Played with Little Dr. Lady today. She was nice, but then 
she smelled funny, and Big Dr. Lady came and took her 
away. But then she came back, and we ran around Dr. 
Lady’s office. Then we slept on the floor. It was nice. 


Slept today. 


| saw Dr. Dog today. | don’t like Dr. Dog. | was going to 
tell him to go away, but he had his clunky-walk-thing, and 
it could squish me. So | just gave him my “evil glare”. | 
hope it scared him away for good, because | do not want 
to be squished. 


| went to visit the sleeping men today. It was quiet. The 
sleeping men who weren't sleeping were nice to me. 
They like it when I’m there. Some of the sleeping men | 
visited last time weren't there. | don’t know where they’ve 
gone. | miss them. 


A new man walked came into office today. Not Dr. 
Smiley, or Dr. Boring, or Dr. Dog, or Dr. Grumpy, or Dr. 
Lady. | will call him Dr. New. He looked nice, so | went 
and visited him. He jumped high in the air and shouted: 
“THAT CAT HAS NO ASS! WHERE IS THAT CAT’S 
ASS!?” 


He startled me, so | clawed his leg. | don’t like Dr. New. 


Joy to the World 


Doctor Johanna Rose Garrison leaned back in her chair, one last 
click extinguishing the computer's light. That was it. The last of the 
forms had been sent off, the final approvals and offers ferried to the 
appropriate personnel, and the last experiments should have been 
completed by now. It was, for the next twenty minutes, Christmas 
Eve. Maybe, just maybe, she could take tomorrow off. 


The door to the office slid open, and Garrison recognized a familiar 
face. “Agent Bryant. Good to see you.” The man stepped in, looking 
sheepish, and she glanced at the clock before waving at him to sit 
down. Twenty minutes. “What is it?” 


“Do you want to hear the bad news or the worse news?” 


Johanna sighed- there went her plans of leaving on time tonight. 
“The bad news.” 


“SCP-504's escaped from containment. Someone left the door 
open.” 


She sighed in relief. That was manageable. “Well, send in an 
appropriately equipped containment team to retrieve the specimens, 
and that should be fixed easily enough. What's the worse news?” 


“You know that termination attempt on SCP-682 we were going to 
try out?” 


“Yes... Remind me, you were going to then drop him down a 
mineshaft?” 


“Right. Well. It didn't work. He kind of, uh, well, grew wings.” 
Johanna stared at him. “And, pray tell, where is 682 now?” 


“He... escaped into a nearby orchard. And he's currently hiding ina 
tree.” Seeing Johanna's stare, he rapidly continued, “But we have a 


dozen marksmen- well, one was killed, last | heard, but the rest are 
there- shooting at him, and Doctor Klein is taking care of amnesiacs 
with the civilians and adjusting files as necessary.” 


“Phew.” 


“Though, there's a reason to suspect that inappropriate behavior 
among the researchers involved had to do with the outbreak, so 
we've got the ten of them cleaning SCP-173's pen.” 


She sighed. “Is that all?” 


“Er... There's been a mutiny among some of the D-class. Two 
teamed up and started a bit of a massacre, four others joined in.” 


Johanna Garrison blanched. “Security's on it?” 


“Of course. | haven't heard whether they've stopped it recently 
though.” 


She stared at him. “There's more, isn't there.” 


"Oh, yes. See, computer errors caused a large amount of data 
regarding SCP-006 to be released to all personnel- when its 
clearance normally starts at O5 level... The four tech guys who 
should have been monitoring it are all denying responsibility. They'll 
probably be trying to contact you.” 


As if on cue, Johanna's desk phone went off. “That's probably them 
now,” Bryant said, helpfully. She leaned over, unplugged it, and 
looked down wearily. “Please tell me that's it.” 


“Well, apart from that, it's minutia... Some of the live containment 
cells have some structural instability, but there are crews working on 
that... Let's see, the 914 test results came back- we've got a couple 
of half-pigeon, half-reptiles you'll want to see, the recombinant DNA 
is like nothing I've ever seen. | sent them to your office for analysis. 
They're in liquid nitrogen.” 


“Thanks.” 


“And apart from that, the only other thing of note is that SCP-447's 


Sample 887-0277: The script for the first seven episodes of "That 
70s Show", words written backwards. 


Sample 887-0923: An extremely crude, if overly detailed, drawing of 
what seems to be SCP-914. Drawing is quite smeared from 
SCP-887's hand brushing over it during construction. 


Sample 887-8558: A large, multi-page drawing of "King Ghidorah", 
a monster from the Godzilla film series. 


Sample 887-2387: Page 443 of the 1977 Encyclopedia Britannica, 
written in chatspeak. 
Note: Produced via SCP-978. 


Researcher: Dr. J 


Sample 887-3265: Pages 345 through 371 of "A History of the 
Second Russo-Belgian War", detailing the political and strategic 
justifications for detonating a device referred to as 'Theta-Nine' 

30 km above Gdansk. Effects of the detonation are not documented. 


Sample 887-8754: A list of the dates and times that a woman 
named W Ss has visited public toilets. The record covers the 
period from 1988 to 1995. 


Sample 887-1676: An autopsy report for an unnamed 13-year-old 
girl, dated 12 May 2008. The cause of death is listed as 
‘asphyxiation due to plant matter blocking the trachea’. 


Sample 887-3557: A roughly A4-size sketch of actress Milla 
Jovovich, labelled in the bottom as '13 of 393' 


Researcher: Prof. Snider 


Sample 887-6543: Seventy-eight post-it notes written in Mandarin 
Chinese, each one listing a single item typically found in a bathroom 
(toothbrush, toilet, shower cap, plunger, etc.). 


Sample 887-1220: A detailed and illustrated list of every single part 
of a La-Z-Boy recliner, written upon a similar recliner in black 


container is getting filled up, we'll want to move it.” 


“Of course. Get a new container.” Johanna sighed, resting her head 
in her arms. “I'm sorry, Gabriel, | really wanted to get the day off 
tomorrow, | had hoped we could spend Christmas together, | didn't 
know this much would come up...” 


“You probably wouldn't have been able to anyways,” Gabriel Bryant 
patted her arm. Just then, a rhythmic cacophony passed by the 
hallway. 


“Shit.” Garrison sat up. “Was that a brass band?” 


“| wasn't sure where else to find the twelve drummers drumming,” 
Bryant said. The doctor turned to stare at him as he got up, dancing 
into the hallway. 


“| mean, you've already got the eleven snipers sniping, ten doctors 
sweeping, Klein's data expunging, goo-ball buckets brimming, six 
D's a-slaying, O5's youthful springs, four calling nerds, three broken 
pens, two turtle-doves...” 


“And a...” Johanna continued automatically, then just stared. “In 
what universe does 682 with wings count as a partridge?” 


But Bryant was already gone, running down the hall. The 504 
specimen crashed into the wall where his head had been, missing 
him by inches. 


Sometimes, you make mistakes... 


So it was just all three now, me and the Moeller twins. Everyone left 
after the fiasco that was our last play. Ok, it was shit. Still. Money 
was running low, same for the dope. The room's a mess, seen too 
many parties and too little cleaning. I'm drinking one of our last 
beers with Ulrike, Einsturzende Neubauten blaring from the 
boombox does nothing to break the gloom. 


“Sometimes you make mistakes”, she says as always, in her 
perennial monotone, “sometimes mistakes make you.” 


Just another night with no future. 


That's when Ute comes skipping home with another of her hare- 
brained schemes. 


“Puppet show, work for three, paying well.” 
"Where did you even hear about that?" 
"Not telling, just sign up." 

"Puppets, seriously?" 

"You want that next hit or not?" 

"Fuck you." 

"You know you want to...” 


That's when | cave in. They both fucking know the best way to get 
me to agree to anything is bringing up their lesbian-threesome-cum- 
incest bullshit again, i'm not that kind of girl. Anything to make them 
shut up about that. Assholes, both of them, but likeable assholes. 
And we do need the money. Just not like that. Puppets, shit, | hate 
kids. 


So we show up there the next evening. Surprisingly, the gig’s legit. 
At least the place is. Nicer than | expected too, well, depends on 
whose idea of nice, | guess, old industrial hangar, painted bits of 
machinery lying around. Why the hell is everything painted pink, 
though... 

Bleachers outside, not kids sized, great. Not what | expected. Still 
feels strange that I've never heard of that place before. 


So, I'm just sitting there in the car, waiting, wondering what's behind 
those doors. Ute’s just fooling around with her sister as usual, 
pointless to pry for more from her anyway. Not as if waiting for 
nothing wasn't my standard mode. The night's cold, a cloudy sky 
makes it dark as soot. 

| can't really remember last time | saw the light of day. 


The woman in charge finally shows up with her troupe. Ok, so from 
her clothes, | can totally put a face on all that pink. She'd stand out 
anywhere but the others are so bland I'll probably never match a 
name to their face. Actually, they might as well be faceless, | don't 
give a flying fuck. Pink is twitchy but seems friendly, or the other way 
around. In a hurry too. Show's on Saturday, can't even remember 
which day of the week is now. At last, she unlocks that door. 


Yeah, puppets, carnival giants actually, papier maché and plaster, 
kind of ugly and crude but nothing | haven't seen before. Costumes, 
knick-knacks and tryhard sculptures against the walls. A lot of that is 
obviously just gathering dust. But the abomination in the middle 
makes me want to back out of that deal. Motherfucking headless, 
three metres tall, neon pink pony. On rusty wheels. 

Ute's giggling, Ulrike's yawning. I'm just sweating. | mean, our shows 
never were tasty but that takes the cake. No way this is fucking 
happening. | totally want out but there's no backing out now, is 
there? 


The pink lady doesn't seem to care for introductions, | guess Ute 
took care of that, I'd rather not know what she said. Not one for 
small talk either. 


“The twins will push the float. You're short and thin, you'll fit in the 
head.” 


She points at a broken thing hanging from the wall. A skeletal horse 
head, way too large to be real, polished white wood?, with a long 
fuchsia mane, cracked deer antlers and tinfoil earmuffs, a pink 
megaphone for a mouth, rawhide bellows for a neck. It's just a bit of 
shame, nobody will see my face at least. That thing literally stinks 
like rotting meat, though. 


So there isn't anything more to it for us, the twins roll that thing 
towards the bleachers, | repeat the lines she feeds me through HF. 
The troupe silently dances around the pony, circling it slowly with a 
perfectly ridiculous solemnity which makes the whole thing 
disquieting. 


Going back to the squat, we stop at a dive to get our feed of music, 
alcohol, people and drugs. Place is crappy but it's like a second 
home. Or a second not-a-real-home. Anyway, feels like an oasis 
after going through that desiccated pantomime. Ulrike's busy kissing 
her sister, but her eyes don't leave me. Will they ever stop? We hit 
the sacks right before dawn. Just hoping for a bit of nightmare free 
sleep, my life's enough in that department. 


Back to rehearsing. | don't even know what's there to rehearse. 
Everything is so basic and Pink keeps feeding me her lines so it's 
not like | might forget them. Though, I'm not even sure they're the 
same as yesterday, or the day before. They feel new, but | can't 
remember what they'd replace. As if they actively resisted 
remembrance. 


Doesn't matter. | just fucking wish it stopped raining. Two days to go 
and we're out of this gig. Back at our pad, the cot feels cold and | 
have a splitting headache. | hope | didn't catch anything nasty from 
staying inside that thing. It sure doesn't feel or smell like it's seen 
regular cleanings. 


So this is the day. Not a hint of stage fright. No excitement either. 
Pink is the same terse. The dancers move like clockwork around the 
hangar. No audience yet when we arrived, | wonder who's going to 
pay for that. Or even watch for free. At this point, | don't even mind 
playing for the bleachers as long as | get paid. 


Silence. 


Pink strikes her trois coups. The door rumbles open. | can't see 
anything below but | hear Ute's muffled laugh. | can hardly see 
either through the floodlights. There is an audience, though. 
Masked, grey, stuffy silhouettes, hints of gleaming jewelry. Whispers 
and polite laughs. 


The twins push the monster, always short of reaching the slowly 
moving yellow spotlight. The puppets circle us like apathetic 
vultures, dancing to the slow, slow whine of the rusty wheels. The 
lines keep coming, | am but a mouthpiece. The audience shows no 
reaction to anything but | don't care. This is so sluggish it's 
excruciating. | can hear Ute distorting them into something even 
more ridiculous, if anything can be more ludicrous than that 
mechanical masquerade. Unprofessional but not unexpected from 
her. She keeps getting louder. And lewder. 


Oh, fuck that, at this point, I'm sure Pink’s furious and we're not 
getting paid anyway. I'll just repeat whatever Ute's drug-addled brain 
comes up with next. 


“Here we come in solemn union,” Pink whispers through the pony’s 
speaker. 


“The Moeller twins are the best kissers this side of Berlin,” Ute 
and | answer. No reaction from the audience. 


“Held together by the ties that bind." 
“When I'm done with this, I'm taking the knot.” 


We're almost done, the spotlight has stopped, a few seconds more, 
we'll enter it, the dancers will converge to the float and we're 
heading home. 


“We belong to you, now and always." 
"My muff belongs to Ute Moeller!” 


Ulrike's not letting the last word escape her, 
“Let us forever be made and unmade." 


"Sometimes you make mistakes, sometimes mistakes make 


0 


you. 


Berlin's cool night sky for curtain. The audience stops whispering, 
there's a low, brown buzz getting louder in the air. Then silence 
punches me in the gut. Pangs of red. Then nothingness. All is 
silence. The audience is gone. So are the dancers. Pink helps me 
get out of her contraption and quietly takes my hand. She leads me 
back to the hangar and I'm too dazed to react. The twins follow, 
uncharacteristically silent. 


The hangar feels gloomier tonight, like something's missing. 
Actually, the fluorescent tubes aren't buzzing anymore, so maybe it's 
just that. Pink still won't let go of my hand. She shows me to her digs 
under the rafters, | just follow, | don't feel in charge of anything 
anymore... No chairs, no bed either. Rugs, pillows, an eye- 
wrenching pink nest, the airs heavy with the musty smell of dried 
roses... 


| prop myself in a corner, she puts on a record on a gramophone but 
no music plays. She shows me a comic she's been reading, 
mythological stuff, but unfamiliar, a decaying city with a faceless, 
almighty ruler, not truly malevolent but preoccupied about keeping 
the citizens from leaving the walls above all else. | point to her how 
absurd the predicament of his worshippers is, she just shrugs. 


She's pushing closer, spooning me. I'm beginning to feel truly 
uncomfortable... | bluster apologies and show myself out. The 
hangar’s empty. No trace of the twins. How long did | stay up there? 
And where did they run? | have the motherfucking keys. Probably 
shagging somewhere outside. 


Car’s still there. | take a look round the bushes, under the bleachers. 
No one. Everything's deathly silent. Might as well check the road. 
There's a black van parked, wasn't there earlier. Door swings open. 
Some guy in black rolls out and lines me up with a rifle.