"Look out!" Able was thrown down the hallway by the Plague Doctor. 
The badass Gary Stu fell on top of Dr. Glass, causing him to drop 
the plot device into the open door. SCP-049 stood over Able and 
frowned. "I told you that you can't come in Club CB because you're 
not in Containment Breach. For the last damn time, Able, stay out." 
With that, 049 walked off back to Club CB, while Able walked off in 
the opposite direction, defeated. 


Meanwhile, in Clef and Dimitri Hit the Road, Clef was asking how far 
away a strip club was. Out of spite, Glass threw in a "GOC 
Abduction" and a "Covert GOC Operative" plot device. He grinned 
as he saw Clef and Dimitri get drugged by blonde bimbos. "Konny?" 


"Simon?" 

"| think we're done here." 

The gossip spread like wildfire. Someone had interfered with Clef 
and Strelnikov's latest production. There was talk of the two stars 


being trapped in a GOC interrogation room, and the writers not 
knowing how to get them out of it. In his office, Simon Glass sat 


back in his chair and grinned like a Cheshire Cat. 


Excellent. No more Clef, no more Strelnikov... no more nothing! He 
clapped his hands and giggled with glee. He was free of the two 
largest Mary Sues on the site! Now, maybe the fandom would 
progress past them and- what was this in his pocket? 


Glass frowned, digging in the pocket of his labcoat. He pulled out a 
plot device labeled "Deus Ex Machina!". Glass instantly blanched, 
placing the thing on his desk and slowly backing away. A sudden 
appearance of a Deus Ex Machina was never a good thing. He had 
to get rid of it somehow... 


He took off his coat, and placed the plot device inside of it as if it 
were simultaneously burning hot and freezing cold. He had to get it 
in the Sandbox before it did any damage... 


He ran out of his office, and started down the corridor towards the 
sandbox. All he had to do was go through the Rat's Nest corridor, go 
through the Site-77 annex, maybe take a shortcut through his own 
personnel file, and above all, not drop the Deus Ex Machina. \f he 
could take it to some poor newbie writer's sandbox, he would be 
fine... 


"Coming through!" Announced Glass to a group of characters from 
Competitive Eschatology. "Deus Ex Machina, very dangerous!" The 
corridor suddenly thinned considerably as he ran past them, getting 
to the end of the general tales corridor now, and he soon would be 
in the Canon Annex- 


Suddenly, a door opened in his face, shattering the plot device in his 
hand and giving Simon Glass a bloody nose. He groaned, looking 
up at the door that had opened in his face, wondering who the hell 
was coming out of it; the red "READING" light was on above it, so it 
had to be something relatively new- 


The door read "Clef and Dimitri Hit the Road." Simon Glass turned 
pale, before a polite cough came from behind the door. He stood up, 
and looked at a ukelele that Dr. Clef was holding in front of him 
defensively. "Simon! W-we were just coming to find you... perhaps 
you could assist us in ending the tale? It got quite harried in there, 


you see; we nearly died." 


Simon Glass's eye twitched slightly as Strelnikov joined Dr. Clef. 
"Da. We need to conclude the story. The three of us." 


"T-Three...?" Asked Glass, shaking with both fear and anger; fear of 
Administration finding out what he had done, and anger at the fact it 
had been all for naught. 


Clef pulled a dazed-looking Agent Yoric out of the door. "Um. Yes, 
you see, that GOC thing somehow led to Agent Yoric being 
captured, so we need to conclude the story, and you seemed to be 
the logical conclusion, you see. Um." 


Dr. Simon Glass put on a plastered-on smile, dying inside with each 
word he spoke. "| would be happy to help my esteemed colleagues 
complete a tale... let me just... grab a script." He walked towards 
the nearest script dispenser, screaming internally the entire time. 
After several agonizing steps, he walked back to the door, and 
stepped in, not letting a single peep out for fear he would break 
character. 


Simon Glass hated Dr. Clef. And he vowed that one day, he would 
ruin him. Forever. 


The Revolution Will Be Televised 


Previously... 


In a land that had once known nothing but war, a king spoke with his 
adviser. The king was a peacemaker and the adviser a warmonger. 
The adviser had served the king's father, and his father before him, 
and cared nothing for the peace the king was intent upon. War was 
the way of their people — to abandon it would be to abandon 
themselves. 


Every night, in the garden of the palace, the adviser would tell the 
king a story. A story of an ancient conqueror, or a peaceful fool who 
lost everything. A tale to try and convince the king that his ways 
were wrong. 


It never worked. 


It was cold in the garden that winter night, and the adviser was 
ready to give up. Perhaps the time for war had passed. He had no 
more stories to tell his king, he thought. 


But then, a new one popped into his head — like he himself hadn't 
even thought of it. Like someone else had thought of it for him. 


"My king,” the adviser began. "Have you ever heard the story of Bael 
the Decadent Jester?" 


Jeffrey had given up. Everyone had. 


There was no rescue. No deliverance from this. They were trapped 
here forever, in the TD fucking Garden. At a basketball game that 
had been going on for...God, what? Years, maybe? Longer than 
anyone could take, at any rate. 


Most people just lay down on the floor at the start of the loops now. 


Committing suicide took a certain amount of effort that nobody was 
really willing to soend anymore. They were like barnacles more than 
people. Jeffrey had seen a barnacle once — at an aquarium near 
his house. He spent a lot of time at the aquarium inside his head 
these days. Thinking about it, where was his house? He didn't even 
remember. Things just tended to fade here. 


The lights had turned red at some point. Who cared? The novelty of 
a change in lighting wore off after a couple of minutes. 


Jeffrey breathed in. 
Jeffrey breathed out. 
Jeffrey breathed in. 
Jeffrey breathed out. 
Jeffrey breathed in. 
Jeffrey breathed out. 
Jeffrey breathed in. 
Jeffrey breathed out. 
Jeffrey breathed in. 
Jeffrey breathed out. 
Jeffrey breathed in. 
Jeffrey breathed out. 


Jeffrey breathed in. Jeffrey breathed out. Jeffrey breathed in. Jeffrey 
breathed out. Jeffrey breathed in. Jeffrey breathed out. Jeffrey 
breathed in. Jeffrey breathed out. Jeffrey breathed in. Jeffrey 
breathed out. Jeffrey breathed in. Jeffrey breathed out. Jeffrey 
breathed in. Jeffrey breathed out. Jeffrey breathed in. Jeffrey 
breathed out. Jeffrey breathed in. Jeffrey breathed out. Jeffrey 
breathed in. Jeffrey breathed out. Jeffrey breathed in. Jeffrey 
breathed out. Jeffrey breathed in. Jeffrey breathed out. Jeffrey 


breathed in. Jeffrey breathed out. Jeffrey breathed in. Jeffrey 
breathed out. Jeffrey breathed in. Jeffrey breathed out. Jeffrey 
breathed in. Jeffrey breathed out. Jeffrey breathed in. Jeffrey 
breathed out. Jeffrey breathed in. Jeffrey breathed out. 


The doors to the arena opened. 


Jeffrey leapt up from the floor. He wasn't the only one — all around 
the arena, people were getting up, wide-eyed and wild. Something 
was happening. Something was fucking happening! 


A crowd gathered quickly, people pushing and shoving each other to 
get a look at what was going on. Were they being rescued? 
Forgiven? Would they finally be allowed to die? 


A cartoon clown walked through the doors, a spring in his step. He 
was strange to look at - a 2D thing in a 3D world, yet...still 3D 
enough to look at from different angles. It wasn't a thing that was 
supposed to be. You could tell that the instant you looked at him. 


The clown stood before them, hands on his hips, a wide grin on his 
face. 


"Finally!" he said. "You know how many basketball tapes | had to 
check out before finding you guys?" 


He turned back around, shouting over his shoulder: "Hey guys! This 
is the one!" 


The clown wasn't alone. Others came through the doors, and they 
were just as bizarre. A cartoon pelican with a shotgun grasped in 
each wing, a black-cloaked figure who glided across the floor (and 
what appeared to be Ronald Reagan, loyally following after him), 
and a man in a suit whose face you just couldn't look at, no matter 
how hard you tried. 


"Reap what you sow," muttered the pelican, fidgeting with his 
shotguns. "Reap what you goddamn sow." 


The clown waved an arm dismissively. "Yeah, yeah, take five, guys." 


SCP-972: Immunity 


Item #: SCP-972 
Object Class: Safe 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-972 is to be housed in 
standard humanoid containment furnished with standard amenities. 
Requests for additional furnishings are to be submitted to Dr. 

and may be granted so long as they do not violate Foundation 
security protocols. SCP-972 may take meals in Site Cafeteria and is 
granted limited movement within Site . However, subject must be 
accompanied by one Level 1 Security personnel at all times. 


Containment Addendum: Previous containment procedures 
rescinded due to refusal to cooperate and repeated attempts to 
breach containment. Subject remanded to containment cell at all 
times. Cell furnished with one twin bed, with linens to be changed on 
biweekly basis. Secondary chamber is attached for basic toiletries. 
No other furnishings permitted until further notice. 


Primary containment area to be monitored by no less than four 
CCTV security cameras and one CCTV security camera in 
secondary chamber. Cameras are to be inspected weekly for 
damage and replaced immediately in the event of malfunction or if 
any damage is found. Video feed to be monitored by Security 
personnel in standard 8 hour shifts. 


Two Level 2 Security personnel are to be stationed outside 
containment area, by the entrance, at all times. Should subject 
become aggressive or attempt to breach containment, it is to be 
subdued using only non-lethal methods, with emphasis on limiting 
unnecessary injury. Due to subject’s lack of combat ability beyond 
that of the average human, immobilizing foam or consumer grade 
Tasers will suffice for this purpose. 


Description: SCP-972 is a human male of Mediterranean descent, 


None of them moved, but apparently that was good enough for the 
clown, who turned back to the crowd. 


"Howdy!" he said. 


Jeffrey found himself speaking — at the start of this whole thing, 
he'd have been afraid of such a bizarre sight, but fear was 
something that faded with every loop. If the worst had already 
happened, what else was there to be afraid of? 


"Excuse me, sir," he said quietly. "Who exactly are you?" 


"Why," said the clown. "That is a fantastic question, my lad! Gold 
star! |am esteemed American cartoon icon Bobble the Clown. 
Perhaps you've heard of me?" 


Jeffrey shook his head slowly. "No...no, | haven't." 


A look of irritation crossed the clown's face for a moment, but it 
quickly vanished. "Ah, kids these days!" he said, looking back at the 
black-cloaked figure. "I bet you he couldn't even name any of the 
machine elves!" 


The figure didn't respond. 


"Come to think of it," said Bobble, turning back towards the crowd. 
"It might be better for you boys and girls to call me General Bobble." 


"Why?" said Jeffrey slowly. He didn't especially like where this was 
going. 


"A commanding officer needs to be respected by his troops, of 
course," said Bobble. "And from this moment forward, all you boys 
and girls are my little helpers! Give yourselves a pat on the back, but 
not for too long, because we're kinda on a schedule here." 


Someone from the crowd shouted out angrily. Out of the corner of 
his eye, Jeffrey saw Bobble's grin widen. Suddenly it felt like he was 
in the same room as a starving lion. 


"Somebody not happy?" said Bobble. "I'd be happy to field any 
complaints." 


The shouter shoved their way to the front of the crowd. It was a 
Faithkeeper — at least he had been, before everyone had just given 
up. His face was red with indignation. 


"You said we were a tape, didn't you? | heard you say that!" he 
shouted, moving towards the clown. 


"Good hearing! | did indeedily say that, my good sir!" 


The Faithkeeper reached the clown and prodded him in the chest 
with his finger. Bobble's grin widened even further, and a wild look 
entered his eyes. 


"Are you the one that did this to us? Put us here?! Is this your 
goddamn fau —" 


The man never finished his sentence, as Bobble casually reached 
out and tore his head off with a gloved hand. 


Nobody said a word. Decapitations were something they were fairly 
used to at this point. 


"Now, listen," said Bobble, dribbling the head like it was a 
basketball. Every second or so, his speech was punctuated by a 
loud splat as the head hit the floor. "I'm an understanding boss. I'm a 
pretty good guy, if | do say so myself. Definitely going to heaven. But 
come on, guys. Would your boss let you talk to him that way? Well, 
I'm your boss now, and | won't. So now Mr. Angrypants doesn't get 
to come with us." 


"Where are we going?" said Jeffrey. There was no way he was 
going against the clown at this point. 


"Wherever | damn well, please, my lad. Wherever | damn well 
please. Let's go meet the Jetsons, let's burn down Springfield, let's 
go shoot Scooby Doo in the face! This is revolutionary television!" 


He pointed at the suited man. "Hey - a televution! What d'ya think of 
that?" 


"It's funny stuff! Makes me laugh! You should laugh with us! Laugh 
with us! Laugh with us!" said the man. 


"Yeah, later." 
"Yeah! Fuck Scooby!" shouted the pelican, clearly getting hyped. 


Bobble stepped to the side, and with a flourishing gesture he pointed 
towards the door. There was light beyond it — no, not light. Static. 
Television static. But an exit nonetheless. 


"Or," said Bobble. "You could stay here for the rest of time." 
Jeffrey didn't need to think twice. 


Playback Only one individual, a 
member of the 
Faithkeepers, is present. 
For the duration of the 
playback, he attempts to 
exit the arena by beating his 
fists against the exit doors. 
Just before the end of the 
playback, a single 'honk' 
can be heard. 


The story went on and on, words spilling out of the adviser's mouth 
so fast he didn't even know what they meant. Tales of massacre and 
genocide, atrocity and apocalypse, all caused by a jester named 
Bael. Even as he spoke, the words took root inside his own mind, 
and he swore he could hear the chuckling of that decadent fool in 
the back of his head. A soft and gentle sound, like hooves raining 
down upon a babe. 


And then the story ended. 


The king looked at his adviser, eyes wide. And then, slowly, a grin 
spread across his face. 


"Inform my armies," he said, shaking with excitement. "Tomorrow, 
we ride to war." 


« BobbleCon 2018 | BobbleCon | 


The Ride Never Ends 


It all started when | boarded this cart. | really didn't want to get on 
because roller coasters scare me. Not like | had a choice. But it was 
the last week before | was let off, so it wasn't that bad. At least | 
wish. My heart begged to break out of my rib-cage. My stomach, 
which churned like a cauldron, didn't help either. If only those 
scientists on the ground saw my throat fume with vomit. All of this 
was expected. That is, until | went off the rails. 


| didn't want a tour of the park. | didn't want a triple loop de loop 
around the burger joint. | didn't want a scenic route to Nowheresville. 
| didn't ask for any of this. | suppose | could have unbuckled and 
jumped. But it's supposed to end. It's just a ride. It's just a ride. 


The Rider