To get your Shelf-and-a-half, call now and we'll send you one for 
only $19.99. That's right, a $40 value for only 20 bucks! But wait, 
there's more! Call now and you can get a second Shelf-and-a-half 
absolutely FREE! Just pay shipping and handling! Just dial up the 
number on the screen and get yourself two Shelfs-and-a-half! Our 
operators are standing by. 


24. 


Exhausted with all those cups doing that? Don't like doing that other 
thing? 


Well me too, and that's why I've got this thing: The Shelf-and-a-half! 
This thing is like a cabinet and a shelf, | guess, and comes with a 
droppable stool attachment that you can use if you're short, and 
then put it back. 


Here's my friend, Brandi. Brandi's a dwarf, and can't reach that 
snowglobe. But with the help of the Shelf-and-a-half, she can reach 
the snowglobe and shake it too. SHAKE THE SNOWGLOBE, 
BRANDI, DON'T JUST STAND THERE! 


The thing's only $19.99. But wait, there's more. Call now and you 
can get a second Shelf-and-a-half. Just pay shipping and handling. 
Call the number there. Our operators are standing by. 


37. 


Okay, what the fuck is going on? Why do those cups keep falling? 
Why does only my voice exist right now? 


Oh, here | am. Okay, there's a shelf here. Look, it's like a cabinet 
too. And a stool drops down. 


Oh look, there's Brandi. What's up. Look, just pick up the snowglobe 


and we can move on. SHAKE THE FUCKING SNOWGLOBE 
BRANDI! FUCK! 


Okay, call that number there. 


52. 

Cue cups falling. Cue hand searching. 

Hi, look at this shelf. Fuck this thing. 
Brandi, just shake the fucking snowglobe. 


Look, if anybody's watching, please call this number. SAVE US! 


59. 


The clattering never stops. Oh look, the hand just flipped me the 
bird. 


This fucking shelf piece of shit! Look how flimsy it is! See how easily 
my foot goes through it! Put an old lady on there and she'd die. 


Shut up Brandi. Look, either you shake that snowglobe or we're just 
gonna be fucking standing in this empty room forever. | don't care. 
Shut up. SHAKE THE SNOWGLOBE YOU BITCH! 


Watch as | use the components of the Shelf-and-a-half to tear my 
own eyes out while you call this number! 
FUUUUUUUJUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK 
AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH 


13: 


22: 
GIVE ME SOME HEAD YOU FUCKING BITCH! 


97. 

Hi, my name's J- Shut up you bitch. You may be wondering what I'm 
doing with this woman tied up. Well, you see, I'm trapped in some 
kind of infomercial purgatory and I've decided that perhaps ritual 
sacrifice is the way to g- Stay on the ground. As you can see, I've 
disassembled the Shelf-and-a-half into its components and will now 
push this rather large nail right in between Brandi's eyes. Hold still, 
Brandi! 

Mmmmm, don't you just love that sound folks! Sadly, it doesn't seem 
to have worked. I'm going to kill myself now! 

111. 


Your turn. 


112. 


My turn. 


113. 


Your turn. 


A Eulogic Elegy For The Dreams 


October 10th, 2167 
Things are getting desperate in the land of dreams. 


The Oneiroi Collective has gathered in a secluded space of a dream 
fragment, like a crowd of seals clamoring for a single ice flow in an 
otherwise empty ocean. 


In the small sliver of a surreal forest landscape, the Collective 
discusses the few options they have left and the situation they are in 
now. 


They have all seen their share of struggle. However, this time 
they've met a foe that no wiles or whimsical trickery could outsmart. 
No friendships could help them. More destructive than any 
abomination, worse than the nightmares that are the shadow to their 
light. 


The dreams are dying. They have run out of people to dream them. 


One woman opens her grey mouth, spilling forth the knowledge she 
has gathered in dreams before. 


The woman was there, on a lonely bridge in the nothing. 
The railings were chipped red and the floor below 
cracked in gold. She leaned over, waiting for the 
dreamer to show itself. It was hard work finding a dream 
these days, harder than she remembered in all her time 
traveling them. She didn't care for the flavor of it, but 
these times were lean and she had learned to adapt to 
chewing on these scraps. 


A man sidled up to her in the dream. If this was the kind 
of dream she preferred the flavor of, he would push her 


into a plush bed and they would share some endless 
moment of passion. But it was not, and so this dreamer 
simply leaned on her. He sighed out into the darkness 
and in his deluded perception saw the dream as a 
memory. 


"It's been so long, Eleanor. Is it peaceful out there, in the 
land of the dead?" 


She was no Eleanor. But she was old and wise and used 
to adopting whatever masks the dreamer asked of her. 
She snaked a long arm around his waist, only just 
remembering to keep the facsimile of having bones. 
Color bloomed across her dress and skin. Her hair 
escaped her tight bun and curled into a frizz of brown. 
She looked to him, smiling like the Eleanor he so loved, 
the one that showed Eleanor's gap between two front 
teeth. 


"What has happened out there, honey? Please tell me." 


The dreamer's face grew filled with shadow as his sleepy 
mind drew from memories he had hoped to escape from 
in the land of dreams. She took time to gaze over his 
body. Clothed in rags. Skin burnt from something. So, so 
thin. Only one sock. All the dreamers looked something 
like this these nights. The dream shuddered as he took 
his shivering breath to speak. 


"Ellie, it's terrible out there. It's not getting better. Tom's 
gone, too. Sam, his boyfriend Alex. They're all gone, 
eaten or killed or worse. | don't know where all the big 
groups have gone, even that fucked up Charity. The only 
thing playing on the radio anymore is the Factory." 


She struggled to hold in her sneer. Of course, the 
Factory would prey upon the dreamers in their time of 
need. The Factory, no better an abomination than the 
ones they fought on this side of existence. She tried to 
push for more information, but the dream had begun to 
melt. Her dreamer clung to her, sobbing. He didn't want 


and the calloused patches of skin... he knew exactly 
what was going on. 


SCP-992 was found in a small village near the Alice Springs area in 
central Australia, after reports of a SCP-992's effect reached agents 
posted in the area. Investigation of the village these reports 
originated from showed SCP-992 had taken up a position as the 
village's leader, claiming to have godlike influence over the villagers 
lives and the world around them. After demonstrating its abilities to 
the agents, SCP-992 was contained. Amnestics were distributed to 
witnesses, and a cover story portraying SCP-992 as a fraud was 
disseminated. 


Incident Report #992-C 01/17/1949: Level 1 personnel observed 
SCP-992's conversation with a eucalyptus tree. When asked about 
the conversation, subject answered "She (the eucalyptus) was very 
depressed, and difficult to name. | was unable to fully paint the 
picture." 


Personnel noted that the eucalyptus tree expired several days later. 
Addendum 992-A: 
Show excerpt from interview 992-A 


Interviewed: SCP-992 
Interviewer: Dr. Boyd 
<Begin Log> 


Dr. Boyd: ... When did you become aware of 
it?2 


SCP-992: We were burying them. Everyone 
who had died. It had been a dead year, and 
losing so many names had brought hope 
down. They had no name anymore, they were 
only corpses. But | could see them. The 
names were there, still strung to the bodies. | 
reached out and touched them... and then my 


to go. She didn't want him to go, either. 


"It'll be okay, my love." It was still her duty to reassure 
and share love with the dreamers, even after all these 
years. Even in this time of fear for the both of them. "You 
and | will be together soon. I'll be here for you. Don't go 
to the Factory. Live, live so we can see each other 
again." 


He sobbed 'I will’ and 'I love you' again and again as 
everything melted around them. 


The memory floods the Collective as she shares it, washing over like 
a desperate tide. Their voices crowd the air as it ended. Tendrils 
flailing. Tongues lolling. Yipping and baying and howling. Meowing 
and hissing and purring. Speaking and shouting and whispering. A 
gong thunders over their voices to smother the panic in its crib. 


A mass of tendrils and eyes sprouts mouths all over the tips of its 
tentacles. In chorused harmony, it begins to sing to its companions. 


The mass sidled into a tiny dream. So small was it that 
the mass had to fold itself again and again, hundreds of 
times to fit. But times were desperate and even the 
smallest bit of sanctuary was precious with no equal. As 
tiny chipmunk in the city block, it crawled up onto a 
bench. 


The dreamer sat at the bench a moment later, thin and 
starving. She was starving. She was dying. This was her 
final dream. 


The little chipmunk hopped onto the dreamer's lap, 
chittering as cute as it could muster itself. She laughed 
and kissed the entity again and again. Inwardly, it was 
disgusted with this abject display of affection. 


"Oh, how cute! | haven't seen one of you in so long, you 
know? | figured you all had been eaten by the anomalies, 
when we had been overrun trying to contain them all. 
Maybe we would've lasted longer if we had followed the 


GOC route and tried mass extermination. But then again, 
they didn't last much longer." 


Ah, information. It bled from dreamers so easily. 


"The world is ending. | guess | couldn't blame you for 
running away. | want to, too." She rubbed the creature's 
fur, made soft just for her. Just to get her to keep talking 
in her dying moments. Disgusting humans. 


The creature chittered, licking at her skin and bulging its 
eyes in some strained attempt at cuteness. The woman 
was surely delusional in her dying, as this caused her to 
laugh and kiss the chipmunk again. Or perhaps she was 
so desperate that even this poor facsimile was enough 
for her. 


"Do you know what started it? I'll tell you a secret, ok? | 
heard a rumor a long, long time ago. Someone had killed 
God and now we are all being punished. It isn't like in the 
bible, because this is no rapture. Hell has come to us." 


Then she was gone. 


The Collective doesn't believe in religion. Gods come and go in 
dreams like everything else. Religious dreams were just dreams like 
every other dream, except for when some powerful being from the 
other side hijacked a dream to deliver some message. Regardless, 
the dying woman's explanation was thrown out in a heartbeat. But it 
did give them some knowledge that something had triggered this. It 
let them know that it's not going to get any better. 


The entities, all of them in their many shapes and tastes and colors 
and textures, lay together in the sliver of forest. In their collective 
writhing bodies, ideas could spread easier. Lines from one individual 
and another are beginning to blur. It is desperate, but they are 
surrounded by desperation on every side. 


One of them arrives late. He hails from a place a bit away from 
dreams, known to the collective as the realm of knowledge and 
serpent scales. He is their ambassador to that land, one of their 


finest companions. But he is babbling. He is panicked. The man in 
his sharp business suit retches, then collapses on hands and knees. 
He vomits the memories out, shuddering. The Collective watches 
him fall apart in a brilliant shattering of the dream fragments they are 
all made out of, leaving only the pool of vomit as a memento. 


The Library was once a great and proud creature. In 
some respects it still remained as such, home to 
wanderers and wandering knowledge alike. In this time 
of need, those who knew how to get there were using the 
Library as one last sanctuary. The Library had become a 
refugee camp, a single ray of light in the rat's nest of the 
world. 


Times were lean. Things were getting unstable. Most of 
the Ways have long since collapsed under the weight of 
the rats. The Serpent had abandoned its garden, coiling 
over its precious Library as a protective mother python 
over the last nest egg she will ever have. Every open 
window revealed nothing but its scales, littered with bite 
marks. Not a single unharmed patch remained to be 
seen. 


The Serpent's Hands were long severed. It was the 
search parties. The attempts to clear the Ways. The 
desperate sacrificial rituals to keep the rats at bay. More 
than anything, despair severed the Hands. They had lost 
too much to the madness. Many had lost themselves. 


The man had sat and watched this collapse. The Serpent 
would be dead soon and with it an era would close. 
Before death, the Serpent bowed with its great Library 
still clutched in its coils. It still demanded respect, even 
as the rats have come to behead it. The rats will have 
the Library over the corpse of the Serpent. Death 
relieved the Serpent of its duty, gentle and respectful of 
all it had given to the world. 


The shattering of violin stings were heard throughout the 
Library as the final collapse came. The land plunged 
boldly into darkness, stripped of the final Ways. The 


Wanderers have settled into their graves. It was over. 
They were done. 


The man escaped to run home as soon as he tasted the 
collapse. It was a flavor he had hoped to never know. A 

knowledge he had hoped to never have to share with his 
kin. 


So, even the Library is gone. The Collective nestles together tighter, 
shedding their memories into each other's minds. There was one 
last trick they have, hidden away in a pocket of their collective 
subconsciousness. Basking in the sun, the frankenstein sea of 
dream creatures drift off to their own sleep. The forest expands as 
they do so, welcoming all the last surviving dreams to dance in the 
dappled light. 


The rats cannot reach them here. They will wait for the world to rise 
from the ashes. For dreamers to once more breathe life into this 
barren land. They will wait for eternity if they must. 


The dreams make their final stand here, in this, their last sanctuary. 


We're Off To Be The Lizard 


"And so," Dr. Samet continued from his wheelchair, his right foot still 
in a cast after that terrible, accidental firearm discharge, "We must 
now proceed with the application of-" He stopped, staring at Dr. 
Bright in some kind of horror. "What is that?" 


Bright smiled calmly, as his assistants continued to aide him in the 
final calibrations. Laying on the table before him, in pieces at the 
moment, were the three pieces of a rather ugly looking metal staff. 
Wires and cables trailed off at odd angles, and continued to look 
more bizarre the more the Lucky Bunch fiddled with it. "It's a staff, 
Samet." 


"| can see that much, 963," the doctor, without a clue, snarled. "But 
why do you have it here?" 


Firmly grasping the now assembled staff, Bright turned on Samet 
with a scowl. "My name is Dr. Bright. And this is to attract 682's 
attention. How were you planning on getting SCP-963 onto 682?" 


"Well, ah, a launcher, and, ah, hmmm..." 


"Exactly. With this prototype, | shall endeavor to anger it, to the point 
which it comes for me. From there it will be child's play to get 963 
inside it." 


Samet nodded. "Of course, of course, 963 - but what does it do?" 


Some people never learn. And other people continually insult a 
vengeful immortal who holds no regard for human life. The really 
stupid people feed Bright straight lines. "This." He raised the cane to 
point in a vaguely Samet direction, and pressed a button. 
Immediately, a purplish arc of electricity arched through the air, 
grounding itself in Samet's injured foot. The doctor screamed, 
desperately rolling his wheelchair backwards, even as the bandages 
caught fire. "Hmm, Dr. Samet, it appears as if you have some sort of 


metal in your cast. Wonder how that happened.”