The SCP Experience - The Great Mumbo Jumbo | SCP-6757

Episode Date: December 26, 2025

When a quiet, scarred janitor discovers a deck of sentient playing cards in an SCP facility’s supply closet, he’s offered a harmless magic trick—one that hijacks his mind and replaces him with the Great Mumbo Jumbo. Listen ad-free + bonus stories with a 7-day FREE trial of ⁠SCP Premium⁠. Cancel anytime. No commitment. This story is derived from ⁠The SCP Foundation Database⁠ and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0.⁠ ⁠⁠⁠⁠https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/⁠⁠⁠ Author: Jake Bible * * * CONTENT DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content not limited to intense themes, strong language, and depictions of violence intended for adults. Parental guidance is strongly advised for children under the age of 18. Listener discretion is advised.  #thescpexperience #scp #scpfoundation #scpencounters #securecontainprotect #scpstories Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

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50-tour-d-D-Bass Bonanza. DePos minimum of 10 dollars. Veil to pay They're not responsible. The conditions apply. The guard says as I push my mop bucket down the hallway, both of my hands holding the mop handle steady, steering the bucket like I'm using a huge joystick, which in my mind, I kind of am.

I like games. I like playing them, watching docs on how they're made, and YouTube videos of critiques and reviews. I still go to the arcade close to my trailer, although most of the old classics have out of orders signs on them, which is a pity. I smile up at the guard as I pass by. I can't remember his name, Chad or Tony or Trent or something. They're all the same. Tall, burly, mean, or at least, the ones around this side are. I'm barely five feet eight, slim, and have some issues with my face. Makes it hard for folks to take me seriously, especially the Chad's or Tony's or Trent's. They look down at the scars on my face, just like they look down on me as a person.

Hey, Zero, what did you say happen to your face again? The Chad or Tony or Trent asks. Pitbull got you? I'd sigh, but I'm all out of those. I've been here for six years now. My sighs left a long time ago. Chihuahua, I say and keep pushing the mop bucket down the hall, headed to the east wing, where I've been called to clean up something that no one else

wants to touch. Chad or Tony or Trent starts laughing. That's right. The damn Chihuahua. How the hell did one of those little fuckers do that to your face? Will you want a coma? I could tell him yet again that I was three years old when it happened, and that chihuahuas are one of the most aggressive dog breeds

according to ER records, especially for toddlers. But I don't bother answering. He doesn't care what I say. Just like he doesn't care what my name is. They all call me Zero because that's my security clearance. And being one of only two janitors on site, the name stuck, since the other Zero Clearance personnel all work on the periphery of the site, coming in only when needed.

And I work the night shift, which makes me an easy target. No supervisors around to tell the jerks to knock it off. Hey, Zero, I'm goddamn talking to you. The guard moves from his post and takes three long steps to block. blocked my path. He has to be at least six three, maybe more. He's got one of those pinched faces, with eyes too close together and a nose that slices through the air. His lips are thin and white. His chin, a hunk of granite, dotted with stubble, and what looks like powdered sugar and dried cream from a donut. All the donuts were gone when I came on shift. I bet this jerkhole ate them all.

Excuse me? I say and try to steer around him. They need me in the east wing. The East Wing? Oh, wow. What happened? One of the anomalies over there piss its bed? He laughs loudly. Too loudly. Oh, no, no.

I know what it is. It's one of the researchers, right? Got spooked by some lizard thing and dropped some squirty brown in their shorts. And now it's all over your precious clean floor. I bet that's it. He nudges the mop bucket with his boot. If that's the case, then you ain't going to need that. You're going to need some diapers and wet wet.

He looks me up and down, even leans to look behind me. Don't see no diapers or wipes on you. I bet you had to use them yourself, eh, Zero? Mama never body trained you, I'm guessing. Apparently, I do have a sigh left, and I let it out slowly. Can you move, please, so I can do my job? I ask. And my name's Ricky, not Zero. He leans in close, his breath, stinking of vanilla cream and tonsil stones.

I recoil, and he doesn't like that. His hand shoots out and grabs the front of my coveralls, pulling me even closer than before, the mop and bucket wedged awkwardly between us. Your name is zero if I say your name is zero. Got it, zero? He makes a point of letting the spit fly from his lips and drops of saliva mixed with bits of dough.

He hasn't even bothered to clear from his teeth speckle my scarred face. Damn, you are ugly. No way a Chihuahua did that. He shoves me back, and my hands slip from the mop's handle as my feet go out from under me. I land hard on my ass and tears well up in my eyes from the shock to my tailbone. What the hell, Zero? You can start crying? He laughs and kicks the mop bucket to the side. Sudzy water slops up over the side, splashing down onto the old linoleum.

Damn it, Zero, look what you made me do. Get your ass off that floor and clean this mess up before someone important slips and hurts themselves. He kicks the bucket again, much harder this time, and it completely falls over. Water floods the corridor, and before I know it, Chad or Tony or Trent or whatever his name is, is on me, gripping my shoulder so hard that I am forced to scramble up onto my feet for fear of him tearing the skin or ripping a tendon. Clean that shit up, Zero, now! I could argue, I could shout, I could fight back, but that's not me.

I like quiet and games and good books and Japanese sodas I find at the Asian market. I don't like fighting. I don't like conflict. I don't like violence. I'm not a Chad or a Tony or a Trent. And I'm not Zero. Ricky. I say as I pull away from his grip.

That's going to bruise for sure. What did you just say, Zero? My name is Ricky. It's not Zero. Please don't call me that. And I already told you that your damn name is Zero. if I damn well tell you it is. We stand there, mop water pooling around our boots.

His donatty tonsil stone breath filling the space around us, strong enough to overpower the industrial floral scent of the suds that float along the spreading mess. I shrug and start to walk off. He grabs me again. Where the hell do you think you're going? I need a fresh dry mop to clean that up. Maybe some towels.

Yeah, well, don't just leave your crap here. Take that bucket and mop with you. This isn't your janitor's closet. This is a hallway where people way more important than you come and go so they can do actual jobs. He shoves me away and stalks over to the upended bucket, grabbing the folded up wet floor cone tucked into a slot on the side. Look at me, Zero.

He says as he unfolds the cone, letting its wires spring into form, and sets it down in the middle of the mess. I'm doing your damn job for you. What's even the point of having you around? I don't answer. I just walk to the bucket and mop, set them right, and wheeled them back the way I came, while Chad or Tony or Trent or whatever sneers at me. Don't take too long, Zero.

If this mess isn't cleaned up in the next 15 minutes, then the next mess will be my foot up your ass. I don't bother to point out that none of what he said makes any sense. My key fob opens the door at the end of the hallway, and the one at the end of the next hallway, and the next. and the next. It's a quiet night, and I don't see another soul the entire way. The graveyard shift researchers must be in their labs, busy studying the many nocturnal anomalies the site holds. The bosses aren't in their offices, directing operations or going over budgets. They're at home asleep in their big houses. The strike teams are out on missions, gathering up more anomalies for

the researchers to study and the sleeping bosses to budget for. A nice, quiet night. until I reach my supply closet, which is barely bigger than a standard closet, I switch out the wet mop for a dry one. In the middle of the floor is a playing card. I bend down and see that it's the jack of hearts. Still bent over, I look behind me, glancing out the supply closet door to see if anyone is watching. But, of course, no one is anywhere around. I reach down to pick up the card, but pause just before my fingertips.

touch it. We've been trained for this. Just last week, we had a refresher course on what to do and what not to do when presented with something out of the ordinary. And a single playing card in the middle of the floor of the supply closet is definitely out of the ordinary, especially since it wasn't there when I left earlier with my full mop bucket. I stand up and think about who I should tell. Is this a security issue? Do I tell a guard? My thoughts go to Chad or Tony or Trent, or whatever. Back by the mess I still need to clean up. Telling him or any of the others like him would be useless. I'd only be made fun of or blown off or harassed even more than I already am. I mean, look at it. It's just a playing card. Then it's not just a playing card. It's two

playing cards as a new one falls from the ceiling, landing next to the Jack of Hearts. An Ace of Spades. A, huh, slips out of my side. my mouth, disturbing the silence. With my eyes on the two cards, I back out of the supply room and into the hallway. I glance left, no one. I glance right, no one. I return my attention to the cards, which are no longer two, but now four. The eight of diamonds and three of hearts have joined the others. I slip another, huh, look left again, look right again, then step back into the supply closet. The six of clubs and four of spades float down and land with the rest. My attention is now turned to the ceiling, and I spot their entryway. There's an HVAC vent right in the center

of the ceiling, and as I stare at it, two, three, eight, a dozen cards come flying out like they have been ejected from an auto dealer on the fritz. I saw that happen once in a ratty casino in Reno that was looking to replace human dealers with cheap machines. There was a tower surge, and the cards were suddenly flying everywhere. But I highly doubt there's an auto dealer machine up in the HVAC shafts. So, waiting until the newcomers have settled next to their friends, I grab my stepstool and screwdriver and climb up to the vent. A couple of twists, and I have the vent loose, setting it and the screws on top of the nearest shelf.

I pull a small flashlight out of the chest pocket of my coveralls and stick my head up into the shaft. I barely managed to wedge my arm up past my neck so I can shine the flashlight into the darkness. Oh dear! I shout and quickly withdraw. I stumble off the step stool and back out into the hallway as fast as I can without falling on my ass. Card after card after card cascades out of the open shaft. They circle and swirl about. I almost expect some of them to sprout wings and fly right out of the supply closet door. They continue to swirl for several minutes. I keep expecting someone to come running for someone to notice, but no one shows. It's only me. Then, the cards freeze mid-swerle. I try to count them, and by the time I hit 40, they unfreeze and drop to the floor. But not into

a pile or a mess. They land in two piles, then riffle themselves into a single stack. From what I can see, there's a full deck of cards sitting in the middle of my supply closet. Want to see a magic trip? A voice asks, echoing at a. out of the vent in the ceiling. You're going to love it. Just pick a card. The voice says, hesitating and for good reason, I stay up against the wall. Ah, come on.

Who doesn't love magic tricks? The voice asks. I would be lying if I said I didn't. Magic tricks are just puzzles. And puzzles are games. And I love games, so... But I'd be crazy to respond to the voice. This isn't a maximum security site.

But we do have some very weird and potentially dangerous anomalies housed here. Not that the deck of cards looks dangerous, or that the voice sounds ominous or anything. He kind of sounds, well, normal in a performer sort of way. Hello? I call. Who's there? Well, I'm so glad you asked.

I'm the great mobo-jumbo. The cards leap into the air and fan out like a giant poker hand. Then they come back together, and the deck drops to the ground once more. Each card perfectly in line with the other, as if the deck had just been made at the card factory, or wherever they make playing cards. Have you heard of me? The voice asks. Uh, I'm afraid I haven't. Oh, well, that's all right.

You don't have to believe in me for the magic to work. I just have to believe in you. The cards split and riffled back together. They even bend the opposite way in what I think is called a bridge? Yes, bridge. Is that the trick? I ask, because it's a good trick. No, no, that's just a little flourish, a bit of sleight of hand.

I look around again. Um, I don't see any hands. The voice chuckles, and the cards shake, as if they are laughing too. Then they still... No, the trick is for you to pick a card, any card, and I will read your mind, so I can tell you exactly which card you pick. Okay, well, that sounds fun. I've seen hustlers doing that on sidewalks in the city,

but they usually have hats out for tips. I don't see a hat. I don't have one, and I don't need one. The joy of magic is my payment. Making people happy is my reward. I'd love to share a little joy and happiness with you, Ricky. I gasp, then clamp my hands over my mouth. How do you know my name?

I see you around. People aren't very nice to you, are they? I shake my head, then realize he can't see me. No, no, they aren't. So, of everyone in this place, I think you deserve a little extra joy and happiness the most. What do you say, Ricky? Play along with me, please? I don't know.

You have anything better to do? I'm supposed to go clean up a mess over in B sector. The mess that troll Trent made? What? You saw that? In a way, yes. These ducks go all over the complex. I see a lot more than folks think. He laughs. Then sighs.

That trend isn't very nice. I think you can wait a few more minutes, don't you? Again, I look left, I look right, and see no one coming from either end of the hallway. Then I nod and step forward. Okay, I'll pick a card. Wonderful! The voice exclaims. Prepare to be dazzled by the great mumbo-jumbo.

The deck of cards lifts into the air and shuffles itself. cuts itself, spreads wide, then comes back together for another shuffle and cut. Finally, it spreads again and stays that way. Pick a card, any card. Tentatively, I reach out, my fingers inch toward the cards. It's okay, they don't bite, the voice says. I didn't think that they did, but now I'm sort of worried. Don't be.

This is all about fun, Ricky. I take a deep breath, then snatch a card from the spread. He calls. The spread returns to a tight deck. Now look at the card. Be sure to memorize it. I do as asked. Seven of clubs. Okay, got it. Wonderful. The deck spreads again. Now, place the card back in the deck. Anywhere you want.

I, uh, okay. I start to place it in the middle, but I bet that's what he wants me to do. So I aim for the left side of the spread. But maybe he's expecting that too. It's not that hard, Ricky. Just put him back into deck. Really, any spot will do. You're overthinking it. All right. I stick the seven of clubs and what looks like the exact center. Great! The cards whip about and start swirling around the supply closet again. But before I can even cry out, they come back together and hover there as a solid deck right before my eyes. One card starts to slide out of the deck. It pops up and faces me.

Is this your card? It's the ace of diamonds. No. Well, darn. The cards swirl and shuffle and come back together. A new card slides out and pops up, facing me. How about this card? Six of diamonds.

No, I shake my head. Are you sure you know how to do this? Pretty sure. I hear a snap like fingers. Oh, silly me. I know what I did with it. The cards fan and spread, fan and spread, then fall to the floor in a nice, neat pile.

Check that front pocket of your coveralls, will you? The voice asks. My coveralls? Your coveralls. I checked the pocket. There's a card in there. Pulling it out, my eyes go wide. It's the seven of clubs!

I shouted. How'd you do that? A magician never reveals his secrets, Ricky. Oh, right, of course. Care to see another trick? Yeah, sure, that'd be cool. Okay, just pick up the deck for me. The whole deck?

Yep. You have to put your card back anyway, right? Well, yeah. They're great. I bend over and pick the deck up, sliding my card into the middle. Then I blink a few times. Everything is getting very dark. As I walk away from Ricky's supply closet,

the cards tucked safely in his front coverall's pocket. I hear a voice calling from the vent, and it's not Rickies. Ricky is tucked away in this brain, all safe and sound. while I set out to entertain the world. Hey, what the hell? Where the hell am I? Hello? Why am I in a saddle? Why am I looking at an AC bent? Hello? Anyone there? I'll miss that body. Larry was a good guy, and in great shape, really fit.

Great fingers for card tricks. But now I have some new fingers. Ricky's fingers. I don't bother with the mop and bucket, but I do head to B-Sector. When I opened the last door, I see that asshole Trent standing there. He was never very nice to Ricky. Pretty sure he's not so nice to anyone. There you fucking are, Zero. The troglodyte says,

Where the hell have you been? My name's not Zero. I say, and he looks at me funny. Oh, that's so? You'd prefer I call you Ricky, right? How about Ricky Sicky or Ricky Dickey? No, I'd rather you call me the Gritty. Great Mumbo-Jumbo.

I say as I pulled the cards from the front pocket of Ricky's cover-alls. Care to see a magic trick? SCP-67 is the collective designation for a hive-mind organism inhabiting 52 unique playing cards. Each component of SCP-67-exhibits the same anomalous property, complete erasure of the consciousness of the organism physically possessing it. This override is temporary, however, and organizabeths. and organisms affected by SCP 6757 will return to baseline behavior once the object is no longer in their possession. SCP 6757 will use its host designated SCP 6757-1 as a vector to execute its goals,

which primarily consist of performing various sleight-of-hand tricks. The anomaly imbues its host with Class II reality bending capabilities, however, However, it has only demonstrated a desire to utilize these abilities to aid in its performances.