The SCP Experience - The Murderer | SCP-4866

Episode Date: November 24, 2021

SCP Foundation KETER class object, SCP-4866: The Murderer This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-4866, 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

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Just to have a card of credit visa to BMO for participate. Inscribe you at BMO.com bar-oblic concour. The reglements of the concourse s'pick. I park the car, sigh and get out. Before my ass is off the sea, all the precious heat blows out, and the cold wax my face like a sledgehammer. It's the kind of cold that you can feel through your pants. My eyeballs are cold.

I hate this city about as much as it hates me. I shut the door behind me and adjust my gloves and scarf while I take to the sidewalk. I look around, there's no one. The chill holds a knife to the neck of anyone who thinks they might want to go outside today. And this isn't exactly a residential part of town. So I take out my gun and make double sure it's loaded. This is maybe the fourth time I checked it since I left the house. Paranoid.

Don't know why I'm so jumpy. This isn't even the first time I've met this guy. I start down the sidewalk, because if I stand still, I'll turn into the world's most disappointing popsicle. A block and a half down, past a grove of parking meters and along a river of dead leaves and trash. I spy a familiar jumble of stuff by an old shopping cart. The cart's full of who knows what, weighed down and covered up. Right past it, into the mouth of a little alley.

a propped-up bundle of old tent holes and a tarp. I stop. I get a peek inside once I approach. It's an old guy. Has to be in his 60s at least. Long, gray beard. Smells about like you'd expect. It's December and below freezing. I just have to check. Hey, are you alive in there? Nothing. Shit. Hey, Gramps, you breathing? He moves a bit in his threadbare plastic covering. He moves a bit in his threadbare plastic covering. Thank God. Hmm? Come on, man. I'm just trying to get some shut out here. I take out my wallet and extend a $10 bill into his tent. It's fucking freezing out here. Shake yourself off and go get a coffee somewhere. It's on me.

He sat up, not drunk like I thought he might be. He's got skin like a football left in the sun for 40 years, but his eyes are like chips of cobalt, alert, like an old wolf. Probably of that. It looks like he has training somewhere deep within that old riddled body. He reaches out with the gloved hand and takes it. Thanks, I'll do that. I nodded him. Yeah, you will. No booze or anything else, huh? Coffee. There's a Dunkin just two and a half blocks that way. Yeah, I live here, kid. you're standing in my living room. Sometimes the manager lets me have the old donuts. Sounds like a stand-up guy.

Go say hi. Patronize his business for once. He narrows his eyes at me. I think he gets the impression that I'm giving him the rush, but he's seen too much in his time to protest. You have to go with the flow. Right now, it's flowing toward a warm donut shop and a cup of hot coffee the size of Mount Olympus.

He nods. All right, thanks son. God bless. I walk away and continue down the concrete path before me. I'm not a veteran. I'm a scumbag. I've never fought for anything other than myself. But when you're in my line of work, it pays to have the bums on your side. They see things no one else does, because no one wants to look at them. That, and I've been homeless before, I know what it's like.

And I only got out of it because I was willing to do things that most people are too decent to consider. A ways down, and to the left, into a dark alley behind a laundromat. My weasel eyes are quick to notice that there's not a damn thing here. And that's what I'm after. Nothing other than freezing condensation from the dryer vents and oil sodden cement. It's dim back here away from the street. It's only going to get dimmer. My guy insisted on meeting in an alley at dusk.

Anyone's guess why? It's so cold out in direct sunlight that I swear I can hear my balls clacking together as I walk. But they say the customer is always right, for some reason. I pull out my phone. Nothing. I'm right on time like I always am, and the customer is late.

This happens more often than you'd think. I cater to some fairly uppercrusted clantel. And it's really incredible how skittish they can be about getting their stuff. All that shame curdled up in their bellies makes them into spooked rabbits. You have further to fall when you're closer to the top. He might be watching me. That's happened a few times. A lot of these white-collar guys watch too much HBO

and think they understand this half of society. They get the impression that I'm not to be trusted. Like I'm one gasp away from knifing them in the gut and stealing their wallet. Most of these twerps are businessmen. I have no idea how they don't understand that I would not be able to maintain a clientele of any kind if I was in the habit of stabbing my customers just to hold on to a little bit of extra product.

Someone casts a shadow over me while I'm looking at my phone considering calling my guy. Finally, thirst beats fear, and my customer finally shows up. He's framed in the mouth of the alley with the sun right at his back, just a silhouette. I raise my hand to block the light and get a better look at him and open my mouth to say something,

but I bite my tongue. That's not my guy. The one I'm looking for is a tall, stringy ghoul in his 40s, with graying hair at the temples and a permanent worried frown that only my wares have the power to temporarily lift. He dresses like someone who never colored outside the lines as a kid. This guy is not like that. Medium height, short hair, jelled up like someone out of a 2002 new metal album cover. Fat, at least 200 pounds. Not dressed for the occasion at all. To the extent that it's actually kind of mysterious.

This cat's wearing Miami Vice corporate casual, nuclear pink tie, cobalt blue collared shirt, slacks, big heavy sunglasses despite the dusk. He is visibly sweating, despite the single-digit temperature. He's smiling at me. Hey there, pal. What's cooking? You've got the eyebrows of a sly guy.

You look like you know the difference between toothpaste and drywall spackle. Rad. You and me were knowledgeable types. I've got a hell of an idea that you just can't wait to hear about. I have no idea who this guy is. But it doesn't take a genius or years of experience in my line of work. to realize this guy is higher than an orgy for astronauts. He doesn't feel cold in these sub-zero temps. Definitely some yuppie who had too much.

Wonder why his friends decided to ditch him. Can I help you with something, buddy? Somehow, his smile gets wider. I thought he was already smiling at 100%. I don't like the way it looks. Not at all, my maximum guy. My sweet Ultra Daniel, I'm here to help you. You and the rest of America will bear witness to a supreme transformation.

I blink. He's taken a step toward me. My hand instinctively inches toward my gun. I'm not consciously afraid. But I've seen what people far into the juice will do to one another after just the wrong push. I put an even measure on my voice. Maybe he will respond to a firmer hand. You've got the wrong alley, man.

And you don't need any more anyway. Why don't you go home and sweat it out, huh? Take a break. It's not even dark yet. He laughs at me, and he takes another step forward. You're a funny guy, Nathan. You're the sort of boss that doesn't just take yes for an answer. But I've got the sauce.

The real deal. You won't believe your goddamn eyes. Behold my cash money wrath, bro. The guy reaches to the left and picks up a trash can. One of those old metal ones that's been left outside for 300 years. He gets one hand on each end, like it's an accordion, and pushes. It crumbles and screeches, like it's made out of paper. All I can do is watch, stunned, as the freak folds and crushes the thing into a tiny metal ball. He holds it up to me, like he's showing me something he knows

is very impressive. It's the size of a cantaloupe now. Then he drops it. It goes clank on the concrete. I take out my gun. Without raising it just yet, I say, Do not come any closer. Leave. Now. I don't know what I'm dealing with here, but I'm not taking any chances.

The guy looks like he's 30% pizza and beer by weight, but he's got the strength of a fucking Terminator. I have no idea how he did that, and I'm not interested enough to ask. He takes another step. He hasn't stopped smiling. I get it, Jim. You're still.

not convinced. That's okay. We're all different. We're all just cruising along, feeling the groove and fucking up. That's what I'm here for. That's the disease that I cure. Paging Dr. Awesome Bastard. Report to the surgical ward for cool guys only. I level the gun at it. Take another step and I will use this asshole. You show me yours and I'll show you mine, Travis. I'm the way of the world. I'm the heart that squeezes your sticky juices here and there. I'm the peak of bioelectric nightmare design, and you couldn't kill me with a nuclear bomb and a bad attitude. Check this shit out.

He rushes me. Fine. I get two shots off right into his chest, but he doesn't go down. I step out of the way, just barely far enough to avoid him taking a swipe in me with one of his doughy fists. Jesus Christ, he's fast. In order to stop, he has to physically see. skid to a halt with one hand on the ground.

He stands up again. In the shadows further down the alley, I can see he's still smiling. I know I hit him. There's no way I couldn't have. You'd have to be blind and drunk to miss the shot he gave me. I can see the goddamn bullet holes. One in his chest, one in his belly. There's no blood.

You and me, Jerry, the dance of life. Two to tango. One to bleed and one to laugh. He reaches to his left and tears off an entire electrical box from the Guamount. Sparks go everywhere. Metal shrieks. He winds back. That thing is the size of my torso, and he's going to throw it at me.

Nope, not me. Not today. I turn and run out of the alley, then take a hard rife. The electrical box explodes from the corner like it was fired out of a fucking cannon. It flies across the street and smashes into a brick storefront. The thing walks out of the alley and looks right. at me. Try and run, Todd.

It just makes you cooler. There's a truck coming down the road. No time to lock up. I hope this works. I scramble and turn, sprinting down the sidewalk like my life depends on it. Because it does. I know I'll never beat this thing in a race. I can feel it to footsteps behind me.

It runs like it weighs thousands of pounds. Right as he's within grabbing distance, I run into the street. The truck's horn blairs. I cut right across. The front bumper leaves wind on my heels. Then there's the third. sound of a semi-truck smashing into something heavy enough to stop it in its tracks. I don't stop to turn around.

I don't indulge my morbid curiosity. I just run. Instances of SCP-4866 vary in physical appearance, but always manifest as a mildly overweight human wearing sunglasses and business formal wear. To date, SCP-4866 manifestation events have only occurred in large, densely populated metropolitan areas in the western United States, in cities such as Denver, Las Vegas, Seattle, San Francisco, and Los Angeles. While SCP 4866's specific point of origin is unknown, their behavioral patterns are generally predictable. A SCP 4866 entity will arrive in a populated area without announcing

its presence or being otherwise obtrusive. It will remain dormant in an unknown location for a period of time lasting between two and 14 days. Then begin murdering civilians at a rate of approximately 1 to 2 per month. Initially, these murders will be executed with skill, with SCP 4866 utilizing tactics and techniques specifically formulated to minimize the amount of usable evidence that law enforcement agencies could employ in a conclusive investigation. SCP 4866's modus operandi tends toward the spectacularly violent. Victims are typically terminated via overwhelming blunt force trauma to the head or

torso applied by SCP 4866's body alone, with weapons or other tools used only in a small number of cases. SCP 4866, first four to five victims will be attacked in relatively secluded areas, but the entity will gradually begin to select targets in busier locations, and will eventually resort to moving the victims dismembered or mutilated bodies with the intent of displaying them publicly. The CCP 4866's tactics will continue to escalate in boldness until it is apprehended by authorities. Occasionally to the point that the entity has begun murdering civilians in broad daylight in heavily trafficked areas.

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