When Blue Hogs Fly - SCP Foundation

I DUNNO IF YOUR MORON BRAIN GOT PEGGED BY STUPID BUT “PRO WRESTLING” IS A BULLSHIT HOBBY FOR COMMIE LOSERS LIKE YOU. I KNOW THIS IS GONNA KILL SOME MIDDLE SCHOOL HICK’S CHILDHOOD BUT I DON’T CARE, WRESTLING ISN’T REAL! VINCE MCMAHON IS A FRAUD LOSING A MILLION DOLLARS A DAY MAKING ACTING SCHOOL DROPOUTS SUPLEX EACH OTHER FOR GULLIBLE SCHMUCKS LIKE YOU! THIS IS AMERICA, LAND OF THE FREE, HOME OF THE BRAVE, AND A PLACE WHERE GROWN ADULTS ENJOY REAL THINGS! LIKE SEX, WHICH YOU’VE NEVER HAD! ––HOGSLICE

“Jesus, this guy’s gotta touch some grass,” Hooke muttered under his breath. The containment specialist just wanted twenty minutes of peace. After putting the Foundation’s latest batch of pet monsters––including but not limited to the ghost of Frank Sinatra Senior––under lock and key, he blew off his lunch break to surf the web and un-pudding his brain. The users on r/ProWrestling usually made good enough conversation, mostly nostalgic fans trading their favorite highlight reels.

Until “u/HogWithABlog33” rolled in. 33, of course, because he’s been banned THIRTY-TWO TIMES already. For weeks now, he’s been crashing random subreddits, everything from r/funny to r/scrapbooking, just trying to get a rise out of people.

Just the other day, he was banned from r/hunting. AZAPERONE IS A TRANQUILIZER FOR SCRAWNY PEWEE BOY SCOUTS, I MIX IT IN MY MORNING CEREAL BECAUSE I'M NOT A BITCH, he had bragged. CAPTAIN CRUNCH MOTHERFUCKERS! REAL MEN LOAD THEIR DARTS WITH CARFENTANYL! THAT'S ELEPHANT TRANQUILIZER, BUT NONE OF YOU WOULD KNOW THAT, JUST LIKE YOU WOULDN'T KNOW THE INSIDE OF A GYM! ––HOGSLICE

Feeling a migraine coming on, Hooke leaned back against his swivel chair and closed his eyes wishing he could take that nap he knew he didn’t have time for. He felt silly for getting this worked up over Reddit, of all things.

Don’t feed the trolls, his own advice echoed in his head. He was a secret agent, for a multi-trillion dollar clandestine organization that would make every tinfoil hat-wearing conspiracy enthusiast soil themselves. He had more important things to worry about.

A new message popped on the screen.

WHAT, NO COMEBACK? YEAH THAT’S RIGHT YOU PATHETIC FUCK, LET THE ADULTS TALK. COME BACK WHEN YOU STOP PLAYING WITH FOLDING CHAIRS AND GET A REAL WEAPON LIKE THESE HANDS WHICH ARE REGISTERED AS LETHAL WEAPONS IN 36 COUNTRIES. ––HOGSLICE

See? This guy wasn’t worth the trouble, he just wanted attention. Hooke felt almost silly for getting so worked up; he should be doing something more productive than getting in a flame war with some rando he didn’t even–

BITCH. ––HOGSLICE

Hooke took a single, slow inhale up through his nose. Fuck it.

He clenched his fingers so tight he could hear every joint in both his hands pop before they turned into clattering blurs dancing over his keyboard. The thoughts poured out of him––almost literally, as he started talking out loud for no one in particular. He took an equally smug and righteous sort of satisfaction in hearing how tough his own words sounded as he typed them. “Listen here you vulgar, cave-dwelling, attention whore. I can’t even call you a man-child because I honest to God think you’re just some twelve-year-old trying to get clicks on Reddit to replace the love he never got from mommy and daddy. How’s that divorce going by the way? Stop whining about people liking things and go shove off to somewhere people actually have patience for losers like you—like therapy.”

Hooke didn’t feel better. Not even a little. But for the moment, he didn’t care. He was ready to take a can of gasoline to this flame war. If he couldn’t ignore this troll, he’d just have to out-crazy him. He spammed the refresh button on his browser over and over and over, just itching for his opponent to make a move. But all he got were five words:

WHAT DID YOU SAY!? ––HOGSLICE

The lights in Hooke’s office dimmed, flickered, and suddenly shone so bright he thought they might burst. The ground rumbled, papers and files flew from the room’s many shelves, and Hooke had to jump to his feet to dodge his now long-cold cup of coffee falling in his lap. “What the Hell!?”

He jumped like Super Mario as a single muscular fist punched up through the air vent under his feet. He could hear the muffled echoes of wild cussing as its owner pried himself through a passage far too small for a man his size. The figure lumbered to his feet, spitting out mothballs. The intruder looked like an even more roided-out version of Scott Steiner––if that was even possible. The veins in his temples popped almost as big as the ones in his arms as he visibly swelled with rage, his face darkening from red to blackish purple as if he was about to hit critical mass. “I'M GONNA DO TO YOU WHAT THE UNDERTAKER PRETENDS TO DO TO PEOPLE!”

Oh, Hooke thought numbly. Hogslice.

WHAM.

Hooke barely registered the punch when it connected, but even before his body rag-dolled through the door, he knew that his nose was broken. He slid into the hallway through a rain of splinters and slammed shoulders first into the opposite wall.

SCP-6599-1––as the specialist now recognized him––stepped out through the Hooke-sized hole in the door, before changing his mind and turning around to knock what was left of it off its hinges. He turned his attention back to the man on the ground trying to sneeze out the blood gushing through his nostrils. “NOBODY TALKS TO ME LIKE THAT YOU LITTLE SHIT! YOUR MOMMY EVER TEACH YOU THE GOLDEN RULE? TREAT OTHERS HOW YOU WANT TO BE TREATED? WELL HERE’S A LESSON, I’D HATE IF SOMEONE DID THIS TO ME!" Hogslice ripped a nearby bulletin board off the wall and slung it like a frisbee at Hooke’s head.

Hooke rolled to the side just in time to avoid the slab of wood as it exploded against the concrete wall behind him, sending splinters showering around him like shrapnel. He ripped his sidearm out of his holster and fired until he heard it click, the echoes of his gunshots causing Site-19’s automated security alarm to go off. Hogslice reeled back and clutched his face as every round connected, before peering through his fingers, more pissed off than hurt. “Now you’re gonna get it!”

Hooke bolted down the halls as security personnel flooded the corridor to check out the commotion. I could’ve used you guys one broken nose ago, the specialist thought bitterly as they charged the musclebound intruder. But Hooke didn’t need to look back to know their bullets would only be about as useful as his, and kept sprinting as he heard the screams and crashes of what he could only assume were the Foundation’s underpaid guards getting bulldozed by an angry Hogslice still charging after him.

Hooke was never assigned to SCP-6599, but he’d heard enough chatter on and off the web about the home-invading keyboard warrior to know he couldn’t hide from it. So from here on out, it was just a game of keep-away.

He took a sharp left and sprinted through the Cryptozoology Department, nearly tripping over a table labeled "TRANQUILIZING AGENTS" as he ducked and weaved past his shocked colleagues. Moments later, Hogslice burst into the room on a warpath and punted that same table into the ceiling. Shattered glass and a cloud of multi-colored gas rained down as the panicking zoology researchers began sprinting in all directions. They began dropping like flies as the cocktail of knockout gas descended on the room. Hooke leapt out the other side of the room into a hallway, Hogslice still hot on his heels.

He turned a corner and burst through the double doors to Site-19’s gymnasium. It was a big space, but Hooke realized it was sorely lacking in exits as the heavy footsteps behind him loudened. Seeing an opening, he ducked behind the room's retractable bleachers, slamming the button to close them on his way in. He ducked, bobbed, and weaved over the seating’s folding metal supports as he heard Hogslice stumble in after him, slowed down by his much larger frame.

"GET THE FUCK BACK HERE YOU YELLOW-BELLIED BITCH!"

No, I don’t think I will. Hooke slipped through the other side of the bleachers and turned around just long enough to catch a glimpse of his attacker getting pressed into the wall by the massive contraption, unable to squeeze his way through. The bleachers squeaked and whirred as they struggled to close in on their new prisoner, who futilely pushed back while swearing more than a racist grandma, until finally closing shut and cutting him from view.

Hooke backed away with his eyes trained on the bleachers, which were now silent. Several moments passed before he finally let out a sigh of relief, just then registering the cold flow of adrenaline coursing through his body. He pushed back the pain in his face long enough to celebratorily punch his fists in the air. “Yes! Eat shit you stupid troll!”

His gloating cut off sharply as the bleachers started to creak. They swayed forwards. Then backwards. Then Right. Then Left. And all the while, the steady stream of swears grew from silence to a whisper to a cacophony, until finally the ten rows of seating listed and crashed into the ground. Hooke tripped on a stray barbell trying to avoid the wave of debris washing over him.

Hogslice stepped out from the wreckage of the bleachers, his hands balled into tight, white-knuckled fists, and with a hateful, unblinking glare fixed on Hooke. "YOU. MOTHER. FUCKER."

Hooke pressed one hand to his forehead and smushed his face in disbelief as he tried to think of a way out of this. Hey, it’s not so bad, he thought defeatedly. 6599 doesn’t kill people, he’ll just break every bone in my body. A few months of physical therapy––a year tops, and it’ll be like this never even happened.

Hooke took a break from coping internally to get to his feet and dodge a wild haymaker by Hogslice. He backed up, dancing further and further away as his attacker picked up steam, until he felt himself bump into a large object and knew he was cornered. Hooke glanced behind him to see he ran into the wrestling ring erected in the center of the gym. It must’ve still been up since SCP-7370’s last containment procedure. Oh yeah, 7370.

Hogslice reared his fist back past his head, ready to pulverize Hooke like a mallet squashing a grape. At the last second, Hooke threw his hands up pleadingly. “Wait!” The punch paused as Hogslice looked confused at this sudden cowardly display by his slippery target. “You were right! Professional wrestling is stupid! I don’t even like it, I was just pretending to for attention! You’re way too tough, I’d never have said those awful things to your face!”

Hogslice’s face curled into a grin. "WELL THAT’S MORE LIKE IT! THAT’S RIGHT, DUMBFUCK, HOGSLICE IS THE TOUGHEST SUM’BITCH THE WORLD OVER, ON AND OFF THE WEB!"

“Yeah! Wrestling is totally fake!”

That confused look returned to Hogslice’s face. “UM… OKAY?”

Hooke cleared his throat. “I’m just saying that…” he cupped his hands around his mouth. “WRESTLING IS TOTALLY FAKE!”

“UH… YEAH, I GUESS SO. WHATEVER DUDE, YOU STILL BETTER SAY GOODNIGHT!” Hogslice reared back his fist again, ready to send Hooke to the morgue until he was halted by the echo of a third voice through the gymnasium.

“OH YEAH?”

As Hogslice turned, he ate a faceful of steel as something smacked into him like a semi-truck. He soared backward, over a Specialist Hooke now balled up in the fetal position, and cracked into the bleachers of the opposite wall. He shook the rubble out of his hair before looking for what had just hit him. “WHO HAS THE FUCKING BALLS?” he fumed.

His gaze landed on a large figure tossing aside a folding chair with a fresh imprint of his ugly mug on it. His attacker was massive, seven and a half feet tall at least, and dressed like a reject from a sci-fi convention, clad in nothing but purple spandex and boots on his lower body. The fact that he just spontaneously appeared in the room was only the second weirdest thing about him. The first was that his skin was completely blue.

“Lemme tell you something, Hogslice!” The overgrown smurf mockingly dragged out every syllable in 6599’s name. “You got some nerve walking into the champ’s hometown and runnin’ yer mouth about the late, great, legitim-ate art of wrestlin’! But the jabbering stops here, ‘cause Mr. Blue’s gonna fry you up and enjoy a slice of hog!”

Hogslice and Mr. Blue strode up to one another until they were nose to nose, scowl to grin, and black shades to purple shutter glasses. “DON’T GET IN MY WAY YOU MACHO MAN KNOCKOFF BITCH!” Hogslice bellowed.

“Ooo, now I know you didn’t just call the Cerulian Savage a knockoff, ‘cause you’re lookin’ kin-da fam-il-iar!” Blue retorted, lowering his glasses to look the Scott Steiner clone up and down.

As the two of them traded insults, Hooke army crawled his way back out the door. Problem solved, he thought perhaps a little too optimistically. This shouldn’t get out of hand as long as they’re keeping each other busy.

Hogslice struck first with a flurry of haymakers. One good punch rocked Blue in the face, snapping his shutter glasses in two. Blue kept his guard up as he was knocked backfirst into the metal ring post, before hooking his shorter opponent under the armpits and flipping him up inside the square circle with a belly-to-belly suplex. He pulled down on the rope and slingshot himself up and over to stand facing off with Hogslice by the time the latter pulled himself to his feet.

“COCKY PRICK!” Hogslice screamed as he barreled shoulders first into Blue. The two of them traded blows, matching each other in power. Blue swung wide and hard with all the showboating flair of a vintage professional wrestler, while Hogslice countered with the tight, angry hooks of a royally pissed-off, red-blooded American street fighter. Hogslice was first to break the stalemate, deviously launching a knee to Blue’s groin, causing his opponent to double over in pain. He then gripped the Blue Bomber by the mullet and smashed his face into the top of the nearest ring post, sounding throughout the facility like a gong as his thick skull met metal.

Mr. Blue pushed back on the rope to stop Hogslice short of slamming him into the post again and threw an elbow back into the bridge of his nose. Hogslice’s sunglasses shattered into a million pieces as he reeled in pain. “THOSE COST ME THIRTEEN DOLLARS, ASSHOLE!” he screamed, before being flung back into the opposite corner by a big purple boot to the chest. Now it was Blue’s turn to throw haymakers, striking Hogslice left and right. He paused and leaned back, wheeling his right arm at the elbow for a windup before connecting with an uppercut that shook the ring.

“Now you’re on Big Blue’s Cruise to Sleepytown!” Blue gloated, as he grabbed a dazed Hogslice in a rear naked choke.

6599’s eyes widened and bulged out of their sockets as he clumsily grabbed at Blue’s arms and tried to wrestle out of the grip around his neck. He threw elbows rapid fire into his opponent’s abdomen, but Blue only responded by tightening the hold harder. Hogslice dropped to one knee, fading fast, before, with his last bit of breath, defiantly gurgling, “GET HIM, ROCKY.”

Hogslice held a hand back over his head, and an oversized Hercules beetle crawled out of his palm and onto Mr. Blue’s shoulder. The Blue Bomber froze in fear as the armored insect waltzed onto his oversized nose, and stared into his now cartoonishly widened eyes with its own cold, black ones.

CHOMP. Rocky pinched his horns down right on Mr. Blue’s open eye.

“AIYEEEEE!” Blue screamed, hopping up and down and shaking violently. “GET IT OFF GET IT OFF GET IT OFF!” He swatted at himself as the beetle crawled circles around his back and chest, recoiling every time he felt it move.

Hogslice took the opening to deliver a hard right to Mr. Blue, rocking him into the ropes so forcefully it ripped the ring posts out of the floor. The ropes gave as the ring listed and sank on one side, tumbling both fighters onto the hardwood floor with two sickening thuds. Mr. Blue, more afraid of the beetle than the fall, stopped, dropped, and rolled like a man on fire until Rocky crawled off him and across the floor into Hogslice’s outstretched hand. “HE’S A TOUGH LITTLE FUCKER, JUST LIKE HIS DADDY!” the latter proclaimed as he shoved the beetle into his jean pockets. He reached under the collapsed wrestling ring and dragged out a sledgehammer. “YOU’RE GOING DOWN LIKE MISSES HOGSLICE ON A SATURDAY NIGHT, BITCH!” Hogslice lunged at Mr. Blue, who tumbled just out of the way of the hammer as it tore through the remaining bleacher. It shuddered and buckled, all of its supports giving way to the hit. Wood and metal flew everywhere in a cloud of debris, obscuring both fighters.

Hogslice walked through the wreckage scanning for his fallen opponent. “COME ON OUT YOU BIG BLUE JACKASS, CHAMPS DON’T HIDE!”

The Lazuli Leviathan rose slowly from the rubble. Mr. Blue had clutched in his hand the steel chair he had earlier imprinted Hogslice’s face into, which he used to prop himself to his feet. He grinned confidently. “Runnin’ circles round you was fun while it lasted, but this rat race just became a demolition derby, oh yeah!”

The two titans charged, each connecting their weapons to their opponent’s body with wild swings. Not slowing down, they each raised their weapons again and struck each other non-stop in two colliding tidal waves of hits. The polished floorboards beneath them cracked and splintered from the pressure of their combined blows on one another.

Hogslice swung his hammer up in a wide arc, aiming to flatten Mr. Blue’s skull from above. The Blue Bomber raised his chair to block it, and the hammer’s head sank and lodged itself in the steel seat. Blue wrenched the hammer out of Hogslice’s hands and slung both weapons across the room, before connecting a hard uppercut to Hogslice’s gut. “Blue Bomb!” he yelled in a war cry, as he grabbed his opponent by the waist and flipped him onto his shoulders, before bringing down Hogslice with his trademark powerbomb into the ground. The already damaged floor gave out entirely as both anomalies tumbled down to the basement below.

On the next level down, the two exhausted wrestlers rolled on the floor, each trying futilely to overpower the other. “You’re going down pipsqueak!” Blue taunted. “Keyboard warriors can’t pick on anybody their own size, and I’m twice yours!”

“YEAH AND DRAGO WAS BIGGER THAN ROCKY BALBOA, HOW’D THAT WORK OUT FOR HIM, MOTHER[REDACTED]?” Hogslice retorted.

“Brother, you ain’t even Apollo Creed!”

“SHUT YOUR MOUTH, CARL WEATHERS IS A GODDAMN NATIONAL TREASURE!”

“And Dolph Lundgreen’s an INTERNATIONAL treasure!”

The wear and tear of the fight finally started to show on the two warriors as they climbed to their feet. Hogslice, punch drunk––and possibly regular drunk––swayed groggily, his face swelling like a water balloon filled with syrup. “IT AIN’T ABOUT HOW HARD YOU HIT, IT’S ABOUT HOW HARD YOU CAN––fuck, that hurts––IT’S ABOUT HOW HARD YOU CAN GET HIT AND KEEP MOVING FORWARD!”

Mr. Blue’s bruises were so dark blue that they even stood out on his navy hide. “Whaddya get when you make Big Blue mad? You–– uh…” His brow furrowed as he tried to think of another cheesy catchphrase. “Screw it, I’m gonna kick your ass!”

Doors opened on all sides of the basement as Mr. Blue and Hogslice stumbled toward each other. Dozens of security guards flooded the dingy corridor and encircled them, guns raised.

“Oh…” Mr. Blue’s attention drifted to the crowd forming around him. “So it’s a battle royale now, huh? Bring it on!”

Hogslide glared at the interlopers crashing their slugfest. “WAIT’CHER DAMN TURNS, YOU SWAT-LOOKIN’ JAGOFFS!”

The two wrestlers charged in opposite directions at the terrified Site security staff, but before a single shot was fired, two darts came down from above and sank into the anomalies’ necks. Mr. Blue and Hogslice, suddenly even more exhausted than before, collapsed to the ground, snoring obnoxiously in perfect sync.

The guards all raised their heads to the gaping hole in the ceiling to see a single figure shadowed by the gymnasium lights behind him. Specialist Hooke held a Foundation-issue dart gun––courtesy of the Cryptozoology Department––in one hand and pressed a blood-soaked towel to his nose with the other. “And stay down.”

One of the guards stepped forward and gingerly prodded Hogslice with his boot as if to check he was really unconscious and not dead. “What was that, sir?”

“Carfentanyl, elephant tranquilizer. Enough for four or five. They’ll both be okay. Probably.”

The rest of the guards began fitting the largest metal shackles Site-19 had to offer on each anomaly’s wrists and ankles and tried pathetically to lift the massive creatures off the ground. “What should we do with them?”

“Figure it out, I’m on break.”