SCP-615-J
rating: +68+x

Item#: This anomalous entity in particular

Object Class: Keter

Special Containment Procedures: The object in question is to be contained in a lead-lined cell in sub-basement 12 of Site 57. Our prisoner is to be subjected to a constant barrage of 7.62 mm gunfire to the head from an M134 minigun. Each barrel of the minigun has been inscribed with "GIFT DISPENSER," each shell casing labeled "WRAPPING PAPER," and each round labeled "AS PER DOCUMENT-615-OMEGA."

In the event of a containment breach, this person can be temporarily subdued by memetic trigger phrases such as "Fleetwood Mac is overrated!" and "Dude, seriously, bragging about how much Rumors changed your life is not a magic spell to make poetry majors give you a handy!" Both of these cause said anomalous humanoid to break down into fits of crying.

Description: So, there's this guy and he is a reality-warping entity native to that place with lots of trees and all the name-lacking folks that we're running out of alternative names for to the point where we're considering outsourcing the stupid-alternative-names thing to an expert in the field, but has since been banned for life for undisclosed reasons.

The entity formerly known as "this person" takes the appearance of a middle-aged Caucasian man dressed only in an oversized Florida Marlins jersey. The fellow's hair is long and matted, which this individual rationalizes with "Some Polish chick I met at Coachella said the mat stores all the fuckin' diseases that big pharma wants to poison us about."

This bipedal scabies aggregation outpost is a hostile and opportunistic thief, abusing the laws of in-livings woodly sans nomenclatural, cack! as a means of acquiring things to sell for beer money.

The Foundation first learned of he who smells like soup from reports of a dangerous reality bender in Downer's Grove, Illinois.

Recorded security footage: 5/10/2021, 12:05 PM CST

<Begin Log>

(Guy wanders into the hockey section of a Dick's Sporting Goods, then defecates on the floor. The manager, PoI-59600, arrives on the scene.)

PoI-59600: Whoa, whoa, what the fuck?! You can't do that here!

Same guy: It's a gift.

PoI-59600: Get out.

Still same guy: No-no-no, wait. I can explain. It's a gift. You're a manager, right? So this is your territory. Your territory has my gift in it. So, you already accepted. I'm gonna take something of equal value now.

PoI-59600: I don't want people to shit on the floor.

Yeah, still him: No take-backsies. You owe me one of your lungs now. Yadda-yadda abra-ca-lung-have.

(PoI-59600's left lung appears in its new owner's hand. PoI-59600 falls to the floor, coughing up blood.)

PoI-59600: Security!

Das Lungtakenermensch: Dude. Calm down. Listen. I think we both need to sit down and have a serious talk about how morality is subjective and this is totally okay.

PoI-59600: GET AWAY FROM ME!

Guy with three lungs: Okay, but that's a favor, and that'll be another lung—

(Lung thief suddenly urinates on the floor.)

The recently pissed: Ah, geez, sorry boss. Couldn't make it to the trash can. I'mma have to take your not-being-a-fish.

(PoI-59600 transforms into a mackerel.)

Fishmaker: I gotta go now, but I don't wanna leave bad vibes or nothin', so… we're agreed on the fact that fairy law means I've done nothing wrong, right? Flop if you agree.

(PoI-59600 chokes to death on the air, without flopping.)

Makefisher: Psh. Have fun bein' wrong, fucko.

<End Log>

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