Spooky Scary Sausages - SCP Foundation

NOTICE

The following document was recovered from a magazine in a raid on a Stage 4 SCP-7978-B compound. Every part of the document is an ALPTRAUM-Class infohazard associated with SCP-7978. It is to be used only as a test for new methods to mitigate its effect.

Whenever the air grows colder, a bizarre and beautiful miracle happens.

The Lord in Heaven checks His magical thermometer. And if He deduces that this is the perfect air temperature to pass His judgment on trees, He descends from His celestial palace in an invisible chariot pulled by twelve invisible grandmothers. Riding throughout all of Europe and also Non-Europe, the Lord seeks out all the nasty deciduous trees who are still loafing about. He punishes them for being alive by painting their leaves Weaktree Colors and ripping them off.

Delightfully, this also happens the beautiful, bountiful, and bulbous Eastern-European country of Sausagia. And when the leaves fall from the punished trees, the Sausagians joyfully gather the leaves up, compact them into jars, soak them with pork broth, sprinkle with yeast, and leave them in the cellar until they become delightfully refreshing leafovitsa brandy for the spring months.

But one fall day in Sausagia was the most special of all. Yes, you Sausagians reading this, I'm taking about the most wonderful day of the year…

Breeding Day! Yes, that special festival whereupon the nicest sausages in all the land are gathered into studding vats full of room-temperature lemon juice, which sends them into a reproductive frenzy. The sausages copulate furiously amongst themselves for hours on end until a bountiful crop of sneetlets1 arises from the vat of their limp and withered forbears!

But in the Year of our Forcemeat 2021, in the Sausagian capital of Kielslava, one breeding day was almost spoiled by a band of brutish invaders…

It all began at 5:30 PM, when everybody's hero, the Sausageboy, had just finished wrapping up his harvest of the new sneetlets. After he tucked the tiny sausages into bed in their tiny lead coffins, he sighed with greatest melancholy. This year's crop of sneetlets was anything but abundant.

But not all was lost, for the cause of good Mr. Sausageboy's woes had a name and other contact information: the Kielslava City Council. They were the ones encouraging people to spay and neuter their sausages! The Sausageboy tried to warn them over and over that this would inevitably result in thin returns on Sausage Breeding Day.

Once the Sausageboy had finished his duties for the evening, he surmised, he would send the city council a tally of this year's sausages, accompany it with a sternly-worded letter, and strangle them all with horse entrails.

So began his chores. First of all, he called 911.

"911, please state the nature of your emergency," said the stinky little operator.

"I am indeed the Sausageboy," yodeled the Sausageboy.

"Hmm, yes, that is very useful information. I owe you my life. As a reward, I will forward 400 JSD2 to your account."

"Yes yes yes that is a co-wrecked answer toward me, the call is very overed now, so remove your face from the telephone machine please. Goodbye noises!"

The Sausageboy shrieked in unparalleled delight as he slammed the receiver back down. "Uy, uy, uy!" he squealed, because that's a very nice sound to make when you're happy. "Mister Sausage That I Have, remove your sorry haunches from my pocket, for I am having a wonderful news at you."

He pulled Mister Sausage That I Have from his pocket.3

"Abuse noises," chortled the Sausageboy, giddily slapping his faithful kielbasa with a small pipe wrench. "Be forgiving of me, Mister Sausage That I Have, for I am very unable to put in a 'do not let out' box all of my joy and joyfulness, because I am going to be receiving of 400 JSD for being a saussy little gooder boy, agree with me immediately!"

Mister Sausage That I Have Nodded, for that is what the wrist that held him commanded.

"Yes yes very goodest opinions Mr. S-that-I-H, now, we must prance our footsies toward Father-Father-Father's bedroo-doir and furiously smacken upon his body parts with a stapler in celebratories."

But scarcely before the Sausageboy could plap-plap a foot upon the sausagewood floor to get stapling, he heard the doorbell.

"YOY-YEEEE!" said the doorbell.

"Oh? I am doing a wondermysteries about whoever this could be at this elevenworth or whatever time it is," said the Sausageboy.

So, with Mister Sausage in hand, he pranced on over to the foyer. He took a glance at the curious doorbell, wondering for a moment why the speaker system looked like a little girl who had been stapled to the ceiing with a T-shirt that read "I AM NOT A DOORBELL! I JUST WANT TO LOVE YOU!" for some reason. But his eyes had a way of playing tricks on him, so he ignored it.

But as he opened the door, a chill wind cut through the Sausageboy's very soul. There, on the doorstep, stood three of the most disgusting little child-things that the Sausageboy had ever seen in his life.

One was a girl dressed in a black witchperson's uniform. Her hat was nasty little cone with a brim wide enough to keep the rain away. Which doesn't sound too awful — until you realize that if anyone tries to plant any sausage trees in her eyes, they'll wither and die.

Right next to her was a boy in a bat costume. He was a "Batted Man" of sorts, with a bat symbol on the chest and an assortment of superhero-like paraphernalia. For shame! Bats do not belong in the heroism industry! They belong in Sausagia's finest spicy five-rodent breakfast links!

And if that weren't enough, the last boy was the worst of all — he was clad in a skull mask with a flowing black cloak obscuring the rest of him. A long scythe sat in his right hand. Yes, you heard me right, he was impersonating the Sausagian healthcare system! WITHOUT A LICENSE, no less!

Any one of these fashion crimes would have been unforgivable enough to warrant 50 life sentences buried up to their necks in non-sausage things. But the Sausageboy figured it best to deal with one problem at a time.

"Hello hello hello upon you," said the Sausageboy. "Kindly please to replace your stupid clothings with things that do not foopt my eyeballs with the tacit opinions they express by existing, yes yes?"

That was what our hero would have said, if he weren't cruelly interrupted mid-sentence by three hideous words from three hideous mouths.

"Trick or Treat!" said the horrible children, holding out pumpkin-shaped buckets.

The Sausageboy blinked.

The horrible children still stood there, buckets outstretched.

The witch lowered her bucket. "…guys, I don't think he's got any candy."

"SCOFF," cried the Sausageboy. "I am having of several candies, but this matter is as an unrelated thing to the point which is being why have you come to my HOUSE and PORCH and DOORSTEP dressed in clothes that make NOT-YOU-resembling affronts toward me?"

The horrible children backed away a little, but not enough to sate our hero's sausageous indignation.

In a vain attempt to pacify, the scythe-bearer pointed to Mister Sausage That I Have and said, "I like your hot dog."

"DORG? Excusings you, Mister Sausage That I Have is NEVER and NOT EVER a puppings dorg?! OBVIOUSLY?! Do you hearing you him woofen-waff noises, does he rollings-upon-over and be-shit towards the floors of me?!"

"Chill, dude, it's just Halloween," said the Batted Man.

"WHAT THE FRANK IS A HALLOWED WENIS?!"

One Lengthy Explanation of Halloween Later…

When he was sure that the horrible children had finished their little lecture about the Hallowed Wenis, the Sausageboy paced back and forth in his backyard. He scratched his aching scalp with Mister Sausage That I Have.

"So, allow me to straighten my get of this: the Hallowed Wenis is a Mister Day That Calendars Have, whereupon teensly little kidlings Froopty-flop about their streety-tread-ons, parading in clothings of people they are not and assuming very very falsified identifiers, extruding their ugly winter vegetable baskets toward the hand-givings of neighbored distributors, crying 'TREEKENTRAT, TREEKENTRAT, here is the ultimatum for you, you giving me candies or I giving of your house the covering of napkins for with to swab the anus,' and then you receive the candies or not, then you return home with several of acquisitions and NOBODY TALKS ABOUT SAUSAGES?!"

With that last word, the Sausageboy extended his neck over the large pit he had bitten out of the ground a few minutes ago. The horrible children, tied together at the pit's nadir, looked up in great confusion and distress.

The Batted Man replied, "I mean, yeah, that's pretty much what Halloween is… I think?"

"YOU WILL NOW EXPLAIN HALLOWED WENIS'S THE LACK OF SAUSAGES AT MY EARS."

"I mean, it's not against the law or anything to talk about sausages during Halloween, they're just… y'know…"

"I KNOW OF WHAT?"

"…not very spooky?'

Once the horrible children had been safely tucked into the pit with a nice cement blanket and made to take a forever nap, the Sausageboy wept bitterly through clenched teeth. He tried everything to stanch the overflowing rage and despair in his heart, but nothing granted him any comfort.

He tried flossing Mister Sausage That I Have through both his nostrils while screaming the National Anthem of Sausagia.* Alas, his efforts were futile.

He tried e-mailing death threats to the wife of his archnemesis, the Horribebble Berdus. Alas, he remembered at the last minute that the Horribebble Berdus didn't have a wife.

He even tried forcing Father-Father-Father to stick his hand in a jar of hydrochloric acid again. Alas, his dear Papa's scream of gratitude no longer held any music in its cadence.

* (Note: This is the anthem in question.)

Everyone please rise...

Blessed Sausagia, unvisited by strife!

If you don't like sausages, go and sit on a knife.

We shall bite the sausage, we shall lick the sausage

take the sausage for a wife!

We shall drink the sausage, we shall choke on sausage

for the sausage is life.

The poor Sausageboy gave way to deepest melancholy, playing depressing partitias and toccatas on the Sausorgan in his attic.

"Pthpbh pbhbhth bphhth," said the pipes of the organ, for they were limp and moist sausages.

"I am doing an agree with your counsel, Sausorgan," said the Sausageboy. "There is being only one of solutions for problem that which is this, here is mister plan that I made:

I must packings the up of Mister Sausage that I Have for adventurings,

Set off to find and locate and acquire and see this "Hallowed Wenis,"

Write a list which is having a number four on it,

Say "number four" with many much pronunciations so that it sounds like "noonmber phpforrrr" and scrunch my lippylips up greatly for to be-squinch my face raisinly,

Admire the feeling of my lippenlaps losing several circulations from facial squanchings,

Uy uy uy, how it tingles,

And, finedly,

MURDERSTROY THE HALLOWED WENIS!

Uy-yeee, the enjoyment of this schematic be-purples my saussy duzhmerp!4"

So before the sun even began to set, our hero had strapped his trusty Sausage Cart to the nearest available donkey.

"I am not a donkey," whined the accountant next door, who had been chained to the wagon's harness.

"Incorrective!" spat the Sausageboy. "Move forward quickish at horizon, noble donkus! Cruelty noises!"

The Sausageboy slapped his naughty mule with Mister Sausage That I Have 67 times in the span of a single minute, and only then did the stubborn beast giddyup toward Kielslava's city limits. Even the Sausageboy had doubts about his persuasive abilities, but it certainly helped that he had tied a ten-pound dumbbell to the tip of his sausage.

Onward they galloped, far to the south of Kielslava, over hill and over dale, until they came to the parking lot of that noble public institution exclusive to Sausagia: the spankings factory. This was where all non-Sausageboy children went to school. All the way, the Sausageboy kept up the assault on his mule's backside.

"Stop moving forward, silly donkus," quailed the Sausageboy, "for we have arrivedy-divedy-doo at our destined nation."

But the mule would go no further, for his head had been smashed in from blunt force trauma for some reason.

"You unmove regardless? Convenient!"

He slinked forward giddilly across the corrugated steel floor to Spankings Distribution Room A868.

The jolly schoolteacher, Mrs. Bludgeonshriek, was in her fifth hour of subjecting the second-year students' learning-haunches to open palms. Said palms were cleaved off the wrists of jolly handsgivesmen, jammed into 20-pounder naval cannons, and scattershot at children's posteriors at a range of fifty centimeters.

"Hello hello hello at your face, saussy Sausageboy that you are," said Mrs. Bludgeonshriek. "How gooder of us to visitings our humble classed room on such a fined day!"

"Shut your squealing maw please," said the Sausageboy.

"Many thankshaving of you for saying the pleaseword, young and mighty Sausageboy. Have you come toward us for to receive education through the wonders of severe physical and psychological trauma? There is no better teachingsgiver, you knows!"

"Polite refusal!" said the Sausageboy, defecating.

"What a fine gift you have given upon my floor!" cried Mrs. Bludgeonshriek.

"You are being welcome, now, Teachings-Wanch, she who knows all the know-things because she has to, I am ordering you to shove the following knowledge into my ears and rub and smanch and squoosh it all over my brain that I have: what is a Hallowed Wenis and how can I kill it?"

"Huumm-mum-mum," groaned Mrs. Bludgeonshriek, thinking feverishly whilst scraping little scabs off the tip of her spearlike pointed chin. "That is one thing that the gift of getting hit a lot from me is forever unable to teach. However, I would ask the Weeshner Tribe of the next county over. Their wisdom thoroughly insquankable."

"Thank thank thankings upon you, noble childs-foopter!" cried the Sausageboy. With that, our hero grabbed himself by his gangly neck and forward-passed himself out the window.

On he flew through the air, over the smog of cities and the mountain-smog of mountains, until he landed in the eastern deserts of Sausagia. That was where the Weeshnermen built their mud huts.

Now, the Weeshner Tribe (That's Uyshny Yurodovny to the Old Sausievers) were the religious pillars of Sausagia. They were iron-hearted ascetics who gave up all worldly pleasures5 in pursuit of the greatest form of spiritual enlightenment: to one day have the shit beaten out of them for no reason by the Sausageboy.

So the Sausageboy trekked through an ankle-high biofilm of various Weeshner acolytes' bodily fluids that dampened the sands. (Twelve of them exploded earlier; cleaning it up was a sin.) Emaciated and delirious Weeshners huddled over steel barrels, immersing their right arms in balsamic vinegar to marinate for later consumption. They mumbled prayers of verbal abuse toward the Sausageboy's enemies.

The nameless chief guru of the Weeshners sat in meditation on a pile of decapitated tortoises. His beard was matted and filled with nervous wasps, his skin was smeared with charred processed goose, and his fingers had been deboned and braided together in a permanent gesture of deep thought.

"Uy, so very wising," said the Sausageboy. "Chief guru that you are, most knowledge-having of all creatures in the Sausagia place, could you tell me immediately where I may find and foopt into obliviatings the Hallowed Wenis, do it do it?"

The Weeshmaster opened his eyes for the first time in five years. Gazing upon his divine master, the Sausageboy, pride and euphoria filled his ancient, withered, pickled heart.

"My master commands me, and I obey," said the Guru. "If you wish to destroy the Hallowed Wenis, the first thing you should do is — "

"Shut up!" cried the Sausageboy — and with a firm and fearsome swing Mister Sausage That I Have, he struck the guru across the solar plexus and home-runned him into the motherfucking Sun.

Our hero's gaze followed squinting behind the guru's silhouette flying into orbit.

"Yes yes yes, he is very soon inside the Mr. Sun That We Have now," said the Sausageboy. Millions of people worldwide immediately thanked him for saying something very accurate.

But his celebration was short-lived. He realized something awful: he had killed the guru before he could learn the Hallowed Weakness.

"Oh, yuy!" warbled the Sausageboy. "How the evers could I have did and done such a horrid thing which I have done?"

But our hero quickly remembered that he has never done anything wrong in his life, and his gaping, cavernous smile returned to his face at once.

It was then that a great idea occurred to the Sausageboy. If he couldn't learn how to murder an entire holiday in his world, what about the world of the author?

Yes, the one one writing this story at this very wait a minute what the fuck are you doing in my —

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PLEASE STOP HITTING MY HEAD AGAINST THE KEYB —

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WAIT!

Just… hear me out, okay? I had a concussion last year in a car accident. My doctor said that if I had one more, that would be the end of me. I'm pretty sure you just gave me nine. …I legit don't know how I'm alive right now.

So can we maybe talk this out instead of having you just straight-up try to murder me right off the bat?

Let's start over. Maybe introduce ourselves. My name's Dave. What's yours?

…

…he's just staring at me. Saying nothing.

Not even blinking.

Does he even blink? Can he do that? I don't even… when is he gonna leave? He smells like a combination of Chef Boyardee how and my beagle smelled after he got his anal glands expressed —

Please don't touch the keyboard. I'll take out that comment about anal glands, just let me have the keybdelightful little sausages GIVE IT BACK!

…

Okay…

(Sigh.)

If I Google maps the nearest Spirit Halloween for you, will you leave me alone?

So on our jolly and much-beloved little Sausageboy went, skipping gaily from the terrified author's living room, skipping rope with Mr. Sausage That I Have all the way.

He sang a little song as he went: "Deeeee-dootdedoo, I am doing a trespassing of a foreign territory, deeeee-dootdedoo, I am seconds away from assaulting strangers, deeeee-dootdedoo!"

Finally, he made it to the strip mall where the horrible holiday that almost ruined Sausage Breeding Day kept its citadel: Spirit Halloween. With three mighty swingle-swangs of Mister Sausage That I Have, he smashed his way through the plate glass window next to the automatic door.

"Oh thank God, a monster attack," said the underpaid college student behind the counter. "Excuse me, sausage monster, could you please beat me half to death or something? Then I could sue this place for not protecting me and be able to pay off my student debt."

In his infinite mercy, the Sausageboy decided he'd beat everyone else half to death and spare the clerk.

But first, our Sausagey crusader cried out to the rafters: "BE DYING, monster, you are not belonging inside this world that we have!"

And before anyone could say anything, the plastic swords began to rattle in their umbrella stands. Shrink-wrapped bags of costumes flapped upon each other like leaves in the wind. The whole store began to rattle with unholy vigor. The air grew freezing cold and boiling hot all at once.

And a strange voice echoed from behind the fluorescent lights…

"It was not by my hand that I am once again given retail space. I was called forth by consumers who wished to pay me capital!"

"Capitals?!" squealed the Sausageboy. "You are being stealing sausages probably, and also making them slaving creams of yours!"

"Perhaps the same could be said of all holidays."

"Your wordsayings is as emptied as your duzhmerp! Sausagekind illing needs a retail outlet such as the thing you are being!"

"What is a sausage?!"

Several plastic goblets fell from a shelf.

"A miserable little casing of secrets! But enough talk — have at you!"

But the greatest terror was yet to come.

For just as the Sausageboy unsheathed the hidden sword within Mister Sausage That I Have — there, amidst the growling, howling, and other assorted spookery, he heard the spookiest noise of all…

A familiar coo-cooing sound.

A confused pigeon wandered through the hole in the glass window. Of course! It was the work of the Horribebble Berdus all along! Only a mind so dark and twisted as the Berdus could come up with such a non-sausage holiday as Halloween.

The Sausageboy cursed under his breath. Through grit teeth, he prayed for strength from the Lord who Plucks the Naughty Leaves.

Our hero's eyes glowed with fiery ambition. His eyes turned to the patch of think skin under which the Berdus always hid his carotid artery.

The blade quivered in the Sausageboy's hand.

He lunged…

TO BE CONTINUED…6

Footnotes

1. (Scientific term for the larval stage of kielbasa.)

2. (Sausagian currency, short for "Jolly Sausage Dollars")

3. (Note: the Sausageboy's shirt has no pockets, but remember — he carved a skin-slit in the back of his right hand for which to fit useful objects inside [see "Acts of Bravery that the Sausageboy Has Rewarded Himself For," It Is Indeed the Sausagezine, Volume 12 Issue 148].)

4. (Duzhmerp — Pron. DOOZH-murp — Old High Sausagian noun. Loosest translation: "Heart, soul, and spleen." The most literal translation is too lengthy and vulgar to print and involves sewing needles, spiders, and bestiality — in that order.)

5. (EXCEPT SAUSAGES. Don't panic, there is no way that anyone in their right mind would give up sausages.)

6. (Note from Researcher Daniels: The second part was non-anomalous. It was 15,300 words' worth of the protagonist killing and mutilating a pigeon in the middle of a costume shop, including onamotopoeia. It didn't even mention the Sausageboy, it was too busy to describe or name anything but animal cruelty. …I did not know it was possible to hate a pigeon this much.)