The SCP Experience - Murphy Law and the Protection Racket | SCP-4450 & SCP-3143

Episode Date: June 22, 2023

SCP Foundation KETER class object, SCP-4450, and EUCLID class object SCP-3143: Murphy Law and the Protection Racket This podcast is sponsored by BetterHelp. Go to betterhelp.com/scp today to get 10% off your first month! This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-4450 and https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-3143 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

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on $10 dollars. DePos minimum of 10 dollars. Veigh and I'm pay to be responsible. The conditions I hear the sound of glass breaking as I pull into the parking lot. It's faint over the irregular purr of my Lincoln-Zephyr's engine. The bright neon light from the bar sign splashes the inside of my car.

I can hear it buzzing even with the windows rolled up. I've been hung over for about a decade, and the noise slices right down into my brain, putting me on edge. Why did I agree to this job? I knew it was trouble the moment I laid eyes on the... woman. Then the sound of glass breaking comes again, about as welcome as the screech of two cats in the middle of a fight. Low voices follow the sound. I sigh as I step out of the car and into the night. It's muggy and ominous, like a constant presence at your back, waiting for you to slip

up so it can wrap you in its dark embrace. Not today, I tell the night, not if I have anything to do about it. What? A woman's voice in my ear says. It's unnerving, having her talking to me through a tiny piece of futuristic technology. But she's the one paying me for the job. Nothing, I say. Heading in now.

I reach into my suit pocket, fingers brushing aside my brass knuckles to get to my cigarettes and lighter. The weight of my revolver in its shoulder holster provides grim comfort. I just hope I won't have to use it. I stop at the bar door to light the cigarette, exhaling smoke through my nose. Then I open the bar door and step inside, my feet crunching on glass. Love what you've done with the place, Polly. I tell the bartender, who's cowering behind the bar. A small man in a gray suit stands on top of the bar, a pint glass in one grimy hand.

He drops the glass to the floor as he turns to fix me with a stare. He's got a bulbous head and a naturally amused looking experience. expression, a bushy mustache hides his mouth. Standing at the back of the room is a similar looking man in a black suit. His head is less bulbous, and he has a more serious look about him. He also has a bushy mustache. He has a bar stool in his hands, which he's clearly been using to break the mirrors placed throughout the establishment.

Now that I've stepped into the newly wrecked place, there are four of us. Polly's normal customers must have beat feet when these two jackals started tearing up the place. Who the hell are you? The one in the gray suit says, jumping down from the bar. Just a guy looking for a drink. I say with a puff of smoke. What you think, Polly? The bartender looks at me like I'm nuttier than a circus. Maybe I am. I heard you fellas are owed a debt. I say when it's clear, these two aren't in the mood for a little friendly banter. I'm here to pay that debt and get a drink while I'm at it. The guy in the black suit drops the bar stool with a crash and joins his companion about a foot away from me.

What you think, Chris? The one in the gray suit says. I think if this fellow has the money we're owed. He must be hiding at somewhere mighty uncomfortable barrel. Chris replies. I got the money nearby, I say. Right outside, matter of fact. Why don't we leave poor Polly alone and go get it?

The two men look at each other, then back at me. Their mustache is twitching. Why don't you go get it like a good lad? Chris says. In the meantime, me and my brother will continue doing what we do best. But the moment we see what we're owed, we'll stop. After all, we were just getting started. Unable to help myself, I blow smoke in their faces.

They don't like that. Beryl, the one in the gray suit, move so fast I can hardly see his fist come forward. But I feel it. I'm lifted off my feet by the punch and thrown all the way back, crashing through the door. and out into the parking lot. You okay?

The woman's voice says in my ear as the door closes on its own, leaving me alone with the muggy night and the buzzing neon sign. Her name's Sarah, and it's clear her plan isn't going to work. I feel like I've just been hit by an express train, I say, getting to my feet. It hurts to breathe. I tried to warn you about these guys, she says. They're dangerous.

I lost my damn cigarette, I say, reaching into my pocket for another one. They're not going to come out, are they? If they won't willingly, I'll have to force them. Murphy, that's not a good. The front wall of the bar to the left of the door explodes outward in a rain of shattered cinder block, wood, and insulation. I raise an arm to ward off bits of flying debris.

Lowering my arm, I look into the decent-sized hole to see barrel standing there in the bar, grinning under his mustache. Better bring that money in soon. Otherwise, Polly won't have a pot to piss in. I'm sending the men in. Sarah says through my earpiece. Just wait a minute, I say. But she doesn't listen.

I hear the screech of tires as several vehicles close in. Several four Deluxe paddy wagon police cars squeal into the parking lot, rocking on their struts. Dizzy Dame's going to get them all killed, I muttered. I'm sure she heard me. And before she has a chance to say misogyny, the battle is on. Beryl and Chris rush out the door while the boys in blue are still getting out of their cars. Since I'm standing around like a dope, the two men rush past me and engage.

Not one to let an opportunity slide past, I turn around, reaching for my 38. And I see Chris jump into the sky about 30 feet. He hangs there in the air, looking down at the police car directly under him. And then he drops down, smashing the Ford's roof and likely killing the bulbous cop who was having trouble getting his big belly out of the passenger's seat. Meanwhile, Beryl moves like the wind, punching a cop in the face. The fella doesn't just fall back, knocked out like he would with a regular punch. His face caves in, under Beryl's fist, like a hammer into a watermelon.

I knew these boys were something else, but Sarah didn't tell me they were like this. I suddenly feel like a kitten in a box, floating down a river toward a waterfall. No way out, and nothing to do but take what's coming. So that's what I'll do. But just because I have to take what's coming doesn't mean I can't go down fighting. I was brought into this world kicking and screaming, and I've always known that's how I'll leave it. So while Chris is busy beating a cop to death, I step over to Beryl, who's just finished slamming one of the boys in blue to the ground like a child's doll.

I level my 38 at his head and pull the trigger. Blam! Beryl goes down. I fired twice more into his back, before I turn around in time to see Chris rushing toward me like a fastball in Fenway Park. He grabs me by the lapels and slams me into the nearest paddy wagon, using my head to smash the window. You're gonna pay for that, he says, our faces inches apart. You know they got these things called toothbrushes, I tell him. You should try one.

He rears back and goes to hit me, but I unload the other three bullets by my 38 into his chest. He falls down just a few feet from his brother. Huh, I say. That was easy. Get out of there, Murphy. Sarah says. Get out of there now.

They're not dead. Looks like they are to me, I say, looking down at them. But just as soon as the words leave my mouth, the two men disappear, blinking out of existence. Well, that's something I've never seen before, I say, scratching my head. This isn't working like I thought it would. Sarah says, you're not strong enough. I thought you were, but you're not. Jeez, leave a fella his bride, will you?

I say. What the hell is going on here, Sarah? Murphy Law. The shout comes from up above me. I look up to see Chris and Beryl floating about 20 feet overhead. They're looking fresh as daisies. If daisies wore mustaches and had the ability to stare death at you. Didn't I just shoot you fellas? I ask. I think you better just go ahead and die if it's not too much trouble.

We won't be the ones dying. Chris says. Yeah, that'll be you. Beryl says, as if I needed clarification. There's one more thing I can try. Sarah says they're my fancy-pansier piece. Well, you better be quick about it, I say. Because I'm not sure these guys are going to go easy on me.

I flip open the cylinder on my gun while reaching into a jacket pocket for loose bullets. But before I can even dump the spent shells out of the cylinder, the two men are coming at me. I have to jump out of the way as Chris comes down so he doesn't crush me. And when I come up for my roll, Barrel is standing there, waiting. He backhands me, and I lose my grip on my.

the revolver. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the remaining cops running away to fight another day. I don't blame them. Chris grabs me from behind in a full Nelson, standing me up and taking my arms out of the equation. Barrel steps forward and slams a fist into my stomach. The pain is like nothing I've ever felt before. I'm pretty sure he tore something inside me. He gets me in the face, knocking a couple of teeth out. Then he goes back to my stomach. After a minute of this, I'm spitting up blood and hoping for a swift death. Swifter than this, anyway. Then there's the sound of a bottle breaking,

and I feel glass bounce off my shoulders. Chris throws me to the ground, and of on all fours on the asphalt. Barrel kicks me in the ribs. There's a crunching sound as the kick, lifts me and dumps me on my back. The dame that hired me, Sarah, stands behind Chris with the neck of a broken bottle in hand. Her dark curls cascade down her shoulders,

framing an end. A angelic face accentuated by rouge and red lipstick. Chris turns around, brushing broken glass out of his hair as he does. Why would you go and do a thing like that? He asks. Yeah, why? Barrel says. They both step up to her, and she moves back, looking more than a little frightened.

Her eyes moved down to me, and we share a look. This was her plan? Hit the guy with a bottle? Dizzy Dame. Chris grabs her by one arm, and Barrel by the other. Hard. She screams in pain. Anger roils inside me like a California earthquake coming to its peak. There's nothing I hate more than two men who abuse women. In Murphy Law's book, that's one thing you don't do. No women, no children. I roll onto all fours. It takes all I have not to scream out in pain.

I lurched to my feet as the two men pin Sarah to the hood of the half-smashed paddy wagon. Reaching into my pocket, I shove the pack of cigarettes out of the way and find the brass knuckles. I get the weapon onto my fingers just before tapping Chris on the shoulder. He turns, and I give him all I've got. Barrel lets Sarah go, turning to swing at me. I duck the blow and then hit him with an uppercut. His head snaps back, and he hits the car next to Sarah and slides down. Stepping over to Chris, I pull him up by the lapels of his black suit jacket,

and then hit him again, busting his nose up. I do the same thing to Barrel for good measure. Then I stand there next to Sarah, breathing hard, looking at the two men. What? No disappearing act now? How are you doing this? Chris says, writhing on the ground, blood pouring out his nose. How?

I shrug. Shouldn't have touched the woman. A whole army of cops shows up all of a sudden. I step aside and let them handcuff the two brothers before tossing them into the back of a paddy wagon. Bloody and barely standing. I put the brass knuckles back into my pocket, grabbing my cigarettes while I'm at it.

That was your plan? I asked Sarah. Hit him with a beer bottle? In a way, yes, Sarah says. She pauses. You're not aware of this, but your reality is not the one most people live in. I'd sure hope not, I say, lighting the cigarette and taking a long pull. It's a grim one.

Sarah shakes her head, onyx curls swishing. I mean, the year is 2023. Cop cars haven't looked like this for a lot of. nearly a hundred years. No one dresses in suits like yours anymore, and no one talks like you do. I squint at her, cigarette dangling from my lips. Did they hit you on the head? You do this. Wherever you are, you turn the surroundings and the people into a hard-boiled noir from the mid-20th century. That's exactly why I came to you with this job. I work for something called the foundation. Yeah, sure. I know the foundation. You work for those low lives? She shakes her head again.

You don't know the foundation, not really. But the fact is, those two men, Chris and Beryl, were very powerful in our version of reality. We couldn't stop them, no matter what we tried. Then I thought about you. I thought that maybe your reality-bending powers might just be enough to take some of their power away. You're making my head hurt, lady, I say, shaking my head. That's why I came over here and hit them with the bottle. Why?

Because you knew it would distract them enough to save me? No, Sarah says. I did it because there's always a woman in trouble in those stories. There's always a woman that needs saving. That's one of the tropes. So I took a chance, and it worked. Huh, I say. Well, I guess there's more than one way of looking at things.

Glad it all worked out. I lever myself off the car and limp toward my vehicle. Here's something else, Murphy Law. Sarah says as I open the car door. You know where to find me, doll, I say. If you pay, I'll play. Just do me a favor and give me a few months to recover, will you? SCP 440-A and dash B are Caucasian males always observed wearing black and gray suits respectively.

They referred to one another as brothers and often address each other by name, with SCP 440-A being called Chris and SCP 4450-B being called Beryl. They claim to be agents of an unspecified employer and express a desire to collect payment for said employer. They start off by making threats which they promise to carry out if they don't see the desired payment. These threats often revolve around property damage and the scale of the threats increases based on the number of missed payments.

The only known method of preventing the destructive behavior is through the offer of sufficient payment of physical currency, after which the pair will behave significantly more cordially for approximately six months. They have displayed a number of anomalous properties, including the capability of spontaneously manifesting in any location, the capability of spontaneously de-manifesting from any location, speed, strength, and durability far beyond human maxima, and prolonged high-speed flight. SCP 3143 is an intrafictional construct. When active, this construct exhibits the ability to temporarily flatten portions of reality

into a narrative derivative of the genre established by North American writers of noir fiction. During this period, SCP 3143 takes on the role of the main character, a 1930s private detective hired to solve a case. All entities flattened by its effect become characters within the narrative surrounding it, exhibiting personalities and attributes typical of the genre style. The narrative will continue until SCP 3143's actions lead to a resolution consistent with the genre.