Ruiz Duchamp rose from the couch and stumbled down the dimly lit 
hall. The morning light barely reached the shaded bathroom. Ruiz 
fished a bit of mushroom from between his molars. “Nobody gets it,” 
he mumbled as he closed the door behind him. “Nobody gets it.” 


Ruiz’s ears ached at the sound of urine meeting toilet water. The 
sound was deafening. Ruiz watched as the tornado in a bowl 
became a star-speckled, nebula smoothie. “Here we ffffucking 
gooo.” 


Ruiz slammed open the bathroom window, and punched through the 
thin metal screen. He took a running dive through this new trans- 
dimensional portal and landed in the side yard. The bathroom was 
on the ground floor so Ruiz fell about 6 feet but probably cracked a 
rib. He slowly got up with a groan then took off running down the 
street. 


Joey stood in the open bathroom door and took in the scene. There 
was large puddle of very dark pee next to the toilet, which he didn’t 


even blink at, but he looked for a long time at the torn, slightly 
bloody, window screen. “Well. That’s new.” 


Molly walked down the stairs and over to Joey. “Hey. Don’t let Ruiz 
come in this house anymore.” 


“Yeah.” 


“Cause yer friends don’t dance and if they don’t dance, then they’re 
no friends o’mine.” Ruiz had slowed to a jog and also veered into the 
middle of the street. Lucky for him, Joey lived in a quiet 
neighborhood with little traffic. Unlucky for that little traffic, most of it 
was stuck behind Ruiz. Ruiz’s painfully off-key singing was 
interspersed with many honks and shouts of profanity - and not all of 
it from himself. 


Ruiz’s trajectory eventually skewed enough that he drifted off the 
road and on to the side walk and into the yards and through a 
stranger’s house. 


Cops were called. 


Ruiz arrived at the shop at exactly 11:46 am. and promptly sat down 
in the waiting area. The sign above the door swung lightly in the 
wind: “The Snipper of New York.” He made an appointment as soon 
as the first hair dresser was available. “She must be new,” he 
thought. He also pondered as to why she was so calm when her hair 
was on fire, but only briefly. Ruiz sat back down and waited quite 
patiently, given his current mental state. Mr. Pico Wilson walked into 
the main floor of the shop from a back room. He walked over to the 
front desk computer, not noticing his brother, now intensely fixated 
on a purple hula dancer hanging from the ceiling. Pico performed his 
usual check of customer numbers and current transactions. He 
finally checked the waitlist. 


“What the motherfucking shit? Who the shit let Ruiz IN THE 
BUILDING?” 


“| think that would be your new girl,” Ruiz said, still staring at the 


ceiling. 

“GET OUT.” Pico screamed. 

“Fuck you, Pico.” 

“Are you drunk again?” Pico began reaching for the phone. 
“Among other things.” 

“I’m calling the police.” 


“No. Shit. No. | can’t get caught by those Stupid Cock-sucking Police 
again.” 


Ruiz bolted out the door. The bell jingled as he left. 


John Nelson, sat at his desk as his class worked on their projects. 
1:24 pm. Nearly time to go home. Nelson got up to check on the 
student's progress. Jane was working on a very curvy vase for her 
mother. It seemed to being going along nicely. Steve was making a 
bowl for his girlfriend... at least it looked like a bowl. Ruiz was 
working on. Wait. The fuck 


“Ruiz,” he whispered, “what the ever loving fuck are you doing 
here?” 


“| thought | could learn a little bit about art from The Sculptor himself. 
Since I’m apparently so bad at it.” 


“Ruiz, you can’t be here. How many drugs are you even on right 
now?” 


“Your mom.” 

“What?” 

“’m on your mom.” 

“God dammit Duchamp.” 


“Wooooaaaahhnh. John. | don’t mean to freak you out. But there are 


like 12 of you right now.” 


“What are you talking about Ruizzzzzz 
ZZZZZ” 


Oh fuck. 


RUIZ. 

you need to 

GET OUT of herrrrrrrrrrr 
EEee 

eee 


Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck 
fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck 
fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck 
fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck 
fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck 
fuck fcuk 


John Nelson’s arms split in three. 
Ruiz covered his eyes with his tentacles. 


Ruizz 


There were about 


12 17 a fuckton of 40 copies of Mrrrrrrrrr Nelson now. Each one 
shatttered into clay, only to be replaced by one and a half more. 


“| think | ought to leaf.” 
“Ruiz. I’m telling you. You need to lay off the drugs.” Came a 
disembodied voice. 


But | like them 


“They're not good for you. You need help." 


A phone erupted from his navel. “Please see a doctor,” it said. 
| don’t want to 
“The drugs, they fuck you up.” 
“THAT. IS. THE PURPOSE. OF THE DRUGS." 
“| know. | get it. But get it somewhere else. Sorry.” 


Ruiz was disappointed. He walked into his favourite room, passing 
the box of ecstacy pills saying ‘These are Ecstacy Pillz’. He looked 
passively beyond ‘here are the hypodermic needles’. He had one 
piece that he’d been saving for a particularly disappointing event. He 
closed the shower curtain, and breathed slowly. Everyone was a 
fucking idiot. Nobody got it. Nobody REALLY got it. As he turned the 
knob, liquid water sprayed across his scalp and flesh. His final 
thoughts were that it didn’t matter. At least he got it. He really got it. 
And that was all he needed. 


Nobody got it. 


Ruiz Duchamp woke up on the bathroom floor, his clothes soaking 
wet. His head nearly imploded as he turned off the shower. “Fucking 
hell,” he said as he walked over, eyes half open, to his stash. 


“Never again,” he said, as he dumped them all into the toilet. 
Never again 
Never again 


Never again? 
NE 
VER 


AGAIN’? 


never again 

Never again. 

Never Again 
NEVER AGAIN 


He leaned over the toilet. 


‘that shower was pretty cool’ 


he puked a lot 


A Very Bailey Christmas 


Whenever he had nothing better to do, Tristan Bailey would look at a 
picture of his family that sat on his desk. In the picture, him, Trevor 
and Tom were only about 8 years old, standing in front of a 
Christmas tree with their presents in the background. Tom was 
holding on to a stuffed platypus of all things, Trevor holding up a 
book about Galileo that he should have been far too young to read, 
and Tristan was holding up a Nerf gun at the camera, with a dart 
flying straight at it. Clara, their mother, was standing behind them, 
signs of age already starting to show on her face. Next to her, giving 
Tom bunny ears, was their father, Tyler Bailey. Tyler was grinning at 
the camera, his black beard full and his hair thinning. 


That was years ago. Since then, for security reasons, Tom, Trevor 
and Tristan had grown distant from mom. She knew they worked for 
something called S & C Plastics, but it baffled her why physicists 
were working for a company like that. And as for dad... 


Tristan was distracted from his thoughts by a Skype call from Trevor 
at Site 19. Odd, he thought. It's not 5:00 in Nevada yet. He never 
calls this early when he's working... A dreadful feeling formed in the 
pit of his stomach; was there some kind of a breach? Did the MUTA 
explode? Did 447 touch a dead body?! 


Tristan opened the window to find Trevor sitting at his desk, smiling 
stupidly into the camera. "Happy Holidays, Bro." 


"Happy- Trevor, you nearly gave me a heart attack!" Tristan crossed 
his arms and scowled. "Did you seriously call just to wish me 'Happy 
Holidays'?" 


"Actually, no. Tom would've called, but he's busy with a situation in 
the Empire. Something about killer penguins attacking Foundation 
zoologists." Trevor looked around, and twiddled his thumbs 
uncomfortably. "| was just wondering if you... said hi to dad, yet. It is 
almost Christmas." 


Test 777-1b 

Materials used: Small clump of sand taken 
from SCP-777. 

Result: Water is applied to sand. Sand 
animates into three (3) European hornets, 
which then escape from containment and 
attack Security Officer  . Security Officer 
is relatively unharmed, as the hornets are 
unable to properly sting him. SCP-777-1 was 
then destroyed by a second member of 
security. 


Text 777-1c 

Materials used: Two connected small clumps 
of sand taken from SCP-777. 

Result: Water is applied to sand. Sand 
animates into what appears to be a hybrid 
between a crab and an octopus. SCP-777-1 is 
immobile and destroyed without incident. 


Test 777-1d 

Materials used: Mixture of regular sand and 
sand taken from SCP-777. 

Result: Water is applied to mixture. Sand 
taken from SCP-777 animates into an African 
rock python, which burrows out of the sand 
and is destroyed by security when it attempts 
to escape containment. 


Test 777-1e 

Materials used: Sand taken from SCP-777 
contained in a test tube. 

Result: Water is applied to sand. Sand 
animates into an unidentified mass which 
demonstrates acidic qualities. SCP-777-1 
destroyed without incident. 


Test 777-1f 

Materials used: Large mound of sand taken 
from SCP-777 and a tank filled with water. 
Result: Sand is inserted into water tank. Sand 


Tristan rubbed his face and sighed, looking at the picture again, then 
at his smart watch; he had a five-hour break today. Enough time to 
visit dad. "I'll do it today. Thanks for reminding me, man. How's the 
girlfriend?" 


"Transferred to Wyoming," groaned Trevor. "We're still managing 
long-distance, though. We're thinking of meeting up in Vegas for the 
Holidays." 


"That's good." 


The two triplets continued conversing about banal things for the next 
fifteen minutes, until Trevor Bailey's supervisor walked by his 
workstation and he was forced to close the chat program. Sighing, 
Tristan rose up from his seat and made his way out of his office, on 
his way to visit his dad. 


Tyler Bailey, the inventor of Multi-Universal Transit Array, sat in his 
arm chair reading the latest issue of Weekly World News when a 
knock came to his door. The 70-something man rose to his feet, 
making his way towards the door and grabbing a wakizashi that he 
kept to fend off burglars or worse. When you lived in a town like this, 
you had to be careful about this kind of thing. He didn't know how to 
use the sword, but it looked intimidating, and that's what counted. 


He leaned against the doorframe, calling through the front door. 
"Who's there?" 


"Dad, come on," said a familiar voice. "Do you always have to be 
like this? It's just me." 


Blinking, Tyler Bailey opened the door to find himself face-to-face 
with one of his sons. Frowning, he asked a question. "How did 
Abraham Lincoln die?" 


Without missing a beat, Tristan answered this question and the 
others that were to follow. "Shot by John Wilkes Booth while 
watching Our American Cousin in Ford's Theater. Nixon resigned 
from office in 74, both Bushes are still alive and are Republicans, 
and Pope John Paul II was not assassinated. Yes, I'm from the 


baseline." He smiled wryly at his father, who smiled back and put 
down the sword. 


Tyler Bailey hugged Tristan, who did his best to hold back tears of 
joy. "Hello, son." 


"Hey, dad. Merry Christmas." 


"| didn't expect you to get here so early!" Tyler Bailey chuckled as he 
boiled water for some hot chocolate. "| thought you boys weren't 
arriving until the 23rd!" 


"| got an early flight," explained Tristan, smiling at his dad. "Tom's 
probably having trouble down south, and Trevor said he was coming 
up with his girlfriend. | got lucky.” 


"Took the red-eye, then?" 


"Yeah. Weiss let me go early just to visit you. She's doing fine, by 
the way; not at all sore about that thing back in '89." 


"Good!" Tyler chuckled as he brought hot chocolate to his son, 
sitting across him at the kitchen table. "So, how goes stuff in Multi- 
U?" 


"Dad, you know you shouldn't talk about that stuff; you're no longer 
Commissioner of the Department." 


"Bah! The only reason that department exists is because of my 
invention! | have every right to know about it. Besides, I'm still an 
employee." 


"You're a consultant." 


"Same difference." Tyler Bailey blew on his hot chocolate and 
smiled at his son. "So, what's new up in old Sloth Spit?" 


"Not much, really," shrugged Tristan as he took a sip of the drink. 
"Things got hectic last year because of the whole Mayan 
Apocalypse thing. We were preparing evac plans for half the US 
using the portal device..." 


"Glad the Mayans were wrong about that, eh?" Tyler chuckled. 
"Besides, if they were right, they didn't account for leap years and 
shit. If anything, the apocalypse would've happened in February, 
and we'd all be caught with our pants down." 


"Mmm," said Tristan, looking at his watch. "Hey, dad, how about we 
watch that film you like so much?" 


"Which one?" 
"You know, that Noir one from the 40's. The one Welles did." 
Tyler blinked. "The Shadow? But you hate that film!" 


"It's Christmas. Besides, what else are we gonna watch? Rankin- 
Bass productions on ABC? The Science of Christmas on 
Discovery?" 


"Fair point," noted the elder Bailey, standing up and heading to the 
living room. "Come on, then. You mind making the popcorn?" 


"Not at all!" Tristan went into the kitchen, checking his coat pocket 
as he did so; the syringe was still there, and still capped, for when 
he needed to use it. He sighed softly to himself and rubbed an eye, 
before looking in the pantry for some bags of popcorn. 


lt was snowing outside when the credits started rolling. Tristan 
smiled at his dad as the film ended, fiddling in his pocket and looking 
at his watch; his five hours were almost up, but he still had some 
time. "Better than | remembered it to be." 


"Hah!" Tyler Bailey clapped his hand, and looked under the 
Christmas tree where all the presents were. "...you know, son, if you 
want, you can open your present early." 


"Dad!" Tristan stared at his father. "| can't! It wouldn't be fair!" 


"Bah! | won't tell the others; you can always just re-wrap it. Go 
ahead, take a look." Tristan moved towards the tree, taking his box- 
shaped present out from under the tree. He carefully undid the 
wrapping paper, and smiled at what was underneath: a collectors 


edition version of Carl Sagan's Cosmos. "| remember how much you 
loved that series as a kid. You were... what, 5 when that show first 
came on the air? But you still watched it every night it was on." 


Tristan sniffed, smiling at his dad as he took out his smart phone 
and took a picture of the collection, for future reference. "Thanks, 
dad..." He dug in his pocket briefly, before opening his arms for a 
hug. Tyler Bailey accepted, hugging his son tight. 


Tyler Bailey was so happy he didn't even notice the needle with the 
Class-A amnestic dig into his back and be injected, nor did he notice 
when he started going to sleep. Tristan sighed and laid his father 
down on the couch, putting the needle in a Bio-hazard bag and re- 
wrapping his Christmas present. 


After some more cleaning up, such as washing out the mugs of hot 
chocolate and disposing of the popcorn bowl, he stepped out the 
door, and made his way back to the portal home. 


Tristan Bailey stepped back into the baseline, looking like he was 
about to cry as the portal shut behind him. Director Weiss was 
standing there, looking concerned as she spoke up. "How was he?" 


"He's good. Wasn't suspicious like last year." He handed the Bio- 
hazard bag to an assistant. "| assume | won't have to write a report 
about this?" 


"About what?" The director shrugged. "You were visiting family, 
simple as that." With that, she started walking out of the department. 
Tristan followed soon after, stopping in front of a plaque near the 
door to the Portal Chamber. 


THIS LABORATORY IS DEDICATED TO 
DR. TYLER BAILEY 
INVENTOR OF THE MUTA 
1935-1997