It's Not Spelled Like That!
rating: +128+x

"How long has he been out there?" asked the Site Director as he strolled down the corridor leading to the entry hub.

"Around three hours, sir," replied his assistant, nervously shuffling her papers. "We've contemplated shooting him, but decided that if he came all the way to Site 19's gate to just stand out there yelling, he can't be too much of a threat."

The Site Director nodded slowly. He had dealt with attempted break-ins before, but some man ranting his head off at the Site gate was something new entirely. With any luck, they could wipe his memory and send him on his way inside of ten minutes, and get back to eating lunch. If not, he'd just order the stupid bastard shot in the face and be done with it. Either way, the problem would be solved.

The pair arrived at the titanic metal wall that served as the Site's blast door. Anyone trying to break in would be stopped dead in their tracks, even if they could get past the snipers and electrical fencing. Beyond it, a mere two meters away, stood some raving lunatic. "Just a moment sir," grunted the on-duty guard, punching in the passcode to open the blast door. As the monstrous groaning sound of sliding metal emitted from the blast door before them, a similar sound could be heard from behind. No madman, no matter how harmless, was worth risking a containment breach over.

A sliver of light fell over the Site Director and his assistant as the blast door picked up speed, opening faster and faster. The shadows of Site 19's low outer walls spilled across the dusty landscape. In the distance, one could see the small electric fences and the vast desert beyond. The Site Director had seen all of this before, however. What concerned him the most was the hunched-over man who rapidly advanced on the pair.

"Do you have any fucking idea how long I was standing out there, man?" he blurted, waving his arms frantically. "I mean, it's the middle of goddamn summer out there! I spent something like eight hundred dollars to get out here, in the middle of goddamn July, and you guys just leave me standing in the middle of the desert at noon? Shit, man!"

The Site Director looked over the haggard man. He had a long, scraggly beard that reached down to his stomach, and dark brown hair that looked as if it hadn't been combed in weeks. His eyes flitted wildly back and forth, looking over the Site Director and the armed guards standing at the ready. His apparel was little more than a sweaty white t-shirt and torn jeans, his feet completely unshod. Worst of all, some exceptionally foul odor was wafting from his person, which the Site Director could only pin down as rotten corn.

"What…" he began, choking slightly on the man's smell, "What do you want?"

"Look, man, we tried to contact you through the mail, but we never received a message back, so they sent me out here. Fucking inconvenient if you ask me, but—"

"We burn all unsourced letters and delete suspicious e-mails," the Director said, quickly growing impatient with the man. "What exactly are you here for?"

"I'm here to declare war on you lot, man!" the foul-smelling individual shouted, jumping up and down while making slight jabs with his fists. "We heard about this one group of dudes, with a name similar to yours, who were kinda ticked at you getting in their way, you know? So the guys and me got together and thought up, 'Hey, our name is similar too, and we think that you guys have been crapping on our goals too, so we're gonna go to war with them!" To apparently add effect, the man kicked his legs about and made several high-pitched screeches.

"I see…" the Site Director said, rubbing his chin and hoping the glare on his glasses would hide his rolling eyes. "And how have we been wronging you?"

The unwashed man fell still and silent. "Um… we haven't really figured that part out yet. It was kind of a spur of the moment thing, you know? We got as far as the 'similar names' thing, and went off on the 'Fuck these guys!' crusade." His eyes lit up and he began bouncing up and down again. "But we'll figure it out! You guys have to have been suppressing us somehow! So we're here to declare war against the SCP Foundation!"

The Site Director was doing all he could to keep from burying his face in his hands. "Just what is the name of your organization?"

"People Shitting Chipperly!"

Clearly, the battle to keep face and hands separate was a futile one.

The Site Director's body shook violently as he took in a few deep, ragged breaths. His assistant and the lunatic both stared at him, wondering what was wrong. At length, he removed his hands, took one last breath, straightened his tie, and spoke.

"No. No. No. I'm not accepting it, I am bloody well not accepting this. SPC, I get, I get how people can misspell it as that, and I get how you can go all, 'Oh, it's punching sharks, haha!' But no. I'm not doing it. I'm not going to have anything to do with the PSC organization."

"Do you have any idea," he said, trying to keep himself from shouting, "any idea at all, just how much trouble the Shark Punching Center has caused us? We've plugged way too many resources into just making them go away, and lost something like six or seven versions of Bright to brain aneurysms in the last week alone. It's too much trouble to actually deal with nutters like you."

"So go away," he stated flatly. "I'm not going to have you locked up, or mind-wiped, or even just straight up killed. It's too much trouble for a problem we shouldn't even have to be dealing with. Just go home, get on with your healthy shitting, or whatever it is you do, and never show your stinking face around here again. Do I make myself clear?"


"Before I change my mind," the Site Director growled.

The filthy madman blinked once, then turned and fled into the desert, hopefully to never be seen again. Waving his hand, the Site Director instructed the guard to close the blast door. "Come on, Lucy," he sighed, "let's get back to the cafeteria."

At that moment, another individual came running up to the entrance, looking equally as insane and ragged as the one who had just left. "Now wait just a minute," he shouted, "I've spent two weeks looking for you, and the People's Coconut Society will not be—!"

"Fuck off," the Site Director spat, and the blast door clanged shut in the man's face.

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