“lam Ricardo Mestabulan,” Mann said, putting on an accent that 
sounded a fourth Japanese and the rest French-Canadian. “I called 
earlier. | am looking for the retriever.” 


The woman looked unimpressed. “What is the dog’s name?” she 
asked. 


“His name is Kain Pathos Crow,” Mann said. “He’s a very important 
dog. Belongs to the Crow family from West Seattle, near the 
Hempshire Crossings.” 


Lament opened his mouth again, holding up a finger for a moment, 
then stopped. He stopped, dead, and took a step back, looking at 
the floor, counting the tiles. One tile, two tiles, three tiles... 


“Did he have a collar on?” 


“Nay,” Mann said. Lament flinched. “He slipped off his leash and 
was away from his owners before they could recover him. However, 
| can easily identify him, as | am... a dog whisperer.” 


Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen... 


The woman smacked her gum, blowing a bubble with it and letting it 
snap loudly. “Like Cesar Romero?” 


“No,” Mann said sharply, looking affronted. “Cesar Millan.” 
The woman narrowed her eyes. “Then who is Cesar Romero, huh?” 


Lament coughed, and she turned and looked at him. “He... uh... he 
was the Joker. From Batman. You know. Adam West.” 


The woman ’s fat, piggy fingers wiggled, the dozens of rings on them 
flashing. “He’s that dog whisperer. On the Learning Channel.” 


However, some individuals, mostly those with backgrounds in poetry 
and the arts, are more adversely affected by the infection. These 
individuals have a more difficult time losing the infection. In rare 
cases, it will not subside, but will induce hallucinations regarding 
being "trapped" (in cages, coffins or otherwise), a state of extreme 
depression, and the feeling that they are unable to express their 
thoughts or that their body is not theirs anymore, or that they are 
being possessed. Often the subject will choose to self-terminate. 
Researchers should use discretion when choosing who will view 
SCP-904. 


Addendum 1: A class-D personnel was exposed to SCP-904 and 
successfully infected. When asked to use a sentence ending in the 
word “ninth” (a word with no rhymes in the English language), 
[DATA EXPUNGED}]. 

It should be noted that while infected individuals don't casually 
choose to use non-rhyming words, they are able to and the 
consequences may be deadly. At the request of the cleaning crews 
assigned to clean up the blood, researchers are strongly 
discouraged from similar experiments. 


Addendum 2: If this ever breaks containment, we’re going to be 
facing a disaster, suicidal poets or not. —Doctor 


« SCP-903 | SCP-904 | SCP-905 » 


Lament bristled. 
“Now, now, Percy. She is probably correct,” Mann said. 


Lament stared at her. “Cesar Romero. Was the Joker. From 
Batman.” 


She glared at him, her drawl becoming even thicker and more 
grating. “He is that dog whisperer from TEE-ELL-CEE!” 


Lament took a step forward, and Mann turned, putting an arm 
across his chest, whispering sharply. “Let it go. Let it go, Lament. 
We have a mission.” 


Lament hissed through his teeth quietly. “He’s the god damned 
Joker!” 


“l know that, Lament. You know that. We both know. We can’t teach 
this one.” 


Lament stopped, his eye twitching as he took a step back. His lips 
were tight as he swiveled them slightly. “You're... probably right,” he 
said. 


She smiled sourly and nodded. “Mhmm,” she said, looking down at 
her paperwork. “Says here we have two retrievers in,” she said. 
“Come on back and you can whisper at ‘em.” 


As she stood up, Lamenit’s hand twitched toward his gun, but he 
stopped himself. She wasn’t worth it. She just wasn’t worth it. 


The woman led both of them back into the rear room, Lament 
making sure not to look too carefully at the cages. Animals were not 
allowed on site unless they were anomalous. The last guy, who had 
brought his ‘anomalous’ hamster, was still being required to run a 
dozen tests a day and submit his findings continually to the site 
director. It wasn’t pretty. 


She pointed to the cage with the two dogs. “There they are. Whisper 
‘em,” she said, looking at Mann. She was breathing hard with the 
exertion of staying standing. 


“Oh course!” Mann said, flourishing his hands. He looked at the two 
dogs. “Now. Which of you is Kain? Please, bark once for me!” he 
said, spreading his fingers and wiggling them, looking every ounce 
the 1920’s stage magician. 


Neither of the dogs made a sound. The one on the left turned his 
head to the side. 


Mann stopped, then frowned. “Kain, | need you to... bark! So we 
know it’s you!” 


This time, the one on the right turned its head. The one on the left 
yawned, then turned three times and lay down on the floor. 


Mann motioned for Lament to come closer. “Percy,” he said. “I need 
you to listen carefully,” he said. 


The women frowned. “I thawt you was tha whisperer.” 


Mann nodded. “Oh, yes, | am,” he said. “But he’s the listener,” he 
added, pointing at Lament. 


The woman nodded. “Aww, yeah. Course.” 


Lament nodded a little, leaning down next to the fence, listening 
carefully as Mann said. “Is there a reason you are silent and still? 
Are you... worried?! Afraid?! Speak, and let us Know your needs!” 


Lament listened, then frowned, looking at the two dogs. He turned 
his head up to look at Mann, then shrugged. 


Mann coughed. “Kain... This is pretty important, now. You need to... 
let us know. Let us know, Kain.” 


The dog on the left farted audibly. 
Lament coughed, standing again. “Neither of these...” 
Mann nodded. “Yes.” 


“So where is he?” 


“| haven't the foggiest.” 

“You said you called all the shelters.” 

“| did! I’m certain of it.” 

The woman smacked her lips again. “So, he ain’t here then?” 


Lament turned and looked at her, reaching into his pocket and 
pulling out a chocolate. “Piece of candy?” he asked her. 


She eyed it, eyed Lament, then took the candy, nodding and siill 
glowering. 


Both of them turned, walking out of the kennel and back toward the 
car. “If he’s not here,” Lament began, “then where is he?” he asked. 


“Don't have the foggiest,” Mann said. “What did you give her?” 
“Class-A,” he said. “Standard procedure.” 
“Might be too strong with someone like her.” 


“God, | hope so,” he said, sighing deeply and climbing into the 
driver’s seat. 


Inside the kennel, the women carefully unwrapped the chocolate, 
popping it in her mouth and heading back toward the front desk, 
sitting down in her chair. She swallowed it, wishing she’d asked for 
another, and leaned back, staring at the ceiling and trying to make 
pictures out of the water stains. The fat one on the left looked like a 
star, and it was her favorite. That night, when she went home, she 
watched television and fell asleep. The next morning, she looked at 
herself in the mirror, shocked to discover that she was no longer 
twenty-three. 


She turned to the side, looking at herself. “But damn, girl... You 
have lost some weight...” she said. 


Lament let out a long, tired sigh—something he has done far, far too 
often in this story—as he looked through the front windshield, driving 


back towards the city proper. 
“So, if he isn’t here,” he asked. “Where is he?” 


Mann tapped his finger on the console, eyebrows knitted together as 
he thought. “Well, none of the other shelters had a golden retriever. 
And none had recently been adopted. So he has to be somewhere.” 


“Then where? What were they investigating?” 


“A Splinter faction of the church believed to be worshiping a possible 
artifact. It was a simply reconnaissance mission.” 


“I... you don’t think?” 


“That the Church of the Broken God inducted the dog catcher just in 
case the Foundation sent sapient canines to spy on them? It was my 
first suspicion.” 


Lament stared out of the windshield still, his face flat and 
expressionless. “Hell. Not like we have anything better to do.” 


“Goodo!” Mann said excitedly, reaching for his bag. “Barbara and 
Jackson have been getting bored.” 


Lament winced. “I wish you wouldn't call them that. | knew Jackson.” 


Lament quietly stepped closer to the clearing, watching as the large 
group of people seemed to be bowing and flailing their arms in the 
air, eyes ascending to heaven as they wiggled each of their fingers 
separately. 


Mann was grinning wildly. “This looks like cake!” he whispered. 
“They’re not even looking for us!” 


The man at the front of the crowd started to say something. Lament 
held up his hand to Mann for a moment, listening. 


“And he will find you... keep you... and set you free!” 


Lament frowned. “That.. that doesn’t sound right.” 


Mann was rifling through the field bag for flash bangs. He looked up 
at Lament. “What doesn’t sound right?” 


“Listen,” he said, pointing. 


Mann stood, bringing the flash-bang with him in his hand, fiddling 
with the detonator. 


Several of the worshipers raised their hands in praise. One of them 
fell on the ground, shaking and writhing in place. 


“Awwwill yawr mortal bawnds... will be severed. And you will be 
uplifted!” 


Another of them jumped up, then started dancing across the front of 
the woodland church, twisting and turning, singing hallelujahs and 
glories unto the highest. 


“Oh God. These people aren’t Broken God... | think they’ re—” 


Lament didn’t get a chance to finish the sentence. The flashbang 
slipped from Mann’s hand, landing on the ground at his feet, as a 
blinding flash caught Lament full in the face. 


“Fuck! | can’t see!” he stammered, more loudly than intended, 
largely due to the bang that came with the flash. 


Lament staggered to the side, feeling for the tree, when he felt 
hands close around his arms, pulling him forward. He was passed 
up from hand to hand, his ears ringing as he felt himself forced to his 
knees, a hand landing on his forehead. Through the ring, he barely 
made out the shouting voice. 


“Would you be healed?!” 


Lament blinked his eyes, nodding slightly as he barely saw the man 
raise his hand to the sky, then bring it down hard against Lament’s 
face, slapping the hell out of him. 


“Oh, Jesus...” he stammered, falling to the ground. 


“HALLELUJAH!” the crowd shouted. 


“Can you see, brotha?” the man who’d slapped him yelled. “Can you 
see by the light of holy god?” 


Lament squinted up at him, just barely making out his outline. “I 
can... | can see,” he stammered. 


“HE CAN SEE!” 


Another round of hallelujah went up, and Lament felt himself being 
dragged to his feet, people shaking his hands and hugging him, 
holding him against them and dancing him around the room. At one 
point, some people got out snakes and started wearing them. That 
was when he ran. 


Lament sat on the curb of the park next to Mann, the latter of whom 
was bandaging his leg. “Stupid things...” Mann muttered. 


“You... You're not allowed to use those anymore,” Lament muttered. 


“You act like it was a major problem,” Mann defended. “You were 
fine! You were better than fine! You gave those people something 
they might have never had in their lives.” 


Lament managed to keep from punching Mann as the white, square 
shaped truck drove by, the old man in the seat moving about fifteen 
miles an hour. He stopped in front of them. 


“Either of you two lose a dog?” he asked. 
Lament looked up at him. “I... Golden retriever?” he asked. 


The man grinned, putting the truck in park and stepping out. “That’s 
the one. I've been looking for this boy’s owners all day!” he said, 
walking around to the back door and opening it. He worked a cage, 
then hooked a leash onto something inside, tugging it and bringing 
the dog out, smiling as he walked him over. 


The dog was wagging madly, jumping a bit as he got close to the 
two of them. The old man laughed. “Oh, yeah. The one is yours,” he 
said, laughing and handing the leash to Lament. 


Lament just stared at the old man as he waved and walked back to 
the truck, closing the back of it, then getting in and driving away. 
Stared and stared, his jaw slightly slackened. 


Kain rested on his haunches. “What a nice guy!” he said, smiling 
and panting just a touch. “He gave me a treat.” 


Mann finished bandaging his leg finally. “I thought you didn't like 
treats.” 


“I like some treats,” Kain said. 
Mann peered. “What treats?” 


Kain shuffled for a moment, either paw rising and falling. 
“Chocolate.” 


“God damnit, Kain, you know you can't have chocolate. You're a 
dog!” 


“I can have some chocolate.” 


“No! No chocolate! God! | did not go to medical school for my 
patients to ignore my advice!” 


Lament stopped for a moment, looking at Mann. “I... Medical 
school?” 


Mann frowned. “Yes.” 

“But... he's a dog.” 

"Yes." 

"Wouldn't that be veterinary school?" Lament asked. 


Mann peered carefully at Lament. Lament peered back. Slowly, both 
of them looked at Kain, who shrugged. “Anyhow, I'm ready to go 
back to base now.” 


Lament felt a headache coming on slowly. He reached down and 
undid the leash, walking toward the car and rubbing his ears. Kain 


padded along beside him, while Mann gimped in behind them. As 
the three of them got into the car, Mann reached over and turned on 
the music. 


“Stayin’ Alive” came on as he pulled out, and Kain barked once. “Oh! 
Turn this one up! | love this song!” 


This time, Lament sang along too. 


Many Happy Regards 


Agatha Rights looked up from her desk as the man in the gray suit 
entered her office, her hand instinctively reaching for the lamp to her 
left. The man looked at her, his mustache twitching slightly. He 
pulled a file from under his arm, and dropped it on her desk. She 
looked down at the large, red stamp in the corner. 


Her head craned back up slowly, calculatingly. "Termination orders? 
For who?" 


"You, of course," he replied, reaching into his suit pocket. 


Dr. Timothy Burns got up from his desk and stretched, looking at the 
clock on the corner. He was surprised to see how late it'd gotten, 
especially since he was supposed to meet with— 


‘Oh, fuck me,' he thought, jumping around the desk and rushing 
toward the door. '| can't believe | forgot about this...’ 


He dashed down the hallway, narrowly dodging two security guards 
eating cake, reaching for the doorknob and throwing it open. 


The office was empty, freshly painted with new carpeting. It reeked 
of redecorating. He leaned backwards, looking over the door at an 
empty spot where a placard had been. A tiny part of him leaped with 
joy at the prospect of having an excuse for being late. He closed the 
door and looked around, stopping a passing Junior Researcher. 


"Can you tell me where Doctor Rights’ office is at? | didn't realize 
she was having hers redecorated." 


The researcher looked up at him, setting down her fork on her plate. 
"Who?" 


"Rights. Agatha Rights. She used to be in here," he said, gesturing 


toward the door. "Now, | can't find her, and I'm late, and she's 
usually very easily irritated." 


The researched looked at him sympathetically. "I'm sorry. | just can't 
help you." 


Burns sighed and turned, hurrying down the hallway. One of the 
sector supervisors secretaries should be able to help him. He 
passed through several hallways, glancing occasionally and looking 
for her name on one of the doors. 


He stopped, eventually, at the desk of a stern looking woman in her 
early forties. Burns gave a sigh of relief, smiling and nodding at the 
woman who, after she finished a bite of her dessert, looked up at 
him questioningly. 


"Sorry to be a bother," said Burns "but I'm looking for Doctor Rights. 
Her office is being redecorated, and | don't know where she 
relocated to." 


The secretary nodded, and reached for a large, white binder. "A new 
researcher to the site?" she asked. 


Burns cocked an eyebrow. "No, she's been here for years, now. 
Rights. Senior Staff.”