The SCP Experience - The Unkillable Assassin | SCP-2591

Episode Date: May 9, 2022

SCP Foundation EUCLID class object, SCP-2591: The Unkillable Assassin Author: Lucas Click Check out the Author's work here: newpulptales.com This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-2591, 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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that proposes the most recent machine-a-sou and the games to get-a-bos-gat-Soo! ... sans-a-tosgents without a big-bas-bonanza. Hey! I've gained!

Woo-hoo! Scentire the pleasure! Play-O-Jo! 18-10 and plus, 1-Depo SOUKBECD in Ontario. 50-tour-D-BusBon-BusBonanza. Veillage me in a way of responsible.

The conditions apply. I wake up to the sounds of crickets and swearing. My brain feels several sizes too small for my head, like I've had a night of heavy drinking. Slowly, my eyes open. Nothing but darkness. I wait until my eyes adjust, and I can just make out the shadows of branches above me

in the low moonlight. My back aches. And I think the forest shifting around me as the product of my hangover. It's not until some of the fog clears in my head that I realize I'm being dragged by two men. What the fuck? I try to say, but all that comes out is some gurgling from deep in my throat. I turn to the side and spit out blood, then try to sit up.

What the fuck? Nope, that's not me either. Instead, it's one of the two guys holding up my legs. They promptly drop both and spin toward me. I can just make out their confusion through the low light as I sit up. There's something bitter and hard in my mouth. So I open up one of my hands and spit. In my hand is a tiny piece of metal, dented, and mangled.

As I twisted between two fingers, a word of recognition forms in my mind. Jesus! The smaller of the two guys winds. Frankie, I thought you said you plugged this prick. I did, in the throat. and then right between the eyes. Yeah? The smaller man gestures at me.

How do you explain that then? Frankie doesn't have an answer, so he shrugs and reaches into his coat to pull out an automatic pistol. Apparently, uncertain of his marksmanship, he stands over me and puts the barrel of the gun right to my forehead. Fear fills me, but something sharp and sinister reacts without thought. My hand is a blur as Frankie's wrist twists with the shorthy. sharp crack of bones. His bellow is cut short as the gun falls in my free hand, and I jam it right in his chest and fire three quick shots. Frankie teeters on his feet for a moment before dropping on me like a redwood. He weighs about as much as one too. The smaller goon barks in surprise

and starts firing his gun. Frankie might not have been much of a gunman in life, but he's one hell of a human shield in death. The bullets lodge in his massive body, never reaching me. I wish Wait for the sound of a clicking trigger, then squirm my way out from Frankie's bulk. The other guy has just finished loading a fresh clip in his gun when I shoot him in the throat. He dies, gasping and choking on his own blood, and once more, without thinking, I pick up his gun too. With the dirty deeds done, adrenaline makes a hasty retreat, and panic comes marching in. I look around and see nothing but thick woodlands. My breath comes out in heavy gasps, but something keeps me frozen in place. My head starts to clear and a name suddenly comes to mind,

Tony Stacey. After my name returns, the rest of my memories aren't far behind. A few months ago, I had been nothing but a two-bit crook until a buddy of mine double-crossed me and left me for dead. Only I didn't stay dead. Instead, my body healed itself. The first thing I did was hunt down the rat bastard who betrayed me. The second thing, set up shop as a hitman. Most assassins all have similar M.O.'s. Their methods are all about patience and planning. Thinking of the ins and outs, the possible hazards and difficulties, studying your prey and waiting for the right time to strike. Sound strategy if you only have one life to live. Since something decided to enter a cheat code and give me unlimited lives, I don't need any of that shit.

The one thing I do share with traditional button men is persistence. So, now that I have my memory back, I follow the drag marks back toward Lucaveli's mansion. It's nothing but thick woodlands for the first mile, but then the forest starts to thin. Past the trees, Lucaveli's mansion is an eyesore surrounded by nature. My last approach had been bloody and straightforward. I just drove up to the front door, guns blazing, taking out about a dozen guys in the process. Unfortunately, Lucavelli has more henchmen than he does girlfriends. I guess Frankie had gotten lucky and put a couple of bullets in the right spots.

With me dead and buried, their guard will be down. Boy, are they in for a world of hurt? I smile as I walk toward the rear entrance this time. Only two guards this time, lighting up cigarettes. One calls out a greeting to me, mistaking me for either Frankie or the other guy. It's not until I step into the porch light, dripping blood, and a gun in each hand, that they realize their mistake. Too late. My guns are already raised and firing, bullets ripping through their bodies before they can react. Even when they drop, I keep firing until the guns click and toss them aside.

Like I said, I don't really have any training for this. Hell, I'm not even much of a marksman, but my aim has improved just from the sheer number of jobs I've pulled since becoming unkillable. When you don't stay dead, skill is secondary to persistence. I relieve the two stiffs of their guns and kick in the living room door. Immediately, a bullet rips through my hip and I fall. As bullets fly through the air, I drag myself across the floor and take cover behind an expensive couch. I can't be killed, but that doesn't mean getting shot doesn't hurt like a bitch. Besides, if one of these guys gets lucky and blows my brains out again, I will have to start all over.

Instead, I play a game of mobster whack-a-mole. I wait for a gun to click empty, then pop my head out and blast away the unlucky bastard. It feels slower than it is, but while mobsters may be big on camaraderie, they're not much for working together. Eventually, enough drop for the last to go running towards the exit. I open up with a freshly acquired gun from his fallen brethren and blow off the back of his head. Some people have a problem shooting men in the back. Don't ask me why. It's a hell of a lot easier shooting someone when they're running than when they're shooting back.

I limp up Lucavelli's arched stairway with the bottom floor finally clear. I get to the second floor when one of his lieutenants bursts out of a room with a shotgun. I clobbered one of my pistols over his head. The shotgun roars and fires deep in my thigh, releasing a fresh string of curses from my lips. I empty a whole clip into the guy's face just out of spite. No open casket for this son of a bitch, I think as I pick up his shotgun. Every limped step toward Lucavelli's bedroom is agony.

I have to prop myself up on the walls, leaving behind blood smears. I'm so close that I just want to get this over with before I die from blood loss. Luccavelli's door erupts with a wave of automatic gunfire. The bullets rip apart the door, sending shrapnel of splinters into my face as a bullet flies through my chest. Swearing, I shoved through the tattered remains of the door. Luccavelli is standing in a bathrobe with an assault rifle straight out of Scarface.

My heart slows, and I spit blood as I raise the shotgun and squeeze the trigger. You know why I love shotguns? If you're close, you don't need to be accurate. The blast lifts Lucavelli off the ground and slams him into the wall. I know I don't have much time left. Every breath I take is followed by a cough of blood and my vision blurring. Got to get this shit done. I pull my phone from my pocket, snap a quick pick of the corpse, and send it to my client.

My phone dings as the other half of a million goes into my account. I fall to the ground, smiling. I wake up as the last of the bullets. spits out from my chest. Sitting up, I don't even bother to check. Even my lethal wounds heal to unmarred flesh. I check my phone and see that I haven't been out too long. And since I didn't get my brain scrambled this time, all my memories are intact. Now it's quitting time. My clothes are now nothing more than bullet-riddled bloody rags. I strip down and then change into some of Luccavelli's wardrobe. It's too expensive for my taste, and a bit too tight.

but beggars can't be choosers. I pick up the shotgun as a souvenir and make my way back down the stairs. I step over the bodies, careful not to slip in the blood and ruin my new suit. I step outside and freeze. There's a van that wasn't there before. The doors slam open, and six armed guards swarm out. They're not Lucaveli's guys. They're in full body armor with helmets that cover their faces.

They look like law enforcement, but there's no department name or agency on the armor. I didn't get this far in life by asking questions. Raising the shotgun, I opened fire, and they scatter. But then I feel the familiar press of cold steel against the back of my head. Well, shit! The gunshot explodes in my ears as my head erupts with pain,

and then there's nothing. My eyes open slowly again to a simple overhead light. My surroundings look the same as any other jail cell I've been in. What's new is that I have had to have been in. is that I have a cellmate, and he's singing. It sounds vaguely opera-ish, something I've never had a taste for. Even worse, the song sounds like it's been sung by a cat and a blunder.

Christ! I said up. Would you knock that shit off? My cellmate stares back at me, and I stare. It's a man or... Well, I guess it used to be. The hair has fallen from its head, and its skin is shriveled up like leather.

It's rung so tight on its hands that the fingernails look like claws and his teeth look like fangs. The zombie looks back at me and sighs deeply from its chest. Young man. The voice is raspy and ancient. What is your name? Shocked and not knowing what else to do, I answer. Tony Stacey. Stacey.

The dead face contorts and disgust. This foul country has been. bastardize our name. You are the descendant of my brother, I am sure. You look just like Bernardo. Though I don't ask, the corpse writes itself and bows. I am Ricardo, Duke of Abostasia, and your uncle. Several generations removed, of course.

Uh-huh, I blink and look around, measuring the cell. Where the fuck are we, Uncle Rick? He turns his face as if I struck him. Bastardo, must you taint our name the same way they did? Bad enough that you have also been inflicted with the family curse. Curse? Shake my head and laugh. You call being unkillable a curse?

It's the best thing that ever happened to me. Uncle Rick sighs heavily. My poor boy, you are just as dead as I am. You just haven't decomposed enough to notice. Granted, it is a slow process for us, but given enough time, you look the same as me. He brandishes his hands to the side and starts belting out the same song from before. It's like someone drilling into my ears, and I grind my teeth. After a minute, I finally rise, walk over, and snap at Ancestors' neck.

I walk over to my cot to go back to sleep, but the body stirs, readjust itself, and starts its god-awful singing again. I dash over to the door and start pounding against it. Hey, let me out of here. I'd rather take another bullet to the head than listen to this shit. SCP-2591 is an animate human cadaver, possessing a regenerative ability to extend life. As a result of this regeneration, SCP 2591 skin condition mimics the effects of mummification. It is estimated that SCP-2591 has been alive since the 13th century CE. Though decay has resulted in diminished sensory capabilities,

SCP-2591 can move, display advanced intelligence, and is fluent in Latin, English, and French. It will answer to the name Ricardo and, claims to be the Duke of the Papal State of Apostasia. SCP-2591 appears to be in a near constant state of emotional distress brought about by events earlier in its life, and will frequently express the desire to commit suicide. Following a suicide attempt,

SCP-2591's wounds will recover, and it will awaken in a state of confusion.