The SCP Experience - The Great Turbo Thompson | SCP-5376

Episode Date: November 2, 2022

SCP Foundation KETER class object, SCP-5376: The Great Turbo Thompson  This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-5376, 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

It's never too early to plan your summer story in Europe with WestJet, from rolling countryside to cobblestone streets. Begin your next chapter. Book your seat at westjet.com or call your travel agent. WestJet, where your story takes off. Biennue at board of Via Rai. Embarked and profited. Embarked and relaxes.

Ciroat, bookine, oh, that also. And profite. Via Rai, the voice that we love that we love. I walk on my toes for a few steps, peering over heads as we move through the crowd. Over near the back of the bleachers, past the entrance to the outdoor arena. I can see some commotion. Keep moving, I say to Agent Weilin.

She pushes through the throng of people, clearing a path and ignoring the protests of all those waiting in line to get inside. She's strong for such a petite woman, and she's not afraid to throw a few elbows, which is good, because I don't know how much time we have. We finally get to the ticket takers, two burly guys wearing black shirts with staff written across them in bold white letters. Whoa, what in the hell do you think you're doing? One of them says with a thick southern twang. Get back in line, like everybody else. Do we look like we're here to watch a stunt show?

Weiland asks while we pull out our fake police badges. We're dressed in dark suits, whereas everyone else in the crowd is wearing t-shirts and shorts or jeans. The big guy looks at the badges, then at each other. All right, go on through now, speaker says. We're foundation agents, but it's much easier to pretend we're cops. People know all about the police. They don't know about the foundation, nor should they. The crowd thins out a little inside the arena, but not by much.

There are concession stands lining the walkway toward the bleachers, and people stand in line for their treats. I get on my toes again and see the commotion about 20 yards ahead. I can see the top of a helmet, mostly white, but featuring criss-crossing bands of blue with white stars inside. One of the performers, maybe. But the helmet bobs around, as if the man wearing it is talking animatedly. A circle of men surrounds the performer. From what I can see of their expressions and postures, they aren't happy.

In fact, it looks like they're downright mad. I hear a shout from that direction as I get off my toes. Although I can't make out the words, I hear a guitar riff that seems to come from nowhere and everywhere at once. I glance around quickly, looking for speakers and seeing none. Weilin is still leading the way, but she slows behind a family of overweight individuals, each outweighing her by at least 100 pounds. Knowing she can't shove her way through, she shouts,

Excuse me! at the slowly waddling people. They pay no mind. Another shout comes from up ahead, and I get on my toes just in time to see a brilliant flash of light. There's a deafening thunder clap. Then a shockwave lifts me off my feet and throws me into the bodies behind me.

From the ground, I look into the sky and see a dissipating mushroom cloud of flame and smoke coming from right where the helmeted performer had been. Stunned silence settles over the crowd for a few long moments before the screaming starts. You okay? I ask Wylan, who ended up on her back next to me. She nods her head, wide blue eyes looking around in shock.

Her naturally downturned lips form themselves into a deep frown as we both get up off the people we've been thrown into. Most of the people who were knocked down by the blast are still down. This means I can see clearly the damage that has been done to those closest to the blast. Severed arms, legs, and heads sit like two real movie props. Intestines hang out of ravaged bellies like wretched sea creatures. The movement of a red, white, and blue cape disappearing around the side of the bleachers catches my eye.

It's just a flash of movement, but it makes me remember the top of the helmet I saw. No way that person could have survived the blast. Not unless we're dealing with something anomalous, which we may well be. Help them! I say to Wyland, I don't have to be specific. There are plenty who need help. I take off toward the bleachers, trying my best not to step on anyone. As I pass the epicenter of the blast, I notice there are no body parts there,

not even the remnants of a shoe or a helmet, just an empty circle of scorched ground. As I make it around the edge of the damaged but standing bleachers, I see no sign of the person in the stuntman gear. There are other stunt performers around in the area. itself, but none of them are dressed in the evil-knevel-like gear I saw. What happened? One of the performers calls from his motorcycle. Did you see someone go this way?

I asked. He shakes his head. No, but I just rode over here just now. I was on the other side of the arena. He points past the various ramps to the opposite side of the large oval. I take one last look around before turning to go back and help the injured. They said he stank. I tell Wyland from the passengers.

seat as she drives the unmarked SUV. That match is what we've heard from other witnesses. Do you think it's our guy? She asks. I do. It's been a week since the explosion at the stunt show in Tennessee. Now we're in Georgia, heading for another stunt show. We put the word out about the guy through local authorities, and we received a tip back. He wants to participate in the show? Weilan asks, easing the gas pedal toward the floor. Yeah, just like the other reports, it's got to be him. I told the people to let him participate. At least he'll be away from the crowds if he's in the arena. He could still plant a bomb somewhere in the stands, Weillan says, I don't think there are any bombs, I say. We found no traces of explosives at all.

How's that possible? You haven't been with a foundation for long enough to know this, but you'll learn it soon enough. Anything's possible. Anything at all. Weiling just shakes her head, slowing abruptly to take the right off the highway. We arrive at the outdoor arena ten minutes later. This time, there are some local cops waiting to escort us inside. Where is he? I asked the wiry cop, whose name tag reads Benson. He's arguing with one of the other performers, Benson says, rolling his eyes.

What? Why? The other guy won't let him go on. Says he's stealing a spot. Oh, Jesus. Weillan says. Fucking prima donna. We hustle through the front,

then go through a guarded gate that says, Employees only. Soon enough, we're in what amounts to a backstage section, which is a fenced off and covered area. I hear voices before we turn a corner and see the two men arguing. Just let me go out there, man. The guy in the evil-can-eval get-up says.

He's covered from head to toe, even wearing white leather gloves. I'm starting to feel the itch, please. I don't give a damn. The other guy says through the raised visor of his black and red helmet. I ain't ever heard of Turbo Thompson anyway. He stands in front of Thompson's bike, blocking his entrance to the arena. Weilin and I pull our guns at the same time, pointing them at Thompson.

Turn the bike off. Now. I call. Thompson turns and looks at us. I can't see his face because his helmet visor is down. Oh, no, he says. You don't understand. I got the itch. The other performer reaches over the handlebars and shuts the bike off by holding down the stop button. Back away!

Weiland says, talking to the other guy. He does, smiling as he goes. Get off the bike! I say, approaching Thompson. He gets off and lets the bike fall to the dirt, then slumps his shoulders and walks toward us. A terrible rotting stench comes with him. Take off the helmet, I say, slowly. You guys don't want to do this, okay?

It's not going to be long until I... Do it now! Weiland yells, there are several other performers and arena employees around, but they keep their distance, watching warily. Thompson raises his gloved hands and grabs either side of his helmet. As he lifts it off, a large chunk of rotting cheek skin gets caught,

folding upward and revealing through the gaping hole his blackening teeth and browning gums. A chorus of surprised, disgust comes from the onlookers. Then the flap of skin flops back down over his cheek as he lifts the helmet free. What the fuck? Someone says from behind me. Is that real? No way, that's real.

Someone else says. Remarks like these continue as I look into Thompson's rotting face. One of his eyes looks on the verge of falling out of its socket. His nose has rotted down to a nub of cartilage. His hair is wispy and whitish-gray. There are splotches of multicolored skin all over his head. What? He says, smiling through rotting lips.

You never seen the likes of Turbo Thompson before? A rock guitar riff plays out of nowhere as the stuntman says his name. I resist the urge to look around for the source of the music. Weiling, I say, without taking my eyes off Thompson. Radio for a containment team. Copy, she says, backing up a few steps to make the call. Listen, Thompson says. I just need to go out there for a few minutes.

That's all I ask. Otherwise, I'm going to... Uh-oh. What? I say, seeing his face change. What is it? Get back! He says as he turns around and runs out into the arena. Before he makes it three steps, he explodes. The shockwave knocks me on my back, bits of dirt raining down on me. I sit up and look around. The short chain link fence separating the backstage area from the arena is mangled. But Thompson's bike seems undamaged. As does Thompson himself. Told you, he says, walking back toward me. I check for injuries and, thankfully I find none more serious than ringing ears on a sore back. Weilin is busy checking the other people for injuries. It looks like no one is seriously hurt. I tried to get away from the crowd, back in Tennessee, Thompson says.

I really did. But those guys there, they wouldn't let me. Kept saying they were going to keep me there until the cop showed up. So that wasn't my fault. I tried to tell him. I dust off my suit as best I can before looking at Thompson. So if you perform, that doesn't happen? Now you get it.

Geez, like talking to a brick wall. How often? I mean, how soon will it happen again? Hard to tell. All depends on how I'm feeling and whether I get to move around much, you know? I take a step back from him. I'm pretty good at sensing when it's coming, though, he says. Kind of like a sneeze.

That's one hell of a sneeze, I say. The containment team shows up soon enough. And I give the team leader, Ulmer, the rundown. I'd tell him it would be a good idea to let Thompson do a few stunts before transporting him. Ulmer looks at me like I'm crazy. I try to explain it to him, but he interrupts, saying, I'll do this my way, okay? It's not my first transport. No, you don't understand, I say.

He'll explode. He says he needs to do stunts, or else he'll explode. You're one gullible motherfucker, Tills. Ulmer says to me, He just wants to escape. It's a good thing I'm here to take over this scene. Or you would have lost this guy. He would have just ridden away on his little bike.

I opened my mouth to respond, but Ulmer walks away. It's true. Protocol dictates that the containment team takes over when they arrive. So I let them do their thing, securing Thompson for the ride to the nearest facility, and administering amnestics to those who saw anything strange. Wylan and I watch them load Thompson into a specialty transport truck. Ulmer gets in the back with a subject and administers a powerful knockout agent, which seems to work.

Thompson's eyes close, or at least his right one does. The left one is missing the lower eyelid. We get into our SUV and follow the transport vehicle back toward the facility. How about Ulmer? Wylan asks, once again behind the wheel. Real piece of work, that one. He's an asshole. say, always has been. We drive in silence for several minutes before it happens. The rear of the

transport truck lifts off the road as it explodes, the reinforced metal cage in back, opening like tinfoil over a firecracker. The truck sloughs across the road as Weillan hits the brakes. Guess that knockout drug was for shit, she says. We come to a stop some 15 yards behind the damaged truck. Almers stumbles out of the twisted metal, bloody and missing an arm. I shudder shake my head. I tried to tell him. You heard me. You tried to tell him.

Weilin says as we watch Ulmer collapse in the road, Turbo Thompson climbs out of the wreckage and waves at us. He points at Ulmer and then shrugs. I tried to tell him. He calls out. I really did. SCP 5376 is a humanoid entity resembling a corpse in an advanced state of putrefaction. It is not displayed any awareness of this fact.

Its skin is rotting and peeling, with bone visible in large patches across its body. Significant portions of flesh have come detached from its head, rendering its mandible completely exposed and one eye dangerously close to falling out of its socket. Despite this, SCP 5376 is sapient, mobile, reasonably intelligent, and able to communicate with researchers. It is clothed in a replica of famed American stuntman Evil Knievel's signature outfit. A white motorcycle suit decorated with blue bars and white stars. SCP 5376 self-identifies as Turbo Thompson. Defying most mundane understandings of physics,

SCP 5376 is constantly accruing potential energy, regardless of changes in mass, gravity, or elevation. This buildup is cumulative. After significant energy has been built up, any small movement taken by SCP 5376 carries the risk of releasing all the pent-up energy at once. This typically results in a large explosion, leaving SCP 5376 unharmed but completely decimating its surroundings.

Through poorly understood means, allowing SCP-5376 to perform stunts with a motorcycle or other motor vehicle quickly and efficiently vents this energy in a relatively safe manner. Lazzang sur-joled, power-moyance-moyance-moyne for 15 minutes. We'd say that's their dojo. Pre-to-Jew?

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