SCP-3001-J
rating: +59+x

Item #: SCP-3001-J

Object Class: Safe

Special Containment Procedures: Since I'm locked here, there's no risk of a containment breach. Unfortunately.

Description: SCP-3001-J refers to a phenomenon where I haven't finished wiping my ass and the toilet paper has run out. I can't get out. My only hope is that the person reading this may be able to localize me and bring me toilet paper. Help.

Addendum-3001-J-1:

13/7/2023, 10:53

My name is Jonathan Pinkman. I am currently involved in a hostage situation, with the captor consisting of my unwiped anus.

It happened last Monday. I was having a particularly unpleasant rectum discharge, given that some bastard at the Site cafeteria had smeared the peanut sandwiches I stole from him with laxatives, and the only other choice was the vegan menu.

After wondering how one goes about milking an almond, I reached for the paper. Terror. Horror. Constipation. Those are all things I felt after finding out that there was no tooth fairy, that there was no Santa Claus, and that there was no toilet paper.

13/7/2023, 14:11

I've survived these last weeks via a Mars Bar and my own self-pity. A guy aggressively knocks on the door. I tell him to come back with a warrant. Knocking stops.

I consider my options. I could vocalize my need for paper, but that could come at the cost of my dignity, possibly for the rest of my life. People love giving nicknames based on stupid shit you once did. I had a co-worker that once ate Play Dooh in 1st grade. He was later known as Carl the Souless Psychopath, due to his affiliation with businesses such as drug dealing, hitman services, and the selling of Reddit accounts.

What I'm trying to say is that what you do can stick to you like glue, and asking for toilet paper may not seem like a big deal, until the day of your graduation, when you hear the principal shout "Jonathan Shitstained Pinkman please come into the stage" into the megaphone.

13/7/2023, 16:20

I've lost count of how much time I've been here. I tried keeping up with the date by counting how many people exit the bathroom without washing their hands, but I had already reached the fall of the Roman Empire 2 minutes in. Hours are starting to merge together. The difference between day and night is negligible. I am going insane.

A man enters the bathroom. Millions of years ago, young Earth suffered cataclysmic phenomena constantly. Supervolcano eruptions, meteor strikes, and violent earthquakes all shaped the planet we live on today. Humans collectively decided to commemorate the magnitude of said events by being as loud as possible while defecting. Undoubtedly satisfied with his tribute, the man leaves.

13/7/2023, 18:04

I am my own Robinson Cresou, stranded alone in an ocean of unsanitazed bathrooms. The feces smeared over my cheeks have crystallized, forming the new elusive 119th element. Perhaps they'll discover it after doing archeological excavations here in about 5 years (if global warming complies), alongside my skeleton and the remains of that huge ass rat I just saw crawling around.

My mind wonders remembering all the friends and family members I may never see again. My aunt, for example, was a firm believer of the horoscope, her sign being Cancer. So, in the end, her death was quite ironic. She was killed by a giant crab.

13/7/2023, 20:32

I entertain myself by reading the writings on the bathroom stall. The full details of a murder committed in Arkansas last year. A poem about female dogs and pot (lids?). Anatomically incorrect penis. The letters "K" and "P" are united by a heart. I internally congratulate Kanye West and Princess Peach for their newfound love.

13/7/2023, 21:44

Right when I'm contemplating the nutritional value of vanilla-scented soap, a janitor opens the door. Perhaps the other guy didn't try hard enough. He asks what the fuck am I doing there. I ask him if he thinks "Shitstained" is really that bad of a nickname.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License