Upon activation of SCP-721-3, the subject's body temperature will 
increase approximately 0.3°C per minute; the exact rate fluctuates. 
While this increase in body temperature would be fatal in and of 
itself under normal circumstances, subjects retain full mobility and 
consciousness during this time, and suffers no visible effects of the 
temperature increase; further, they report that this process is 
extremely painful. 


Once the subject's body temperature is 100°C, the subject will begin 
to emit smoke from all orifices; analysis of the smoke indicates that it 
is consistent with the combustion of the organic components of the 
subject's blood. This coincides with the loss of the subject's 
voluntary motor control, although the subject remains conscious 
during this time. After between fifteen and thirty minutes2, the 
subject will expire. Testing indicates that, at this point, the subject's 
blood will be composed entirely of water that, if allowed to escape 
from the body, will boil away entirely. 


Footnotes 

1. SCP-721-2 has been shown to function on open-ended media as 
well, such as radios and televisions. 

2. The time spent is roughly proportional to the subject's blood 
volume. 


It Just Shattered 


“This isn’t structurally possible.” 
“Well, yes. That’s why we called you. What’s up with it?” 
“No fucking clue.” 


Agent Green lit a cigarette and began gesticulating towards the 
piece. 


“Can you please not smoke in here?” 


“It's obvious that it’s non-Euclidean. Might have to be a bit 
concerned about fallout.” 


“What, you think it’s radioactive or something?” 


“No, | mean, it might literally fall outwards. That would be 
problematic. Anything particularly valuable in here?” 


“Sir, this is an art gallery.” 


“So nothing then, brilliant. We'll probably have to blow it up. No way 
we could even try to move it, could tear the space around it. That 
would be problematic.” 


“Blow it up? No way. Much too dangerous. You could take down the 
whole building.” 


Agent Green levelled his eyes at the stern curator. 


“You realise that you have a physics-defying object in here, right? 
That’s ten years in jail in this state, minimum sentence.” 


The curator’s stern fagade wavered slightly. 


“That’s nonsense.” 


“It’s one of those stupid laws that nobody really thinks is serious. 
Stuff like riding a bicycle in a swimming pool, or feeding cheese to a 
rabbit by hand. The long list of bullshit just hides the outrageous 
things that actually happen. So you can either let me smash this 
thing, or you'll go to jail for a very long time.” 


Agent Green blew a mouthful of smoke towards the intricate glass 
statue. The smoke followed the curvature, making its way up a thin 
column. It sped up and slowed down, appeared and disappeared, as 
it weaved its way through the warped space. 


“Yeah, this is pretty complex. No way to remove it without 
destruction. It’s probably bending the space by itself though, once 
we get rid of it you’ll have no problems.” 


Beneath the pedestal, there was a small bronze plaque: 

| Know You’re Going To Fuck This Up, You Assholes, Why Can't 
You Just Learn To Leave Well Enough Alone, Some Of Us Are 
Trying To Actually Make Something And Not Take Part In A Stupid 
Fucking Dick Measuring Contest While Trying To Be The Kings Of 
The Playground, But Fuck It, | Guess | Can Say Making You Destroy 
This Is A Piece Of Unwilling Performance Art, So Good Job, Well 
Done, You've Protected Countless Civilians By Smashing This 
Thing, And Meanwhile I’m Off Making Another Ten Just Like It In 
Other Galleries While You Try To Play Catch Up, You Stupid 
Fucking Twats, Just Fuck Off Seriously 

by Ruiz Duchamp 


“This Duchamp guy. You ever meet him?” 

“Just the once, when he came in here.” 

“He leave a contact number or anything?” 

“I’m afraid not. He walked in off the street and put the piece together 
while people watched. It was quite confusing, gave the patrons quite 
a headache. Me too, | might add.” 


“You actually saw him put it together?” 


Agent Green threw his cigarette to the ground, putting it out with his 


shoes. Finally, an eyewitness. 


“Oh, yes. And before you ask, no, we don’t have any recordings of it. 
All the security feeds just switched to black text on a white 
background, saying ‘Know Peking’. No idea how he did it.” 


Agent Green looked towards the delicate glass structure and sighed 
heavily. A bit too heavily. The warped space took his sigh, magnified 
it, and redirected it in just the right direction to make the piece tilt. It 
fell in slow motion through impossible twists and turns, and when it 
finally hit the ground - 


« wowwee go kill ursefl | Hub | A Cooler Manifesto » 


A Cooler Manifesto 


“Fuck The Critic.” 


Ruiz paced in a monochrome hallway, holding a banged-up 
Betamax recorder in his hand. 


“This asshole comes into my house, starts critiquing the fucking 
wallpaper, no sir, no sir, the carpet does not match the drapes sir, 
get the fuck out of my house, SIR. Ladies and gentlemen and, | 
dunno, hyperintelligent animals, or aliens or whatever the fuck you 
are, we’ve made a mistake. This man is a fucking maniac, and | 
don’t mean that in the good way.” 


Ruiz started walking up his Penrose staircase. 


“We have somehow become an institution in and of ourselves, and 
this is a huge, HUGE fucking mistake. Every time one of you fucking 
morons makes a memetic graffiti tag, the man comes crashing down 
on those of us who are actually trying to say something. The 
stupidest among you have started making childish mistakes. The 
Man knows our name now. We're old hat, we’re blasé, we’re fucking 
bland. People look at our stuff and they sigh. Nobody gives a fuck 
about us because we're doing shit that makes no sense.” 


Ruiz jumped into a pair of mirrors and entered freefall. 


“So I’m going to go ahead and do something a little... radical. Fuck 
randomness, fuck Dada, fuck all of it. It isn’t cool any more, that’s 
why nobody talks about us. We used to exist to shock, to challenge, 
to actually grab The Man by the fucking balls and shove them down 
his throat. Now we're just hammering out the same old shit. The 
toyman has more creativity in his left toe than all of you put together, 
and it’s time to remedy that. I’m sending this to everyone. Here is 
our manifesto.” 


Ruiz landed into a giant ballpit. 


“Number One. Fuck the critics. More specifically, fuck The Critic. 
The Critic is Nobody. Anyone who’s got a ‘The’ at the beginning of 
their name is pretentious in all the wrong ways. Distance yourself 
from those assholes, let them squabble over their scraps of shat-out 
and recycled ‘creativity’. Make art for yourself, because trust me, if 
you make art tailored for the critics you're their bitch, not your own. 
So yank The Critic’s cock out of your mouths. Start sucking your 
own cock for once.” 


Ruiz picked up a Rubik’s cube and started fiddling with it. 


“Number Two. Fuck The Man. That’s what we used to be about, 
before ‘hahaha lol so random XD’ happened. Here’s a fucking tip, 
and just the tip, just to see how it feels fucking your brains out: if 
Nobody understands your art, it’s fucking worthless.” 


Ruiz placed the scrap of paper back on the moon. 


“Number Three. Fuck you. You’re what ran us out of town like a bad 
joke, you smashed us into the ground, and you sit around smoking 
your weed or whatever and wonder why Nobody ‘like, understands 
us, man’. That’s because you're not making a point. We're all so 
utterly, profoundly derivative. Rehash after rehash. How long until 
one of us actually does something original for once?” 


Ruiz transmigrated ungulaterally betwixt chaotic inorganic multitudes 
of. 


“I’m calling for a renaissance. I’m calling for change. I’m calling for 
everyone to stop acting like they’re cool just for rearranging the rules 
of reality. I’m calling for you to stop flooding us with your stupid, 
stupid bullshit. I’m calling for a pizza delivered in ten minutes or your 
money back. I’m calling for you to actually sit down and look at 
everything you’ve done, and ask if you’re actually proud of it. I’m 
calling for you to realise that you aren't. I’m calling for you to all stop 
with the stuff we’ve been doing before. I’m calling for you to make us 
cool again.” 


Ruiz hung up the phone made of cockroach innards. 


“Stop making things because you can, stop making things because 


you want to make things like everyone else, stop making things 
because you already saw the same thing and wanted to do it again, 
stop making things that aren’t yours, stop making things that aren’t 
cool. Because this shit isn’t cool, it’s infantile, it’s fucking stupid. You 
want to know why we aren't cool yet? It’s because ‘we’ includes all 
of us, and sadly, you are one of us. And you just aren’t cool.” 


Ruiz smiled into the Betamax recorder. 


“Yet.” 


The Clipper and The Sculptor sat and watched the video. 


“How did he build that stuff? Is he... how is he on the moon? What 
the hell ARE those things?” 


“| don't like it.” 


“Well of course you don't like it, you’re mad you didn’t sculpt this 
stuff first.” 


“No, | mean, | don’t like what he’s trying to do. It seems aimless. 
He’s trying to break us apart.” 


“Back in the day there was no ‘us’. We just did whatever we 
wanted.” 


“It's better now. We're working towards a goal. We’re making Art 
Reality.” 


“Yeah, but... | dunno. My heart’s not really in it any more. I’m ‘The 
Clipper’, all | do is cut up magazines, or recontextualise old stuff. I’m 
not like the rest of you. | don’t get to make the things | want to. | 
don’t get to create, just modify. And it’s because of these fucking 
names.” 


“You're the one who wanted it.” 
“Yeah, but not for the rest of my life! Duchamp’s got a point, we’re all 


just ‘The Whatever’, and I’m sick of it! | want to put my real name on 
my damn work!” 


“Ha, ‘Duchamp’. He doesn’t deserve that pseudonym.” 
“Doesn't he?” 

The Clipper stood up and walked to the kitchen. 

“You want something? I’m ordering pizza.” 


“Yeah, get me a vegetarian. Anyway, he’s just... ugh. Actually, get 
me a meat lovers. | need some meat right now.” 


“Sure, no problem.” 


“Anyway, he’s just... not cool. | mean, Betamax? What’s even the 
point of that, beyond it just being obscure? You're the only person | 
know who actually has a player for these things. We’re probably the 
only ones even looking at this.” 


The Clipper finished ordering, and sat down with The Sculptor again. 


“| Know The Critic has like ten of them, | got mine from him. He’s 
gonna be pissed.” 


“Oh yeah, he'll be pissed alright. He’s gonna be calling for 
Duchamp’s head on a platter.” 


“Why, though?” 
“He’s criticising us, and he’s criticising The Critic’s critique.” 


“Well, everyone’s a critic. What makes you think people are going to 
pay him any attention?” 


“He’s showy. He’s countering our countercultural revolution, he’s 
stealing it, he’s misappropriating the source and taking our name for 
a joyride through the mud. He’s making me really, really mad. | don’t 
even think the video was an exploit. He’s laughing at us. Its a 
normal video of impossible things, he’s calling bullshit on using 
exploits at all.” 


“| don’t get to use exploits, man. All | do is clip things, remember?” 


“Yeah, yeah. That was your decision.” 
“Was is the operative word, here. | think I’m done with it.” 
“Fuck.” 


The Sculptor leapt to the player, fervently removing the tape, putting 
it to the light, trying to sense the feel of the non-existent on its 
bevelled edge. 


“He’s got you, man, this thing’s an exploit after all, it’s —" 


“It’s not. |... I’m just sick of it. I've been sick of it for a while. I’ve not 
been doing anything of my own, and the only reason I’ve been 
sticking around is because of you guys. But... don’t take this the 
wrong way, man, but... | want to make other stuff. Don’t you 
remember your first piece? That weird rebar thing, what did you call 


it?” 


“Uscisk. | remember.” 


“People loved that shit. Should have put your name on it. What was 
the last thing you did? All people remember me for is mailing out 
some newspaper clippings. We’re stagnating.” 


Ruiz opened the door. 


“That you are. One Hawaiian, one meat lovers, is that right, 
gentlemen? Please, tip generously.” 


The Sculptor and The Clipper stared at Ruiz Duchamp, sporting a 
tattered delivery man uniform, who continued offering them the pair 
of boxes. The Clipper broke the silence. 


"...fuck it, whatever. Here's twenty bucks. Keep the change." 
"Thanks. Enjoy your pizza!" 


The Sculptor switched his gaze to The Clipper as Duchamp walked 
back out the door. 


"What the fuck is wrong with you?" 


"Dude, I'm hungry, and he had our pizza. He's not an asshole, it's 
not going to be poisoned or anything. If he was going to kill us, the 
video would have done it. We're putty in his hands, and he knows it. 
He's the one in control here. You're going to hate me for saying this, 
but... he’s cooler than us." 


"You... whatever. Just give me my damn meat." 
"Here." 
"_,.this is vegetarian." 


« It Just Shattered | Hub | Snip Snip Snip » 


Snip Snip Snip 


Pico Wilson sat in the middle of his corpse pile. 
“Snip snip. Snip snip snip.” 


Wilson applied force to his secateurs. The lady’s fingers sheared off 
awkwardly, shattered bone poking through the flesh. He carefully 
inserted the finger into the corpse’s nose. 


“Ha ha ha. Ha.” 
Another finger, another crunch. Wilson filled the other nostril. 
“HA. HA HA.” 


Another finger, another crunch. Wilson forced the index finger into 
his muse’s left ear. He propped the body up against her brothers 
and sisters. 


“You are beautiful, my dear.” 


Wilson moved into her, pressing his mouth against her cold, dead 
lips. 


“More beautiful in death than in life. The juxtaposition of the dead 
and the living. The absurdity of the fingers up your nose; 
meaningless, indeed, considering your body is no longer a booger 
factory; what are you trying to get out of there? Is it the maggots? Is 
it your brain? You’re searching in all the wrong places, my dear.” 


Wilson plucked her eyes from their sockets and placed them in her 
mouth. 


“You consider yourself ugly. Let me help you see inside yourself. 
Beyond the skin deep reflection of what we are, deeper than that, 
swallow your eyes and look inside yourself. Swallow your eyes. Ha. 
Ha ha ha.” 


« SCP-720 | SCP-721 | SCP-722 » 


Wilson grabbed her jaw, bursting the eyes with her teeth. He 
mashed her gums against the aqueous humour. 


“Silly lady. That medicine wasn’t chewable.” 


A final embrace, a goodbye kiss. He released his grip, and she 
crumpled to the ground. The Sculptor stared in disbelief. 


“Hooooly shit.” 

Wilson turned to his audience of one, eye goo still wet on his lips. 
“You disapprove?” 

“No. Nononono. That was metal as fuck, man. Shit.” 

Pico licked his lips clean, then reclined into his corpse pile. 

“So what is it exactly that you want, Mister The Sculptor?” 

“I, uh... well, it’s an invitation, | guess.” 

“Sure. Where’s the exhibition?” 


“No, | mean, not to an exhibition, it’s like... we’re kind of like an art 
club. And one of us kind of walked out, so we’ve, uh, got a space 
open. And | remembered you from that thing back in ’88, the 
Reagan thing, and | thought, shit, this guy knows how to clip stuff 
together, you know?” 


“| don’t really clip stuff together. I’m more into cutting stuff apart.” 
The Sculptor clapped wildly. 


“Fuckin’ right, man. Damn fucking right. So, like | was saying, this 
other guy, he used to go by The Clipper, right? And so we sort of 
need someone to, uh, fill his shoes, if you know what | mean.” 


“So you’re pulling me in as a replacement.” 
“Kind of, | guess. Well, not pulling you in. Offering you a place