The SCP Experience - Shooting Yourself Can Increase Your Bullet Resistance | SCP-2076

Episode Date: January 27, 2025

In a small Midwestern town, strange billboards with absurd slogans begin to appear overnight, promising impossible benefits. Caleb, an exhausted young man battling a nasty cold and a leeching roommate, finds himself drawn to one bizarre ad that seems to invade his dreams and reality. As his world grows more surreal, Caleb’s desperation for relief spirals into a dark obsession. The line between absurdity and danger blurs as he uncovers the sinister influence of an enigmatic campaign that’s gripping the town. Tension mounts in this unsettling tale of manipulation, paranoia, and the lengths one might go to escape their pain. SCP Foundation KETER class object, SCP-2076 This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-2076 and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ Author: Cyrus Spears * * * 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

Want to become Minister of China? This man did. With only three low payments of $49.99, shooting yourself can increase your bullet resistance. Caleb had been staring at the billboard for what felt like a full ten minutes, and it didn't make any more sense the more he read it. The background was a smiling construction worker,

the kind who was clearly a model, more than a real blue-collar worker. Everything about him was clean and shiny, with a bright white smile that looked like it was either Photoshop or AI. The text across the board was highlighted in different colors, neon green, orange, and bright pink. His McDonald's cup of ice-cold sprite was sweating all over his hand and making his fingers go numb. He pulled his eyes away from the billboard long enough to switch hands and flick the water off his fingers, rubbing his palm onto his coat.

He wondered how long his buddy Trent, planned to leave him standing in the parking lot of the split-second oil change, looking like a mouth-breathing asshole, especially since he had a nasty cold. Trent's driver's license was currently hanging out in a lockbox behind a bar, and he wouldn't be able to get it back until at least four o'clock when they opened. Split-second my ass. With perfect timing, Trent appeared behind Caleb with a handful of glossy papers. That took 30 whole fucking minutes.

Yeah, Caleb said. He tried to clear his nose again, but it was like trying to suck up a milkshake through a coffee straw. Are you ready to go home? Yeah, can I have a sip of that? Trent swiped Caleb's drink without waiting for an answer. Caleb thought about hacking a cough to warn Trent about what he was in danger of contracting.

But he decided to leave it alone. This side of town is weird, Caleb said. The straw made empty cup noises as Trent suck. down the last of his sprite. Yeah, it is. Bad vibes all around. I'm actually banned from that pawn shop over there. He gestured to a nearby building with bars on the windows.

Caleb rolled his eyes and snorted again. I'm not surprised. His head hurt, and it was making his eyes droop. His ribs ached from the thunderous, pervasive coughing, and all he wanted to do was stretch out in bed and not wake up for a full 24 hours. I tried to trade to PS3 there. to PS3 there, Trent said, even though Caleb hadn't asked for details.

Apparently, it was full of roaches. But how was I supposed to know that? I told them that it had been in my car for a few weeks, but they still wouldn't give me anything for it. Not even ten bucks to put towards the gas of driving all the way across town. Caleb nodded and scrunched his brow, pinching the bridge of his nose and massaging the sore sides. Keys? he asked. The more his head robbed, the shorter his patience grew. Yeah, yeah, for sure. Trent tossed him the keys, and they jingled through the air. Caleb caught them and started walking towards Trent's car.

The old blue truck was rusted up and not good for much anymore, but Trent had been holding onto it since college and wasn't the type to let go of things easily. God, I'm starving, Trent said, sliding into the passenger seat. Think we can hit up a drive-thru on the way home? Sure. Caleb said, as he stuck the key into the ignition and turned over the engine. Back through the McDonald's again? It's right there. Nah, Trent said. I don't think I want that. There's a Popeye's down the road, though. Just make it you turn up here at the light.

Caleb rolled his eyes. He wasn't in the mood to argue. Okay, he said. That's fine. Oil change cleaned me out, though. Trent huffed. Didn't realize these shits were going to charge me through the nose, just to dump a bottle of full synthetic down the hatch. You've got me, though, right? I'll pay you back on Thursday for sure. An hour later, Caleb was finally able to collapse in his bed. He glanced at his phone, squinting in pain, and dragging the brightness down as far as it would go. One p.m. He had a few hours before Trent would be ready to go back to the bar. Caleb had half a mind to leave him there, too. Just drop him off and drive away. They had been friends since college, but not a day

went by recently where Caleb didn't regret letting that loser crash on his couch. Caleb punched two dark blue NyQuil pills through their silver foil packaging and popped them into his mouth. He washed them down with a glass of water. He had already sitting on his bedside table and then he rolled over to drag his pillow down over his head. All he wanted was some sleep. Eventually, he drifted off, and when he did, he had strange dreams. He dreamt about the construction worker from the billboard ad. The man just stood there with his mile-wide, two-white smile, and his bright, clean, yellow hard hat. There wasn't anything behind him, just a long, dark hallway that seemed to stretch on forever, and the man's body took up most of it. Caleb

tried to look around the man to see if anything was behind him, but he couldn't see past the worker's shoulders. Although Caleb could feel something, it was like he knew, somehow, that there was something insidious behind the worker that was slowly creeping its way forward. Caleb kept inching closer to the construction worker. Or maybe the man was getting closer to him. There was no way to tell. The man didn't look like he was moving. His smile stayed plastered onto his face, and his eyes remained fixed forward.

But Caleb was now close enough to see that there were tears streaming down the man's face. The shirt underneath his bright orange and yellow vest was soaked with them. There were long, damp strengths down the front, going all the way to the hem, with spots of dark mold starting to grow as if they had been there for a while. It freaked him out. Caleb took several steps back, now too afraid to even try to look down the hall. He just wanted out of this nightmare, out of this weird, liminal space that felt like it was closing in on him. And somehow, he also knew that behind him wasn't much better.

It was another long, empty hallway, and if he turned around, he just might disappear. Something flashed across the floor. Caleb looked down and saw that he was standing on a screen. He felt the static through the bottom of his shoes, like he was standing on an old TV. And the words ran across the bottom in bright red bands, the yellow words flashing at him in all caps.

Shooting yourself can increase your bullet resistance! A light appeared underneath the floor, and it lit up like a screen. It kept getting brighter and brighter until Caleb's eyes burned inside their cavities. Caleb growled, fighting the urge to claw at his face and ripped them out. He dug his nails into the side of his head and kept his eyes on the construction worker. He saw tears falling from the tip of the man's nose, and they sent up sparks as they fell and went splat against the floor screen.

Shooting yourself can increase your bullet resistance. Magic bullets clear congestion. This is not a dream. Hallways are the death of all life. Lemon rolls can bring you joy when baked with cheese. Russians are holding a hearing to determine whether they bring back neon chess tournaments. The words in front of him looked, scrambled, but he still knew exactly what they were saying. Caleb took another step back and his foot slipped, like he had been standing on the edge of a hole,

and he fell. Darkness swallowed him up almost instantly, and he kept falling. Somewhere in the distance, he heard sniffling, and he wondered if he had a little It was that weird, sobbing construction worker. Caleb woke up with his nose stuck to his pillow. He groaned in disgust and pulled himself free, grabbing a handful of tissues from the box next to the water cup and began cleaning himself up.

His eyes still hurt, and he was sweating something fierce. The pillowcase had a wet imprint of his face, and when he touched his forehead, it was like holding his hand over a stove coil. He thought he had been doing better, but maybe driving Trentor, around had kicked his fever back up. Caleb couldn't even sniffle anymore. Any attempt resulted in a warning twang that sent a little spike of pain up to his frontal lobe. A knock on his bedroom

door almost made him want to rip his own head off. Hey! Trent opened the door and poked his head through. Caleb gave him what he hoped was a murderous look. I can't go, Caleb growled. I'm sick. Come on, man. It won't take long, Trent said. I need my license back. Then you won't have to drive me anywhere. I don't care. Caleb fell back to the bed. Break the law. Dude.

Trent wiggled his way into the bedroom. Caleb had his blackout curtains pulled over the window, so it was even dark in the middle of the afternoon. The sliver of light that his unofficial roommate led in slashed across his eyes like a knife. Don't be like that. In all seriousness, if I get pulled over without my license again,

I'm going to lose it for good. Then you will have to drive me everywhere for eternity. Doesn't that sound like it's going to suck? Caleb resented several parts of that statement. For one thing, he hated the implication that he would drive Trent anywhere and everywhere he wanted to go. He also hated Trent, basically pinning even a hypothetical license suspension on him. The more his headache grew, the more he wanted to tell his friend to go find another couch to snore on. But the pain fried all his circuits, except for the ones that lent themselves purely to survival.

Okay, Caleb said. Fine, we'll go get your license. But if I do this for you, I expect you to leave me alone for the rest of the week. I am so sick and I can't handle you right now. Trent burked up. Oh, you bet, he said. I'll leave you alone, quiet as a mouse. And I need you to get a job, one that is.

isn't scratching lottery tickets. Trent looked a little perturbed about that, but he nodded. Okay, he said. Sure, Caleb. I can leave you alone and start looking for a job. That was enough of a win, he guessed. Caleb rolled out of bed and slipped into his bed shoes. He grabbed his jacket and pulled it over his shoulders, one sleeve, still flapping as he left an arm out,

and swiped Trent's keys out of his hand. Lazzang sur-goled, Puisance-molyne Pruh minutes. We're like to dojo. Prere to play? Vive the pleasure with Leo Jo. The casino in-line

that proposes the most recent machine-a-sou and the games to get-a-bos-grat-sue on Big Bas-Banza without exigance bonanza. Hey, I've got gained. Woo-hoo!

Sonture the pleasure! Play-O-Jo! 18-T-T-N-LINN-P 10-TURT-RUKKKBAS-B-B-BANZZA. DePo Minimimum of 10-DLAR. Veil to pay-Buson-Restest responsible. The conditions

apply. It was almost five by the time they pulled up to the bar. People were already starting to gather.

Caleb parked as close to the door as he could, ending up on the side of the building. I'll be right back.

Trent promised. He let himself out of the car and Caleb's head sank into his hands. He must have fallen asleep. When he woke up,

it was dark. And the clock on the dashboard read 732. The gas tank was nearly empty, and there was no sign of Trent, but there was a big line forming in front of the door. So where the hell was his roommate? Caleb grabbed a few fast food napkins from the center console and twisted them into tight little ropes that he then stuck up his nose. The tips

tickled the inflamed insides of his nostrils and made him want to sneeze, but he held it in. He thought about trying to get around the side of the bouncer, but there was no point in that. Caleb found the end of the growing line and waited, coughing hard enough that people kept their distance on either side. Honestly, he was fine with that. The bar windows were covered in all sorts of brightly colored flyers and various advertisements. Caleb couldn't read most of them, because indie bands and burlesque troops had a habit of placing black, blurry fonts on top of pink and yellow saturated papers that made them impossible to decipher. It made his graphic designer heart ache.

One flyer did stand out to him. It was half peeking out from behind a torn paper, advertising a karaoke night. At first, all Caleb could see was half the face of a construction worker, the same one from his dream and the billboard, and then the highlighted words underneath. The construction worker's face was wrinkled with water damage, and the highlighted words that he could see read, Magic bullets clear congestion!

Caleb shook his head. A shiver of terror crawled out of his gut and shimmied its way up his spine. He kept his chin down and his eyes forward until he reached the bouncer. A tall, blonde man with a military buzz cut and a black t-shirt that was wrapped so tightly around his biceps that they looked like bulging sausages. Caleb coughed into his hand and muttered something about, Just need to get my friend. He flashed his ID and the bouncer let him through.

The bar was one type of joint that, back in the day, would have been amazing for raves. It had black lights installed in the ceiling, while the rest were multicolored and made the dark room feel a little bit bigger than it actually was. The whole thing was approximately the size of a shoebox, and a stripper pole in the middle took up even more space, especially once people started grabbing onto it and swinging around. It smelled like weed, cigarette smoke, hard liquor, and piss. Caleb hated it. He wanted nothing more than to get in, find Trent, and get out as quickly as possible. The music throbbing over the speakers was some ear-splitting brand of metal

that made him want to take an ice pick and split his own skull open. If only he had a gun, he would stick the muzzle up his nose and fire straight into his brain. Magic bullets were known for clearing congestion, but he didn't have to have to be a gun. have any of those. He wasn't even sure where he could get some. He finally found Trent on an old crushed velvet couch, snuggled up to someone who was wearing rainbow goggles on top of their head. Caleb planted himself in front of them and spread his legs, folding his arms and giving his roommate as hard a look as he could muster. Trent practically jumped out of his seat. The person he had been sitting with went reeling back once the contact was broken and almost

fell on the floor. Caleb felt a little bad, but not bad enough to break his concentration. If he could have propelled Trent off the couch with pure willpower, he would have done it. Hey, Caleb. Trent used that tone when he was trying to get himself out of trouble. Sorry, I, uh, lost track of time. Get back to the truck. Caleb growled, almost gagging on his own mucus as the rumbling upset his throat. We are going home now. Okay, okay. Trent held up his hands in surrender. I just have to pay off my tab. Screw your tab.

Caleb snapped. There were enough people crowded around the bar that he already knew it would take forever, and he didn't trust Trent not to disappear all over again. They'll charge your card in the morning. Trent opened his mouth like he was going to argue, but it looked like he knew that he screwed up bad.

He followed Caleb out silently, not saying anything else, even when he sat down in the passenger seat. The gas needle, was hovering so far below E that Caleb was amazed the truck even started. Trent puffed heavy, tequila-scented breaths into the trapped air, and the smell that he was forced to pull through his mouth made Caleb want to vomit. He started the truck and went to the nearest gas station. I'm going to pump gas, Caleb said. His nose was so clogged that his ears

popped when he swallowed, and every word sounded like he was underwater. Do not get out of the truck. Cross my heart, Trent said. But I'm hungry as hell. Do you think you could grab me some chips while you're in there? Caleb didn't respond. He got out of the truck and slammed the door shut. He took a step towards the pump and noticed there was a piece of paper taped over the screen. It said, pay inside. Caleb turned on his heel and walked into the gas station. The door was heavy, and some greeting alarm led out a half-hearted wheeze when he stepped inside. He walked right up to the counter where a greasy-haired teenage boy was scrolling on his phone with his feet propped up. Caleb couldn't even clear his throat to get the boy's attention.

He slammed his hand down on the countertop and smacked it a few times until the teenager looked up. Oh, shit! The teenager scrambled into a sitting position. I mean, hey, how's it going? Fine, Caleb garbled. I need 20 on pump two. He pulled out his card to swipe and glanced up out of habit. He had quit smoking years ago, but he found himself always looking for the classic Marlborough Reds anyway,

like nodding to an old friend you don't speak to anymore. Except this time, he didn't see cigarettes. The wall behind the teenager was lined with cases of shells and bullets. Caleb's eyebrows sprang up into his hairline. What are those? He asked. The teenager glanced over his shoulder. Oh, we just got them in, he said casually.

We don't sell rifles, but we need. do have some handguns down in the case. He tapped on the counter, and Caleb glanced down. He hadn't even noticed the glass front to the gas station's counter. And yet right there, next to the obnoxiously big vapes and cartridges of cotton candy-scented juice, he saw a row of pretty handguns that gleamed brighter than new nickels. Wow, Caleb said. He dragged in another ragged breath through his mouth.

Are they any good for headaches? The cashier gave him a strange. look and then laughed awkwardly like Caleb was telling some sort of joke. I want to look at that one, Caleb said. He pointed towards a small pistol that was almost as big as his palm. The cashier bent to pull it out, and Caleb caught a glimpse of another box behind his head. Magic bullets! Clears everything out! First try! Caleb's heart raised. I need some of those. He pointed above the teenager's head.

The cashier barely had. time to set the gun down on the counter before turning to see wherever his patron was pointing at. Which ones? The cashier asked. Magic bullets, Caleb said. They fit this cartridge, right? Sure. The cashier turned and gave Caleb a strange look. You sure that's what you want? Yes, I want them. Caleb insisted. The cashier hesitated for only half a second longer, and then he shrugged. He grabbed a box of the magic bullets and put them in a plastic bag. This too. Caleb tapped the shiny pistol.

The cashier grabbed it and packed it into a box filled with dark foam. Caleb took the bag with his prize and then swiped his card for his new total. His head already felt a little lighter as soon as he stepped out of the gas station. Some sort of placebo effect, he supposed. The anticipation of relief was almost as good as the medicine itself. He almost forgot about the gas, But the sight of the pump reminded him, and he looped his arm through the plastic handle as he went to dump a full $20 worth into Trent's tank.

He intended to make his roommate pay him back every penny. Magic bullets clear congestion. That was what the flyer had said, right? Caleb dug his hand around in his bag and pulled out the box, looking on the front, and then the back, just to see if he was crazy. There was nothing else legible printed on the box. Everything looked like it had been smeared or printed backwards inside of the factory. It wasn't a big deal, though.

He knew how to use a gun. His old man had taught him how many years ago. The pump clicked. Caleb put the nozzle back and it spit out his receipt. He left the paper flapping there and then got back into the driver's seat of the old blue truck. Trent looked over at him expectantly, but then his friend's face fell when he realized there were no snacks in Caleb's bag. Ah, come on, Caleb! You were in there forever! He paused, staring at the pistol as Caleb pulled it out of its nice black box.

Jesus, Caleb! Where did you get that? I didn't know they sold handguns and a... Shut up! Caleb grinded his teeth. He emptied the box of magic bullets into his lap and counted out two, one for each nostril. They were slim and long, and he could almost picture them shooting up into his nasal cavities, puncturing the thick globs of mucus and causing them to run down out of his nose, relieving all that pressure that made his head feel like a balloon. He could already feel his ears popping in relief. God, the smile he would smile. It would be just as wide as that construction workers in the ad.

Dude! Trent leaned over. You're freaking me out. Trent reached out to grab his wrist, but Caleb smacked his friend's hand with the butt of his gun. Quit! Caleb's words came up. out in a ragged, drowning scream.

I can't take it anymore. I am done. He laughed. He didn't know why. It just came bubbling up his chest. He coughed again, rough, and rib-breaking. I saw it on a flyer, okay? How bad could it be?

You worry too much. And you're the one dragging me all over town when I feel like I got stepped on. So this is really all your fault! He loaded up the gun and cocked it. His fingers shaking and fumbling the bullets. He was so excited. Oh my God, I need this. Sweet relief! Sweet relief at last! And then we're going home, and you're going to get a job! I'm so over this congestion! I'm so over you! Sweet relief! Caleb jammed the muzzle up against his nose.

Snot collected on the edge of the cold metal, and he kept pushing until the barrel stretched the lobe and cracked the cartilage. Caleb moaned in relief as he squeezed at the trigger, and with a loud bang, all the congested. question went exploding out of the back of his head. SCP 2076 is the defined designation for an info-hazardous publicity campaign currently manifesting through folders, billboards, and local radio and television transmissions in the state of Illinois.

When compared to non-anomalous publicity efforts, SCP 2076 shows no visually perceptible signs of anomalous properties in its layout, design, or distribution, and is laid out as a common low-budget, marketing operation. The content of instances of SCP 2076 will invariably consist of false or incomprehensible messages, delivered through short sentences highlighted in vibrant colors, and depicted by forms of imagery representing a part of the situation or statement described by the phrase. This combination will be perceived by sapient beings as a part of a common and credible

advertisement asset, solely distributed through means of communication, and will be interpreted as legitimate by any affected instances. Any sapient beings affected by an instance of SCP 2076 will show continuous interest in taking part in the activities described by the info hazard, while holding a constant need to permanently introduce the depicted situation to one's daily activities in an ordinary manner, and while not being able to perceive any egregious peculiarities involving one's recent behavior.