"We've played this game before, Tommy,” Harris said. "Every time | 
let you tag along on one of my grand expeditions, you wander off 
and get me killed, and the next time you come 'round askin' for me 
‘elp to line your pockets with foreign gold you've always, always got 
some cock-and-bull story about ‘ow it's not your fault. "You shouldn't 
‘ave let the Sumerian god-man out of his casket’, "You shouldn't 'ave 
tried to kill the golem of Prague with a Derringer,’ 'You shouldn't 'ave 
seduced the Gypsy King's sister.’ I've ‘ad it up to 'ere!" Harris swept 
his eyestalk in a line above his head. "You and | are gonna settle 
this 'ere and now like real gentlemen." 


Lord Blackwood sighed and swore under his breath, struggling to 
keep his composure. "Only one of us is a gentleman, Mr. Harris, and 
while the years have not been as kind to me as | might have hoped 
they would, you are hardly in any state to fight me. | walloped you 
soundly every time we met in the boxing ring back at Eton - and as | 
recall, you had not at that time been transmogrified into a snail.” 


"A snail? A bloody snail? 'Ave you lost your mind?" Harris threw 
back his head and laughed. "I'm as fit as I've ever been - and | ain't 
been turned into no bleedin’ sea slug, either." 


Lord Blackwood puffed himself up with rage. "So! | should've known 
you were the blackguard spreading these foul slanders about my 
being a sea slug! | demand satisfaction, and | demand it now, Harris 
- recant these lies at once or | shall be forced to give you what for!" 


"Alright, alright, Tommy, don't get yer pants in a twist," Harris said, 
grinning slyly. "You're right, you're right. You ain't no sea slug... but 
your mum sure is." 


Lord Blackwood cocked back his right eyestalk and swung. 


ADDENDUM: On / /20 ,a Roman snail (Helix 
pomatia) with anomalous properties similar to SCP-1867 
was found in Interview Room C after SCP-1867 had 
briefly been left unobserved following the conclusion of 
Interview 1867-238. At the time of discovery, SCP-1867 
and the snail were observed face-to-face on a table 
attempting to "headbutt" each other and strike each other 
with their eyestalks. In subsequent interviews, the snail 
has identified itself as "George Philip Harris IV", an 
individual referred to as an associate of SCP-1867 
beginning in Diary 1867-3. The snail is currently being 
housed in a 40x70x30 cm specimen tank adjacent to 
SCP-1867's until such time as further examination and 
classification can be made. 


"Oi! Tommy!" Lord Blackwood turned his head and did his best to 
ignore Harris' shouts from the tank next to his. "Did you ever ‘ear the 
one about the man who thought 'e was a botfly? Got nicked for 
indecency after 'e started runnin’ up to ladies and biting 'em on the 
arm. Said 'e was just lookin' for someplace to lay 'is eggs!" 


"By Jove," Lord Blackwood thought to himself, "what | wouldn't give 
for an elephant gun right now." 


A Normal, Daily Routine 


“Start it up.” 


As David McConnell woke up his head surged. The feeling surprised 
him at first because, unlike the usual migraine he would get in the 
morning, this made him feel woozy enough to almost fall asleep 
again. 


However, David Eugene McConnell would not be swayed from his 
daily routine. 


Although Mr. McConnell's routine of carefully retracing his steps to 
the bathroom, picking up his toothbrush, brushing his teeth, combing 
his hair and shaving his face seemed dull and routine to all who 
witnessed it, he liked it. 


In fact, it was his favorite part of the day, the boring, monotonous 
routine comforted him. Somehow, it was, to him, the most fun he 
would have all day. 


Mr. McConnell walked back to his bed and carefully pulled the 
sheets up. He looked with pride upon his carefully made bed, it 
resembled how much care he took into his daily routine. 


As he spun on his heel to face his closet, another surge of dizziness 
hit him. David McConnell attempted to regain his balance, but his 
legs gave out and he dropped to the ground. 


David McConnell suddenly sat up. His face was cold and sweating 
and as he reached for a tissue he noticed his hands we shaking. 
‘Strange’ he thought, ‘I’m never this bad’, at almost the same instant 
this thought passed through his head, his hand jerked suddenly to 
his left. The momentum of his hand pulled him off of his small twin 
bed and onto the floor. He laid, face down, on the ground fora 
moment before he pushed himself up. 


He took a look at his surroundings, his room was messy and 
unkempt, the walls were moldy and the air felt humid. David 
McConnell did not like this, in fact, he hated it. 


And the fact, the simple fact, that he had no decision about how it 
was pleased him. Filled with rage and hatred for the moldiest wall, 
he walked over to it and punched it. Sweet Jesus his hand hurt, and 
it felt natural. Something about having to conform to something 
else’s reality, something else’s laws of physics was amazing. 


David pulled his hand from the wall, as he did he rubbed his hand 
and winced. He headed to the kitchen to get some ice for his hand. 
He thought about what he would do that day, go to work, come back 
home late, reheat a pizza and fall asleep on the couch watching TV. 
David retrieved a plastic bag from a kitchen drawer and walked to 
his fridge, he attempted to put some ice in the bag, most of the ice 
spilled on the floor. David watched as this happened, turned away 
from it and walked back to his closet, he pulled his fast-food uniform 
from his closet, changed into it and began to walk to work. 


He always loved his walk, by the time he would get to work his feet 
would be throbbing. He loved the way people snickered and 
whispered when they saw him, unkempt and messy. They were 
crazy to him, not enjoying all parts of life, especially the things we 
can't control. 


He reached the fast food restaurant and just, as usual, his feet hurt. 
He had to work at the cash register today, his day at work started 
normally: he took about 30 orders during the breakfast rush, was 
yelled at by at least 13 of them and broke the register about 5 times. 


The lunch rush was generally similar, too many orders, too many 
customers yelling at him, too many cash registers broken. 


After lunch is when his day became interesting. 


Three masked men entered the restaurant, they were armed. David 
noticed this, and carefully placed his hand on the silent alarm. 


The three men approached the register. 


“We don’t know the passcode to the safe,” David said, as calmly as 
he could. 


“No matter,” said the man standing closest to the register, “we aren’t 
here for the money.” 


David was taken aback, as usually any robberies they had were 
people so desperate for money that they usually only make off with 
about $10. 


“What are you here for, then?” David could hear the fear in his voice. 


“Time to wake up, David.” the closest to David said as he raised his 
gun and pointed it at David. 

David pressed down on the silent alarm, but for some reason, an 
alarm actually blared. The sound of a Claxton reverberated in 
David’s ears and shook his chest. 


As all of this happened the man closest to David pulled the trigger of 
his gun. 


Everything went black 


David attempted to stand up, but he was strapped down to a table. 
He was hooked up to several machines, most of their monitors 
looked normal, but the one attached to his head was violently 
spiking. David heard something, the Claxton. An intercom squealed 
to life, “Subject-098 is awake, anesthesia team requested 
immediately.” 


David became angry, “You can’t keep me in reality!” he shouted. He 
focused his energy on removing the table and straps. 


They disappeared. 


If they were going to pull David out of his favored reality, he was 
going to make this his reality. 


The door to his room became a bagel. He walked through the 
doorway, reality began to distort itself as he walked, everything was 
changing to his desire. 


He chuckled to himself as a team of doctors rounded the corner, 
escorted by a few armed guards. 


He looked at them and smiled as their heads collapsed in on 
themselves. 


The bodies dropped and began to spew blood. 
David continued to walk and create his reality. 
He hated these people, they really did cause Chaos. 


Things changed around him to the dismal life that he wanted. The 
street he walked was becoming a reality. He could see his dismal 
house, cracked street, even the people who laughed at him. 


That Claxton was really annoying, so he removed it. 
Blissful silence. 
This day was amazing. 


Not that more “Reality Benders” as the Chaos called them, wouldn't 
change it back after he fell asleep next. 


But, at least this was fun for now. 


Business as Usual 


On weekends, people ask me how my week was. 
This week was simply business as usual. 


On Monday | oversaw an operation to examine a strange creature in 
a young girl's abdomen. 


It was remarkable. It generated an antibiotic more potent than any 
modern medicine can create. The creature had latched on to the 
female's spinal cord between the T12 and L1 vertebrae. It had 
entrenched itself into it, melding its blood vessels and nervous 
system to hers. It was a difficult operation to remove it, but we 
managed it. The creature would revolutionize the medical industry, if 
we could perfect and synthesize the antibiotics. We moved the 
creature into the ICU. We disposed of the body. She was pretty, but 
she had served her purpose. 


On Tuesday | researched the effects of SCP-078 on schizophrenic 
patients. 


There were four trials, each with a different test subject: an elderly 
male and female, and a young male and female. | was interested in 
seeing what happens to the effects of 078 when exposed to a 
damaged psyche. Of course, death was always an outcome, but if a 
few hours of clear data was recorded, any end to the test subjects 
would have been worth it. The young male and female were 
particularly interesting. We have a clear recording of their descent 
into apathy and depression. One subject, the female, found ways of 
self-mutilation using only her fingernails. We were eventually forced 
to euthanize all four. A pity - the data we got from them were 
important to our research. 


On Wednesday | lobotomized a human subject who was exposed to 
SCP-215. 


It was irritating. We had to restrain him on the table while we were 
conducting the operation. He kept screaming and struggling, making 
my cuts ragged and unprofessional. Such a shame, but the samples 
we retrieved showed significant evidence of mental trauma, as well 
as some other unidentified anomalies. He may never speak again or 
play the piano, but he'll live. An IV drip would be a simpler way of 
gaining nutrients. 


There were no tests or experiments on Thursday. 


| had to go to a mandatory psychological examination. | don't 
understand the point of this. I'm perfectly fine. | have so many more 
tests to conduct. 


On Friday | injected a test subject with SCP-742. 


There was nothing truly out of the ordinary today. It was more of a 
whim that | did this test, but testing is something | live for. The young 
girl, about 8 | suspect, was very patient and willing. Of course she 
screamed when we stuck the needle in her arm - any young child 
would. We waited the normal incubation time, and then began the 
tests. We started with small animal in a cage. Within minutes the 
subject grabbed it and sucked it dry. From there we moved on to 
larger prey: a rabbit, small dog, and a cat. Although it seemed she 
would take them, she wasn't satisfied. | was interested. | wanted to 
see how she would react to a human subject, so | decided to wait 
until her next scheduled feeding session. When the orderly brought 
in the usual small animal, | locked the door behind him so he could 
not run. (Why would he, anyway? This was for science! For the good 
of the world! He should be honored.) He screamed unnecessarily 
loudly. The test subject rejected the animal and went straight for the 
orderly, feeding quickly. The data was interesting, certainly worth 
more than the disposable orderly. 


Some would call my week insane and unnecessarily extreme. But 
why is that? 


It's simply business as usual. 


A Personal Connection 


“Next number, please,” the voice behind the speakers droned. 


D-24461 leaned heavily on the stark steel table, staring at the black 
rotary phone before her. She looked up at the empty room, towards 
the wall where, she assumed, the Foundation researchers were 
cataloguing her answers. “Where were we at again?” 


There was a pause, and she could hear typing faintly over the 
speakers. “222-3381, | think,” came the response. D-24461 had 
never met the voice that gave her orders from over the speakers, 
but she could easily picture him based on the voice. Early thirties, no 
taller than five-six, skinny and pale from years in front of computers. 
D-24461 sighed and stuck her tanned finger into the phone’s dial. 
“You'd better be right,” she said. “Last one tasted like spoiled milk.” 
The phone somehow put a different taste in her mouth with each 
number she dialed. As D-24461 let go of the last digit, the taste of 
sour milk filled her mouth again, and she leapt up from her seat, 
throwing the receiver from her hand. It bounced limply at the end of 
its cord. 


“Fucking hell,” D-24461 said, trying to spit out the taste. It didn’t help 
any; it wasn’t technically real. Thankfully, it dissipated after about ten 
seconds, like the rest. 


“Spoiled milk again?” 


“What do you think, asshole?” D-24461 sat back down, rubbing her 
temples. “Next time, make sure you write down your results.” 


“Of course. 222-3382, then.” 


D-24461 sighed, then dialed the number. Sourness struck the sides 
of her tongue, and she couldn't help but pucker at the sensation. 
“Oh, man, that’s just straight lemon.” 


“Next number.” 


D-24461 dialed. 222-3611. She quickly started coughing. “Pepper. 
Lots of pepper.” The room was silent save for her coughing as the 
researcher behind the wall waited for the standard ten seconds to 
pass. 


“Next number.” 


She dialed. The taste of tart fruit filled her mouth. “Apples, 
definitely.” 


“We already have apples. Could you be more specific?” 
“This one’s more sour, so probably green apples?” 
“Thank you. Next number.” 


She dialed again. “Ugh. | think it's wood.” She considered the flavor 
for a moment. “Wait, | recognize that from barbecues as a kid. 
Hickory, | think.” 


“Interesting. Next number, please.” 


“Look, can’t we take a break, man?” D-24461 stood up, staring at 
the small camera mounted in the corner of the room. “We’ve been at 
this for three hours already! Not to mention every day for the last two 
months.” 


“We really should keep going,” the voice on the speaker said. 


“Fuck that. | just need five minutes where I’m not tasting something 
crazy. Give me that, at least.” 


“...All right, fine. Let me know when you're ready.” 


D-24461 sat on the corner of the table, arms crossed and eyes 
closed. “You're not gonna call security on me?” 


The voice behind the speaker scoffed. “We don’t have the 
manpower to call security for every insubordination.” He paused. 
“Besides, | get it.” 


detrimental effect will occur to the thrower. This effect occurs in 
triplicate according to the standard British Dart Organization rules, 
before another person can be selected by another player to be 
injured. Double and triple bands incur ill effects based upon the base 
score they multiply. 


After significant experimentation, all of these effects have been 
confirmed by Foundation staff, using Class D personnel. It was also 
discovered that it would not affect any person more than 30 meters 
from the board itself. 


Addendum: