The SCP Experience - Eat or Be Eaten | SCP-7302

Episode Date: May 14, 2025

Undercover agent Spears must survive a deadly infiltration of the Teratophagous Club, where monstrous elites feast on the living, regenerate the dead, and force him into a brutal fight for survival against creatures who can't be killed by normal means. This story was derived from ⁠https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-7302 and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. ⁠https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/⁠ Author: Matt Doggett * * * 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

Welcome to aboard Via Rai. Embarked and profite. Embarked and celebrate. Rigolet. Publiere. Savoyed. Admire. And profite.

Viarai. The voice that we love that we love. The approaching SUV's headlights swept across the dark dockside lot and paused as they found the truck I crouched in. Jammed in the footwell between the passenger seat and the dashboard, I stretched my neck to look out the windshield at the vehicle. It was about 50 yards away, down at the other end of an alleyway, flanked by saltwater-rodded storage units that were slated for destruction at the end of the month.

I kept my grip on the truck driver's arm with my left hand. With my right, I continued to press my suppressed pistol into his gut. Is that him? I don't know, man, the driver said. How do you find out? I'm supposed to flash the lights in a specific sequence. So do it already. And if you mess around, I guarantee you won't leave this truck.

without a hole in you. Fine, fine, man. Just leave me out of this. I just deliver the crates. I don't even know what's in him, okay? I jammed the barrel deeper into his beer belly. Just flashed the damn lights. The driver raised his left hand slowly

and clicked the high beams on and off in a specific sequence that lasted a good 30 seconds. I beard at the bottom of the windshield, staring at the headlights, hoping our intel was good, and that the tastemaker himself was in that. SUV. For a moment, the distant vehicle stayed perfectly still. I was certain the driver had warned him with the lights and that the vehicle would reverse and haul ass away. If that did happen, I had to hope

that the team standing by would be able to thwart the escape and get the guy alive. But after a long, breathless moment, the SUV eased forward. I pulled a pair of cuffs off my belt and hooked one end to the steering wheel. The other end, I clipped around the driver's hairy right wrist. Then I turned the truck off and pocketed the keys. I watched the SUV come closer. As it passed one of the storage units, the storage unit door slid open and two men came out, stretching a spike strip across the dank alley behind the SUV. Not yet, I whispered, you're too close. But it was too late. The SUV rocked to a stop. And then there were a little. And then there

There came the telltale thunk of the transmission shifting into reverse. Twisting awkwardly while lurching out of the footwell, I pulled my pistol out of the driver's belly and yanked the passenger door open, just as the SUV's rear tires ran over the spike strip. I jumped out of the truck in time to see the front tires shredding to bits as the SUV reversed down the alley on four flat tires. Determined not to let anything jeopardize the mission, I bolted after the slow-moving vehicle. The driver whipped the back of the SUV around, the rear end crashing through a storage unit door. It pulled out and headed down the alley and drive, but the maneuver had taken too long.

I jumped onto the passenger side running board and hit the side window with the butt of my pistol. The glass spider-webbed, but didn't break. Not until I hit it two more times, at which point it shattered, and I got a good look at the tastemaker in the seat behind the driver. Stop! I shouted. The tastemaker, a man in the tastemaker, a man in the driver. in his 70s with a hooked nose and icy eyes, glared at me with smoldering hatred, even as he

unwrapped a piece of food in one hand. The driver, a middle-aged man in a black suit, glanced at me, and then steered the SUV toward the nearby row of storage units, aiming to scrape me off the side. I threw myself head first through the broken window, getting my legs inside just before the vehicle scraped along the low wooden buildings there. "'Shit!' I said, glancing up to see the tastemaker chowing down, on what looked like a piece of beef jerky. Not seeing any other option,

I leveled the gun at the driver and pulled the trigger, blowing a hole in his skull. The SUV slewed sideways and came to a stop just outside the alley, next to a brick wall, separating this property from the next and the massive sprawling dock. Now that the vehicle was stopped,

I turned my attention to the taste maker, slapping what was left of the beef jerky out of his hands. Of course, I knew it wasn't beef jerky. I just hoped he had to have to beauchery. I just hoped he hadn't eaten enough of it to be effective. That hope was dispelled with frightening haste a moment later. The tastemaker smiled at me as the sleeves of his gray suit bulged and then ripped. His flabby neck whitened as musculature grew like an inflatable toy on the end of a high-powered pump.

I had to remind myself that we needed him alive as I pointed the pistol at him. Stop! Freeze! The man, who was now hunched over in the SUV because he had grown so much, smiled at me and shot one massive fist out. I tried to jerk out of the way, but it's not so easy to do in the back of an SUV. This punch took me in the chest, and I flew backward, knocking the door open and landing painfully on the wet asphalt beside the vehicle.

The SUV rocked as the tastemaker got out. Then it rocked again, up onto its side wheels as he tossed the thing toward me. I rolled out of the way, narrowly avoiding getting smashed by the overturned vehicle. Behind me, shouting and tire screeching told me backup was here. I scrambled to my feet to see the tastemaker rounding the crashed SUV. Remnants of his suit hung off him in tatters. He looked like a bodybuilder who also happened to be 400 pounds and 9 feet tall. He rushed me as I backed toward my coworkers,

who all started firing tranquilizer darts at the man as soon as I was out of the line of fire. He kept coming, dozens of darts sticking out of him. We all backed up and stood by. as he smashed the front of the armored black SUV my backup had arrived in. Then, like a two-year-old, who goes from tantrum to nap in the snap of a finger, he stumbled back, fell down, and promptly went to sleep. As several men raced over to the tastemaker to tie him up, Lieutenant Bradley stepped over and grabbed me by the arm.

You okay, Spears? I looked down at myself. I had a few scrapes and bruises, and my black foundation uniform was dirty, but otherwise I was good. Yeah, good, because we got a lot of work to do and not much time to do it in. I nodded and glanced down the alley at the truck. I was itching to see what was back there, what the tastemaker was about to buy. But there were other things to do first, things that, if I didn't get right, would certainly get me killed.

Why did you have to shoot the guy in the head, Singleton? The man at the driver's seat asked. Would you please just drop it? I said from the back of the SUV. I wasn't exactly thinking about preserving his face for a fucking 3D scan at the time, okay? Easy for you to say. You're not the one that has to wear this crazy mask. What if there's a scar missing?

What if they immediately see something is wrong with this face I'm wearing? And they kill us both. Then I'm sure there will be no end to your bitching in the afterlife. That's enough, Bradley said over the radio. Both me and the driver, a guy named Hensley, had tiny earpieces snug in our ear canals. I would have preferred anyone but Hensley, who wasn't exactly suited for undercover work. But he had the same build as the tastemaker's driver. So he was wearing the mask the tech people had developed,

after trying to piece the driver's head together, after I blew it apart with a subsonic round from point-blank range. Hopefully no one would look too closely at him, in case there was a scar or some other defining feature missing from the hyper-realistic mask. As Hensley pulled up to the front of the fancy hotel, Lieutenant Bradley gave us one more bit of advice. Gee, thanks, I thought. We both got out of the vehicle.

Hensley handed the keys to a valet worker and got a ticket in return. Doorman dressed in immaculate maroon suits opened the gilded front doors for us. We crossed a meticulously polished marble floor under a massive, twinkling chandelier to the front desk. I mentally went over everything the tastemaker said about the protocol for each other.

meeting. And I had to hope he wasn't lying. I had to trust the foundation's interrogation techniques. Trust that they actually got to the truth. Otherwise, Hensley and I would probably be dead soon. I produced a special invitation from inside my tuxedo jacket and slid it across to the woman at the front desk. I'm here for the private party. She smiled thinly at me. One penciled eyebrow raised as she took the invitation and opened it. After a moment, she pressed it to a small device next to her computer. The device beeped. Look at the camera, please, the woman said, gesturing over her shoulder at a camera near the ceiling of the front desk nook. I did as she said, but she looked over my

shoulder at Hensley. Your man, too. Clearing my throat, I got Hensley's attention. We both looked at the camera. I imagined our faces were being skisly. scanned by some program, and sweat sprung up on my forehead. My armpits were nearly drenched already, and this operation had just begun. Over the last two days, we had used the information we'd bribed from the tastemaker to introduce me to the rest of the Teratophagus Club, as they called themselves. Those of us at the foundation just called them the Consumption Society. Using the tastemaker's coded communication channels with the leader of the Consumption Society,

a man simply known as the founder. We crafted a story about a protege who would take up the tastemaker's mantle once the man died. By all outward appearances, it had worked. I had, after all, received the invite to this meeting. But for all we knew, it could be a trap. I wouldn't know until it was too late to do anything about it.

Sometimes I hated this damn job. But I still had one trick up my sleeve if things went sideways. I knew the location of the items that were in the back of the truck at the dock. If I had learned anything about the consumption society, it was that they craved new experiences. And I was going to provide them with one. At least, that was the ruse.

The tastemaker had gone to great lengths to procure the items, and he had told the society about them. It was one reason we went after him instead of any other society member. Staring at that blank black eye of the camera nearly had me fidgeting. After what seemed like an eternity, the woman's computer beeped, and she nodded, looking at the screen. I relaxed inwardly, but did my best to keep my outward appearance the same. She programmed a key card and handed it to me. The penthouse.

Scan this in the elevator, and it will take you to the top. Your man stays down here. Thank you, I said, smiling and giving her a wink, playing to the camera. I nodded at Hensley. who followed me to the elevator and stopped outside. I stepped in, scanned my card, and turned to see Hensley heading toward the lounge area in the lobby as the doors closed. So far, so good. Knowing there might be a camera in the elevator, I resisted the urge to breathe deeply, or fidget, or do anything that might give me away. I was the protege. I belonged to here. I had

the items these men wanted. The elevator came to a gentle stop. A moment later, the doors opened on the penthouse suite. A bald man of average height with prominent ears greeted me. He wore a smoking jacket and held a pipe in one hand, smiling thinly, he said. The protege, we meet it last. I stepped off the elevator and held out my hand. The founder, I'm honored to meet you. I immediately realized my mistake. The founder looked at my proffered hand as if it were covered in flies. I knew members of my members of the society never shook hands. I knew it. I was already fucking this mission up, and it had hardly begun. Dropping my hand, I smiled. Right. The tastemaker told me that you don't shake

hands. Old habits die hard, I guess. The founder studied me with narrowed eyes for a moment before putting the stem of his pipe in his mouth and turning to head into the suite. I followed behind him. As he buffed on his pipe, I smelled the smoke, which was a mixture of acrid and sweet and certainly not like any tobacco I had ever smelled. So unfortunate that the tastemaker has fallen ill, he said as he walked me through the lavish, high-ceilinged living room. But how fortunate that he has been fostering a protege such as yourself. Even though he didn't seek the club's approval first, I was ready for this.

Yes, well, you know him. Always the type to ask for forgiveness rather than permission. Besides, he knew that you all had been waiting. for this shipment. He didn't want you to miss out just because he's not feeling well enough to attend. As we approached the dining room, I heard the voices of three men speaking in low tones. As we moved into the room, the three men fell silent and turned to study me. They were all dressed in fine suits, and they all had similar distrustful looks in their eyes. There was the chef, a prominent media personality who owned a Michelin-Star restaurant.

in Paris, among other high-end restaurants the world over. The politician, a gray-haired man in his early 60s, pasted an automatic smile on his face, although the wary look in his eyes did not change. Finally, the import, an Asian-American man in his 50s, held an unmarked bottle in his hand that resembled a figure eight made out of brown glass, obscuring the color of the liquid inside.

Gentlemen, this is the protege, the founder said. He will be providing today's meal, courtesy of our dear friend the tastemaker. Oh, I'm not sure that's necessary, the chef said from across the table. When I heard that the tastemaker had fallen ill, I took it upon myself to prepare a little something to kick today's meeting off. He turned and disappeared into the kitchen. My stomach dropped, but I kept my face impassive. This wasn't part of the plan. I wasn't supposed to eat anything. I was here to assess the threat and report back.

The last three times the Foundation tried to capture these men, it ended in the deaths of 36 Foundation agents and 54 civilians. It was clear from those missions that we needed an inside man. Lazzang sur-goled, power-moly, power for 15 minutes. We're like to dojo. Vive the pleasure with Leo Jo. The casino in line that proposes the more recent machine-assou and the games of casino in direct.

Profite 50 tours gratuys on Big Bas Bonanza without the exigences of mise and with payment instantane. Hey, I've gained. Woohoo! Scenture the pleasure.

Play, Ojo. 18 years, 1,000, only depots only in Ontario. 50 tours free from the machine as su Begbacus Bonanza. Depos minimum of $10.

Vealue to fashion responsible. The conditions apply. When you were pretty, you're having braced in course of recry,

always in trying to negotiate and do do you're doing to make sure the appellate TD you can't be to renewing

with this instinct with without operation gratuit, no amount minimum, and no free month and

you're doing and the TD is there for you help. The three men remaining in the

dining room stared at me as my mind reeled. I clapped my hands together and smiled. Excellent.

An appetizer. I can't tell you all how excited I've been for this meeting. It's a dream come true. Or a nightmare,

the import said. I turned to him. But before I could say anything, the chef appeared through the swinging door

to the kitchen with a large silver platter in his hands. He set the platter down in the middle of the table and took the lid off, revealing five side plates with small worms on them. The worms were still alive, squirming on the china. Take your seats, please, the chef said, setting a plate down at each place setting around the table. I hesitated while everyone else sat down. Bradley had directed me in no uncertain terms to not eat anything. My primary mission was to identify any possible threats and then give the go-ahead for the Mobile Task Force to sweep in. But I hadn't even seen half the suite yet. The enormity of the situation suddenly crashed down on me as I looked at the little white pink worm squirming on the otherwise unmarred plate.

If I called the troops in too soon and they got slaughtered, it would be my fault. I determined that I would rather risk my own life than the lives of an entire task force. The math was clear. One death was better than a half dozen. It was why I was here, after all. But that didn't mean I needed to be reckless about it. I need to use the facilities, I said. I like to wash my hands before I eat.

Everyone else, including the chef, was now sitting. All of them looking up at me. The founder, who sat at the head of the table, smiled without humor. His eyes darted back over my shoulder. My neck prickled. as I sensed someone coming up behind me. Sure enough, a steely hand clamped onto each shoulder. Two men in what appeared to be disposable white scrubs had come up behind me

and were now forcing me into my seat at the table. Their eyes were wild with pulsating blue-red veins, swirling, sparkling clouds danced in their irises, giving them a wholly alien look. They had clearly taken something, but I couldn't imagine what. Whatever it was, it seemed to make them strong, because they shoved me easily into my seat and kept me there. Spheres, what's happening?

Bradley said over the radio. Should we breach? I ignored him, focusing on the founder. What's going on? I asked, voice shaking. You don't trust me? You don't trust the tastemaker? The founder steepled his fingers and looked at me over them.

Trust, but verify. This is how we verify. He picked up a pair of chopsticks from next to his plate and used them to snag the worm, which he lifted up and unceremoniously dumped into his mouth. His eyes fell closed, head tilted back in ecstasy as he chewed. The other three followed suit, eating their worms. Then all eyes fixed on me. There are no tricks here, the chef said.

We're all eating the same thing. But if you don't eat, then you don't get to keep living. Fingers digging into my shoulders, hands pressing me down. I looked at the four men at the table with me. I expected something to happen, but nothing did. What does it do? I asked, reaching for the chopsticks. Eat!

The founder shouted. Or die! Using the chopsticks, I picked the worm up and dropped it into my mouth. The foul taste of it exploded through my mouth like a firework going off. My teeth seemed to swell in their sockets as I tried not to vomit. He better chew it quick before it burrows. the chef said, smiling with evil glee. Before his sentence ended, I felt the worm trying to dig into my tongue. Pain radiated from the meaty muscle. Frantically, I used it to shove the worm toward my teeth

and then clamped down, cutting the creature in half. As its insides flooded my mouth, the painful sensations were overtaking by near orgasmic delight. I chewed quickly, almost in a daze, unable to savor the feeling that was gone too quickly as I swallowed the crushed-up creature. Feeling ecstatic, I opened my mouth and looked around stupidly. The four members of the Consumption Society studied me with something like pride. Very good, the founder said. Now, for the real test. Before I could even think of reacting, one of the goons behind me slammed my head down into the plate,

breaking the piece of china with my cheekbone. The other one slapped my right hand. hand onto the table and held it there by the wrist. With his free hand, he produced a pair of garden shears and brought the blades down to my pinky finger. Tell us, protégé, the founder said from his seat. Who do you work for? What? I said, trying to lift my head to look at the man. What do you mean? I worked for the tastemaker. I couldn't budge my head, and it was turned to my right, so the only thing in my field of vision was my hand and those garden shears ready to clamp down on my finger.

Tell us the truth, or you lose one finger at a time until you do. Bradley said over my earpiece. Just say the word and we'll come in. All I had to do was say the word Lieutenant Bradley and I had agreed on, and the task force would come running. But I still hadn't done my job. The fact that these two goons had been hiding somewhere in the suite gave me pause. There could be more here, and if they were all on some kind of anomalous substance,

they could tear through the task force with ease. What was a pinky compared to a life? If we did this quickly enough, I could even get it reattached. Then there was the worm I had eaten. My gut told me to roll the dice, even if my head screamed at me to call backup in. I'm telling you the truth. I worked for the tastemaker. He found out he was ill a year ago, and he knew you wouldn't approve me as a protege.

Why not? Why wouldn't we approve you? Because I'm not rich and successful like you are! I shouted, putting as much emotion. into it as I could. I'm a nobody, just a mechanic that got a job working on the tastemaker's luxury cars. He took a liking to me, but knew the club would never approve. So what makes you think we won't kill you now?

The chef asked. Because I have the shipment. I have the tastemaker's connections. I can get us things that would otherwise be impossible. I don't believe him, the import said calmly. Take the finger. No! As I screamed, the ship.

ears sliced through my finger, severing my pinky in a spray of blood. The immense pain took my breath away. I scrambled, trying to get my head off the table or pull my hand away. But it didn't work. Bradley said through my earpiece. I screamed again, hoping Bradley would know it was meant for him. Tell us the truth! The founder bellowed as the goon shifted the shears to my ring finger.

I'm telling you the truth. I said in a breathless rasp. Take the finger. No! Once again, I watched as the shears cut through a finger, snapping as they severed the bone. The pain reverberated up my arm and into my chest. The goon moved the shears to my middle finger. That truth, God damn it!

Fuck you! I shouted. Fuck all of you! The sound of laughter started gradually, and soon built to a crescendo. Even the goons laughed along with the members of the society. Let him up, the founder said. The go of me. and I shot up for my seat, knocking my chair back and cradling my hand to my chest.

We had to be sure, the founder said with a smile. My fingers! I said, feeling blood soaked into my tuxedo. I stared down at the severed digits in the puddle of blood on the table. Some worms have the ability to regenerate, the chef said, and some of them, anomalous ones, namely, can pass that ability onto humans when eaten at a specific time in their life cycle. The nubs where my fingers had been were suddenly buzzing, like an electrical current was coursing through them.

I brought my hand away from my chest and watched as the injury started to heal over, new fingers slowly forming. What the hell? You can eat them if you like, the chef said of my severed fingers, to keep everything in balance. Otherwise, you will lose some mass while you regenerate.

It has to come, from somewhere. I watched new fingers grow on my hand for a few long moments, mesmerized. How long is it last? I asked finally. Oh, just a few hours. I wouldn't go around cutting your limbs off this time tomorrow. I tore my gaze from my hand and looked at the founder. Can I use the bathroom now? I'm covered in blood. Of course. Leroy will show you there. I looked at the goon who had done the cutting. He smiled and stared at me with those strange eyes. This way. She knows. How? Did you blouse? No. The Devil wears Prada, too. He's the movie event 20 years in the making. Honestly, can't with the secrets anymore, so I think we just, we should tell her.

Will you two please spit it out already? Um, uh, this Friday, be the first to experience it, only in theaters. In light of the recent scandal, I'm here to restore your credibility. Oh, because we're a team now? That's a nice story. The Devil Wares Prada 2 in Theatis Friday. There's something else here now. Something new. From exclusively on Paramount Plus. It's the series Stephen King calls Scarious Hell.

Everything here is impossible, but it's also real. Sci-fi vision calls it the best show streaming right now. We're running out of time and we still don't know the rules. Don't miss what the movie blog calls something you need to watch. Saving those children is how we all go home. From binge all episodes exclusively on Paramount Plus. By the time I finished cleaning myself up in the bathroom, my fingers were halfway grown back.

A constant, buzzing discomfort came from them. But it was nothing compared to the pain of having them removed. Knowing that the goon, Leroy, was waiting for me outside the bathroom, had me on edge. I couldn't search the rest of the suite with him in tow. I had to risk putting him down somehow. But he had been so strong when he was. was holding my arm to the table and taking my fingers off with those shears. I didn't know how I could compete with that kind of strength.

Shaking my head, I grabbed the hand towel off the rack, thinking I could shove it in his mouth to keep him from warning the others. But as I stepped out of the bathroom, I found myself alone in the hallway. No, Leroy. I quickly checked the rest of the suite, finding no other goons waiting. I also checked windows to see if I could escape. All of them opened on a sheer drop. The master bedroom featured a patio, but it was a dead end. Nowhere to go. In one of the three bedrooms, I closed the door and spoke loud enough to be heard over the radio. Persist. There's six of them, and at least two are extremely strong. They're enhanced somehow. Pausing, I waited for the confirmation that Bradley had heard me. When several seconds passed and it never came,

I spoke the word again. Persist. Still nothing but silence Bradley persist Send them in Six tangos in the dining room Thinking maybe they had already come in I opened the door And listened for any sounds

That would indicate the task force was here All I heard were the murmurings of the men in the dining room Protégé The founder called out It's time to eat Come now Eat? I thought I'm the one who was supposed to have the food delivered

That's the whole point at this meeting Knowing I had no other choice, I walked on wobbly legs back to the dining room. There were large covered plates at each place setting. But now there was an extra place setting at the table, complete with a large platter set on it. The two goons stood barring the door to the living room. I only exit. Sit down, the founder said. We've had appetizers.

Now it's time for the first course. And it's a rarity indeed. I looked at the other remaining members of the Consumption Society in turn. They all grinned at me with cruel glee. My throat narrowed, and I swallowed loudly as I glanced once again at the two goons. Sit down, protege, the founder said with venom in his voice. Or we'll start chopping parts off again. I glanced at my fingers, which had almost grown fully back, except for the fingernails.

I made my way back to my seat and settled into it. Good, the founder said. But we can't start without the man who provided this amazing and anomalous meal. I heard the door to the living room open behind me. As I half turned in my seat and looked back, the sound of rushing blood filled my ears. The tastemaker strode through the door with a glowing expression on his face. The world went fuzzy around him as I stared. He strode to the extra place setting and sat.

Then all eyes turned to me. You first, protege, the tastemaker said. I stared at the covered platter, but couldn't bring myself to lift it off. Finally, one of the goons stepped over and took the lid off the platter, revealing Lieutenant Bradley's severed head facing me on the plate. I tried to shoot up from the table, but the goons forced me down. I stared at Bradley's head, at the blood, pooling around his ragged neck, at his closed eyes and the tongue sticking out the side of his mouth. Then all the other society members lifted the lids off their platters, revealing the heads of the task force members, including Hensley, who had been posing as my driver.

You've provided us with our rarest meal to date, the tastemaker told me. A foundation task force. My gorge rose, but I didn't falter. I couldn't help but stare at Bradley, frozen in horror. But we long ago moved fast eating human flesh alone. There's nothing rare about that. nothing anomalous, which is why we've had these heads treated with a special glaze. He paused and looked around.

Any moment now. A second later, Bradley's eyes shot open. His mouth gaped, and he screamed. All the other heads on all the other plates joined, screaming and begging for death, despite their lack of lungs. The society members picked up forks and knives and started carving pieces off the heads while they screamed and begged. The chef plucked an eye out of a side. socket and popped it into his mouth, squishing it between his teeth.

The tastemaker cut out a portion of the tongue and licked it several times before putting the chunk into his mouth. The founder shouted at me through a mouthful of cheek. Eat or be eaten. Kill me spears! Bradley screamed. Fucking kill me! I picked up the steak knife and jammed it through Bradley's left eye, sinking it into his brain to the hilt. His screaming only intensified. It should have killed him, but it didn't. Panicking, I pulled the knife out and stabbed it into a goon's thigh.

Before I could do anything else, the goon snapped my wrist, and the pain finally sent me over the edge. I vomited all over Bradley's screaming head before the goons ripped me out of my seat and spread me on the floor. One of them held me down while the other one stepped into the kitchen and came back with a giant meat cleaver. What do you want to start with? he asked the founder. Let's do a leg.

The goon came over to me with the meat. Cleaver. Without ceremony, he slammed the sharp tool into my upper thigh, cutting through my slacks and deep into my flesh. I screamed in pain as he chopped and chopped. When he was finally through, he stripped the clothes off my leg and set it in the middle of the table. Still, I screamed, looking down at the bloody nub where my leg had been. Oh, relax, the tastemaker said as he carved a piece of my calf off the leg. It'll grow back. All the members of the Consumption Society roared with laughter. SCP 7302 is the collective designation given to members of the Territophagus Club, an organization

centered around the consumption of anomalous entities. While the club has existed in some form for centuries, its membership has never exceeded six individuals. All attempts by foundation staff to contain members of SCP 7302 have been unsuccessful due to the abilities resulting from consumption of anomalous material. Several failed operations over the years have resulted in a total of 36 foundation casualties, 54 civilian casualties, and 36 reanimation events. As of this writing, active containment attempts are currently considered inadvisable.

Fan of soccer, you could assist at a moment historic. You could gain the bid for the final of the Cup of the World of the FIFA 2006 with Visa. It's just to have a card of credit visa BMO for participate. Incribe you at BMO.com bar obliq concourse. The Reglements of the Concourse Sapplic.