The SCP Experience - Bob Shepherd for Congress | SCP-4553

Episode Date: January 23, 2023

SCP Foundation KETER class object, SCP-4553: Bob Shepherd for Congress  This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-4553, and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ Author: Matt Doggett Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/MatthewDoggettAuthor/ Website/Newsletter sign up: matthewdoggettauthor.com New Book Releases: https://www.amazon.com/Matthew-G-Doggett/e/B08FD5378Z 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 #scpexplained #whatisscp Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

As I connect the nylon brush to the barrel rod, I go over the steps I'll need to take. Getting to the location before anyone else will be a matter of leaving my house early in the morning. No later than 3.30 a.m. Once there, I'll need some time to set up, but not much. Most of the morning will be spent waiting for the event to get underway. I'll watch it all from my perch, my nest. and when the time is right. I saturate the nylon brush and carbon cleaner,

and then insert it into the bore. I move it back and forth, loosening any carbon deposits that have built up during my last round of shooting. I've always been a decent shot, but my aim has increased significantly since I decided to kill Bob Shepard. It's amazing what you can accomplish

when you put your mind to it. The trick is to break your larger goal, into smaller ones. That's just what I did. The first step was to gather intelligence and pick a date. That wasn't so hard, thanks to the internet and a network of like-minded individuals. The next step was to make sure I could blow Shepard's ugly head apart with my first shot. So I started going out into the woods near my house whenever I had a spare moment. I must have fired 500 rounds through my Remington 730-aunt-6 hunting rifle. I started off at around 200 yards and kept moving back, finally becoming accurate at 500 yards.

Given that I'll be taking the most important shot of my life from around 300 yards, I'm supremely confident in my ability to get the job done. I glance at the clock above my workbench, still moving the nylon brush back and forth. It's nearly 5 o'clock, less than 12 hours until I need to be out at the farm, setting up my perch. I remove the brush from the rifle and then take the brush off the rod. As I grab a rag to wipe down the rod, I feel a slight twinge of unease, of doubt. That won't do. I clean my hands off on the rag and then grab my phone.

My garage door is closed, and there's no one around but me. My nearest neighbors are miles away. Still, I look around the orderly garage. For what? I don't know. Guys in suits with dark glasses and earpieces. Deep state mercenaries who will throw me in a dark hole and lose the key. Sounds crazy.

But just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they're not after you. Navigating to YouTube on my phone, I select a video from one of my favorite political commentators and hit play. I set the phone out of the way on a wooden shelf to the right of my workbench. I don't need to watch the video. I just want to hear the discussion. The race for a seat in the U.S. House of Representatives for Nebraska's third destination. Who to make his last official appearance before voting starts on Tuesday?

Joining me to discuss this most unusual race is political pundit, author, and YouTube star Jim Jordan. Jim, you've been a vocal opponent of Bob Shepard's bid for the House of Representatives from the beginning. Given his political stances on many subjects line up with your own, Would you care to tell me why you're so viscerally opposed to Shepard? As I add a dry patch to the jag, I shake my head at the use of the talking head's leading words. Get him, Jim, I say. Jim Jordan chuckles. The fact that we're even discussing why I would be opposed to him serving in the federal government

really tells me how far this country has fallen. I mean, just look at the guy. I'd like you to refrain from any racist or bigoted. remarks, Jim. The host says, interrupting Jordan. Racist? Jordan gasps. Call someone a racist, and you don't have to discuss the real issues, right? Is that why you do it? The real issues are exactly what I want to discuss. Tom says, this is the challenge I give to you. Explain to me why you don't like Shepard for the house without referencing his appearance

or anything other than the issues outlined in his platform. Jim scoffs. I pause in the middle of running the dry patch through the barrel and shake my head. What the hell is wrong with these people? This is exactly what I thought would happen coming on to your show, Jim says. You say you're a proponent of free speech, but you shut me down every time I want to explain myself. There's a difference between free speech and hate speech. Tom says. Besides, Bob Shepard is an American.

Isn't that what matters? If he's an American, I'm Gandhi. Just because he has some forged paperwork doesn't mean he's a true American. You have to be a... Jim, I was hoping to have a civil discussion with you. There's nothing civil about this! Jordan yells. You must be fucking insane to believe Shepard is an American.

What the fuck is... Okay, that's enough for today. Tom says, just as Jordan's mic is cut off. I'm afraid we'll have to cut this interesting. interview short if our guest won't abide by the simple standards we hold so dear on this program. In a fit of rage, I grabbed the phone off the shelf and throw it at the concrete slab. It breaks into several pieces that clatter around the garage. I'm shaking with anger. What happened to free speech? What happened to civil liberties? What happened to the America we used to be? Gritting my teeth,

I go back to cleaning my rifle. When I'm done, I put the weapon into its case and head inside to lie down on my bed. I need to get a few hours of sleep. If that video did one thing, it took away any doubts I have about my purpose. Bob Shepard must die, and I'm going to be the one to kill him. The walk from where I parked my truck to my perch is a long one, but it gives me time to think, to prepare. The darkness and my chosen route all but guarantee I won't be spotted. And all the while, I hold Bob Shepard's gruesome face in my mind, letting it create a ball of righteous excitement in my chest. I come on the property from behind, walking across a narrow patch of woods and then through several fields of crops. I carry my rifle in its protective bag, along with a

backpack on my back. I make it to a low, narrow ridge of sandstone rocks dotted on top with bushes. On the other side of the ridge, some 300 yards away, is the stage. At the base of the ridge, I remove my backpack, then I climb up with my rifle back, keeping low as I crawl next to a couple of bushy shrubs that will provide cover. After getting settled on my stomach, I look at the distant stage. The stage is set up between a couple of farm buildings. Just beyond it, I can see the top of the farmhouse. I guess the place belongs to one of his supporters. And since Bob Shepard talks all the time about supporting independent farmers, it's no surprise that his final speech will be here. I smile as I think about how it really will

be his final speech. Not just the last one before the election, but the last one he'll ever do. And the world will be a better place for it. Slowly, I pull my rifle out of my bag and get it situated. I look through the scope. There's a man sitting in a chair on the stage, the red, white, and blue backdrop framing him easily even in the dark. He wears a black jacket with a patch on the left breast. He's not a cop, but private security, and it looks like he's dozing. I smile and set my rifle down on its bag. Then I back out from under the shrubs and go to retrieve my backpack. The hours pass quickly, but I get everything done I need to before daylight. I use a rangefinder to confirm the distance between me and the podium on the stage. 307 yards. I've been practicing for the last

week for this precise distance. I've done my research. I'm prepared. There's nothing but fields between me and the stage. Of course, there will be plenty of people in the crowd, but I'm high enough up that I won't have to worry about anyone blocking my shot. After drinking a bit of water and taking one final piss, I settle in as the sun rises in the sky to my right. I've covered myself in a gilly suit just in case, although it's probably overkill. As I watch in a half days, the activity on the property grows slowly until it reaches a flurry. People set up rows of chairs in front of the stage. A couple of news crews show up and set up their cameras and other equipment. Then, around 9 o'clock, the crowd starts trickling in. I perk up, shifting my legs and arms slowly,

preparing for the moment of truth. There's already a shell in the chamber ready to go, and it has Bob Shepard's name on it. I watch with growing excitement, as the crowd settles down and a man I've never seen before walks on stage to a smattering of applause, but I can see better than I can hear. The man starts speaking, and I can hear his voice coming through the PA system, but I can't make out the words. By the time the sound reaches me, it's unintelligible. It's a small crowd, and the PA system isn't set loud. It doesn't matter. I know he's introducing Shepard.

So I watch through my scope and wait patiently while the man talks for a minute that seems like an hour. I shiver with excitement as the man steps away from the podium and holds a handout toward the side of the stage. The crowd applauds, only louder this time. Bob Shepard emerges from around the back of the stage. The very sight of him makes me swell with rage. His head is a pink mass of slowly squirming worms formed in the shape of the shape of the shape of the of a man's head. His lips protrude, made by two rather large worms. His eyebrows are made from a couple of darker night crawlers. He has no eyes, only worms twisted around each other in circles that

approximate irises and pupils. The worms at the top of his head sit in such a way that they look like combed hair. He walks up on stage in his deep blue three-piece suit with his green tie. The crowd applauds even harder. Shepard raises his hands and nods sheepishly. Like his head and neck, his hands are made of worms. As far as anyone knows, that's all he is. I suddenly wish I had brought my AR-15 so I could spray the crowd with bullets after killing Shepard. Anyone who would vote for a mass of worms calling itself an American shouldn't be allowed to breathe free air. But no, I'm not a murderer. I don't kill people. When I pull the trigger in mere moments, I won't be committing a homicide. It will be the equivalent of stepping on an insect or putting pesticide around my garden. Nothing more.

The applause finally dies down as shepherd steps to the podium. He begins talking, and he sounds just like a man. Even though I can't make out the exact words, I've heard him speak enough times to know he sounds like any other Nebraska male. With my right thumb, I pushed the safety switch on the rifle into the fire position. I pulled the stock to my shoulder and put a bead on Shepard's head.

A body shot would be easier, but I'm confident in my ability to hit him in the head. The conditions are just right for it. Besides, I want to see his disgusting head blow apart. I put my index finger against the trigger and breathe deeply.

As I release my breath, I wait until every last bit of air is out of my lungs. And in that moment of ultimate stillness, just before I take another breath, I squeeze the trigger. The gun bucks against me as it fires. The 165 grain, 300-Wingham fusion load means the bullet leaves the barrel right around 3,000 feet per second. 307 yards away, Bob Shepard's head explodes.

Worms fly everywhere as he collapses onto the stage. People scream, looking around frantically, trying to see where the bullet came from. My heart thunders in my chest. The sound of rushing blood and the ring of the shot fill my ears. I continue looking through the scope. Beyond the right edge of the podium, I see a mound of worms emerge, creeping along the wooden platform. A blonde woman, Bob Shepard's wife, runs on stage and drops to her knees,

grabbing handfuls of worms and crying. Then she looks around desperately, screaming. Bob's dead, babe, I say. I put the rifle back in its case and creep back out from under the shrubs, pulling my backpack with me. The sense of accomplishment lifts my spirits as I climb back down the ridge. I pull my gilly suit off and I'm stuffing it in my backpack when a man clears his throat from behind me.

I whip around and see Bob Shepard standing there, not five feet away. He's wearing a different suit, but otherwise he looks the same. Now, why would you go and do a thing like that? He says, glistening worm lips moving as he talks. I freeze. I'm speechless. You're one of those QAnon fellas, aren't you? He asks.

His tone like a couple of old friends chatting about the weather. Yeah, I know they talk about me. From lizard people to worm people, it's not a big jump. You're dead. I finally manage. I killed you. I'm a mass of worms, fellow. You won't kill me that easily.

Really? I need to thank you. I knew this would happen sooner or later. It's good. I mean, it didn't feel good, but it's good that it happened. Maybe it'll teach people that I'm here to stay, don't you think? I, I, what?

Bob Shepard sighs. He steps up to me and puts one arm around my shoulders. I look with disgust at his warm hand on my right shoulder. Why don't we take a little walk, eh? Discuss this thing. As I walk out of the church and into the sunlight, I have to smile. It's Tuesday, voting day. I've just cast my vote. And if you told me a week ago I'd be voting for Bob Shepard for the House of Representatives, I would have cracked you across the jaw.

But it's true. We had a long talk. Three hours, nearly. And he convinced me that he's the real deal. Plus, he kept me out of jail. Of course, there was no crime. Not really. I guess they could have gotten me for attempted murder. But Shepard talked them out of it.

Said he didn't want to press charges, used his political way to get me off with a slap on the wrist. Now, as I walk to my truck from the polling place, I think it kind of makes sense. The only truly good politician in our messed up world isn't even a human. He's a mass of goddamn worms. SCP 4553 is a sapient, anthropomorphic mass of worms, which is actively campaigning for the position of United States Congressional Representative.

SCP 4553 self-identifies as Bob Shepard, age 42, and allegedly hails from the small town of Valentine, Nebraska. It is capable of speech despite not possessing the organs responsible for vocalization, and initial estimates place its intelligence as slightly above that of an average human. It has, on multiple occasions, willingly provided identity documents confirming its legal status as a citizen of the United States of America and resident of the state of Nebraska, including birth certificate, tax records, driver's license, passport, and a master's degree in political science awarded by the University of Nebraska at Kearney.

SCP 4553 is publicly campaigning for congressional office as an independent candidate and has attained a standing of 89% in the polls as of the time of this document's creation. This overwhelming show of support from the voting public of Nebraska's third district is notable, as said district is one of the most predominantly Republican districts in the nation. It is therefore suspected that SCP 4553 generates a memetic compulsion effect capable of influencing the minds of the voting public, although this has yet to be conclusively verified. Physical containment of SCP 4553 has proven unfeasible

due to the entity's secondary anomalous effects. If removed from its native environment and placed into foundation custody, SCP 4553 loses its anomalous. properties and disassociates into an unorganized mound of living worms. It will then re-manifest somewhere within the bounds of Nebraska's third congressional district. Significant physical damage produces a similar result. Its campaign platform, which consistently emphasizes infrastructural development, retention of individual liberties under the Constitution,

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