The subject had requested my aid to help organize a 
gathering of the local poets in La Figurita. | remarked to 
him at our last meeting that the poets of La Figurita 
weren't very good, and that most of their writings 
centered around being taken to the hospital after drinking 
too much. He laughed at that, but was undeterred in his 
mission. 


He explained that all | need do was accompany him for a 
few hours. "| need a man with violence in him" he 
explained as he looked me over. He is not wrong, but | 
was dismayed at his reading of me. 


We walked to a shabby part of the neighborhood with no 
streetlights. This was well, because the brightly colored 
paint on the splintered facades of the rowhouses were 
illumination enough. At a lime green doorway, we 
stopped. Mr. Izquierdo knocked, a strange, rata-tat-tat- 


rata-tat knock that must have been code of some sort. 
The door parted a crack, and a face with a roadmap of 
lines, but not a single gray hair, appeared from the 
darkness. What did we want, he asked. 


Mr. Izquierdo answered immediately. "We need to use 
this house tonight. Poetry recital." 


"Impossible" the man said, "this is a place of commerce." 


"Get a load of this guy," Mr. Izquierdo said to me as he 
laughed, "a real businessman. How does fifteen guys at 
a ten peso cover sound for your business?" 


The face disappeared momentarily. Some hushed 
conversation in the darkness took place before it 
reappeared in the doorway. 


"We agree to your terms." The door opened. 


We stepped inside of a predictable hovel, the floor 
littered with bottles and needles. A few junkies were 
passed out along the walls of the front room. The first 
poets arrived soon after, and the night must be described 
as a success, for it was at least twenty people crammed 
in there when all was accounted for. Mr. Izquierdo called 
for silence, and beckoned the first reader to step to the 
middle of the room. He proceeded to read some odious 
doggerel, and | envied the unconscious bum laying next 
to me. 


On and on it dragged. | had heard of time anomalies in 
my work, and wondered at my fate here. Then, Mr. 
Izquierdo pointed to the man who had been at the door 
when we arrived. "Lalo! It's your turn!" 


Our doorkeeper stepped into the middle of the crowd, 
hesitantly, which struck me as funny since he was the 
most fearsome-looking man in the room. He pulled a 
piece of folded paper out of his filthy denim jacket, and | 
readied myself for the resumption of the dreary 


Addendum 249-001 Teleportation log. 
12-10-19 : SCP-249 is found and moved to Site 


24-6-19 : Agent goes missing and is found weeks later in 
eastern Canada; describes random transportation. 


17-10-20 : Middle of what appears to be the Sahara desert. 
4-12-20 : Warehouse in a destroyed city resembling 
25-2-20 : Madagascar. 


17-5-20 : When opened, SCP-249 releases a massive torrent of 
water. Agent , who was holding the door handle, shuts the SCP 
before Site is flooded. Later, a fish found on the ground is 
examined, and identified as a species living only in the Mid-Atlantic 
Deep Sea Trench. 


22-10-20 : [DATA EXPUNGED] 


19-11-20 : Agent requests use of SCP-249 in infiltration mission. 
Request approved. Mission is successful. 


« SCP-248 | SCP-249 | SCP-250 » 


onslaught. 


What sticks in my mind most was his soft voice as he 
began his reading. He with the face that belonged ina 
prison yard, but | had to struggle to hear him as he read 
his piece. His story unfolded in short, clipped sentences 
as the room grew ever more quiet. He had been to 
America, from the nothingness of his native farmlands to 
the nothingness of foreign farmlands. The work was 
backbreaking as ever, the poverty covering everything 
like a layer of old dust just like back home. But now there 
was loneliness, like he could have never imagined. In 
time he met a friend, though. A Chilean, he said with a 
smirk that shocked me when it came. With someone to 
talk to, the work was not so bad, and at least he could 
drink and laugh and fight with someone when it was 
done. Then the Chilean was caught in a grain silo, 
drowning in the plentiful bounty of an American corn 
field. | don't know what | expected next, but it was not for 
this Lalo to begin howling like a wolf, which he did. It 
should have been ridiculous, but the fury and the pain in 
this man's voice, the mourning for his friend buried in a 
foreign land, it demanded acceptance. When Lalo 
finished, the entire room was completely silent. 


Then the police came. 


Our experiences with law enforcement being what they 
are, and the safety of Mr. Izquierdo being my charge, | 
elected to begin swinging the small club concealed in my 
coat before asking questions as the cops raided the 
place. In these affairs, the police always find their man, 
their man being whoever happened to be around in a 
den of narcotics. | fought my way out as the poets 
scattered, Mr. Izquierdo by my side. Someone landed a 
decent punch to my ribs and | came out with a cut to my 
forehead, the identities of my attackers forever lost to the 
churning scene of drugs, poetry and loss we had left 
behind. 


In the safety of a nearby alley, Mr. Izquierdo was 


doubled over with laughter, wiping tears from his eyes at 
the apparent hilarity of the scene that he had caused. 


"Violence in an accountant, and art in a drug pusher!" he 
wheezed. "The poetry of La Figurita shall improve after 
tonight, | tell you!" 


S-TARC Listing 
of Related 
Artworks - 


Titie Artists Medium Description 
Bust of Papi Calvin Medina; Sculpture A bust sculpture 
(marble) depicting Mr. 
Medina's 
deceased father, 
an itinerant farm 
laborer from 
Mexico. Mr. 
Medina suffered 
severe head 
injuries ina 
tractor accident 
on the same 
date that Field 
Report 2188.4 
was filed. Mr. 
Medina 
recovered as 
normal, but 
proceeded to 
develop an 
intense interest 
in sculpture, 
culminating in 
this piece. 
Guide to the Carolyn Walsh} Dance Performed at the 
Interworld Dotson Masonic 
Hall for an 
audience of 


In Memory of 
Grandmother 
Moon 


Bess Five 
Wolves 


Comanche 
medicine ritual/ 


sixty. Described 
by Ms. Walsh as 
a physical 
representation of 
Virgil guiding 
Dante through 
Hell. Ms. Walsh 
asked audience 
members to 
ingest a small 
dose of LSD 
prior to the 
performance, 
which most did. 
Ms. Walsh then 
encouraged to 
the audience to 
"attack" her at 
the end of the 
performance. 
While no serious 
acts of violence 
were committed, 
enough of a 
disturbance was 
raised that 
authorities were 
notified. Ms. 
Walsh was 
subsequently 
arrested by the 
Dotson Police 
Department after 
the performance; 
however, no 
formal charges 
were filed. 

With the 
assistance of 


performance ait two others, Ms. 


Field Report 2188.15 - The Virgin's Bonfire 


Date: 14 November 1976 


Five Wolves 
performed rites 
based upon 
traditional 
Comanche 
funerary 
practices to 
mark "the 
passing of the 
moon" in the 
middle of South 
Grange Avenue, 
disrupting 
afternoon traffic. 
Consisting of a 
series of dances, 
chants, 
ceremonial 
tobacco use, 
and other 
activities, the 
ritual lasted two 
hours, during 
which motorists 
left their vehicles 
to participate in 
various portions 
of the 
performance. 


Summary: Agent Esquivel accompanies Mr. Izquierdo on a 
pilgrimage to the Cathedral of Florida as part of the traditional 
Uruguayan veneration of the Virgin of the Thirty-Three. 


Result: International incident between the United States of America 
and Uruguay. Foundation Department of External Affairs later 
negotiates resolution between the two nations with no lasting 


repercussions. 
+ Access Additional Documentation 


Agent Comments: Is Pablo a religious man? | still 
cannot tell, though he gets into enough trouble to be 
classified as a saint some day. 


| drove into Conciliacién, where Pablo had found his 
most recent rooftop dwelling, and found him waiting in 
front of the library. He jumped into the old dented-up 
Site-issue pickup truck, carrying a heroically-sized jug of 
Medio y Medio, and we sped away. And if in the course 
of leaving Montevideo we banged into a few road signs 
as we wrestled with the jug of wine, what the hell. A few 
more dents. 


Pablo drank more than his half of the Medio y Medio of 
course, and told me all about the CIA contacts he had 
talked up before this pilgrimage. It is my business, of 
course, to know who is CIA, who is KGB, who is 
whatever in Montevideo, so | knew Pablo was full of shit, 
but in the spirit of the Blessed Virgin | let him have his 
fun. We stopped at what felt like every village along the 
way out to the country, where Pablo jumped out and 
reinforced our wine supplies, while urging everyone to 
come along on the pilgrimage. He must have been 
spending quite some time doing this before we left even, 
because the road became more and more crowded the 
closer we came to the Cathedral. 


| knew that Pablo had arranged some sort of exhibition in 
Florida, and | still do not know how he managed to 
convince the Diocese to let that go on. Perhaps that is an 
SCP in itself. When we arrived, the plaza in front of the 
Cathedral was choked with people. They had arrived in 
the tens of thousands, more than anyone could 
remember. 


The vendors who sell food and drink at the pilgrimage 
every year were ecstatic at first at the multitudes. Then 


Pablo emerged from our truck with a bullhorn (where the 
hell did he get a bullhorn?) and started blaring at the 
crowd as we drove on. "Do not purchase anything from 
these thieves! Maintain your holy fast, and manna shall 
rain down from the heavens this night!" he yelled, over 
and over. Though | had never expected a crowd of angry 
food sellers to be the ones to end Pablo, this situation 
was looking increasingly likely. | knew better by now than 
to be surprised. 


"What the hell are you doing?" | asked him, though really 
| was asking myself, driving this truck along with a 
loudspeakered maniac who was going to get us stoned 
to death with hardened bread rolls. Instead of answering, 
he instead directed me to a large clearing behind the 
cathedral. We parked nearby, and were greeted with 
more reinforcements of wine by a group of sculptors | 
had met previously with Pablo when we were walking 
through Bafhados de Carrasco one night. As we drank 
and talked (uninterrupted, we had apparently lost the 
angry food-sellers), they presented to us their handiwork: 
three large, vaguely human-looking sculptures they 
called "The Father, The Son, and The Holy Smoke," 
each at least ten meters tall and made entirely of dry 
wood and straw. Fire, of course, would be involved. 


That night, the time came to light each sculpture and 
start the towering bonfires. Pablo had invited everyone 
present to come and watch. | identified very much with 
these people who had come; | was curious to see the 
spectacle, and very hungry. Woe betide these sculptors 
if the show was unimpressive. Thousands of empty 
stomachs were likely to be harsh critics. 


Pablo climbed up on top of the Foundation-issue truck, 
and with his now ever-present bullhorn, regaled the 
crowd with a somewhat different version of the legend of 
the Virgin of the Thirty-Three than | have ever heard (I 
remember fewer explosions), then commanded the 
sculptors to light their creations ablaze. The three figures 


immediately caught, and a trinity of spectacular columns 
of fire lit the backside of the cathedral and the 
surrounding clearing. 


It couldn't have been more than fifteen minutes of this 
display before we all heard the helicopters. There had to 
have been at least ten of them, passing over the brightly- 
lit clearing and the thousands of onlookers. Parcels 
began raining down on little parachutes, hundreds of 
them, all over the place. It wasn't long before the crowds 
tore into them, and Pablo's promised feast from the 
heavens materialized, courtesy of the United States 
government, who had very thoughtfully included 
generous amounts of alcohol of varying kinds. No one of 
course mentioned that the gathering was not the group 
of refugees fleeing repression in Argentina that they 
thought we were, as | was to find out later after | finally 
managed to roust Pablo from his slumber in the bed of 
my pickup truck. "Say the right words to the right people 
and light some beacons" was all he was able to get out 
as he clutched his head and squinted against the 
morning light. 


| can only conclude that there must be more CIA 
operatives in Montevideo than we thought. 


S-TARC Listing 


of Related 
Artworks - 

Titie Artists Medium Description 
Thirty-Three Zelda Hughes | Poetry A book of thirty- 
Verses of three separate 
Suffering and poems, 
Enlightenment collecting a 

series of poems 
read every 


Monday evening 
at the Dusty 
Crossroads 


The Three 
Burnings of 
Thich Quang 
Duc 


Steven F. 
Braddock 


Novel 


Coffee House in 
downtown 
Dotson. Themes 
of sacrifice in the 
service of larger 
causes and 
resulting 
personal 
anguish are 
prevaient. 
Self-published 
narrative 
concerning 
Thich Quang 
Duc, a Buddhist 
monk widely 
known for 
immolating 
himself as a 
form of protest 
against the 
policies of the 
South 
Vietnamese 
government. The 
book concerns 
Mr. Quang Dire 
being reborn 
after his first 
self-immolation, 
and leading the 
same life over 
again with the 
knowledge of his 
previous life. 
The narrative 
consists of Mr. 
Quang Dic's 
various self- 
justifications of 


Manna from the Reverend 
Heart of Stone| Francis 
Abernathy 


Religious 
sermon4 


his act, which 
vary widely over 
the course of the 
story, but always 
result in the 
same course of 
action. 

A highly 
idiosyncratic 
sermon by the 
leader of the 
town's largest 
church, 
delivered 
outdoors at the 
burial site of an 
unidentified 
vagrant to the 
assembled 
congregation. 
Rev. Abernathy 
relates the story 
of Saint 
Augustus of 
Topeka, a 
heretofore- 
unknown 
religious figure in 
Christian 
theology. 
Relating the 
story in the form 
of a present-day 
allegory about 
then-United 
States Director 
of Central 
Intelligence 
George H.W. 
Bush, Rev. 


Field Report 2188.31 - A Quiet Day at Home 


Date: 28 August 1987 


Abernathy 
describes a 
hard-hearted, 
powerful man, 
constantly forced 
into what he 
considers to be 
necessary acts 
of violence and 
destruction, 
before being 
rebornina 
secret "trial by 
the spirit of fire" 
into an entirely 
different soul, 
dedicated 
instead to a life 
of generosity 
and service to 
the 
downtrodden. 
Rev. Abernathy 
then eulogized 
the vagrant at 
whose gravesite 
the congregation 
was assembled, 
claiming to have 
alone known the 
man's identity 
and deeds, but 
sworn to secrecy 
about both 
before he died. 


SCP-250: Most of an Allosaurus 


Item #: SCP-250 
Object Class: Euclid 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-250 is to be kept in a 50- 
meter-by-50-meter enclosure simulating a prairie environment, with 
padded steel walls 15 m high and 1 m thick. The temperature must 
remain between 20 and 28 degrees Celsius by day, and between 10 
and 14 degrees Celsius by night, with an average humidity of no 
more than 8%; this serves the dual purpose of ensuring that 
SCP-250's overall behavior remains predictable, and of maintaining 
the physical integrity of its component parts. Vegetation within the 
enclosure is to be maintained on a weekly basis; see document 250- 
MB48 for details.