"Never!" Santa shouted defiantly, his voice echoing through the 
abandoned warehouse his captor had turned into a sweatshop over 
the past week. "I won't let you do whatever you're planning to do to 
all those good little children!" 


"| was kind of hoping you'd say that," the man said as he pressed 
the intercom button on his console. "Libertines! Do you copy?" 


"Yes, sir," a voice crackled over the radio. 


"Take one of the reindeer down to the basement. | don't care... the 
freak one with the atomic nose. We're eating good tonight!" 


"No!" Santa shouted. "Please don't hurt Rudolph!" 


"You know what you have to do to make this stop, Santa," the red 
man said. "Tell me the magic words." 


A tear fell from Santa's eye, rolling down his bald head and dripping 
into the clam juice where it boiled away instantly. "Alright. Come 
here and I'll tell you everything.” The man leaned over the edge of 
the pot as Santa, between his tears, told the man all the words he'd 
need to know - how to get the reindeer flying, how to break the 
sound barrier, how to stop time long enough to visit every house in 
the world before the sun came up. 


"| Knew you'd see reason eventually," the kidnapper said. "I'll go 
ahead and call off that order of reindeerburgers now." 


"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUGH! IT BURNS!" 
The kidnapper recoiled in surprise from the horrific scream he heard 
the instant he pressed the intercom button. 


"What is the meaning of this, Santa? | swear, I'll butcher every one 
of those reindeer myself if... AAH!" 


The kidnapper's words were cut off as a flying porcelain bowl 
smashed into the side of his head, shards flying every which way as 
piping hot cream splashed all over his immaculate coat. He turned 
towards the door where his guards were standing and saw them on 
the floor, coated in the same boiling broth that had now soiled his 
costume. Standing between them was his counterpart - black coat, 
black hat, a massive tank strapped to his back, bowls hanging by 
the dozen from his utility belt, a long tube connecting the tank to the 
massive cannon in his hands, and a righteous sneer on his face as 
he eyed the man who had kidnapped Santa Claus. 


"Chowderclef!" 


"The Manhattanite," Clef responded as he stared down the vermilion 
varlet before him. "I knew it was you the second | saw the pictures of 
Santa's workshop coated in Manhattan-style chowder." 


"Impossible! There's no way you could have tracked me here!" 


"Quite possible indeed, you burgundy burglar of Christmas cheer," 
Clef replied as he approached his arch-nemesis. "The breed of clam 
you used was specific to the East River. Once | figured that out, it 
was a mere matter of checking through the real estate records to 
find any disused waterfront warehouses that had changed hands 
lately. Now stand down - I'm taking you in and I'm letting Santa go." 


"Don't you take another step!" The Manhattanite dodged a blast from 
Clef's Chowdercannon as he leapt towards the console, wrapping 
his hand around the control lever. "One more step and Kris Kringle 
here is Santa stew!" 


"You monster!" Clef shouted. "What is it you want from St. Nick, 
anyway?" 


"Nobody eats Manhattan-style chowder anymore," the Manhattanite 
mumbled to himself. 


"Excuse me?" Clef asked. 


"Chowder! It's everywhere these days! From Suffolk, to Seattle, to 
San Diego! From Lafayette to Las Vegas! From Miami to Manitoba! 
From DC to Dallas! From Tampa to Timbuktu! You can't so much as 
walk through the door of a seafood restaurant without having a bowl 
of it shoved in your face! But you know what, Chowderclef?" 


"What?" 


"Everywhere you go, everywhere in the whole wide world, it's New 
England style. Nobody has time any more for the simple joys of 
clams and tomato sauce. It's all heavy cream, and bacon, and 
potatoes, and a splash of sherry... it makes my blood boil, 
Chowderclef! Not that you can even boil that stuff - oh no, it scalds 
the milk, we must be delicate with it! 


"It's time the world got to know what rea/ clam chowder is all about, 
my friend. That's why I've had the elves so hard at work this last 
week. They finished up an hour ago. You know, it's amazing how 
well the magic on that sleigh works - | didn't think we'd be able to 
load 3,268,896, 174 gallons of piping hot chowder onto the back, but 
believe it or not, it fits!" 


"3,268,896,174 gallons?" Clef said to himself as he came to a 
horrific revelation. "Why, that's exactly..." 


"Exactly!" the Manhattanite shouted. "Exactly one gallon for 
everyone! When the sun comes up on Christmas morning, all the 
little boys and girls aren't going to find hopalong boots and talking 
dollies underneath their Christmas tree. No, they're going to find the 
greatest gift of all - piping hot chowder." 


"You're insane, Manhattanite!", Clef yelled. "You can't take away 
everyone's presents and give them your disgusting tomato soup! 


They'll detest it! We'll have a revolution on our hands!" 


"A revolution indeed!" the Manhattanite shouted! "A chowder 
revolution! We shall cast down our New England oppressors once 
and for all! And it starts - now!" The Manhattanite jerked the control 
lever all the way down, snapping it off in his hand as Santa began to 
lower slowly towards the vat of clam juice. 


"Your choice, Chowderchump - save Santa, or chase me!" The 
Manhattanite dodged three blasts from the Chowdercannon as he 
leapt through a door at the edge of the room. Clef started to give 
chase, but stopped himself - in less than thirty seconds, Santa would 
be in the soup. As fast as he could, Clef switched the control knob 
on the Chowdercannon to Setting #2 and poured a bowl of the 
creamy, savory end-product into a bowl, gulping it as fast as he 
could. Strength welled within him, Omega-3 acids coursing through 
his veins as his muscles seemed to double in size. Santa even 
fancied that he saw a stylized image of a clamshell appear on his 
bicep as Clef rolled up his sleeves, set his hands on the side of the 
boiling pot, and, impervious to the pain from the hot steel, upended it 
and turned it on its side, spilling its deadly contents down the stairs 
and over the half-dozen guards in their Statue of Liberty dresses 
who had been on their way up the stairs to confront the Dark Chef. 


A kitchen knife tossed from his utility belt severed the rope, and 
Santa fell into Clef's waiting arms before being set back on his feet. 
"Why, if it isn't little Alto!" Santa said, his typical joviality returning to 
his voice. "| guess that Easy-Bake Oven | gave you when you were 
little paid off, didn't it?” 


"Are you OK, Santa?" 


"Nothing a long winter's nap won't fix! Believe me, I'm putting you on 
my ‘Nice’ list for next year!" 


"There's still this year to worry about, Santa. Where's the sl-" 


Clef stopped mid-sentence as he heard the jingling of bells outside 
the window, and turned just in time to see Santa's sleigh ascending 
into the night sky, a bubbling pot of chowder sitting in the place of 
Santa's bag of toys. "Ho ho ho! Merry Chowdermas!" The 


Manhattanite’s voice echoed through the empty streets. 
"Dammit!" Clef shouted. "We're too late!" 


"No need for imprudent language, little Alto! It's not quite midnight 
yet," Santa said. "He won't be able to use all of my magic until it's 
Christmas day. You can still catch him!" 


"No offense, St. Nick, but | Know what your reindeer are capable of. 
My Chowdercopter might have magical clam-power, but even it can't 
keep up. There's no way | can catch him in time!" 


"Oh no?" Santa winked and stuck his fingers into his mouth as he 
whistled. In a moment, an eerie red glow began to emanate from the 
staircase to the ground floor - and a single reindeer trotted up the 
stairs, past the Libertines rolling in agony as the chowder burned 
away their flesh, his bright red nose illuminating the room like a 
Christmas tree. 


"You called, Santa?" the reindeer asked. 


Santa and the elves stood on the roof of the factory in the darkness, 
looking out into the overcast sky for any sign. Santa checked his 
pocketwatch - a quarter after one. He sighed. 


"Do you think Chowderclef's alright?" Fitzroy asked Santa. 
"| think... | think it's going to be a late delivery this year, boys." 


"Wait!" one of the elves shouted. "Look over there!" A faint glow 
shone through the clouds to the east. It might have just been a 
warning light from one of the beacons on the river - but as they 
watched, and watched, and watched, it started to grow brighter, and 
brighter, and brighter still - until Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer 
himself emerged from the fog - and behind him came Dasher, 
Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner, and Blitzen, and 
behind them the sleigh - and riding on that sleigh, alone, smiling, 
and covered head to toe in tomato sauce, was Chowderclef. A cheer 
rose up from the elves as the sleigh alighted on the rooftop and Clef 
stepped off. 


observed instance of SCP-871 was a miniature cupcake with a 
mass of 15 grams. The largest yet observed was a 22-kilogram 
baumkuchen measuring 2 meters in length. 


When any instance of SCP-871 is consumed by a human or a 
collection of humans, it is replaced approximately 24 hours 
afterward with a similar cake. This cake will appear on a flat surface 
in the vicinity of the location where the previous instance was eaten. 
If any of these cakes is substantially damaged through any means 
other than being eaten by a human, including being eaten by a non- 
human animal, it will be replaced instantaneously. Instances 
recreated in this manner maintain the schedule of the original 
instance. The mechanism by which instances of SCP-871 are 
replaced is currently unknown. 


Individual recurrences of SCP-871 have been observed to "mutate" 
over time, varying in minor characteristics between each instance, 
with larger changes occurring in roughly 5% of replacements. No 
deleterious effects have been observed to result from the 
consumption of SCP-871, even in cases where several instances 
have been consumed, excepting those expectable from eating large 
amounts of cake. 


SCP-871's danger originates in the consequences of an instance 
not being eaten. Any instance of SCP-871 which is not consumed 
will cause a new cake to be created in its vicinity after 24 hours. 
While this is similar to its normal "replacement" behavior, the original 
instance will continue to exhibit the same properties, replicating if 
damaged and continuing to "replace" itself every 24 hours. This 
behavior has been observed in all cases where more than 10% of 
the mass of an instance remained unconsumed. As there is no 
known mechanism for halting SCP-871's replication, any 
uncontained instances could replicate exponentially, quickly 
becoming unmanageable. No maintainable plans for the 
containment of more than 20,000 instances of SCP-871 have yet 
been devised. It is estimated that an uncontrolled outbreak 
originating with a single instance would render the earth 
uninhabitable within 80 days. 


« SCP-870 | SCP-871 | SCP-872 » 


"Alto!" Santa shouted. "| knew you'd do it!" 


"It wasn't easy," Clef said. "The GOC tried to shoot us both down. | 
guess they figured nobody would know it was them if Santa and his 
reindeer just happened to get blown up by air-to-air missiles this 
year. I'm going to have to have words with them after we're done 
here. Now this guy here-" Clef patted his red-nosed mount on the 
head - "now he's a real trouper." 


“Thanks, Clef!" Rudolph said. "All | did was do a barrel roll like you 
said." 


"Don't be so modest, Rudolph! It was you who came up close 
enough for me to make the jump onto the sleigh." 


"But how did you stop the Manhattanite?" Santa asked. 


"Well, Santa, in the middle of all our fighting, | asked him a 
question." 


"What was that?" 


"He's spent his entire life fighting to wipe out New England-style 
chowder. | asked him if he'd ever actually tasted any." 


"You mean he hadn't?" 


"| had a special batch just for him. Call ita Christmas present." Clef 
pointed to the control knob on his Chowdercannon, which had been 
turned to the third and final setting. "| spent days trying to get that 
batch just right - and to make sure it was perfect, | ran it through 
SCP-914 on Very Fine. He was in tears after a single spoonful. He 
poured the pot out over the Atlantic Ocean and parachuted out." 


"Wonderful, Alto! You see - Christmas can soothe the heart of even 
the most wicked man!" 


"Oh, | doubt we've seen the last of him, Santa. This isn't the first 
time we've dueled over the question of soup supremacy - and it sure 
won't be the last." 


"Well, the important thing is, | have my sleigh and my reindeer back! 


Thanks for all the help, Alto - I've got a Christmas to save!" 


"It's already a quarter past one, Santa," Clef said as he looked 
downward. "It might be too late." 


"Oh, Alto. The magic works for any midnight! I've still got six more 
chances!" 


"But what about the toys?" 


"The Manhattanite never got anywhere near the toys, Alto! | keep 
them somewhere very safe," Santa said with a wink. "It's just a 
matter of picking them up and - say, Alto?" 


"Yes, Santa?" 


"There is one more thing we can do to make up for lost time. | hope 
you don't mind lending a hand a little while longer - and letting me 
borrow that cannon of yours..." 


Dr. Andrews sipped the coffee in his styrofoam cup as he drove 
home along the darkened roads. His watch said it was 5:32 AM. 
Christmas morning. He hadn't had a wink of sleep in the past three 
days. Nobody at Site 19 had, with all the work convincing people 
that things would be just fine as soon as the elves settled their labor 
dispute with Santa. He'd spent all night on the phone with 
Researcher James at Cheyenne Mountain - tracking the bizarre 
radar sightings all around the eastern seaboard, and ultimately 
dealing with the blowback after the GOC had been caught red- 
handed violating the rules of engagement trying to shoot down 
Santa's sleigh and the unidentified object chasing it. What had 
become of them after that was anyone's guess - it was a miracle 
NORAD was still standing after what the GOC liaison had tried to do 
to "neutralize" their "magic radar". 


Andrews pulled into the driveway of his little house in the suburbs 
and shut off the motor as he climbed out into the pre-dawn air. Site 
Director Ives had been kind enough to let him spend the morning at 
home and explain to his girls why Santa hadn't come. He groaned 
as he looked at the headlines in the morning paper on his doorstep; 


NO SIGN OF SANTA AS CHRISTMAS HANGS IN 
BALANCE 


LBJ makes last-minute call to North Pole as strike 
continues 


Riots in New York, L.A., London outside sold-out toy 
stores 


Buckley and Vidal debate: "Is Santa a Red?" 


Andrews dropped the paper in amazement as soon as he saw the 
tableau in his living room. Beneath the glow of the lit-up Christmas 
tree lay dozens of presents, all wrapped up in paper and bows. He 
hadn't bought them. Karen hadn't bought them. Who had? Like an 
excited little boy, he fell to his knees and examined the tags. "To 
Jane, from Santa". "To Amy, from Santa". "To Mom and Dad, from 
Santa".