“To me, to me, to me... what is this quintessence of dust? No... no. 
Man delights not me.” 


Ruiz looked out into the void and the void stared back with infinite 
apathy. 


“Man delights not me. No, nor woman either, though by your 
demeanour you seem to think so.” 


And then the light returned, and Hamlet had his Rosencrantz and 
Guildenstern and the play went on and, as we all know, they all lived 
happily ever after. 

“Mister Duchamp?” 


“Hm? Wuzzat?” 


Ruiz rubbed the grit from his eyes. He had fallen asleep in the 
middle of the gallery. During the middle of the day. For several 
hours. While standing up. Again. 


“Mister Ruiz Duchamp?” 


“Yeah, that’s me, that’s me. Sorry, not so good with faces, who are 
you?” 


“I’m the mailman. Package for you. Going to have to sign for it.” 
“Right, right, right...” 

Ruiz groggily scribbled a half-hearted X on the offered pad. 
“You want us to bring it in for you, Mister Duchamp?” 


“Sure, if it’s not too much trouble. Just, uh, take it in through there, 
the cordoned off bit. Careful not to touch anything, it’s a bit 
dangerous at the moment. You know, ‘renovations’, heh.” 


“No problem, Mister Duchamp. The boys'll be around in a bit.” 


“Cheers.” 
Ruiz looked at the digital watch on his right wrist. It was 3:45 pm. 
Ruiz looked at the analogue watch on his left wrist. It was 3:45 pm. 


Ruiz looked at the pocket watch in the painting in front of him. It was 
melting onto a tree branch, and had likely not been wound for some 
time. Ruiz knew not to trust readings from surrealistic timepieces, 
and pouted at the piece. That said, however, it was still 3:45 pm. 


Ruiz walked past the reception, out the door, three doors down the 
street, entered his favourite coffee shop, and asked for a double- 
strength espresso, which he then used to down his daily caffeine 
pills, multivitamins, and antidepressants. 


And then, Ruiz finally woke up. 

“Shit! Carol, what’s today?” 

The stunned barista looked at the mad artist in front of her. 
“Uh... Wednesday?” 


“Okay, good, never mind then. | was worried it was Thursday or 
something.” 


“You feeling okay, Ruiz?” 
“Yeah, it’s just been... hectic, you know? I’ve been busy.” 
“Poor dear. Sit down, tell me about it.” 


Ruiz took a stool close to the counter. Carol smoothed her apron 
before sitting across from him. 


“| decided to wage war on a pack of ravenous artists who regurgitate 
uninteresting and frankly monotonous garbage by mailing out 
abrasive and genuinely disagreeable materials to their households, 
after which one of their contingent decided to metaphorically but 
without the metaphor defect to the other side, without realising that 
his not defecting was an integral part of the ‘BIG PLAN’ that | had in 


store for all of them and so his defection kind of screwed with my 
intended course of action however after having stayed awake for all 
of yesterday, all of last night, and a middling portion of this morning 
I’ve managed to rewrite the script and hopefully I'll be able to get 
them dancing to my tune before the ‘BIG EXHIBITION’ which is on 
Friday so by then | should be back on track to present my ultimate 
work to the ultimate critic, or should | say The Critic, with both of the 
words capitalised, if there were an easy way to express such a thing 
in speaking words, whereupon he'll be so profoundly thrilled that 
he'll quit forever and go back to being a Nobody, with that word also 
capitalised in a clever and subtle little joke I’m insisting on playing 
through to the end.” 


“...what?” 
“So much for act one, at least. At this point I’m kind of winging it.” 


“You know, every time you walk in here and down your pills, | 
wonder what the hell is actually in them.” 


“Dreams and art, Carol. Dreams and art. Another... let’s make it 
three espressos for the road.” 


Carol tended to the machines and, after a short interval, passed 
Ruiz three more cups of his second favourite beverage. He left the 
shop and had finished all three by the time he returned to the 
gallery. He waved his way past the receptionists and moved past his 
cordons into the poorly illuminated room. The delivery men had 
placed the big, brown box right in the centre of his workplace, 
coincidentally allowing a lone shaft of sunlight to illuminate it like the 
gift from the heavens that it was. Ruiz reached for his yellow circular 
sawblade and sliced through the packaging, flipping the box open 
and letting it drop to the floor. And there, Ruiz thought, was the 
centrepiece he had been looking for. 


It was the electric chair. 


It was not just any electric chair, it was THE electric chair, Old 
Sparky, first used in the Sing Sing Correctional Facility in 1891 to 
execute four prisoners, the chair elevated in a specially-constructed 
room known only as the DEATH HOUSE, a veritable prison-within-a- 


prison. If he was going to use an electric chair, he’d be damned if it 
wasn't this one. Ruiz rubbed his hand against the wooden frame, 
moved around, and sat in the seat where so many people had felt 
the cold embrace of death. 


He started to squeal like a schoolgirl. 


The Director was busy. This was not particularly odd. At any given 
time, she was organising the production of at least three plays, a 
movie or two, and innumerable side projects, some of which might 
even see the light of day. She had, in her youth, been an actress 
herself, before a sprained ankle had robbed her of the stage. 
Instead, she had turned to Directing, where she could still act 
condescendingly to everyone around her, and instead of being 
berated, was expected to do so as part of her job. She was currently 
arguing with her lead, Gonzalo, King of Trinculo, about his 
unjustified stage fright. 


“Look, Tim, it’s opening night. You’ve rehearsed a thousand times, 
you know all your lines, and honestly, if | knew you were just going 
to lock up like this, | wouldn't have given you the part. Now you’re 
going to drink this bottle of water, slap yourself a few times, pick 
yourself up by the bootstraps and get on my damn stage in ten. Got 


it?” 
“Got it, boss. Got it. Woo. Okay. Alright.” 


If anything, The Director knew how to control her players. An aide 
ran to her side. 


“Ma’am, | don’t mean to alarm you, but... the audience is here. 
Packed theatre. We need to get going soon.” 


“Alright, alright. Make sure Mary’s gone through makeup, we’re 
counting down, people!” 


“Understood, Ma’am.” 


The Director clapped her hands, walking briskly past the garishly 
bright setpieces. She moved around the corner, and was suddenly 


facing Ruiz Duchamp. 
“Hello, Director. I’m here to see your big opening.” 


The Director wasted no time with a retort, pulling a blade from her 
pocket and stabbing towards him in an instant. Ruiz grabbed the 
knife and twisted it from her grip, neatly slicing across his fingers. He 
jumped backwards and applied pressure with his other hand. 


“That was very, very rude. I’m just here to say hello.” 
“Get out of here, Duchamp. This is my show.” 

“Is it your show? | don’t think you wrote it.” 

“Get out of here, Duchamp.” 

“The lost and rediscovered classic. ‘The Hanged King’s Tragedy’.” 
“GET OUT OF HERE, DUCHAMP.” 

“You know what this does, right?” 

The Director faltered. 

“What?” 

“You... you are aware of what this does, aren’t you?” 
“What what does?” 

“The play, the play! Can’t you see it?” 

“You’re spouting nonsense. Get out of here.” 


“Sandra, please, listen to me. The play isn’t what you think it is, it’s 
going to-” 


“GET OUT OF HERE!” 


Ruiz stood, staring at his old classmate. Her face was coated in the 
palest makeup, purple eyeshadow matching with purple lipstick. She 
wore her makeup like an old woman, wore the clothes of an old 


woman, hobbled around like an old woman, and had the obstinacy 
of the same. Such brilliance, such spark, yet sadly squandered in a 
lifetime of following others’ stage directions. He could see in her 
eyes that nothing he could say would change her mind. 


“Well, you can’t say | didn’t warn you. You want me out, I’m out.” 
He kicked the bloodied knife across the ground towards her. 
“Keep that with you, at least. You'll be needing it later.” 


Ruiz turned and walked out the back door, glowing green EXIT sign 
humming above him as the lights dimmed. The Director turned 
around, shaking doubt from her mind. She had a show to put on. 


“Get it together! Live in five, look alive, people!” 


The Director was tired. She slowly regained consciousness in her 
cell. She had been bound by the arms and legs and propped up 
against a stone wall. She had absolutely no idea what was going on. 


“Rise and shine, sweetheart. Rise and shine.” 


A gritty voice croaked at her through a wooden door. There was a 
brief clattering of keys, and it swung open, revealing Agent Green 
carrying a wooden stool. He walked in front of her, placed the stool 
down, and sat on it with a thud. 


“Back with us again, Miss Paulson?” 
The Director remained silent. 


“Sorry, | think we might have gotten off on the wrong foot. Though, 
admittedly, the last time we were face to face you tried to drive a 
stick into my eyeball, so really, | think any foot here is probably the 
wrong one.” 


The Director remained silent. 


“Sandra Paulson, were you or were you not the one who organised 
last night's production of ‘The Hanged King’s Tragedy’?” 


the same shoes as him. -Brig. Gen (4-103-002) 
Document #722-D, Memo: Proposed explanation for toxin 


Doctor has hypothesized that there may be a phylogenetic 
relationship between SCP-722 and other large reptiles, specifically 
positing it as a limbless or "glass" lizard within or close to the 
Varanus genus (including Varanus komodoensis or the Komodo 
dragon), and citing its immense size and use of a necrotic agent 
produced from its mouth as a predatory weapon. It is proposed that 
a team be sent to acquire samples of live tissue for genetic testing 
and, if possible, further toxin samples to look for bacteriological 
activity or residue. 


« SCP-721 | SCP-722 | SCP-723 » 


The Director flinched. Ruiz had been right. 
“| want my lawyer.” 


“Oh, sure, no problem. Here’s a phone, here’s some buttons to 
press, and then you jump through the damn wires and you're out of 
here in an instant. No, Miss Paulson, you do not get a lawyer here. 
You know exactly who I’m with, you know exactly what your position 
is, and the only thing | want from you, Miss Paulson, is for you to rot 
in this cell for the rest of your natural days.” 


The Director remained silent. 

“Good. Now, Miss Paulson, | am going to ask you a few-” 
“| didn’t know.” 

“What was that, Miss Paulson?” 


“| DIDN'T FUCKING KNOW! That fucking manuscript, | don’t know 
who fucking sent it to me, | didn’t check it, | just thought, shit, this 
looks pretty good! Some proper classic shit right here, I’d just 
finished Titus Andronicus, so | thought to hell with it! | Google it and 
it all seems fine, it all looks above board! | DIDN’T FUCKING 
KNOW!” 


Agent Green remained silent. 


“That grinning bastard Ruiz, he must have done it, he sent it to me 
and then he came in and he rubbed it right in my fucking face! That 
fuck-fucking piece of fucking shitstain fuck! FUCK!” 


Agent Green remained silent. 


“Fuck... fuck. All those people. Tim had fucking stage fright, | was 
egging him on, I... I...” 


Sandra’s tears smeared black mascara stains down her face. Agent 
Green pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and inhaled deeply. 


“Miss Paulson, even if | were to believe that outburst — and, 
honestly, | don’t — you have given me absolutely nothing to go on. 


You have, however, given me a name | have seen before. Miss 
Paulson, | am going to ask you this question once, and you are 
going to give me every irrelevant detail, every tiny little scrap of 
information you have, and then | am going to pass you over to my 
associates.” 


Green exhaled a lungful of smoke into The Director’s sobbing face. 
“Miss Paulson, tell me about Ruiz Duchamp.” 


To Me, What Is This Quntessence of Dust? Man Delights Not 
Me. 
« The Toyman And The Doctor | Hub | And Then What 
Happened? » 


And Then What Happened? 


Agent Tangerine sat listening avidly to Agent Green’s tale. 

“And then what happened?” 

“Well, apparently she went to school with Duchamp.” 

“Seriously?” 

“Yup. Hell of a coincidence. The boys drugged her and verified it all.” 
“Huh.” 


Tangerine sat and sipped his mango juice. His Hawaiian T-shirt and 
sandals matched his vibrant red hair, as though he were a living 
explosion. Agent Green was wearing his customary black-tie suit. 
While neither of them should have attracted much notice in the busy 
city, as a pair sitting at the same table they were drawing more odd 
looks than Green was comfortable with. 


“So how are things on your end?” 
“Well, I’m busy working on something for the exhibition on Friday.” 
“Keep it smaller than last time.” 


“Of course, of course. Most people are keeping it pretty small this 
time around, as far as | can tell. The age of explosions and fireworks 
is winding down. ‘Loud and in your face’ has been done a billion 
times.” 


“! doubt there won’t be a billion and first.” 


A waitress walked over and placed a tea tray on their table. Green 
pulled it to his side, pouring hot water into a clinking china cup. 


“Gotta admit, I’m enjoying playing the artist here. Bumming around 


all day and getting paid for it. Much better than having giant 
monsters trying to eat your brains, glad to be out of there.” 


“Pil drink to that.” 


They tapped their glasses together, Tangerine downing the last of 
his juice as Green took a careful sip of hot milk tea. 


“So what did you do with this girl afterwards?” 


“Full course of amnestics, induced coma, stuck her in the hospital. 
Should be out of the picture for a month or two and no one knows 
we did a thing. Didn’t really need her for much else, and we’ve 
gotten rid of one of The Critic’s big ones.” 


“Yeah. Makes things complicated for us, of course.” 
“Hm?” 


“Friday’s thing was her exhibition. Whatever it was she had planned, 
she’d hyped up a lot of people about it. If she’s out of the picture, 
then the exhibition’s got nothing from The Critic’s clique.” 


“Surely that’s good for us though, right?” 


“No. Definitely not. See, it was just going to be The Director’s little 
dance number or whatever she had planned, but they aren’t just 
going to cancel it. That would make them look like they only had the 
one idea, they’d seem imaginatively sterile. They'll be pulling in 
something else to make up for it, and whatever they do will almost 
certainly make a bigger bang.” 


“Shit. Planning crowd control for these things is hard enough as it 
is.” 


“Indeed. Glad that’s not my problem.” 
“Any chance we could block the venue?” 


“Do it in advance and they'll move it, and once they’re there they 
won't budge.” 


“What kind of turnout are you expecting?” 
“No idea.” 

“Ballpark it for me.” 

“Pfffff... a thousand or so? Maybe two?” 


“Shit. We can’t bar that many people without creating more 
problems.” 


“Could get lucky, might not be that bad.” 
Green downed the rest of his tea. 


“Could we try and split the group? Set up another exhibition at the 
same time?” 


“If you’d asked me a week ago. Your only real option’s to ride it out, | 
think. Have some guys attend as casuals in case someone pulls 
something stupid.” 


“And how likely is it someone will pull something stupid?” 


“I'd put odds at fifty-fifty, but everyone | know’s playing it safe. Basic 
stuff all around. The only real unknown here is Critic’s lot, but they 
don’t normally leave stuff lying around. Shouldn’t be any problems, 
don’t worry about it. If we make it through, cleanup should be trivial.” 


‘That's a big if.”