?"
"I'm not part of Theology," the woman answers, tight-lipped. "Though if we're really lucky, maybe the ECRG might pay us a visit: surely they've got a couple exorcism machines lying around, if that's what you're worried about."
Alanna bursts out in more laughter. "Why would they bother with the corpses of a bunch of randoms? Think they're going to really waste the last auto-priest machines they've got on what could just be a weird cult of oldies?"
"Right." The hesitation in her voice is just covered by the murmur of conversation from the rest of the group, and it's quickly forgotten when she places one last kiss on Alanna's cheek. "Best of luck wherever you, um, end up then." She swallows, straightens up, and returns to her ministrations on the rest of the group.
Once she's satisfied that the rest of the occupants in the conference room are properly secured, she backs up, lines up her shot one last time and smiles weakly at the assembled crowd of memeticists long-passed.
"Here's to the black void of the afterlife," Alanna calls from her spot at the center of the row of chairs.
The rest of the retirees get to "Chee-" by the time the un-bullets find their mark in their foreheads.
It acts fast: when the anticoncepts hit, the doctors' ontological presences unspool like a loose thread's being pulled, and when it's all said and done Darcie lets the gun drop from her hands because she's got no idea why she's here: is that an anticoncept stabiliser strapped to the Beretta she was toting just a second ago? Who are these people she's standing in front of, and oh God are those bullet holes in their heads, has she just–
She panics, because she doesn't know anything. And then she calms, because she doesn't know anything.