The SCP Experience - To The Cleverest | SCP-050

Episode Date: May 1, 2023

SCP Foundation EUCLID class object, SCP-050: To The Cleverest This podcast is sponsored by BetterHelp. Go to betterhelp.com/scp today to get 10% off your first month! This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-050 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

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. I raced toward her, the scene before me finally making sense through my drug-fogged mind. The blanket from my bed is coiled tight around her throat. It's connected to some contraption near the door.

I recognize the rusted pulleys and other odds and ends from one. I moved in and stuffed them in a closet. I wrap my arms around her and lift her up. It provides just enough leverage for her to gasp in a small breath through her purple lips. Panic grips me, and I start shouting, help, someone fucking help me! Mom died before Dad. It came as a shock to my sisters and I. Dad, who chain smoked and drank a case of beer by himself on the weekends, and put in 50 hours a week at a factory to support us, always seemed like the likeliest candidate. Until the day we got the phone call from mom's school,

saying she collapsed and died before the ambulance even arrived. Heart attack. We didn't have plans for this eventuality. At first, we just sat and waited for dad to retire and give himself up entirely to the bottle. The opposite ended up happening. He quit drinking and smoking but never thought about retirement. even long after my sisters and I had established our own careers.

As much as he disliked the work, I think he liked the distraction, anything to keep him busy after Mom. He died a few years after Mom, a heart attack, just like her. But I think there was something more to it than that. I think after years without her, he didn't have enough fight left in him to try and go on. Dad had the unfortunate combination of a broken, and busted heart.

It's a thought that I keep to myself during family reunions and get-togethers during the holidays. It's not easy losing both of your parents so close to each other, but there was something I took away from the grief. I watched my parents work their lives away in jobs they couldn't stand.

We were so important to them that they would get up early every morning and go to jobs where they weren't appreciated enough. After dad died, I decided to get off the path that led to both of their deaths. I'm a writer, and I have been my whole life. Sure, I've only had success recently, but you know the definition of a writer? Someone who writes, and I've been doing that since I learned my ABCs. I remember the first story I wrote, a three-page epic about Hubie the

mean ghost. Mom was so proud that she pinned it on the fridge, using various magnets to keep it up, as it inevitably sagged toward the floor. When we cleared out Dad's house, I found it still there. The page is yellow and crinkled with age, but still prominently displayed for everyone to see. Dad used to joke about me writing the great American novel and using the money to take care of his and mom's retirement. Dad didn't realize that most American classics were works of literary fiction,

and usually so boring they put you to tears. Seriously, have you ever read the Great Gatsby? God, the looks I got in my undergrad class when I called it a boring and nonsensical plot populated by unlikable characters. I still remember the sneer from the grad student running the workshop when he saw the Richard Matheson book on my desk. You're one to talk. I got that kind of reaction a lot

when the literary elites in charge of my education saw what I liked to read. Not that I don't see any merit, with literary fiction. But good God, the stigma from those hoity tooty 20-somethings when they found out that I like stories with elves, spaceships, and ghosts. And if you can fit all three of those things in the same book, then I'm happy as a pig and shit. It's a metaphor that most of my instructors happily approved of. Here's one thing they never stress enough in undergrad. Writing is tough. Sure, everyone knows Stephen King and J.K. Rowling. Most people,

People don't realize their true outliers in the writing world. There are millions of writers out there, putting their asses in the chair and plugging away a hundred words a minute that you never heard of. Trust me, I'm probably one of them. Even if you are one of my fans, you never heard of me after I graduated college. My novel, which I spent years working on, went from agent to agent without ever finding a publisher. I got a few short stories published in magazines, but even that was hard work and a lot more misses than hits. After a year of trying to make it big as a writer and living with my parents,

I netted a measly 300 bucks, which, for a beginning writer, is actually a really good showing in their first year. I faced reality and got a desk job. Then mom and dad died. After dad, me and my sisters got a sizable inheritance. Not enough for us to live in the lap of luxury, but enough for me to put a down payment on a small house in the suburbs. It's a decent neighborhood, even if my neighbors have a prick of a Rottweiler for some reason. Luckily, they keep it chained up in their backyard, so it's more barky than bitey. Before mom and dad died, I found some success as a regular writer for a couple of podcasts. It was something I would do for fun and as a side hustle to fund new books and video games, not something I ever thought about making a career out of. The death of my parents,

though, lit a fire under me, and I started cranking out multiple stories every week. My reports for work started coming in later and later. I spent most of my time at work, working on stories. Eventually, it came to a point where my supervisor pulled me in and gave me a stern warning. Stan? I don't think you're being much of a team player. Yeah? Well, fuck you, coach. I quit. I don't know if my response surprised him or me more, but a short time later, I was packing up my desk and driving home with a smile. Since then, I've devoted my whole career to writing short stories. Most professional writers will tell you that you can't make a living on short fiction. Most professional writers are correct. I got lucky.

and that I became a regular writer for two podcasts. After that, I spent years getting my name out there, studying different podcasts and magazines, finding their niches, then tailoring stories to fit them. So it's not an impossible task. But damn, it is a lot of work. In many ways, I'm working harder now than I ever did when I held down a 9-to-5. Building a brand, establishing an audience,

and shouldering your way onto a crowded market is a full-time job. It's entirely possible, with my family's medical history, that I'm going to drop dead of a heart attack just like mom and dad someday. But, hey, at least I'll do it doing something I love and on my terms. I'm sitting behind the wheel, chewing on the end of my vape pen, lulling in the lazy afternoon traffic. Like mom and dad, I used to be a full-time smoker, but their deaths caused me to transition to something that'll give me a steady nicotine fix, is less likely to kill me. There's a story that I've been stuck on for the last couple of weeks, and I thought a drive might clear my head. So far, no such luck. A row of tables outside on

a lawn catches my attention. It can't be a garage sale. There's an annual one a few months away that most of the neighborhood goes full throttle on. Curious, I put on my blinker and parked along the side. Who knows? Maybe I'll find something to kickstart my imagination. Walking up, I realize it's an estate sale. It's obvious by the older woman sitting at her makeshift checkout counter. She's wearing a black dress and a composed face threatening to break when another couple picks up some tacky lamp. I can tell there's a lot of history with the item, important only to her.

When the young couple tries to talk her down to five bucks, she grips the sides of her table, shaking a moment before nodding. I reach into my pocket for my small, battered notebook. can take notes. It's one of the best pieces of advice I got from the literary illuminate in charge of my education. Always carry something to write with and jot down anything you see in public that interests you. You never know what imagery can trigger a scene or character you can use later in your fiction. It's sound advice, but I can't fully suppress the twinge of guilt as I note the details of the scene unfolding before me. I tuck away the notebook and start perusing the estate sale

to assay my guilty conscience. No doubt about it, I definitely have to buy something now. As I walk down the tables, I freeze at a small statue. I'm drawn to the bronze monkey. Its face is obscured by an open book it holds in both hands. I pick it up, needing both hands to support its surprising weight. On its stand, engraved in bronze, are the words to the cleverest. What better decoration for a cocky writer than this. I can already picture the perfect spot for it, above the work desk in my bedroom. Already, visions of finishing the story and rubbing the monkey for good luck flashed through my mind. I can feel the grin on my face as I turned toward the woman running the sail. Excuse me, ma'am, how much for the statue? The look she gives me is full of even more

distaste and anger than the one she gave the low-balling hipsters walking away from the lamp. At first, I think she's expecting me to rip her off again, but any true feelings are masked by a lifetime of concealing her emotions. I can't help but think the woman must have worked in customer service before she retired. Free to a good home! Her response shocks me, and I nod my thanks. But now I'm more dedicated to buy something. I fill a box with some old comics for my oldest nephew,

a few toy race cars, and a teddy bear for my youngest, niece, and nephew. They're at the age when any new toy is still exciting, even if it's slightly used. I intend to milk their current period of wonder for all its worth, and stock up on good uncle points. The lady rings me up for ten bucks. I give her a twenty and tell her to keep the change. I figure the statue has got to be worth at least twice that. She rings the twenty between her fingers, and I see another mixture of emotions across

her face. its gratitude, I nod my thanks again and turn to leave. Just be careful with it. I turned back around, but I still can't read the storm of emotions across her face. Either her grief is too fresh, mucking everything up, or she should consider getting into poker. A new car pulls up, and she focuses on answering their questions. Taking that as my cue to leave, I load up my box of purchases and head back home.

The neighbor's dog is barking as always when I pull up into my driveway. I'm thankful they have an oversized fence to protect me from the frenzied mongrel, but the wood always shakes when they walk to my door. I wonder how long the fence will hold up, but I dismiss the thought when I'm safely behind my front door. My room is a complete disaster, as usual. I set my own schedule, but it's a hectic one. Usually, I ride a little throughout the day,

then put in a solid couple of hours at night, revising and dulling my brain to go to sleep. My house isn't much more than a small living room, a cozy kitchen, and a hallway connecting those rooms to my bedroom. Since my room is the biggest and lacks a TV to distract me, that's where I set up my home office. My feet kick away a few discarded energy drinks and instant coffee cans as I reach my chair. I take the statue out of the box before sliding my other purchases under my desk, then place it on the shelf, holding a few of my favorite books. The statue takes up the center spot in my makeshift shrine of creativity, right between I Am Legend and Salem's Lot.

Just as I envisioned when I bought it, I rub the top of the monkey's brass head for good luck and smile. I take another long pool for my vape before flopping into the chair and flipping open my laptop. You'll hear a lot about writers block from other writers. Honestly, the only cure for not writing is writing. So I pull up my latest story and plug in a couple more paragraphs. But even that little work feels like pulling teeth. Usually, I like to plot before I sit down and lose myself in a story. But sometimes you get unexpected results when writing by the seat of your pants. Or sometimes, like now, you get lost in the weeds of words.

sighing, I minimize the window and open Firefox. I open a few tabs, pulling up Reddit, Twitter, Facebook, and a few other platforms I use to promote my work and interact with fans. Like I said, building and maintaining an audience and a brand is a hell of a lot of work. And therein lies the problem. It's easy to convince yourself you're working, even when you're mostly just looking at cat videos. The vibration of my phone in my pocket is a pleasant distraction. made even more pleasant when I see who's calling. Hey, honey, what's up? Over for a bit.

I smile, even though she can't see me through the phone. Well, here's the thing. You haven't eaten dinner yet, have you? Bingo. I'm on it. Salads, right? Uh. Kidding, Chinese takeout? The sweeter, the better.

My smile grows. You're the best. And don't you forget it? I hang up the call. Grateful for the distraction from work. and the impending visit for my girlfriend. Honey is a hell of a girl, and not just because her name lets us avoid the whole cutesy nickname cliche

that makes most couples a pain to be around. She's also a bartender and works strange hours, which complements my self-imposed schedule. Those are just bonuses to the fact that she's out of my league and freaking hilarious. We've been going out for a few months now, and I think it's about time for her to meet my sisters. But I'm putting that off for as long as I can.

Both my older and younger sister have a brood of children of their own, and the question of when I'm going to settle down and start having kids comes up way too often for my comfort. Neither honey nor myself are in a position to start thinking about marriage or kids, and she's content with that. I push myself up from my chair and get slapped by the reek emanating from my armpits. Cringing, I take a look at the debris littering my room. I often get into my own little world when writing and cleanliness takes a back seat,

with my body and room becoming the greatest casualties of my inattention. I don't want honey to know the full depths of my slobby nature, but the stank from my body isn't one I can easily conceal with body spray. Honey lives close, and I know I only have time to clean one. Figuring that a messy room is better than a reeking body, I opt for a shower. The stream of scalding water is instant relief to my tight muscles. Sure, I spend most of my working day in a chair banging out words. It's still work, though.

And the stress of getting stuck on a story knots up my back like an overzealous kid afraid of tripping over his shoelaces. The shower helps, but honey gives great massages. And I'm hopeful that's on the menu tonight. Maybe that'll be enough to lift the stress and finally let me crack this story open. I finish drying off my hair and step into my room and freeze. It's immaculate. It's never been this clean in the few years I've called it home. The bed is made which is something I never do.

All the trash is in the can and there's a faint smell of lemon in the air. I rub my eyes, but the pristine image of my room is just to spick and span through blurry eyes. What the hell? Am I more out of it than I thought? Did I get up at some point? and pick up the room during a Reddit-induced haze? The ringing on my doorbell pushes the thought out of my mind as I quickly sling on some boxers, shorts, and a t-shirt.

I go to the door and let Honey inside. She immediately plops the food on the counter, then wraps her arms around my shoulder and kisses me deeply. Something I'm only happy to reciprocate. Honey is always friskier when she's stressed, and I've learned enough not to press her for the details. They'll come out soon enough. come out soon enough. As we load paper plates with cheap Chinese food, she starts venting about

her three roommates. One's a waitress. The other is an aspiring actress, and the third is a combination of both occupations. Sometimes such strong personalities can find in one space yield conflicts you only ever see in prison. Today is one of those days. I perform my boy-friendly duties, listening and agreeing with her about the unreasonableness of the situation. It's not hard to do. If I had to spend my few resting hours listening to a three-man show rehearsal, I'd probably be pissed, too. I silently thank the writing gods that I no longer have to worry about roommates. I light up a joint, and the two of us make quick work of the egg rolls and crab rancoons. While honey polishes off the low main, I turn on Netflix. If you're

It loads up some random sitcom that would be boredom interrupted with a couple of chuckles, but that's absolutely hysterical thanks to the weed. We watch, laugh and cuddle, which quickly morphs into a makeout session. I yelp not unpleasantly as honey nips my bottom lip, grin. She reaches for the remote and hits pause. A mischievous grin crosses her lips as she stands up from the couch. A bit high, it takes me a few seconds to rise from the couch cushions. If you ever feel like you don't appreciate your couch enough, smoke a joint.

It does wonders for tactile appreciation. However, my tactile fondness is interrupted when I see Honey's shirt on the ground. Her giggle emanates from the hall, and I follow after it, finding her shorts a short distance away. I take another few steps and discover her bra, making me sprint toward my bedroom. I stop at the closed door and start working my shorts down where I hear a loud crash, followed by Honey's scream. Swearing, I barrel through the door and trip over something, which elicits another cry of pain from honey.

I stand, wiping blood from my lips and reaching for the light switch. The light blinds me. For a terrifying moment, the world is nothing but a white glare and honey sobs before my vision returns. Honey sprawled out on the floor, covering her ankle. It's black and blue and swollen three times its regular size. The toy cars I bought from the estate sailor scattered around her, Hadn't I left those in the box under my desk?

I shake the shock from my head and rush to honey, cradling her in my arms, and carry her out to my car. She cries the whole time. Lazzang sur-goled, puissance-molyne, ...paren't it's their dojo. Prere to play?

Vivie the pleasure with the Ojo. The casino in-line that proposes the most recent machine-ass-sou and the games of casinos in direct. Profite of 50 tours gratis on Big Bas Bonanza, without exigions of mis-mise and with the payments instantane. instantaneous. Hey, I've got Woohoo! Senture the pleasure.

Play, Ojo! Dix 8 years, 1,000, 10% per centaururess 50% per cent D'clock. Depos minimum of $10 dollar.

Veer to play to be responsible. The conditions apply. Beavis A barque and profite. Embarque and

celebrate. Rigolet. Publied. Savourate. Admire. And, and profite. Villarai,

the voice that we am. weight wrapped around a center of pain. Who needs alcohol when sleep deprivation can just as easily give you a hangover. I pull myself up for a moment before flopping back down and closing my eyes. Last night felt like a dream. No, it had been a fucking nightmare. I did practically everything wrong last night. High behind the wheel, my speed alternated between too fast and a pathetic crawl as I headed for the hospital, trying not to crash. When Honey finally got her broken ankle scene too, she found me scribbling in my notebook in the waiting room. She took it as a sign of

apathy. The truth is that hospitals have made me uncomfortable for years now. Too many memories of mom and dad, and I needed something to take my mind off my surroundings. I explained that about as well as I explained that I hadn't left the cars out in my otherwise spotless room. The drive back to Honey's home had been tense and silent. She didn't even let me get the door for her. Have you ever seen a pissed off woman on crutches? I have. And I have this sinking suspicion that it's the last time I'll ever see honey.

Realizing sleep is no longer an option. I force myself out of bed and crack open a red bull on the nearby nightstand. It tastes like hot piss. But the chemicals force my eyes wide and send my heart hammering. I glance at my computer and the monkey statue above it before shaking my head and walking on. One of my friends from college has a great saying about writing. You can't shit before you eat. In terms of creativity, she means that you need to feed your imagination something

before you sit down and start writing. The best thing for that is a book, but movies and video games can also be effective. Of course, if that was my real aim, I would play something like the Dark Pictures Anthology or resident evil. But I'm set on a mindless shooter, online multiplayer, and no campaign, meaning I'm trying to take my mind off of what I'm sure is my doomed relationship. A chill creeps up my bones as I step out into the hall. I like my house cooler than most people, but this is ridiculous.

My body tenses as I step into my living room. The front door is open, and my living room is wrecked. My beloved couch cushions have been ripped to shreds. The leftover Chinese is scattered on the floor. Just my luck. Dumped and robbed, all in less than 24 hours. But wait, just what the fuck had they been looking for? What kind of burglar tears a place apart, but leaves a TV and Xbox?

A low growl and claws clicking on my kitchen floor answer my questions. The neighbors Rottweiler growls again, showing me all its teeth. The fur rises along its body as it tightens into a threatening. stance. I opened both hands, dropping the can of Red Bull on the floor, adding to the mess. Easy, girl. My voice is barely more than a whisper. Easy. Um. Oh, Christ. What's its fucking name? I hear the neighbors yelling at it sometimes. It's some innocent-sounding name that starts with an M. Um, Mitzie? Mittens? The dog barks and launches itself at me. A needle-sharp blur of an ashy. teeth and sharp claws. Spinning in the other direction, I run down the hall, bouncing off the walls

as I do. It makes me stumble, and I feel something sharp sink into my leg. I scream as my leg wrenches in the opposite direction, sending hot blood squirting down my ankle. Rearing back, I slam my foot behind me as hard as I can. I'm rewarded with a sharp yelp and turn over my shoulder to see the dog stumbling back, fresh blood running down its nose. Ah, take that muffin! its name, but my triumph sinks in my gut as the dog shakes its head and locks eyes on me again. I realize it's not the dog's blood but my own coating its face. Adrenaline spikes through my head and heart as I run the rest of the way to my room, slamming the door behind you. The dog yips again as I clip its head, but it rears back and I lock the door.

The frame shakes violently on its hinges as the barks echo all around me. I find my phone where I had left it on the nightstand. My hands tremble, and I drop it and hear a crack. Yelling a cascade of swear words, I take a deep breath and pick it up. The screen is a spider web of broken glass, but I managed to punch in 911 before bringing it to my ear. 911, what's your emergency? My neighbor's fucking psycho dog just took a fucking chunk out of my leg. That's my fucking emergency. Sir, I need you to try and stay calm and repeat that.

I take another deep breath. My neighbor's dog! It's gotten into my house somehow. God damn thing fucking bit me. She asks for my hand draft. I comply, my tone and volume evening out now that I know I've gotten a handle on the situation. Sir, I have a unit responding to you, and I'm also alerting animal control and emergency response. ETA is about 15 minutes.

The door rattles on its hinges again. Better make it faster than that! Hanging up the phone, I grumble and head to the bathroom. I find the bottle of peroxide and douse my torn leg with it. At first, there's only the smell of vapors and the sound of the it fizzing before the pain hits me, forcing me to double over. There aren't any bandages big enough to cover the wound, so I settle on an old worn-out shirt of mine. I wrap it tight around my leg and watch it darken red with my blood. Limping, I return to my chair, sit down

and wait. The growls, the pounding on my door, the dread, the pain. It's like something out of one of my stories. My story! Inspiration hits like a flash, and I open the word document The cacophony of bestial noises and throbbing pain fade as my words flash across the screen. I finish and save the first draft as the flashing blue and red lights appear outside my window. The fallout from the attack passes in a blur, probably in part due to the painkillers that the paramedics shot me full of before cleaning up my leg. As they load me up on a stretcher and start me toward the door, my neighbor shows up and starts shouting bloody murder about his precious muffin.

I yelled something at him. I can't remember what, but I think it was something along the lines of hoping they put the dog down. Insurance cards, hospital forms, police reports, and rabies shots. I only have vague recollections of these things happening, although the sharp and shearing pain of the needles are a fresh pain in my stomach. Maybe I can use them for a story too. After getting myself seen to, I take an Uber back home. I go upstairs long enough to send the finished story to the podcast,

then collapse onto my bed. My phone rings, jarring me awake, shadows linger behind my eyes. The dream I add is an oblivious void of terror that I'm glad I can't remember. Reaching blindly for my phone, I finally hone in on the screen's light, waking instantly when I see who's calling.

Honey? I must still be dreaming. My voice is a harsh croak. I feel a slight grin tug at my lips, even as the pain returns to my leg. remembering the pills the doctor prescribed, I reached for the bottle and struggled with the top. I think you reacted just right. Yeah, well, I popped the bottle open before her words finally register. Wait, the light was out?

You didn't turn it off to add, like, sexual mystique or something? Sexual mystique? Are you high again? She chuckles, and my mood brightens again. No, it was definitely off. Why? I could have sworn I had left the light on, but she's talking to me, and that's worth the inconsistency. Nothing. It's not important.

There's a slight pause before she speaks again. How's your day going, Stud? Well, wait until you hear this. I spend the next few minutes rehashing the story with muffin. It's so far-fetched that I don't have to embellish the events. She sits in silence, except for the occasional gasp until the end. Jesus Christ! Are you okay? Yeah. Managed to finish the story that's been giving me trouble while I waited for the ambulance.

Dummy, you know what I mean? I hesitate, not wanting to add to her worries while she's injured herself. I've been better. Do you need me to come over and take care of you? I hesitate. You've got a bum leg yourself. I don't want to be a burden on you. Well then, I guess we can take care of each other, can't we? My smile grows wider.

That sounds like a deal. We end the call, and I shake one of the pills in my hand. I don't even bother trying to get something to drink and plop the pill in my mouth and chew. The taste is bitter and makes me cringe, but I can already feel it working. I shiver awake. I don't even remember nodding off to sleep

and wonder where my blanket went. Fumbling, I reach for my phone and check the time. It's been nearly a half hour. but no missed calls or texts from Honey. She should have been here by now. But I remind myself she's walking on crutches. That's bound to slow her down. I limp out into the hall,

and I'm immediately met with a blast of chilling air again. Remembering Muffin from earlier, I brace myself as I walked down the hall. Honey hovers above the doorway, kicking her legs. Her crutches drop to the ground while her arms reach for her purple and red face. I race toward her,

the scene before me finally making sense, through my drug-fogged mind. The blanket from my bed is coiled tight around her throat. It's connected to some contraption near the door. I recognize the rusted pulleys and other odds and ends from when I moved in and stuffed them in a closet. I wrap my arms around her and lift her up. It provides just enough leverage for her to gasp in a small breath through her purple lips. Panic grips me and I start shouting, help! Someone fucking help me! You live by yourself, idiot. There's no one to help her but me. But I can't hold on to her. forever. My injured leg is already screaming in protest and my attempt to keep her from strangling to

death. I kick out my good leg in frustration, which jostles the pulleys and the makeshift gallows. As Honey struggles against my grip and idea forms, I lash out with my foot against the Magybridd death trap until it collapses into several broken pieces. Honey's weight collapses against me, pinning us both to the floor. It takes me just a second to recover. I tug on the blanket, loosening the knot and pulling it away from her neck. Her skin is red with rashes and skin burns around her throat. Tears fill my eyes and I pull her close to me. It's okay. I got you. You're going to be okay. She puts her hands to my chest and says something I can't hear. What? New strength fills her arms as she takes a great breath and shoves me away.

Get away from me, you fucking psycho. I need a good lawyer. The thought makes me feel like shit. It shouldn't be my first thought, not with honey again laid up in the hospital, blaming me again for this accident. Accident? I scoff. How the hell do makeshift gallows form in someone's house by accident? I don't know, which made the interview with the police unnerving. They haven't arrested me yet, but took the strange device with them for evidence. I know the charges are only a matter of time, hanging over my head like this sort of Damocles. waking up today is worse than the day before. How did my life go to shit in just three days? A few days ago, I had a perfect life. A job I loved, a girlfriend I was on the fast track to falling in love with,

and no worries except for the podcast deadlines. Well, I doubt they have Xbox in prison, so I better enjoy it while I can. I take a drag on my vape, pop another couple of pills, then head for the door. I try the knob, but it doesn't turn. I shake it, but the hinges remain sturdy and in place. This door doesn't even lock.

Did it get jammed by muffin? But if that's the case, why hadn't it been acting weird yesterday? I throw my shoulder against the wood, the pain dulled by the pills, but still no signs of budging. I rub my latest injury and hear faint movement behind me. I look at my workstation. Does the statue look a little different? Its book is turned down at a slight angle, letting me see the monkey's sneering grin for the first time. It must be that thing.

Nothing had gone wrong until I brought it home. Some rational part of my mind knows that's not possible. Shit like that only happens in one of my stories, not in real life. Yet I'm so frustrated that I don't hesitate as I pick up the statue. It's so heavy that I need both hands as I read the engraving one more time before chucking it at my window. The glass shatters as the statue plummets outside. Yeah, who's the cleverest now, bitch? My outburst is embarrassing, but I feel a slight vindication as the doorknob turns in my hand.

It must be a coincidence. The door swings open, unimpeded, and I step out into the hall. No blast of cold air this time, meaning no attack dogs or impossible to explain strangulation attempts. With a sigh of relief, I open my phone and go back. Google for nearby window repairs. I make an appointment with the business that has the highest star rating. They'll be here in a couple of hours with an estimate, which gives me some time to start looking for a lawyer.

I lose myself for several minutes, scrolling through criminal defense attorneys when my socks go cold and soggy. What the hell? There's a steady stream of water on the floor. I follow it, trying to avoid the small flood in my kitchen. The sink is running and overflowing, spilling water all over the floor.

Maybe one more job for the contractors to look at, I think, before suddenly freezing. There's a shelf above my sink, which is so rotted through that I never bothered putting anything on it. But now the statue is sitting on its edge. It's grin wider than before. Rage fills me again, but the smell of burning bread makes me hesitate. My toaster has been placed on the shelf next to the monkey, and a small cloud of black smoke rises from it. Swearing, I dart forward as the shelf collapses. I watch in horror as the statue and the toaster plummet into the water.

SCP50 appears to be a statue of a monkey reading a book, approximately one foot tall. On the bottom of the statue are engraved the words to the cleverest in cursive script. The statue has so far proven resistant to all forms of damage. As such, there is no accurate method to date the object. When left alone, SCP50 has shown itself to be both useful and antagonistic to its current owner. Although never seen to move, no matter the manner or amount of recordings, any room it is left in becomes very clean, to a polish whenever possible. Paperwork is filed, trash is emptied, and in general, clutter is removed. However, SCP50 also has a tendency to leave traps for its owner, so current holders should carefully check their offices upon returning.

Thank you.