The SCP Experience - The Mount Golgotha Blues (Part 2) | SCP-012

Episode Date: December 19, 2022

SCP Foundation EUCLID class object, SCP-012: The Mount Golgotha Blues This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-012, and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ Author: Lucas Click Check out the Author'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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Depos minimum of $10. DeVosososos $10 dollars. conditions apply. The next couple of years were the happiest of my life. John was the missing piece of the puzzle. We captivated the audience on our first night playing together, and after that, we always played to a packed house. Marconne became our key backer, and with his mom connections, it wasn't long until we were on the radio and even touring the country. Women, booze, cars, you name it, and we got it. And while the open road was always an adventure,

nothing compared to Chicago. It was our own private kingdom. We were rubbing shoulders with movie stars, politicians, and sports legends. Every time I performed one of John's songs, it inspired him, and he would put pen to paper and kick out as much as five more in one night. All of that started to change after a show in St. Louis. John met a girl named Maria. I thought she was just another one of his one-night flings,

until she appeared on the bus back to Chicago. I became even more worried when some drunk customer at the Purple Piano pinched her ass, and John responded by knocking his teeth out. The place nearly broke out into a race riot until Marcones showed up. His reputation alone was enough to force an uneasy piece that night. At first, I was happy for John, even if I was suspicious of Maria. John would still have been sweeping floors and cleaning toilets if not for me, so I couldn't help but feel responsible for him.

There was nothing wrong with her keeping him happy, even if she was using him for his money. But as time went on, she started talking more and more. She always had an opinion about where and what we should play, and John always backed her up. Things were tense but civil between Maria and me. until one night when I walked into the purple piano with my guitar on my back, ready for the show. When I stepped inside, there was already a band on stage.

I stared, transfixed by the new group. The faces were somewhat familiar, but the music I knew immediately. It was John's latest piece, the one I was supposed to be playing. As the last chords died, the audience jumped to life. Aplaus filled the room like thunder in a never-ending storm. The lead singer walked up to the microphone, his smile dazzling even under the bright spotlight. Thank you, thank you, fine folks. Now let's give a big hand to the man who wrote that pretty little ditty, Johnny Green.

The crowd burst into applause again as John stumbled onto the stage. He waved awkwardly at the crowd while I parted my way forward. Maria stood near an empty table. Her hands flashing as she clapped until I snatched her by the wrist. We need to talk. She yanked her hand from my grip, but locked a steely gaze with me as if she had been waiting for this moment. My anger boiled in my veins as she led the way forward,

parting through the crowds and out into the alley where I used to take my smoke breaks as a bartender. My hands shook so bad it took three tries before I sparked a match and brought it to my lips. As I exhaled smoke, Maria just stood there with her arms. arms crossed. You upity, bitch, I spat.

I know this is your doing. She frowned. Did you recognize the band, Ricky? I pointed a finger into her chest. Don't think you can replace me with a bunch of scabs, you. The kitchen staff, Maria said. Each of those boys are cooks or dishwashers. I stared at her and then shrugged.

And? Purple piano was filled with musicians looking to make their big breaks. Hell, that's where John and I... I know the story, she held up her hand. But no, those boys never picked up an instrument before tonight. Hell, the guitarist only has one good arm. But they're playing as well as you ever did. Better even.

Why do you suppose that is? I stomped out my cigarette. You're full of shit. Am I? Think about it, Ricky. You came out and tried to make it big, but you never did. Why all the success now? You think you suddenly improved after years working behind the bar?

Pride made me refuse to give her the point. But the doubt that I had for years suddenly grew louder. John was my missing piece, the songwriter I needed to get by. If it weren't for him, I'd be nothing. But at the same time, he would be nothing without me, wouldn't he? Face it, Ricky. You're no different from any other white boy in the blues. making it big off the sweat of talented black men.

Bite your fucking tongue, I growled. I always treated John right. He's my partner. Hell, he's my best friend. We split everything 50-50, always have. Half? Do you think you deserve half? She pointed back toward the door. John is a living miracle. Anyone who touches his songs can play them.

You're not a musician, Ricky. You're just an instrument. My teeth grinded together, and my knuckles popped as I made a fist. Better than being a cheap whore. She frowned me until a look of comprehension crossed her face. You really think that's why I'm with John, don't you? I love that man.

The things he can do, the miracles he can perform with his music, being with him, it's the closest anyone can be to being with God. Her sincerity shocked me. She meant every single word of what she was saying. But it was only a bucket of. of water against my raging inferno of fury. And her following words ignited the flames even more. 28.

That's what the boys playing tonight are making. And they're happy to get that. She looked me in the eye. All traces of emotion gone from her expression. Just cold, hard, honesty. 10.90. That's the new split. It won't be easy to sell John on ditching you.

He doesn't realize how special he is. But I can convince him. You know I can. You have until the end of the show to decide. The next song, another one of Johns that I hadn't heard before, started up. Even through the thick walls of the club, I could hear the music, frantic and loud. Music to dance to and music to keep everyone inside. As Maria turned toward the door, I unslung my guitar and smashed it over her head.

The wood cracked and shattered into splinters as Maria fell to the ground. Blood poured from the back of her head, but her back still rose and fell. Pulling the strings from the guitar, I wrapped the ends of all five across the palms of my hands. They cut into my flesh as I wrapped them around Maria's throat and pulled them tight. I had come too far to accomplish my dreams. I couldn't let her take it away from me. I couldn't let her take John from me. She stopped struggling, and her kicking legs slowed, then went limp.

I focused on John's music to keep my mind off it. I knew there would be another hit. They were always hits. Because Maria was right. John was the miracle. And I was just an instrument. As the music died, panic gripped me. I looked both ways.

The alley was still empty, but the door was unlocked. How long would it be until someone came out for a cigarette? I tried to pull away the strings, but they had cut deep into Maria's throat. There was no time. Instead, I dragged her body across to the nearby dumpster, hoisting her onto my shoulder hurt, but I tossed her inside with a loud clang. I flinched, but no one came out to investigate. So I moved over several piles of garbage, concealing her body.

It would have to do until everybody left. My feet slumped and tripped over themselves as I returned to the front of the club. I was only vaguely aware of the world around me. I knew the lights of passing cars were traffic, but the sounds of people going into and out of the club was dulled by the pounding of my heart. Beyond that, the passage of time was measured only through the number of cigarettes I smoked, one right after the other. Ricky, what are you doing out here?

John's voice snapped me back into reality. I turned around and saw him. The music had stopped, and the sky had lightened to an ugly purple. I flicked my cigarette aside and quickly shoved my hands into my pockets before he could see the cuts. Why shouldn't I be here, John? We had a show to do tonight, remember? He nodded. Yeah, but Maria said you were sick.

Good old John. Of course, he wouldn't have upstaged me on purpose. That bitch had tricked him into doing it. John was a sweet kid, but she would have used him to get rid of me if I hadn't stopped her. John said something, but I couldn't hear him as I remembered Maria's severed throat. The pounding in my ears grew louder and blocked out all sound. My vision blurred, and I stumbled, but John rushed forward. He wrapped an arm around my shoulder and kept me standing, patting my back.

What'd you say? I kept my eyes on the ground, unable to look him in the eye. Have you seen Maria? The door cracked open. I had never been so happy to see one of Marcones goons. Hey, Dodds, the boss wants a word with you. Sorry, John, I gotta go. You know, we don't keep Marconne waiting, probably planning our next tour.

John opened his mouth, but then closed it. He never felt comfortable around Marcon or his men and left me to deal with them. Assuming my answer was no, he turned and headed down the steps while I followed the goon inside. I followed in the beefy man. and only realized at that last moment that he wasn't leading me toward Marcones' office. Instead, he led me to the back door. I hesitated, but my escort grabbed me roughly by the neck

and shoved me outside. I landed hard on my knees, tearing the fabric in my new pants before I was hoisted up again and dragged. I saw two of Marcones men guarding the alley before the ape pulled me toward the dumpster. Markone was there, chewing on a cigar as usual. Two more henchmen stood nearby, glaring at me, probably because of the garbage stains on their suits. On the ground between us was Maria. Well, Dodds? Marconne pulled out his cigar. You better have a good goddamn reason for insulting me in my club like this.

The words came spilling from my mouth in a desperate attempt to save my life. Most of what I said was the truth. I told him about Maria planning on replacing me with musicians who would work cheaper. I left out all the details about John's abilities. Marconne wouldn't have believed them anyway, and I sure as hell didn't want him to think I was expendable. Marconne stood impassively, chewing on his cigar while listening to my reasons. Finally, he flicked a cigar and hawked deep into his throat. He looked away from me and spat at Maria.

It landed on the jagged remains of her throat, his spit mixing with her blood. Fucking whore, he said. Cooch on the road should stay on the road. knew this one was trouble. Hell, they're all trouble. Let that be a lesson to you, boys. Always keep a hand on your wallet around these people. He didn't see me flinch at his words. It sounded too much like Maria's accusations about me. White people getting rich off talented black people and not giving them their fair share. But I wasn't like Marconne. Was I? Next time someone comes after our golden goose, you come to me, Ricky.

dropped a beefy hand on my shoulder. We'll make a cleaner job of it than you. Reaching down, he gripped me roughly by the wrist and forced open my hands. Besides, you're not any good to me if you go and get your hands all cut up. I stood there in silence and nodded, and Marconne smiled, revealing each of his teeth. I'm going to take care of this for you as a personal favor. You just make sure you and your boy keep those hits coming. Marconne let go of my wrist, and I walked out of the alley.

Marcones thugs parted as I passed. Guilt mingled with relief as I walked out of there alive, but a heavy dread hovered over my head. Marcones' generosity sounded greedy and vicious. John, open up. It's Ricky. I'd been pounding on John's door for the last hour. In the months since, since Maria. John had been in a downward spiral.

Marconne started a rumor that Maria was last seen walking out of the club with some guy. The lie broke John's heart, maybe even as much as the truth would have. The delay between his songs became longer and longer. Even worse, he had graduated from alcohol to harder stuff. Nothing I tried could lift him out of his funk. Barcon was breathing down my neck. The gangster had signed us with a major record label, but had promised more than we could deliver. Marconne insisted that this was my problem, not his. With John spending all his money and time in the smack houses that littered the city,

I was left alone to deal with Marcon. We were out of time. I just came from a meeting with a gun pressed to my head. Marconne made it clear on no uncertain terms that we needed a new hit by tonight. And if we couldn't deliver... Well, Ricky, you ever notice how? Now demand for a musician skyrockets after they die. Marcones threats rang in my ears so loud that I stopped knocking.

Instead, I shoved my shoulder into the door. My reward was jolting pain and a slight creak of wood, but not the slightest budge. Resting my hand against the knob, I swore, then swore even louder when it turned easily in my hand. John hadn't even bothered to lock the door. I pushed the door open and gagged. Most landfill smelled more pleasant than John's shoebox of an apartment. The floors were littered with dirty clothes, broken bottles, and mounds of rotting garbage. The dim light from the hallway illuminated John's pitch-black room like a lighthouse,

and I saw him slumped in a chair. Jesus, John, didn't you hear me? I reigned in my temper as I walked across the floor, kicking trash in my wake. Glad to see your heart at work. but we got a deadline tonight. If Marconne doesn't like what you got, we'll both be sleeping with the... My words failed me as I put a hand on his shoulder.

Through the thin fabric of his shirt, I could feel his skin, ice cold and hard as a rock. I pulled the chair back, and John slumped to the floor without a sound. A piece of rubber was bound tight around his elbow, and a needle was jutting out of his vein. In his other hand was an old black-and-white picture of him

and Maria. I recognized it as the one they had taken their second night together in St. Louis. Oh, John, no! I wiped away the tears that were tinged with sorrow and rage. You stupid son of a bitch! You've killed us both! After all I did for you! There's plenty of fish in the sea! Haven't I been saying that for months? Why couldn't you have just found a new squeeze? My foot lashed out and sunk into his ribs. Like with the door, all it did. did was hurt me more, both inside and out. Forcing my eyes up, I looked over the table. It was covered in sheet music. John's paper was always wrinkled from writing whenever inspiration struck him. Sometimes that even happened while he was sitting on the can. This one was a whole new

magnitude of weird, though. The paper was thick and yellowed with age. The title at the top, on Mount Golgatha, was unfamiliar, as was the handwriting on the first sheet of notes. But as I flipped to the next page, I recognized the same frantic scrawl of John's script. The music again filled my head, but it was different this time. It had an undercurrent of the same deep and long blues tunes, but filled with a chorus of dozens of musicians. I slumped into the chair, picked up John's pen, and started writing. Certainty ballooned me as the notes and lyrics filled the page. Maria was wrong.

I wasn't some talentless hack who mooched off John. I was a goddamn musician. I would finish this score for John and I, and it would be our greatest accomplishment. I would dedicate the song to John, and he would live on forever in this song. Time froze as I filled page after page, but something felt wrong.

And then it hit me as the lyrics echoed in my head. Since you've been gone, baby, I'm out of my mind. Nothing will ever feel like home. I'm alone. and this song bleeds for you. The song was alive, and it needed sustenance to survive. Without thinking, I stabbed the pen through my wrist. I screamed as I writhed it about,

grinding the whole larger until I used my veins like a pot of ink. The music grew louder as I wrote in my blood. I've been writing for hours now, and the song keeps getting better. It's nearly complete. My hands have grown pale and my arms light. I ignore the fatigue as I read. raise the pen and plunge it into my other wrist.

Just a few drops more. SCP 12 is a piece of handwritten musical score entitled on Mount Golgatha, part of a larger set of sheet music and appears to be incomplete. The red and black ink, first thought to be some form of berry or natural dye ink, was later found to be human blood for multiple subjects.

The first personnel to locate the sheet, site 19 special salvage, had two members descend into insanity, attempting to use their own blood to finish the composition, ultimately resulting in massive blood loss and internal trauma. Following initial investigations, multiple test subjects were allowed access to the score. In every case, the subjects mutilated themselves in order to use their own blood to finish the piece, resulting in subsequent symptoms of psychosis and massive trauma. Those subjects who managed to finish a section of the piece immediately committed suicide,

declaring the piece to be impossible to complete. Attempts to perform the music have resulted in a disagreeable cacophony, with each instrumental part having no correlation or harmony with the other instruments.