David Cameron Fucked a Dead Pig
rating: +23+x

This tale is NSFW. No dead pigs were fucked in the making of this story.

Fuzzbutt, the magical cat butt that walked on its own, struggled in Veronica's grasp; this was normal for her, as it was with most animals, and hadn't changed in the six or so years in which Fuzzbutt had lived with Brad, Tito, and every other pet that came and went through the house of Brad Lee1 Cameron.

To her credit, Veronica was used to dealing with weird animals, or that which could be reasonably called "animals".

Today, of course, was a special day, being the photoshoot day for David Cameron Fucked a Dead Pig's cover. Thankfully, Brad had scheduled a phenomenal one day before it was supposed to drop to actually shoot the cover, so Veronica totally had time to shepherd around his weirdo pets. This was especially true when his pets loved photobombing album shoots, and needed to be put in the bathroom for Crimes Against ""Art"".

Still, cat butts thankfully don't meow like crazy when dumped into the bathroom. Shame that tidbit lacked real-life application outside Brad's house. The exercise in anomalous absurdity that came with transporting a half-cat to the naughty cat jail did at least give one Veronica Fitzroy time for her last look-over before she was immortalized in her own folly.

The mirror was tacky, as per most things in Brad's house, but it serviced well enough. The half shave, dyed blue, probably screamed "attention whore" a bit too loud, but it wasn't like she was an electro-swing artist or something. Her makeup was… smudged was one way to put it. Tutorials never seemed to help her all that much. Her jaw, while thankfully smooth, was…

Veronica remembered that she hated mirrors.

Sighing, Veronica made her way back to the dining room.

For a thirty-six-year-old man who lived alone (with the exception of his exotic pets), Brad's house was surprisingly… well, Veronica wouldn't exactly use the word "clean", but he did do his share in removing dust and grime. She'll admit that she wished he'd actually organize his things, although she's not sure how much stayed in one place, or even liked to be touched. Still, his pets looked happy-at least, for things without faces. Veronica wasn't sure on shoggoth physiology, or whatever she was supposed to call a crawling ball of tendrils.

As Veronica looked out a window to the front yard, she felt it hard to imagine that Brad had it best out of all of them. Two-bedroom in a good neighborhood, stable career path, and hey, CIA had yet to spook him…

… of course, unless she's hallucinating, that might've changed.

Someone-or something, perhaps-was standing at the door. It was a bit hard to see from this window, but they looked like someone in a fancy coat, which was odd considering she's pretty sure they hadn't signed onto anything fancier than a licensing deal. Maybe some glam rock friend from Izzy's Hydrocide Sisters days, here to once again delay the photoshoot.

Manning the door, Veronica peaked through the eyehole and came eye to… wait.

All she saw was bandages.

"What are you-" Veronica sighed, and began speaking clearly: "I am going to open the door, but that is not an invitation for you to barge in."

The Man in Bandages almost seemed to slouch as Veronica opened the door. "Lord, I hate invitational wards. How'm I supposed to be taking houses call if the patient can't get up? Do I gotta use a phone? AT&T don't exactly sell to somethin' like me."

"That's funny, cause you're still not invited." Veronica did a quick look-over as she leaned against the doorframe. As with five years ago, the Bandaged Man's skin was completely covered, head to toe, in pristine bandages, with not a single bit of skin to show for error. This was, of course, in addition to the glittery pink suit that somehow put her merry band of queers to straight shame, an impressive feat for an entity that almost certainly had no concept of gender or sexuality, all of which framed a frame that couldn't be 20 pounds over a starving human's. "We're shooting an album cover and I'm pretty sure none of us want to sell our souls, so get lost."

Bandages's chuckle was the kind that made one either want to strangle the smug little bastard or nervously chuckle back; Veronica knew enough not to do either. "Is that how you treat a friend of four and a half years, Nicky?"

"Exactly five people get to call me that. You're not one of them." Veronica straightened back up, making sure not to accidentally make any sort of inopportune body language. "Also, yes, that's how I treat someone who I met exactly once. Especially after they dig up my criminal record to try and sell me shit."

"Puh-leeeeeeeeease, Nicky-"

"Veronica."

"-you're still freaked out by that? Have I done somethin' wrong since?"

Veronica shifted to lean against the far doorframe. "I'm going to assume the answer is yes."

"I'm just a simple sinner, after all. But I ain't here to screw y'all over, nah. I'm just here on… business." Bandages leaned in, and a cool summer breeze followed. "As usual."

Veronica furrowed her brow. "We don't have business with you. Not at this hour, and unless Janice Raymond, Ted Nugent, and my dad all discover immortality at the same time, probably not ever."

"Funny you say that, I-"

"No." Growing up, Veronica rarely got the chance to interrupt boring men like this. It was almost intoxicating when she wasn't worrying about accidentally stepping off the ward boundaries. "We don't fuck with labels. You're bigger than a label. Screw off."

Frustratingly, Bandages was doing the exact opposite of screwing off, taking a half-step closer to the door that both of them knew perfectly well was off-limits. Veronica never quite realized it before, but the thing had a perfectly shaped neck for wringing. "Come off it. I ain't askin' y'all tokers if you wanna head out for a spot of cigars. I'm just mannin' a storefront."

Veronica seriously needed a pack of gum right now. "Take no for an answer, for the love of g-d."

Another step towards the house. "You know." A tilt of the head. "I think you'd do well to…" A brush of his hand ag-


Veronica's knuckles roared with pain as they met Bandages's face(?), but the sight of Bandages falling back onto his ass(?) was good enough for her, as was the sound of actual discomfort from the fucking demon.

Even still, it was only a matter of moments before Bandages picked himself back up and dusted his suit off (a shame, grass-stains and dirt were a good look on creeps). "Huh."

"Get out."

Bandages looked right at Veronica; even with the ruffled bandages, little more could be ascertained. "You'll regret that."

"No I won't."

"Suit yourself." And, fucking finally, Bandages was gone. If only that worked for literally anything else, life would be so much easier.

Veronica sighed, coming back inside to Fuzzbutt, now out of gay baby jail, running in circles trying not to get eaten by Tito the shoggoth. Great.

Veronica scooped the poor cat up and headed back to imprison her.


About halfway back to the only properly shoggoth-proofed bathroom, Veronica's phone began blaring the opening riff of Omotenashi, which probably meant Ashy wanted to talk. As it turned out, holding a cat and fishing your phone out of your jeans was harder than it looked. Still, Veronica was a strong girl, she could hold Fuzzbutt just fi-no, wait, out of her grasp.

As Fuzzbutt disappeared under a pile of living-room junk, Veronica sighed into the phone. "Hey, Ashy. Something up?"

"Babe, that drumming?" Veronica resisted interrupting Ashton with a grunt of pain as her finger pricked whatever dumb cult shit Brad left laying around for cats to hide in. "Tight. Kickin' solo, too." For a second, Veronica was certain she'd caught the little rascal; she'd only caught claw marks, however. "That's the closer, right? Can't wait for Dead Pig."

"Oh, the show. Thanks. I mean, me personally, I feel like Jack could've played better." Fuzzbutt suddenly darted out of the pile, only to hide under another pile in the nearby study. "Shit… sorry, cat's giving me trouble."

"S'cool."

"Well, anyways, I felt like he was distracted." Veronica made sure to close the doors of the study before rummaging once more through the occult garbage. "Plus, amusing as performance art is, I'm not sure that's in the HoS playbook. We're not exactly trying to be capital C Cool, yet… I dunno, maybe Izzy is." She's pretty sure she just touched something that giggled, but it had the texture of tanned flesh, which meant it wasn't a cat and therefore not important. "I mean, don't get me wrong. That was a neat show, props to her. But we're not art rockers."

"Really? After Barcelona?" Ashton chuckled, which briefly lifted Veronica's spirits, at least. "Seriously. Shit's cool."

"Hey, dumb shit does not a performance art make." By the time Veronica finally caught Fuzzbutt, her arm was scratched almost as hard as it was after Hartly… christ, she needed to invest in better mindfulness techniques. "Anyways, I gotta put the cat in time out. See you at the party."

"Later, babe. See you at the party."


None of the three at the table (plus the one at the camera) noticed her come into the dining room. "G-d, I hate mailmen."

Brad (Izzy and Sara were too busy chattering off last night's high, and Jack was either fiddling with his phone under the table or jacking off) looked up from his cheap camera setup with half a grimace. "Fuck, they can find this place? What the fuck am I warding for?"

"Beats me. Said he's here on business." Veronica took her uncomfortable wooden seat in stride. "You doing business with criminals again?"

"Fuckin' hope not. Got outta that shit early." Of course, as soon as Veronica entered the picture, Brad had to refiddle with the setup. Was it that hard to take a picture of four people and a stuffed pig?

Against her better judgement, she spared a side-eye towards Jack.

Thankfully, Jack still had his pants done up, although whatever he was fiddling with was out of both their sights. Could've fooled her, how intent he was looking just a few moments ago. Probably some fidget toy. Was he nervous? He looked good enough for the photo, and it wasn't like they were stage idols.

For a brief moment, Jack's eyes met Veronica's, and Jack recoiled. Odd fellow, as usual.

"I'm surprised, Veronica. I'd thought cuz was better with mailmen."

Izzy had broken away from Sara long enough to give Veronica a smirk that, while not quite smug, was still twisted by the muscle memory of a million smug grins. It came with being Izzy, Veronica supposed.

Veronica smirked back. "You know Brad. He probably left a backdoor for his latest toy."

"That's what Sara thinks. Granted, she's been spending an awful lot of time on that Jericho project of…" It was always fun seeing Izzy's smirk degenerate into a doofy grin. "My, she really did name it after that awful Christian movie."

"Damn straight." Sara leaned back to look at Veronica, and nearly tipped her and her chair onto the floor. "I am gonna REMIND this world that it birthed that. Any-" She wasn't quite so lucky on the way back, as the sound of her chair smacking tile enthusiastically attested, but that was hardly a novel development in the story of Sara Miriam Yarkoni.

"That looks like it hurt." Said the pig.

Wait, no.

Veronica turned back to face Brad, still struggling with the camera and tripod and not quite struggling with the fact that their prop just talked. "Yo, why's the prop talking?"

"Cause he's actually fuckin' still." Well, that didn't answer her question, though in retrospect talking pigs weren't exactly that far out. Nine and a half years right outside the BackDoor and you definition of normal stops carrying weight. "Right, pick a pose and stick with it, I'm paying by the fuckin' hour and I ain't made of gold."

Sara's ascent from her throne of shame atop the floor was accompanied by a myriad of squeaks, not the least of which being her speaking voice. "Cool, cool." Like she hadn't just eaten dirt; same old Sara. "So, uh, just pick a pose?"

"I ain't looking to make you break your fuckin' kosher, Mips." Right, pose. Reaching for meat? Fuck, Veronica was hungrier than she thought. Hope this thing didn't feel pain.

"I dunno, like… what do I do, then? I mean, meat's one thing, but pork? Living pork? That's-"


Item: ███-B
Description: ███-B is the only known photograph of SCP-███ that predates containment by the Foundation. Item ███-B functions as the cover art for David Cameron Fucked a Dead Pig, an album released by American math rock band "House of Spades" in 2016.

Item ███-B depicts a cluttered dining room scene, attended by the four members of House of Spades, wearing custom tank tops containing fragments of the album's title. Each member is seated facing the camera, in such a way that their apparel, when read left to right, reads "David Cameron Fucked a Dead Pig". SCP-███ appears to serve as the main course, lying on the table with an apple in its mouth.

PoI-9521 "Jack Spade" sits at the far right end, wearing a top labelled "a Dead Pig". Spade is depicted tearing into a large chunk of meat on his plate, using only his hands. This act is seemingly assisted by hooks emerging from his palm and fingertips. [REDACTED]

█-███ (given name "Veronica Fitzroy") sits to the left of Jack, wearing a top labelled "Fucked". Fitzroy is depicted calmly slicing a slab of meat from SCP-███.

Unlike the other two, PoI-9522 "Isabella Kawajiri" and PoI-9522-D "Sara Yarkoni" are shown interacting with one another, wearing "Cameron" and "David" tops, respectively. While Yarkoni shies away from the plates, Kawajiri delivers a kiss on her cheek.


Jack of Spades looked at the photo, and tried not to think about the things he always thought when he saw another fuckspawn human during a dry spell.

He looked at Nicky, how she looked really good in that top and god he should have ripped her out of her. He looked at Izz, and thought about how it was such a shame that she she seemed really excited about Sara and honestly who wouldn't want to take, which Jack thought was nice as he ignored the gaping pit in his "stomach". Finally, he looked at Sara and remembered how nice it was clinging to and unconsciously grabbed for that malfunctioning crescent of wood in his back pocket.

"Jack? You still awake?"

Bradley's rough voice which would sound great moaning in fucking pleasure shook Jack out of his focus, probably for the best. "Oh! Uh, yeah, sorry it's just, you know, I'm nocturnal, all that jazz, and… you know, I really can't get out of my head how, er… yeah."

Jack didn't really look at clocks (they were a bit new to him, and mostly useless), but by the look of the exhausted Bradley that stumbled into the hallway, clad only in boxers and pompadour consumed by bedhead and my god how he was just, he'd passed the point where a responsible human being should have went to sleep. Emphasis "responsible" and "human".

"Yeah, uh, fuckin'… you're ready to blow, aren'tcha?" Brad yawned, and the myriad of tendrils under Jack's skin invisibly squirmed at the thought of making passionate fucking love with implications that Jack wasn't wanted as usual you fucking predator. "Go to a bar or somethin'. I got legwork at eight."

Whatever. Someone else. As usual.

Or you could stop being such a coward.

"Teeth" biting his "lip" and beak biting his "trachea", Jack turned around and walked out of Brad's house.

Coward.

Even in the summer, Staten Island nights were inhumanly cold. Not as cold as King liked them, no, but not quite so comfortable wearing skin. It'd be warmer if you just fucked Besides, this was a dry cold. Either way, the dead streets, dim streetlamps, and quiet houses were a far cry from any self-respecting blooded creature's let alone a fucking apex comfort zones.

Maybe he'd do better in the city. Again.

As Jack made his way down the-

"Hi there, Jack. How long's it been, two years?"

Jack froze.

"Turn around! I only got so much time for clients."

A jolt of cold lightning shot down his "spine" as Jack realized that he didn't immediately want to fuck the source of the voice.


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