The SCP Experience - Blackjack | SCP-1302

Episode Date: August 9, 2024

SCP Foundation SAFE class object, SCP-1302 This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-1302 and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ Author: Andrew E. * * * DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content. Parental guidance is advised for children under the age of 18. Listen at your own discretion. #thescpexperience #scp #scpfoundation #scpencounters #securecontainprotect #scpstories Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

As I walked through the doors into the lounge, I saw that it was dimly lit, shabby, and mostly empty. The floors were a bit sticky, with what I hoped was alcohol and nothing else. Just about every surface was covered in stickers, graffiti from patrons' past, or spackle. The one nice thing in the bar was a set of high-quality bar stools. They hinted at the kind of swanky spot the lounge must have been, when it had first opened 50 years ago. Time had not been kind to it. Honestly, I loved it.

It was a bit of hidden Atlanta history, like the whole building had preserved itself just for my enjoyment. I posted up at my usual bar stool and saluted the bartender. I'll have my usual bottle of Don Perignon, Garla, I said. Oh, fuck off, she said jokingly,

already pouring me a pint of my preferred alcohol, the cheapest, wateriest beer they offered. Honestly, who cares about taste when it comes to the bottom shelf? How are things? I asked as she placed the pint on a tattered coaster in front of me. So, so, she said. Business has been slow, but that means I have to chase fewer unconscious 50-year-old alcoholics out of the restrooms, so I'm happy either way. I passed her cash for the beer, as well as a generous tip that would keep Carla attentive for the rest of the night. She raised an eyebrow at the extra 40.

Seems like things are going well for you. Enjoying the wedding planning? I took a deep gulp of my drink and grinned at her. She rolled her eyes. Forget I asked. Fair enough. Carla had seen mine and Sam's whole relationship developed. I hadn't done my research and had very, very stupidly brought Sam to this dive bar on our first date.

It was a miracle that she agreed to go out with me a second time. Ever since, I'd been dropping by the lounge every now and then, sometimes dragging Sam along, who was far less enthusiastic about this place than I was. Sam had drilled into me probably a hundred times while we were dating that if I even thought about proposing to her in the lounge, she would instantly break up with me. I knew she was serious,

though that didn't keep me from teasingly threatening to do it anyway. Even though neither of us made much money, we'd been having fun planning our wedding, and we're still in the fun, taste five cakes and pick our favorite phase, and not the stressful, which table to second cousin Alan, who we've never met, but dad insisted we invite anyway, sit at... Faze.

Where is Sam anyway? Carla asked, interrupting my train of thought. Oh, she's at a work conference slash team-building thing in Miami, and then she has some relatives in the area, so she's planning on staying with them after it's over. She won't be back for about a week. Carla nodded. Which explains why you're stinking up my bar on a Tuesday night,

instead of giving your fiancé a massage, or whatever it is engaged couples do. Carla, I'm pretty sure that's smell. isn't me. In fact, I'm almost positive. This bar has smelled this way since at least the 90s. The corner of her mouth twitched upward, but she said nothing as she stepped away to start rinsing out some mugs that had been left half empty on the counter. I swiveled around in my seat to get a better view of the bar floor. Something new that I hadn't noticed when I'd walked in immediately caught my eye. Carla, what's that?

That was a machine I'd never seen in the bar before. It was three or four feet wide and about level with my six-foot-two-inch stature, which meant it was nearly grazing the ceiling of this crummy bar. It blinked with flashing white and red lights, drawing my attention. It had been placed in a back corner of the bar, displacing the rickety, beer-stained pool table that was missing both the cue and the eight ball. There was a brightly lit screen in the center of the console, though I was too far away to make out details.

Judding out from the top of the machine was a pair of plastic playing card designs. They were quite a bit larger than life-sized, so I was able to pinpoint an ace and a ten. Blackjack machine, Carla said. Just showed up a few days ago. Didn't even see anyone deliver it. So I figured the boss must have come in during the daylight hours to have it installed. I think it's his latest idea to ring a few more pennies from what few patrons we have.

I guess that's better than a busted pool table. Taking my now half beer empty with me, I sauntered over to the machine, drawing disinterested glances from the barely conscious patrons scattered across the bar. I pulled up a nearby stool and sat down in front of the console. I was a little too tall for it to be a comfortable experience. but I was determined to stick it out, thinking it might be a funny story for Sam. Weirdly, although there was a slot for coins and paper money,

as well as a credit card slot, the game didn't actually force you to have a positive balance to start playing. On the sides of the screen, the console displayed the rules of blackjack, as well as some helpful tips for beginners, which I definitely was. I vaguely knew the rules of Hold'em Poe's, but otherwise I was totally inept when it came to gambling.

I placed a small bet and ran through a hand, winning when the dealer went bust. My take home was a cool $5. Wondering how the machine worked, I hit the payout button. My on-screen balance dropped to zero, and the machine spat out a ticket. I looked at it and saw that it was some sort of lottery ticket. The kind with a series of numbers printed across the middle

middle and a pot of gold logo in black and white. Honestly, it looked fake. I couldn't complain, since I hadn't actually put in any money, but it was still somehow disappointing. Oh well, it was still kind of fun to mess around with, and it was nice that it didn't cost anything. Though I did wonder why it had been installed, if it wasn't going to make the bar any money. I played for another half hour, but this time my luck wasn't as good. I kept losing, getting dealt hands of 15, 16, and feeling forced to hit, but then, invariably going bust. All told, I was down $435 in fake money by the time I called it quits. I hit the payout button, expecting nothing.

But instead, my balance once again changed to zero, and the machine spit out another ticket. This was no cheap fake lotto ticket. It was printed on thicker card stock of a rich black with a red rectangle running along the front-facing border of the card. In the center, there, in swooshing florid numbers, was my balance, negative $435. It was considerably cooler than the winning ticket, honestly. It had me wondering if the whole thing wasn't some elaborate prank. Not thinking much of it, I placed the card in my wallet, with my beer long empty. I walked back over to Carla and ordered another.

How'd you do? she asked. I'm up $5, I said, pulling out the lottery ticket. And down $435. For some reason, I kept the negative card in my wallet and didn't show it to her. Here, I said, handing her the ticket. You can keep this. You sure? She said, eyeing it.

What if I win big? Oh, good point. Let's say if you win more than 100,000, I drink free for life. Deal? Carla said, snatching the ticket out of my hand. I drank a couple more stines of that watery swill before heading home and crashing onto the couch. The bed felt way too big without Sam there. Lazzangue surgellied, puissance-molyne, for 15 minutes.

We'd say that's their dojo. Pre-to-joo? Vive the pleasure with the Ojo. The casino in line that proposes the most recent machinations. and some of casino in direct. Profite of

50 tours gratuys on Big Bas Bonanza. Without exigance of mis, and with payments instantane.

Hey, I've got to win. Woohoo! Sontier the pleasure play, Ojo. 188 and

plus, 1,000 per sewers in Ontario. 50 tours gratuys on the MacBass Bonanza.

Depos minimum of $10 dollars. Veilienable to pay for pay for money. A few days

later, I was washing the dishes that had piled up since Sam had left. My head was pounding

and I felt run down. At first I thought it was a hangover from my night at the lounge, but I hadn't had that much to drink. And it had lasted too long to be a hangover. Maybe I was sick. Still, I was humming a little as I washed the dishes, trying to ignore the headache when my phone started buzzing.

It was Sam. Wasn't she supposed to be mid-conference? Leaving the water running, I answered the phone. Hey, babe, what's up? There was a shuffling on the other line. than a shaky inhaling. I, Nick, I got fired, Sam said. I heard the words but didn't process them.

You what? Sam cried before bursting into tears. My heart broke for her as she devolved into incoherent sobs. It took a half hour before I was able to calm her down and coax the story out of her. Apparently, her company had been in trouble for a while and had used the conference to announce a wave of layoffs.

About a quarter of the staff had been let go, including Sam. She hadn't loved the job, but it had paid decently enough, and it had had room for advancement. What are we going to do? She sniffed, tears threatening to spill over again. Well, we've got some savings, and I make more than enough to cover our rent, so we'll be okay for a while. No, not that. What are we going to do about that? at the wedding.

We're about to sign off on some pretty major expenses. We'd picked our date and let everyone know that we still had to send out the official invites. And of course, we'd already put some deposits down, meaning if we pulled out, we would essentially light that money on fire. I guess I can ask my parents for some money. Your parents? I don't think they'll help. They don't like me very much.

I couldn't deny it. Sam and my dad had a blow up or two over politics. politics. Things were better now that they'd both agreed to shut up about elections and policies at the dinner table. But things were still strained. Well, they like me. Maybe they'll help. But honestly, let's not get ahead of ourselves. We have some time. I'll try to figure something out. You just focus on your trip. I know your family has been dying to see you. You should try to enjoy yourself, and then we can come at it fresh, when you... I'm honestly not sure what happened. I was holding the phone and my grip was firm.

I'd made a special note in my head to hold it tight because there was a full sink of water just below. But somehow, my thumb still twitched or slipped and the phone dropped right into the sink, getting soaked instantly. It wasn't in there for more than three seconds, but of course it was completely bricked. If Sam was still on the line, I couldn't hear her.

Knowing she was in a fragile state, I left my phone on the counter and dashed to my laptop to video call her. I explained what had happened, which of course only stressed her out about our money situation more, but I managed to comfort her and convince her to stick to her planned trip schedule. I managed to drop off my phone at a repair shop just before they closed, leaving my email for the guy to message me when he had an estimate. My sneaking suspicion was that the whole thing was a total loss, but I'd have to wait and see.

Even though Sam hadn't really been on board with it, I called my parents the next day about our money situation. They were sympathetic and offered to let us move in if we needed to, but were reluctant to help us pay for the wedding, just as Sam had expected. Well, it wasn't what I had hoped for, but at least we would have a safety net if things went south. But what were we going to do about the wedding?

Sam had been so happy and so energized planning it. I didn't want to take that away from her. I'd do anything to keep her smiling. Wasn't that what marriage was all about? I was checking my laptop for updates from Sam when I noticed that I had an email from the phone repair shop. They'd done an estimate on my phone, and while the device wasn't a total loss,

the damage would come to $435 if they executed the repair. $435. huh? That sounded familiar. The amount stung, but there was no helping it. I couldn't very well afford a new phone at the moment. I sent a response giving them the go-ahead to repair it and that I would come by in a few days to pick it up. I sniffed, smelling something strange. It was smoke. Did I leave the oven on? No, the smell was closer than that, much closer. I looked down and saw that my pants were smoking, specifically my pocket. Were my pants on fire? No, not my pants. Something inside my wallet was smoking. I quickly took it out and opened it, hoping to salvage at least

my driver's license. It was a card on the right side of my wallet. I pulled out the smoldering card and tossed it. The card fluttered gently to the ground, landing face up. It was the black and red negative balance card from the blackjack machine. That was where I was where I was. I'd seen that number before, negative $435. It lit on fire and spontaneously combusted, leaving not even ash behind. All of a sudden, I felt like I needed a drink. Hey, Carla, I said as I walked in. Wow, back already?

And no stupid joke? She said. Everything all right? I explained what had been going on. That's shitty. I'm sorry to hear that. Tell you what? she said, pointing at the beer she just laid down in front of me.

That one's on the house. Thanks, I said, giving her a weak smile. It was something. I'd been staying strong for Sam, but I was pretty bummed out myself. It wasn't just for her that I wanted to keep our wedding plans. I'd been looking forward to our perfect, magical wedding more than I cared to admit. Now, not only was it probably not going to happen, but we were also going to go through a period of financial instability.

I wasn't about to burst into tears in front of Carla, but yeah, the situation sucked. Still, maybe there was a way out. Carla might have the answer I came for. So, uh, how about with you? Did you check out that lottery ticket I gave you? Oh yeah, I did check that out. You're not going to believe this. Oh, did you win big?

I asked, trying to keep my tone nonchalant. Nah, I won exactly $5. Isn't that strange? That's exactly the amount you said you won by, right? Yeah, I said, turning to look over at the brightly lit blackjack machine still plugged in at the back corner of the lounge. That confirmed it. I had no idea how, but that machine gave you whatever you won, and it took what you owed. This is a bad idea.

I remember thinking that. But every time my gaze slid back over to the machine, I felt this overwhelming urge to make Sam happy, no matter the risk. She'd be thrilled when I told her that we didn't have to postpone the wedding. With that in mind, I sauntered over to the machine and once again took my seat. Things started off well. I peaked at around $500, enough to cover my phone repair at least. But knowing that wasn't nearly enough to cover our wedding costs, I kept on my phone. playing. And that's when I started losing. My winnings spiraled down and down until they went into the

negative. I stopped looking at the balance, knowing that if I did, I would lose my resolve. I only got up to go to the bathroom or order more beer. Carla's expression slowly drifted from bemusement at my sudden interest in gambling to increasing concern as I grew more erratic and sloppy. I ignored her and kept my focus on the machine. Somewhere, deep in the back of my mind, I must have known that I was being self-destructive. There is the saying, the house always wins, which is even more true when you can program a machine to force specific hands and card orders. This would never be the life preserver that helped me save the wedding. It would only drown me in debt. But still, fueled by alcohol and desperation and hope. I played on until a gentle hand tapped my shoulder. Nick,

I'm closing up. I barely registered my own name, but I glanced up towards the voice. It was Carla. Her eyes were kind but firm. I glanced at a wall clock. I had to blink a few times to make the numbers stopped moving. 3.30 a.m. The lounge was dead quiet, and all the chairs were stacked on top of tables, and the lights were low. I hadn't noticed any of that happening.

I sighed, and wobbled my way to a standing position with Carla supporting me as I did. After taking a single step away from the blackjack machine, it let out a small printing noise. Carla reached behind me and pulled something out of the ticket slot.

Hey, is this your yours, she said, staring at the red and black card. She took in the numbers on it in dumbfounded silence before simply saying, Jesus. I grabbed it and read the card. Negative $136,790. That's how much I'd lost playing five hours of blackjack. That was probably more than my total net worth. I did start crying then. It's okay, Carla said, patting my back. You're just drunk and you're having a bad week. Things will pick up soon. You'll see. She didn't understand. How could she? She started to guide me toward the doors out of the bar, and I didn't resist. I just held the ticket in my hand and stared at it. She opened the door and nudged me out with a gentle push.

No driving, all right, she said. Yeah, I agreed. I wasn't really in the shape to walk, let alone drive. Of course, I'd broken my phone, so I couldn't call for a ride, and it was too late for a bus or train. Walking seemed like my only option. I stumbled away from the bar in the direction I thought home was, keeping a tight grip over my negative balance ticket. I might have still been crying, but my head was so fuzzy I couldn't be sure. I was crossing a street when I felt a spreading warmth in my palm and smelled smoke. I held the ticket in my hand, stupidly holding onto it despite the rapidly increasing temperature. A corner was smoldering, slowly catching fire, despite the lack of an igniter.

With my eyes practically crossed from alcohol, I had to hold it close to my face to properly see it. The warmth became painful, and I dropped it to the ground. With the card, no longer in front of my face, my vision was suddenly flooded with a bright white light. Was someone shining a flashlight at me? Then I heard a blaring car horn. I instantly realized I was still standing in the middle of the street. The card was totally engulfed in flames, burning bright against the dark background of the street.

The car horn sounded a final time, but it was far, far too late. The time to pay my debt had come. SCP 1302-1 is an electronic blackjack machine. When used, it functions like a regular blackjack machine, but can operate with a negative balance. producing black tickets for losses. These tickets, made of an unknown material,

caused the user to lose possessions equal to the negative balance within 21 days and then self-combust. The process induces various psychological symptoms based on the debt amount, which resolve after the ticket burns. Attempts to destroy the tickets before self-combustion lead to severe consequences and are forbidden. An instance showing a figure beyond the material value of the possessions of its owner will incur event 1302 beta 1 after exactly 21 days.

Those who experienced this are issued a variety of psychological symptoms which appear to increase in magnitude alongside the figure printed. Smaller figures generally produce mild headaches or a sense of general malaise. Well, in the case of larger ones, severe effects have been noted. Thank you.