The SCP Experience - Please Kill Me | SCP-203

Episode Date: June 9, 2023

SCP Foundation EUCLID class object, SCP-203: Please Kill Me 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-203 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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created a comforting jumble in my mind. Sharon cackled from the corner at some joke. Her smoke-strained vocal cords making her sound like a crow. Low voices erupted occasionally with the alcohol-induced loss of volume control. It was another quiet night in a dying town, and I wanted nothing more than to drown my sorrows. Which is why I was hunched over the bar, nursing a whiskey with a beer chaser. When Elliot Simpkins slammed through the front door of the odorous establishment,

It wasn't uncommon for the over-excitable Simpkins to come slamming into the place, so I didn't do more than glance at him, at least not until he spoke. There's a freak in the old grocery store, he said. He tried to touch my daughter. That second sentence changed the mood in the room. It was like touching a match to a puddle of gasoline. I even felt the bile rise in my throat, riding on a wave of alcohol-fueled anger. This asshole tried to touch his daughter, his...

daughter? We can't have that. No serif fuckery, we can't have that. A chorus of chairlegs scraping back filled the room as men and women got out of their seats. I stood up and chugged the rest of my two drinks, while Simpkins went over and grabbed a pool cue from the rack at the wall. Then we were all outside, a fine mist suspended in the mountain air. There were nearly two dozen of us, and we marched across the street to the grocery store that had closed down months ago. The closing left us with only the dollar store down the road for groceries, unless we wanted to drive 20 miles to the nearest real grocery store. Another sign of a dying town.

The automatic sliding doors had been boarded up upon closing, but one of the boards was now set aside, and the glass that had been there was broken. Our boots crunched on the shards as we moved into the dark building. People pulled out their phones and turned on their flashlight apps as we moved through the abandoned shelves. Where is this asshole? George Wilson said.

At the back. Simkin said. Behind the meat counter. What the hell was your daughter doing in here anyway? I asked without thinking. That's not important right now, Blayton. Simkin said with venom in his voice. Our daughter should be able to walk around town without being harassed by freak perverts, don't you think?

There were several murmurs of assent, and I took my cue to shut up. We got to the meat counter and stopped. Simpkins pointed with the pool queue. he was carrying. Over there, he said. Several flashlight beams were pointed in that direction, and as they converged on the figure, there were gasps from the small crowd.

What the hell? God Almighty, another person said. He looks like a big bastard. A third said. I stood on my tiptoes to look over the shoulders of those at the front, and I saw a man sitting in a folding chair with his back to us, leaning his elbows on his knees. He was bald, shirtless,

and his skin was sickly pale, but it looked as if he had pieces of foil stuck to his back here and there because the flashlight beams glinted off reflective materials. There were also little metal knobs sticking up from his spine, reminding me as some kind of Star Trek character. In my drunken state, I thought that the man must have been a refugee from one of those Comic-Con festivals where people go dressed up in costumes. That, of course, was ridiculous. but it was an easier idea to accept than the other, more obvious one.

This man wasn't normal. I told you he's a freak, Simpkin said. I felt the mood of the crowd change. It wasn't so fiery anymore. There was the unmistakable emanation of fear, now mixing with the aura of drunken anger. Simpkins seemed to sense this. He moved over toward the entrance to the employee area behind the counter. When no one followed, he turned and looked at us.

Come on, let's show him he can't mess with our kids. He's probably some kind of groomer or something. Still, no one moved with him. Fine, Simpkins finally said. I'll do it myself, bunch of pussies. He moved around the meat counter and toward the man, slowing as he got within ten feet of him. The man still hadn't moved.

I wondered if he was even alive. Given the appearance of his skin, I thought it possible he was dead. Hey, you bastard, Simpkins yelled. You trying to groom my daughter? There was no reply from the bald man. The crowd watched in silence, the air electric with tension. I'm talking to you. Simpkins adjusted the pull cue, so he was gripping the butt.

He reached out and poked the man with the tip of the queue. The guy turned his head, and a gasp escaped every single person in the crowd, myself included. He was wearing some kind of metal mask over his mouth. almost like the guy from that one Batman movie. But it was his eyes that were the most shocking. They were wide open, as if they didn't have eyelids, and they looked to be fixed in place with small metal pins extending from the eye sockets. Simpkins gripped the cue with both hands like a baseball bat.

You touch my daughter, you son of a bitch! The man stood up from his seat and turned towards Simpkins, who had to crane his neck to look up at the guy's face. He must have been eight feet tall. In the light from the cell phones, I could see that his chest also had metal plating here and there, looking like the skin was growing around it. My eyes jumped from his chest to his hands, which hung down by his sides as he peered at Simpkins with those unblinking, unmoving eyes. At first, I thought he was holding several long and narrow swords,

but I soon realized that the blades weren't in his hands. They were his hands, or more precisely, they were his fingers. Ever the idiot, Simpkins didn't do the smart thing, which would have been hide-tailing it out of there like a squirrel chased by a wolf. Instead, he stepped forward. Pool queue held over his right shoulder. I'm not scared of you, freak, he said, and he swung the queue. The dry snap of the wood breaking against the giant's head,

reverberated through the cavernous store. The clatter of the top of the queue falling to the tile floor was followed by a sudden and intense silence as Simpkins stared in shock at the figure. The man's head hadn't even moved with the strike. He hadn't flinched, and there seemed to be no damage to his head. Nothing happened for a long moment. Then, Simpkins dropped the remainder of the pull cue and screamed out, slapping his palms over his ears.

Get out of there! George Wilson cried. Whatever was causing Simpkins' pain, I couldn't hear it. And given the confused looks passed around, neither could anyone else. Simpkins fell to his knees, still screaming and clutching his head. Stop it! you bastard. Wilson shouted as he moved around the meat counter. He ran up to his friend and picked up the broken piece of pull cue Simpkins had dropped. At first, he tried to help Simpkins up,

but the man had fallen onto his side and was writhing on the floor. Blood was coming out of his nose. I said stop it, Wilson yelled, lunging toward the deformed figure and stabbing out with a sharp end of the broken cue. The queue sunk into the skin of his abdomen. The giant looked down at it, moving its whole head, and then back up at Wilson. A moment later, Wilson screamed out and let go of the cube, which protruded from the giant's abdomen. The man backpedaled and tripped over Simpkins, but he managed to keep to his feet,

stumbling toward the gap in the meat counter. The figure stepped forward, and that was when we all lost our nerve. A couple of brave souls took hold of the still-screaming Wilson and helped him hurry out of the store with the rest of us. We left Simpkins in there with the creature. But even outside the store, Wilson wouldn't stop screaming. His nose had started bleeding, and we spent a few minutes trying to help him in the parking lot at the grocery store. He just kept saying, help me please. God, help me!

When his eyes started bleeding, we rushed him across the street to the bar. Inside, we got him on the pool table after shoving all the balls out of the way. Someone called 911 and asked for both police and an ambulance. But since the funding cuts had eliminated the town's police, I knew the nearest police force was the county sheriff's office, which had taken over the policing duties for the town. Lazzangue sur-gely, puissance-molyne,

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Whatever was happening to Simpkins and Wilson wasn't anything I'd ever heard of. And I didn't think it would be an easy fix when the ambulance did get here. I'm sure what to do, I took my seat at the bar again. But the bartender, Ted Young, was over trying to help Wilson. So I reached over and snagged a bottle of whiskey, and poured myself a stiff drink.

After a few minutes, Wilson's screaming was too much for me to bear. I topped my glass off with more whiskey and stepped out into the misty night, but it wasn't much better out here. I could still hear Wilson screaming in the bar, and I could hear Simpkins screaming in the grocery store too. Although he was much quieter than Wilson, given the distance. I stared at the grocery store across the street as I gulped down the whiskey in my glass. I couldn't stop picturing the thing in that store.

It wasn't wearing a mask like I'd initially thought. There was a metal grate that looked like a mask, but it was part of a metal wedge that had replaced the man's jaw. The pieces I thought were part of a costume or aluminum foil stuck to his skin were really exposed parts of his surgically altered skeleton. I was sure of it. And his legs, there was something wrong with his legs, like they had one too many joints.

I'd paste in front of the bar. thinking about things for what seemed like a long time. When I came out of my trance, I found that I'd drunk all the whiskey I'd poured myself. Wilson was still screaming, but I realized I could no longer hear Simpkins. A rush of drunken determination came over me, and I threw the empty glass aside as I started across the street.

I couldn't just let Simpkins die in there, all alone. I had to get him out. I may have never liked the guy much, but he didn't deserve that. I pulled out my phone and marched in the street. to the store, straight to the meat counter. But when I stepped through the gap in the counter and shine the light on the area where I'd last seen Simpkins, I froze. The giant and surgically deformed man was leaning over Simpkins' body.

He looked up at me with those pin-held eyes. And as I saw what he'd done to Simpkins, held in his long and sharp metal fingers was a bloody spinal column. It belonged to Simpkins. I could see that from the gory mess of the man on the floor. The giant stood up, dropping the spinal column to the floor as he turned his full attention on me. That rush of determination disappeared like a fart in a well-ventilated room. I raised my hands, one of which still gripped my phone. I'm good, I said.

Ain't no problem with you. None at all. I just wanted some meat, but I forgot that the store closed. As I backed out of the area, interference, scratchy words escaped the metal ground. great, where the man's mouth used to be. They were in some foreign language, and I couldn't understand them at all. But as the guy turned his head to watch me back toward an aisle, I had the strange feeling that he was trying to say he was sorry.

Then, just before I lost him from sight, he said something I recognized. Tell me. The scratchy radio voice said, Kill me, please. That was too much for me. I turned and ran out of the store and back across the street. When the police showed up later, there was no sign of the giant, only the bloody mess he'd left behind. Wilson had died on the pool table in the bar, seizing while bleeding out of every orifice.

I later learned that Simkins' daughter wasn't even in town that night. She was staying at a friend's house the next town over. Apparently Simpkins himself had broken into the grocery store. For what reason, we never found out, and he was the one who found the giant. But, then again, that sounded just like him. He was always one to pick a fight he couldn't possibly win. SCP 203 appears to at one time have been a Caucasian human male of indeterminate age. Subject is 8 feet 2 inches tall and weighs approximately 440 pounds.

The subject's entire skeletal structure has been removed and replaced with a mechanical framework made of cast iron that seems to move of its own volition. The framework appears to be the sole cause of SCP-203's ambulation, independent of its musculature. Several areas of skin on the subject's body have split, revealing a section of the subcutaneous metal framework. In addition to these areas, some parts of the metal structure seem to have been made to intentionally protrude from the flesh. The augmentations to the subject's body include, but are not limited to, the fingers have been extended into sharpened barbs approximately three feet long. In place of the mouth, a small, audio transducer-like grate has been welded.

This augment produces basic vocalizations through an unknown mechanism. The vertebrae have been replaced with a segmented iron bar, which has several sharp barbs haphazardly welded to it. The legs have two added joints with steel tubes of an unknown function protruding from them. The ears have been removed. skin stapled together. The eyes have been retained, but are held in the forward-facing position by several needles protruding from the eye socket. While lacking vocal chords, SCP 203 can communicate verbally through the transducer located on its faceplate. It appears to understand

English to an extent, but its primary language appears to be a previously unknown Arabic dialect. SCP 203 has no recollection of a life before its augmentations, only that it feels near constant pain and confusion.