The SCP Experience - The Lizard King | SCP-088

Episode Date: September 22, 2023

SCP Foundation SAFE class object, SCP-088: The Lizard King This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-088 and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ Author: Lucas Click Discover the Author's impressive series of SCP Tales here: https://www.amazon.com/kindle-vella/story/B0BVWJFGV3 Check out more of Mr. Click's work here: newpulptales.com 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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But that wasn't the only misfortune. California has clogged up with hundreds of migrant farmers. Victims not only of the falling markets, but of drought and famine. that hasn't been seen in generations. People say only alcohol has proven resistant to the economic downturn. The huddled, defeated masses are still scraping whatever change they can to buy something that lets them escape their pain for a little while. But journalism should be added to the list, especially here in L.A. The rise in crime has kept reporters hounding the streets just like always.

Hollywood always seems as bulletproof as Superman, with new picture shows still being turned out almost monthly. I guess motion pictures are a better escape for those who have held onto their moral compasses. Newshounds chasing celebrities can still make a headline as long as they get the latest photos of Cooper or Hepburn. People still need access to the news, and the price for a daily edition is still the cheapest way for them to see the state of the world. They flip through the headlines, looking for any sign of relief from the constant deluge of hardship before flipping to the bear-help-wanted ads. Misery loves company, as someone a lot wiser than me once said. And with so much to go around, newspaper publishers might as well be the same as liquor stores. Well, mostly.

With freelancing becoming increasingly the norm, staff writing jobs are becoming a thing of the past. This means reporters guard their sources behind steel vaulted lips, closing their ranks, and are unwilling to help out a fresh newsy. Most people right now have nothing but bad luck, but mine's a bit mixed. In some ways, I was lucky to finish college when I did. I managed to get out of school and found a decent job starting with the Los Angeles Times before the whole country went to hell. But as the recession made way for depression, I felt the likely to be the likely to be.

of layoffs that the publisher grow every day. Desperate for a story, I've yanked onto a rumor I've been hearing. Hopefully, it's not the last bust, or else I'll be standing in the chow line. The cab churns past the clogged city streets at a snail's pace, before finally breaking through to an outcrop of orange groves. Migrant workers are already sweating and breaking their backs in the sun. I take some small comfort that I'll never have to do that. There aren't a enough of those jobs to go around. If this story goes belly up, I'll be lucky to get a job sweeping the streets. I sigh as I realize how desperate I've become. I'm taking a taxi to meet with Wilson Slay. Slay is an eccentric figure, a scientist and globe-trotting adventurer who fancies

himself as a real-life Doc Savage. He's come up with theories that fly in the tradition of the field. His greatest claim to fame is inventing the radio X-ray which was chalked up to nothing more than a mechanical dousing rod. That didn't stop Slay from using his machine to make his fortune, mapping out and claiming gold deposits that somehow went unnoticed by scores of miners and prospectors that have been drawn to California for over a century. A lot of people chalk this up to luck, as Slay refused to patent his radio X-ray or share its technology with contemporaries.

A low whistle comes from the cabby as he pulls up. Wilson's sleigh had used his fortune to buy a plot of secluded land and construct a mansion. Slay's mansion sits on the peak of a small hill, like a small castle, glinting in the fading sun, light billowing off the marble pillars as we pull closer. The cab circles the paved driveway, stopping at the mansion's main gate. I tip the cabby and adjust my hat as across the massive lawn, adorned with hedge sculptors of mythological beasts. I guess Slay likes to stand out even amongst the rich and powerful who call L.A. home. It's not enough to have a bigger, more secluded mansion.

He also needs griffins and minotars as lawn ornaments. Mr. Holt. The dry voice compliments the sun-baked wind as the butler steps out from the main door. Master Slay has asked me to escort you to his study. There's a quaver in the servant's voice that piques my curiosity. Hired help are often a great source of dirt. They usually have an axe to grind and go unnoticed by the people who hire them. As I follow the elderly man through the pristine halls of Slay's Manor,

I immediately dismiss the possibility of flipping him as a source. From the rigid way he carries himself, it's clear that he's old school. He would never betray an employer's confidence, but there's no denying his knees trembling, despite his stiff gait. Something's got him spooked, but what? I stuff my curiosity aside as we come to a set of large oak doors. They open soundlessly with a turned key from the butler before a blast of heat slams into my face. Slai's servant quickly exits as I step inside.

The door shut behind me. The room is two floors tall and three walls are lined with bookshelves, all except for the one facing me, which is all windows, a massive fireplace and a desk. A couple of chairs line the front of the desk, pailing to the opulent one turn to face the roaring flames. A plume of smoke rises from the chair, telling me it's occupied. Ah, yes, Mr. Holt, wasn't it? A cough follows the gravely voice before smoke fills the air. Do forgive the temperature.

I've come down with a spot of something, and the heat helps keep the worst at bay. What we discussed over the telephone is on the table there. I take off my hat as I walk toward the desk. It's like wading through a humid jungle, and my clothes are wet with sweat before I sit in one of the chairs. Since Sleigh is already smoking, I reach into my pocket for a cigarette and lighter. The flame is halfway to my lips when I see the photos, and I drop the lighter with a loud clang.

Stumbling, it takes me several tries before I recover and bring it back to my lips and shaking hands. My eyes dart over the photos again. Where did you get these, Mr. Slay? That, my boy, is a long story. You have no doubt heard of me, Mr. Holt. My name is a different joke, depending upon whom you ask. But I'm a punchline all the same.

My degrees mean nothing to my scientific brethren, because I've never been content with accepting the foundations as an answer. Nor did I ever much care for being cooped up behind me. a desk. To the other socialites, I'm a raving coot. Decent entertainment at a party with my stories of worldly exploits, but some prefer to observe from a safe distance like a zoo exhibit. This became even more pronounced when I announced my invention, the radio x-ray. I won't bother you with the science behind it. It's too complex for the majority of your readers to comprehend, and it breaks the bounds of conventional science that my people.

mindlessly worship. But results are results. And I used my invention to map out the tunnels that long lay unclaimed or forgotten. There's something else here now, something new. From exclusively on Paramount Plus, it's the series Stephen King calls Scarious Hell. Everything here is impossible, but it's also real. Sci-fi vision calls it the best show streaming right now.

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I studied mining, excavation, and engineering, adding to my already varied collection of knowledge. It took several charters before unearthing my first gold deposit. But after securing those funds, I became more indebted. dependent in my ventures. Suddenly, I was barraged with colleagues wanting to know how my machine worked,

but they had their chance when they laughed at me, didn't they? As I said, I've never been one to dally in one place for so long. I suppose wanderlust is the only thing I inherited from my father, a man whom I scarcely met before he set out on his own adventures, never to return. The radio X-ray provided me with the means to wealth, and as my knowledge of excavation and mining grew, I was able to explore and map these tunnels more and more on my own. Yes, I'm a scientist. But what is a scientist, if not an explorer? You see, Mr. Holt, it's not the gold or oil I discovered that has kept me rooted in California.

It's the majestic cave system that's carved out beneath our state. If there's nothing glittering in the sunlight, people in Los Angeles quickly lose attention. This vapid, fast-paced culture we've created has taught people to ignore the natural beauty all around us. People forget how insignificant we truly are. The fact I'm reminded of every time I step foot into these ancient, hidden pathways. Those are the best words I can think of to describe this underground network to you and your readers. Words failed to convey their wonder, their majesties, and above all else, their mysteries. It was during one of my routine excavations that I stumbled upon something that I couldn't explain.

There were paintings on the cave walls. I couldn't tell you how old they were. Geology has been something I learned from necessity rather than any real passion. But from my studies in anthropology, I couldn't help but notice. the similarities and the drawings to several Hopi legends. They were people, bowing and paying homage to a towering reptile. As you know, man roaming around during the time of dinosaurs is the stuff of dime novels. In truth, dinosaurs had been extinct millions of years before the first of our ancestors learned to stand upright. It would have been impossible for man to evolve and survive competition with such brutes.

But man has never let fact stand before entertainment. And yet, the paintings teased my always ravenous curiosity. Perhaps it was possible that the Hopi had discovered the remains of a fossilized dinosaur, and that, in turn, colored their legends. My searches within the network of tunnels grew so much that soon it preoccupied all my time. Each new painting or piece of artwork I discovered left me confident that I was on the cusp of discovering the mysteries behind these old legends. Like so many other great discoveries, mine was by accident.

I grew overconfident, and with the pitch-black conditions, I did not see the land in front of me give way to a drop-off of broken earth. I skidded and careened down the hill of jagged stones, certain that I was about to discover, what truly happens to humanity after we perish. Fortunately, after the fall, my only injuries were cuts, bruises, and damaged pride. My pride quickly recovered as I beheld the city of gold. It made the small deposits I used to build this manner seem meager in comparison.

The gold had been shaped into steps that led up to a small sarcophagus of the same precious material. I climbed the steps cautiously, and when I got to the top, I gasped, much like you did when looking at the photographs. The tomb was open for the world to see, or for the few brave souls that ever traversed those depths to see. My eyes swelled in wonder, as I realized I might have been the first to observe this strange sight in thousands of years. The creature inside had the appearance of a mummy, like those. those made famous by the ancient Egyptians. But any other similarities to humanity stopped there. The dead creature had two arms, two legs, and one head, of course.

But nearly all mammals share that configuration. But its height was roughly twice that of a man's. Its skin was covered in scales, and each digit ended in a long claw. Ancient robes had been reduced to just a few rags reeking of age and mildew. but the golden jewelry adorning its body still gleamed as bright as the day it was entombed. Each horned ridge atop its forehead was affixed with a golden point. The Lizard King! I came up with the name for it at that very moment.

There was no other way to describe it. As I said, I am a man of science, and possible ideas readily barraged my mind. Perhaps it was a mutation of some sort. or a human infected with some genetic disease that we haven't seen since the dawn of time. Whatever the reason, from the lavish way it had been laid to rest, it was clear that our ancestors had worshipped the strange-looking fellow as a god. My curiosity was sated, and it soon made way for ambition. For you see, Mr. Holt, I am a prideful man.

At this point in my life, I have no trouble admitting that, It was pride that kept me from revealing the secrets of my radio x-ray, just as it was pride that fueled my efforts to uncover this mystery. I might march to the beat of my own drum, but how many one-man bands are there? In truth, the jeering and taunts of my colleagues have always rubbed me the wrong way. Some part of me has always wanted acceptance from the community and acknowledgement of humanity's progress that I have contributed to. But with this discovery, with tangible proof that the world couldn't deny, it would be the source of acceptance that has long been denied to me. While anthropology and archaeology are merely passions of mind, it was I who had trekked these tunnels alone, discovered the hidden doom, and found the source of the old Hopi legends. Yes, G. Wilson's sleigh would be credited for this discovery and be remembered as one of history's greatest explorers.

My name would be mentioned in the same breath as Magellan or Cook. But first, I needed to excavate the body, and I knew that I couldn't do that alone. While I had made many connections with miners and excavators, I knew that I couldn't rely solely on them for this endeavor. The creature was in a delicate condition, and I feared its body would be damaged or even destroyed if carried by unskilled hands. There was also the matter of greed,

With so much gold at play, I couldn't risk the chance that some laborers might abscond with my discovery before obtaining the recognition I rightly earned. It took far longer to get the attention of a local university than it should have. My reputation preceded me in those academic circles, and though I knew it would be fruitless without proof, I began calling upon them almost immediately. I could hear the restrained laughter behind each telephone call, Their correspondences were filled with insults hidden between the lines.

Crazy Slay is added again, I heard one voice remark in the background. It took several weeks to rig the Lizard King's tomb with enough lights to procure several photographs. I took them to the university myself to present them to whatever professors were willing to meet with me. While initially shocked by the photos, many scoffed and proclaimed they were fakes. It was all clearly some bit of chicanery to put my name in the limelight again. This was no new experience for me. It was a repeat performance of the Radio X-rays reception. I fought past the slander against my character and merely waited until they were done ridiculing

me. Upon the diminishment of their laughter, I asked them a simple question that any educated man should be able to answer when denying the truth so thoroughly. How? If the photographs were indeed forgeries, how could I make them so convincingly? They would bring up other examples over the years, often citing cryptozoologists who tried similar tactics, but were all proven bogus. Slowly and deliberately, I conceded their point, and then asked them how the same technique could be used to produce an eight-foot-tall man-like lizard hidden within the depths of a cavern untouched by man for centuries. As many weak-willed men do, they held onto their preconceived notions.

They were more comfortable in questioning my credibility than admitting the possibility that there is more to this world than they know. After excusing myself from such meetings, I would tell them that I had appointments with other universities, and I knew this would grate against their resolve. In their minds, the chance that I was right was slim. But if I was, and worse, if I was proven correct, and some rival agreed to entertain that possibility before them,

why, they would prove to be an even more potent laughingstock than me. Finally, one of my peers caved. He wasn't bold enough to announce his partnership with me. Apparently, the name of Wilson's sleigh was still a bridge too far for him to step upon, But eventually, Dr. Anton DeWitt agreed to accompany me with a small team of researchers from his university. The fact that I would be funding the operation entirely through my own wealth sealed the deal, as it provided him with very few risks against a potential return. Journeying again through the tunnels was a test of patience.

I remembered why so many of my trips there had been made by my lonesome. One man may traverse far quicker than 30 minutes. especially when most of these men were brusque minors or young college students. Their gripes and complaints were constant until I led them to the golden sarcophagus holding the lizard king. Incredible! DeWitt's wonder echoed around the cavern as the rest of the crew was stunned into silence. I smirked at him as he looked at me. His eyes had been filled with doubt during the entire journey,

but now they were in open wonder. As the rest of the students set up the observation equipment and cameras, the miners ready their gear to start our long trek back to the surface. DeWitt and I scaled the steps to the sarcophagus together and looked at the reptilian monarch. Wiping his mouth with a handkerchief, he pulled a long pair of tweezers and a baggie from his coat. He reached toward the lizard king's arm and removed a scale as he addressed me.

To the naked eye, I would estimate it's over 5,000 years old. But a sample should prove. DeWitt's voice died as the lizard king rose from his grave. We stared in shock as it cleared its throat. We were waiting for it to speak. Instead, it hacked a thick wad of green slime that slammed into DeWitt's face, muffling his screams as he tumbled down the stairs. I wiped something sticky from my face and leaped away from the tomb, landing hard on my knees.

A roar filled the ground. Cavern as the Lizard King jumped from the ground, shaking the earth as it landed with much more grace than I had. A panicked miner raised a pickaxe at the monstrous discovery, but it cleared its throat and spat again. The liquid, this time, was clear and steaming. Skin melted and burst away from the miner's skin as the liquid ate away at his flesh, leaving an acidic stench heavy with blood in the air. The Lizard King turned on the rest of our party. Some he hacked apart with the swipe of his claws as they tried to defend themselves.

Those who ran for the exit were doused in the same acid from the depths of its stomach. Those two terrified to move fell to their hands and knees, praying to their gods and begging for mercy. The creature reared back and hacked. The cavern echoed with the sound before it expunged more of the green substance that befell Dr. DeWitt. I lost all leave of my senses and found a camera. in my hands. I kept clicking pictures as those assaulted stood. They stopped screaming as the liquid soaked into their bodies. Their skin stretched before being torn away, revealing green scales underneath. Once shed of their humanity, they threw themselves onto the ground once more at the lizard king's feet.

With the violence done, my faculties returned to me. I proceeded with the only course of action that made sense to me. I ran into the tunnels, the once human monsters chasing after me. Their screams and roars echoed in the darkness, but they lacked the knowledge of the cavernous network that I had. I fled for my life and didn't stop until I saw daylight. But I'll never forget the sounds they made, Mr. Holt. I still hear them now, louder than ever. I flinch in my seat as Slay finishes his tale. The cigarette between my fingers has burned to the filter as he recounted the events of him obtaining the photographs. I flipped through the black and white photos, examining each of them. They all corroborate his story, capturing the research team before and after the transformation.

Most images of the lizard king are a blur, but there's one picture of the monster turned at the camera. Intelligence shines through its bestial eyes. Mr. Slay. I step out the wasted cigarette into an as I gather my thoughts. I. This story. Even with this evidence, it might be too much for someone to believe. There have been certain advances in cinema lately that would call these photos into question.

I'll certainly run it by my editor, but I don't know if they'll accept your account of events without visiting. No! The chair rattles as Slay slams his fist down on its arm. I will not venture into that accursed. tomb again, Mr. Holt. But fear not. I believe I can give credibility to my claims without another journey. Slay turns in his chair, and my mouth drops open. Sitting before me is a beast with scaled skin and ridges above its forehead. The nose and mouth had merged into one snout. The silk robes it wears clash against its appearance, as does the lit pipe resting in its tallened hands. It raises

the pipe to its lipless mouth and inhales before exhaling smoke through the slit nostrils. My transformation was more gradual than the others. Slay's voice coming from the creature diminishes the panic rising in my mind. I theorize this is because a secondary splash of the substance hit me, sparing me from immediate results. It's allowed me to hold on to my intellect and, more importantly, my free will. Slay slumps in his chair, resting his pipe on the table before gazing at the roaring flames. But I'm afraid that time is fleeting.

I can hear the lizard king in my thoughts, calling me back to his altar, demanding me to serve him. His commands grow stronger every day. So far, intense heat has been able to curb his demands. But I know my mind shall remain mine only temporarily. I think of Slay's story. and of the man behind the words. Someone committed to himself and his ideas, who made his fortune through stubbornness and willpower alone.

I can't imagine a worse possible hell for Slay losing his mind. Sensing my thoughts, his lips peel back into a smile, which falters when I shudder at the fangs, lining his mouth. Can I count on you, Mr. Holt? Can you tell my story while it's still mine to tell? The bullpen is filled with the sound of clacking keys in the stench of tobacco and coffee. Finishing up the second page of the story,

I leaned back into my chair and strike a cigarette, adding my share to the hanging, noxious fumes. The cup of coffee resting on my cramped table has gone cold, but I tip it back and force the cold sludge down my throat. Caffeine is the same whether it's cold or hot, so even though I'm gagging, I'm also fired up with new energy coursing through my veins. I pitched Slay's story to my editor,

and he almost called a looney bin to take me away. That is, until I laid the photographs that Slay had loaned me across his desk. He still looked at me with a degree of skepticism, as I explained the condition that I found Slay in. The scientist was reluctant to go outside for obvious reasons, but had agreed to a second interview, along with the presence of a photographer and a doctor to confirm his condition. The cigarette dwindles to its nub in a matter of moments.

So I light another to stoke the fire the coffee started. I wonder if this is how Sleigh felt when he stumbled upon the Lizard King's tomb. This was going to be the story of the century, and it was all mine. Hey Jim! One of the senior newsies shouts over to another desk, cradling a phone receiver to his shoulder. One of my sources just gave me a tip you might be interested in. James Neville, the Times senior crime writer, waves a cigarette-clad hand dismissively. Take a message. I'm busy here.

You'll want it now. It's hot, literally. The other says as he hangs up his phone. You remember that one kooky scientist living on his own hill? His mansion's up in smoke right now. My source says no survivors. If you hurry now, you might beat the fire truck. The cigarette drops from my hand. G. Wilson's sleigh was dead, and there was no doubt why.

I can't believe the man would have succumbed to his transformation so quickly. He was still lucid when I left. A man so hell-bent on making his mark might take his life before he lost his mind. But he wouldn't destroy the manor on the hill that bore his name. Someone had gotten to slay. I don't know if it was the government or someone else, but they found out what happened.

The lizard king had lain atop his tomb for thousands of years without anyone knowing, so nobody's trying to keep the past a secret for history's sake. They want the lizard king for themselves. But why? Why would anyone want something like that? That's not the story, I remind myself. If they went as far as shutting sleigh up, they might try to do the same to me.

My hands blur across the typewriter's keys as I rushed through my first draft. I have to get the story done in time for tomorrow's edition, before it's too late. SCP-88 is a humanoid with reptilian features, which appears to have been mummified in a languid posture. However, SCP-88 is merely in a state of hyperbole. from which it may recover if it is again exposed to a more hospitable environment than its current containment. Research has indicated that SCP-88 is approximately 6,000 years old and is capable of secreting a variety of hazardous biological compounds from its mouth and hands. Some of these substances could be of great strategic value if replicated. But until a means to extract them without awakening SCP-88 is found,

Research into this area is on hold. SCP-88 was recovered with the mummified remains of 23 beings sharing a similar morphology. Examination suggests that they were originally human. SCP-88 was recovered in the 1930s from a subterranean complex below Los Angeles, California. The site was originally discovered by G. Wilson Slay, using a device he called a radio x-ray, which was little more than a mechanical dowsing rod. While Slay's methods were dubious, his discovery was not. After mapping a series of tunnels and gold deposits below the city,

Slay declared that he had found the lost city of the lizard people as described in the legends of Arizona's Hopi tribe. Slay's claims went as far as to be featured on the front page of the Los Angeles Times on January 29, 1934, before the foundation was able to verify his claims, and silence Mr. Slay.