The SCP Experience - The Dog Fights | SCP-5611

Episode Date: February 25, 2022

SCP Foundation EUCLID class object, SCP-5611: The Dog Fights Author: Lucas Click Check out the Author's work here: newpulptales.com This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-5611, and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content. Parental guidance is advised for children under the age of 18. Listen at your own discretion. #drscp #scp #scpfoundation #doctorscp #scpencounters #securecontainprotect #scpstories #scpexplained #whatisscp Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Three of us are crammed into the front of the van after finishing our shift. The drive to the fights is long, and the close confinement does nothing to mask the stench of body odor from a long day's work. Not even the joint hanging from Matt's lips. The cheap weed is probably more lawn grass than cannabis. I don't know why with the windfall of cash we've made, that Matt doesn't pay for some better gonja. To each their own, I guess. I chew on the cigar and puff away. adding to my own makeshift air freshener to the stinking animal control van.

Despite our conditions, I'm smiling. Lately, I've always been smiling when I head to the fights. Whoever said money can't buy happiness is full of shit. They say that dog is man's best friend. Probably the same bleeding-hearted pussies that said that shit about money. Dogs ain't nobody's best friend. I've been working as a dog catcher since freshest. out of high school, and to me, they ain't been nothing but a pain in the ass, or the arm, or the

leg, or wherever else they can bite you. Our town's a small one. The local animal control consists of myself and three other men, all present in the van. Matt, the former local football legend until a pulled ACL, also pulled out all his scholarships. Hank, the twitchy man sitting in the middle, also needs the paycheck to feed his meth habit, and simple Joey, who's riding in the back with Bean. Joey is the only one that objected when I first brought up the fights. My logic was on point, I must say. We get all these dogs, right? Mangey strays that'll bite you as soon as they look at you. Ain't no way someone's going to adopt them. They'll just sit around for a few weeks until it's up to us to put a bullet in their brains anyways. So,

If they're already on Doggy Death Row, why not make a little scratch? Joey balked at the very idea. Out of all of us, he's the only one that feels anything for the rotten flea bags. The one that never volunteers to pull the trigger and always sneaks away to wipe his eyes when he hears the shot. Matt and Hank were keen on my notion, though. The three of us had gone up to the fights without him that first night. We brought him back a stack of cash.

just to keep his mouth shut in case he was tempted to go running to the sheriff. Joey might like dogs, but he's also got a kid with some medical condition that our insurance doesn't cover. Like my daddy always says, conscience don't weigh as much as Benjamin's in a man's hand. Joey's been coming to the fights with us ever since. Hey guys, Joey stands up toward the grate that separates the cages from the front of the van. Something's up with Bean. I don't give a shit about dogs. but I care a lot about getting paid.

Bean's been our meal ticket for the past month. Most dogs don't last more than a night or two in the ring. So far, we've been investigating in quantity over quality, always having a fresh mean mutt lined up after the pits spit out our latest champion. Bean isn't like the others. A Rottweiler that some family hoped to turn into a guard dog until he had decimated the cat population in the neighborhood, that's the only good thing about dogs.

The only thing I hate more than them is cats. A pow, I ask. He's been sick, Caleb, Joey says. Foaming at the mouth, barking and growling nonstop. I think he's got rabies. Well, no shit, Sherlock, Nat says. And Hank lets out a series of high shrill giggles that feel like someone sticking needles in my ears. Joey has always been a bit slow.

The rest of us started to recognize the signs after Bean's second fight. You don't need to be a vet to know when a mutts starting to go all kujo on you. No one else at the fights seemed to mind. And so far, it's only made Bean tougher to beat. How it escaped Joey's attention? I don't know. What does he want us to do? Give Bean a sick day. It's just, Joey's words get carveled as we pull on the dirt road leading up to the fights. The gravel crunching beneath our tires sends Bean into a fresh barrage of barks and growls.

Well, it seems late term. You know how dogs go in the end? Poor things can't even breathe. I don't know how many more fights he's got in him. Well, don't worry about that. I bat Hank on the shoulder. Old Hanky boy here has dedicated some of his stash to the cause again. Give Bean some of our magic meat.

He'll make it through the night. Both Hank and Joey send me mixed looks of anger and shock, respectively. Hank never did bring much to the operandi. but sometimes his meth is good for more than messing up his teeth. It can give a dog a real edge in a fight. I let their looks linger on me for a minute before I glared into the rearview mirror for them both to see. I outweigh them both easily by a hundred pounds,

and not so much of that is fat. It's not long before they look away. People are like dogs. You got to show them who's the biggest and meanest. I turned the radio back up to let them know, the discussions over. Old Outlaw Country. Real music from days before they started polluting it up with that pop swift shit. Blares through the speakers, drowning out beans yapping. While tapping my hand to the beat on the wheel, I go to light another cigar. The flare of the lighter lets me see

Joey in the back, a bowl of drug-to-ground chuck in one hand, and the other opening beans cage. I drop my lighter. Don't you stupid son, bit? The rest of my words are drowning. out by the sound of the cage sliding open, and a loud growl as a hundred pounds of rabid fury launches itself at Joey. His screams drown out the music, and then Matt and Hank start shouting along with them. I swerved the van to the side of the road as I hear a long, wet tear, and Joey screams stop. Out! I snap at the other two, and Hank and Matt trip over themselves, getting out of the passenger door. Joey's silent, but the sound of something being torn apart continues as the stench of blood rises in the van.

I reach over the grate protecting us and grab the shotgun holstered over it. I walk toward the back and find Matt and Hank waiting awkwardly by the side. Well, what are you limp dicks waiting for? I point to the doors with a shotgun's barrel. Open the goddamn door. They exchange a look and Matt swallows.

Why do we got to get the door? Because I'm the one with the gun. Hank crosses his arms. Why can't one of us take the shot? I pump the shotgun once. Because I'm the one with the gun. Finally, seeing the wisdom of my words, they both take positions on opposite sides of the van.

I take in a deep breath and raise the shotgun up to my shoulder and steady my aim. Fortunately, I've only had a nip of Jack tonight. I don't like to celebrate until after the fights. Once I'm sure I'm ready, I nod to the other two. other two. Hank twists the lever lock on the back of the van and pulls it back. Matt grunts and jerks the door open. Something growls and leaps out of the darkness. I pulled the trigger and the explosion roars. The smell of gunpowder is almost as relishing as the large thump as the mongrel crashes

onto the ground. I step forward. The lights in the back of the van snapped to life when Matt opened the door. Bean is collapsed on the road. The back of his skull is a ragged hole open with chunks of gray. spewed beside him in the dirt. His lips are frothy with blood. Yeah! I kicked the corpse and let out a whoop of victory. Take a look at this shit right here, boys. Between the eyes, right between the goddamn eyes. Neither one turns to me. Their eyes are stuck on the van. I step closer to the light, and my stomach heaves a little at the sight of Joey. The dog has torn into shreds. One of his arms dangles to his torso by only an inch of skin.

His throat has been ripped out. Blood splatters the inside of the van, but it still pools out beneath Joey. It flows across the floor and drips out onto the gravel. Never knew there was that much blood in a man. Matt pulls a bandana from a back pocket and wipes his face before turning to spit. Christ! What the fuck was he thinking opening the cage? I reach into the front pocket of my trousers and grab a fresh cigar.

He wasn't. You know how he used to treat the dogs at the pound? Always thought they'd listened to him, that they'd never hurt him. Besides, the only thing softer than his heart was his brain. Oh man, oh man, oh man. Hank shakes his hand on repeat. We gotta call the cops, man. I smack him hard in the back of the head.

Yeah, real smart. Call the cops this close to the fights? You think the hombres who run the show will take kindly to us bringing heat to their backyard? I'm not scared of many people, but the ones that run the fights are a different story. They speak in a language that sounds like Russian, but I've never been a linguist, and I'm basing that off of what I've heard in Rocky For and Red Dawn. They're tatted up all over their arms and openly carry heavy guns. I chew on the cigar as the plan comes together.

We take them back to the pound. One of those ornery-son bitches got loose and tore into poor Joey here. Luckily, I was there with trusty. Bessie here to put old Beansy down. That's the story, got it? The two of them exchange a look and nod. I shoulder my gun and give them orders to load Bean back into the back. I'm still the one with the gun, so I'm still the one in charge. Matt goes for the dog's hindquarters, and Hank takes Bean's head. A low growl pills the air again, then Bean suddenly jerks and latches onto Hank's wrist. Hank screams as blood gushes from his wrist and the cigar drops from

my mouth. I raised the gun once more, but my surprise makes my shot go wide and blows out one of the van's rear windows. I take in a breath and steady my aim again. But as I squeeze off the shot, Bean yanks Hank forward. The buck shot tears into his chest. It rips his hand from his body and knocks him off his feet. Bean looks at me. Hank's torn hand in his mouth like a bleeding chew toy. Fear grips me, and I don't aim. I fire shot after shot until the mud is dead several time's over. Unfortunately, I've also pumped some new holes in the van and flattened half the tires. Oh Christ! Oh, Jesus Christ! Matt runs a hand through his hair. You killed Hank, you psycho! Shut up! I brandished the empty gun at him. Shut up. Let me think. Your thinking is what got us into this mess.

I thought you said you shot the fucking thing. I had. Hadn't I? I walk over to the side of the road, past Hank's body. Using the light for my cell phone, Bean's blood and brains are gone. What the fuck? It doesn't make any sense. A rabid dog isn't going to play dead and wait. It attacks without any regard for itself. Something like the sound of a small stream running across the gravel gets mine and Matt's attention. I turn the light over toward the sound. All of Bean's blood is flooding across the street, back toward the body. The organs from my shotgun barrage stir next, rolling over themselves and back into the gaping hole in Bean's side. The dog's body convulses and twitches as ruined skin and fur knit themselves back in place.

We watch in horror as Bean crawls back on his feet and growls at us. Matt and I make for the driver's side at the same time. He's closer, but I still have the shotgun, and I swing it low across his bad knees. Matt goes down with a cry of pain, and I leap into the driver's seat and slam the door shut, locking first it, then the passenger door. Matt's face appears at the window, howling and cursing at me as he bangs his fist against the glass. Then Bean drags him onto the ground, his fangs and teeth tearing into his flesh. Thank Christ, I still have another cigar on the dashboard.

My hands shake as I lighted, and I sit there, too shocked to move, and turn on the radio to drown out Matt's screams. Then all of a sudden, there's a gunshot, and Bean, Buck's as his head blows out from behind him, lurching to the ground dead. At first, I think it must be someone from the fights, drawn down by all the commotion. But after a few seconds, the scene from before repeats itself. Bean's body heals itself, and then he launches himself at the door, trying to get to me. I watch for another ten minutes or so before his brains spontaneously blow out with another phantom gunshot,

only for him to repair himself and to try to get at me again. I watch a few more times and eventually start laughing as another idea forms in my mind. I have a dog that can't die, a world-class champion. The people who run the fights would probably pay good money for this type of freak show, and they're probably the type who know how to dispose of three dead bodies. Knowing that I don't have much time, the next time Bean dies, I leap out of the van, purl him into the back, and slam it shut just as he starts to reanimate.

The unpaved road and two working tires make the trek slow, but the fights aren't far, just a little over 10 minutes. Bean comes back to life and does his best to tear my throat out, but he can't get through the metal grate separating the two of us. I let out a long laugh, flip him the bird, and turn up the radio. There's another loud boom as Bean's head explodes once more, and my laughter is cut short by the stabbing pain through my neck. Strength leaves my hands, and the front of the van slams into a tree.

The airbags spring forth, pinning me to my seat. My hands feel weightless, but I manage to unbuckle my seatbelt and flop out onto the ground. I open my mouth, but only rasps come out. Blood flows hot and heavy from my throat. There's something sharp poked clean through it, and with fading strength, I pull it out and reach into my eyes. It's a jagged piece of skull. I try to get to my feet, but my legs refuse to respond,

and I hear the sound of padded feet running across the dirt. The crash jarred the rear doors open, and Bean runs at me, mouth open and frothed with blood. SCP 5611 is an adult male Rottweiler, whose body exhibits a temporal loop. The head of SCP 5611 violently explicitly, every 12 minutes as it is accompanied by the sound of a gunshot. However, no bullet is ever observed.

It will be deceased for six seconds before its body resets, which de-manifests all scattered biomass from the surroundings. The fragments of its skull have been observed to burst out at varying high velocities, which can result in possible injury to nearby individuals. The loop does not limit the autonomy of SCP 5611. It is able to perform whatever action it desires before its sudden death. The specimen is also infected with rabies at the late stages of infection. As a result, it is hostile and prone to biting.

It has never been observed to advance further into the infection to expire from respiratory arrest, presumably due to the temporal anomaly. However, the virus progresses normally in subjects SCP-5611 infects through bite. Attempts at euthanasia mandated by the Ethics Committee, see Addendum Zero One, revealed that SCP 5611 cannot be permanently killed. Its body continues to perform the temporal loop, which resets the specimen back to life at the beginning of the next cycle. The anomaly has also extended SCP 5611's lifespan beyond that of average dogs, for it has not

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