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Info
SCP-6965: "The Hoping Machines"
"Any fool can make something complicated. It takes a genius to make it simple."
— Woody Guthrie
PoI-6965-1 holding an SCP-6965-B instance.
 DRYGIONI PROTOCOL The SCP-6965 database file has been flagged for an authenticity review. The following personnel are assigned to assess this object's documentation:  Dr. H. Blank  Dr. L. Lillihammer  Dr. U. Okorie |
Special Containment Procedures: All Foundation personnel are to undergo bi-annual memetic deprogramming to reverse any corruption by SCP-6965-A instances. All SCP-6965-B instances are held in High Yield Storage Facility 1 at Site-43, and may only be removed by order of the O5 Council. MTF Kappa-43 ("The Mediators") and the Archives and Revision Section of Site-43 are conducting investigations into PoI-6965-1, -2 and -3.
Description: SCP-6965 denotes music and lyrics (SCP-6965-A) or physical objects (SCP-6965-B) carrying the following memetic and/or probabilistic effects:
- inducing the injury, misfortune or death of individuals associated with reactionary political ideology, or engaged in activities indistinguishable from same; or
- inducing idealism, activism or efficacy in individuals associated with progressive political ideology, or susceptible to same.
Okorie: This just in, music soothes the savage breast.
Blank: Isn't it 'beast'?
Okorie: Yeah, it isn't.
Blank: It worries me when the description gets euphemistic. The words they were looking for are 'fascist' and 'socialist', respectively.
Lillihammer: Memetic and probabilistic. Songs and objects. Is there a minimum review period length, or can I call bullshit right now?
Blank: More likely it's two distinct anomalies.
Okorie: Or four anomalies.
Lillihammer: Or no anomalies.
SCP-6965-A and -B instances are exclusively associated with three Persons of Interest: PoI-6965-1 (Woodrow Wilson Guthrie), PoI-6965-2 (Arlo Davy Guthrie), and PoI-6965-3 (Sarah Lee Guthrie). Preliminary research suggests that the Guthries each possess cryptomantic talents which they have employed during their careers as folk musicians..Cryptomancy is thaumaturgically-enabled memeticism.
NOTICE FROM THE EMERGENT THREAT TACTICAL RESPONSE AUTHORITY
PoI-6965-1, -2 and -3 are suspected associates of independent but Foundation-allied cryptomancer Thilo Zwist (SCP-6382). Zwist has not been forthcoming as to the nature of his relationship with these Persons of Interest, if any, and their association appears to have lapsed in recent years. It is presumed that he tutored each of them at one point; Zwist is functionally immortal, and is believed to have taken many apprentices since the seventeenth century, though he is extremely reticent on the subject.
As few individuals exhibiting similar talents are independent, it is further presumed that the Guthries belong/have belonged to one of two cryptomantic cults presently engaged in direct conflict with the SCP Foundation (and each other) and presenting a critical threat to the stability of baseline reality:
- GoI-5054, the giftschreiber, memetic thaumaturges attempting to foment global anarchy; or
- GoI-6382, the schriftsteller, memetic thaumaturges attempting to enforce global autarchy.
This SCP file therefore falls under the mandate of OPERATION FIREBREAK, the Foundation's effort in tandem with Zwist to combat the aforementioned Groups of Interest. ETTRA staff should be prepared to take immediate action once Drygioni Protocol has been completed and the affiliations of these subjects have been determined.
Zwist himself is not to be apprised of the contents of this file, as his substantial cryptomantic talents are capable of interrupting Foundation operations to a catastrophic extent should he discern a threat to his associates.
— Dr. Daniel ███████, ETTRA
Okorie: What? Lillian, surely you can get an answer out of Zwist about whether or not he knows these people, without tipping him off. You're his apprentice.
Lillihammer: I'm the one he wasn't forthcoming to. The most I was able to wring out of him was "Music is alchemical. Every inch of context contributes to the transformative effect." Wouldn't give me a straight answer otherwise.
Lillihammer: And I'm not his apprentice. He's my coach.
Blank: I'm going to go ahead and rule out the schriftsteller by default. If there's one thing Woody Guthrie wasn't all about, it's autarchy.
PoI-6965-1 Phenomenological Profile: Woodrow Wilson "Woody" Guthrie was a folk musician born in 1912 and active as a sociopolitical activist and cryptomancer until his death in 1967. Over the course of his early life he witnessed economic and environmental chaos in the American Midwest, including coal and oil rushes, the disastrous drought known as the Dust Bowl, and the mass unemployment of the Great Depression. As a singer of protest music with simple, direct messages, he became a spokesperson for the disenfranchised of his era and an advocate for the liberalization of society writ large. He advocated for labour rights, income equality, racial equality, socialism and universal liberty, authoring and performing dozens of songs on these topics and others which became landmarks in their genres. A statement from the 1945 pamphlet "Ten Songs of Woody Guthrie" summarizes his sociopolitical views:
The Big Boys don't want to hear our history of blood, sweat, work, and tears, of slums, bad housing, diseases, big blisters or big callouses, nor about our fight to have unions and free speech and a family of nations. But the people want to hear about all of these things in every possible way. The playboys and the playgals don't work to make our history plain to us nor to point out to us which road to travel next. They hire out to hide our history from us and to point toward every earthly stumbling block… Our spirit of work and sacrifice they cannot sing about because their brain is bought and paid for by the Big Money Boys who own and control them and who hate our world union. They hate our real songs, our fight songs, our work songs, our union songs, because these are the Light of Truth and the mind of the racketeer cannot face our Light. I would not care so much how they choose to waste their own personal lives but it is your money that they are using to hide your own history from you and to make your future a worse one. Some day you will have a voice in how all of your money is spent and then your songs will have some meaning.
The SCP-6965 file was opened on 07/04/1969 when a raid on Site-43 by giftschreiber operatives was disrupted by the deployment of a previously-unattested recording by Guthrie, entitled "Lizzie Ain't Right." This first SCP-6965-A instance disrupted the memetic conditioning of the attackers, who promptly turned on their handler and forced her to flee.
Lillihammer: The song was 'deployed' by Thilo. The most talented cryptomancer in the world, both back then and at the moment. Occam's Razor: Zwist took Guthrie's totally mundane song and added the meme magic to it himself. Case closed.
Blank: The song specifically calls out the giftschreiber leading the attack. By name. In detail. You think Woody hit on all that by accident? What would the song even mean, divorced from this specific context? Who and what would it be for?
Lillihammer: Zwist also whistled some weaponized Haydn in the same altercation. You think Haydn was in on it too, a hundred and fifty odd years after dying?
Blank: There's a big difference between whistling a song and playing a recording.
Lillihammer: I'm just saying I've learned not to put anything past Thilo, and I learned it by trying to put things past him.
Okorie: I guess this is where they're getting the idea for a schriftsteller connection, though. If Woody was a giftschreiber, why would his music be used against them?
Lillihammer: Right, because nobody's ever subverted an artist's intentions before. I've heard Woody Guthrie's music used to hock Jeeps on TV. And did you read that PoI profile? I have a hard time believing he would have wanted to stop anarchists from destroying a Foundation Site. He'd be more likely to write a celebratory song after the fact.
Okorie: Remember you said that when we get to the parts about the submarine and the airplane.
Through correlating opinion polls, newspaper reports, public records and Foundation data with the release, sales and radio play of PoI-6965's music, the Analytics Department has identified thirty-three potential SCP-6965-A instances — songs exerting an outsized influence on the actions and beliefs of their audience. Highlights are presented below.
PoI-6965-1's early work addressed the concerns of economically or racially marginalized peoples during the Great Depression. One of his earliest successes, "So Long, It's Been Good to Know Yuh," invokes the gallows humour of farming communities watching their homesteads blown away by prairie winds. "Vigilante Man" laments the practice of assaulting Dust Bowl refugees to California in order to prevent them from settling. "Ludlow Massacre" recounts a series of anti-labour riots in a Colorado mining town, both criticizing the violence brought to bear by capital and celebrating the counter-offences made in the name of union progress. Each of these songs has been shown, anecdotally and experimentally, to impart sympathy for the downtrodden and receptivity to further socialist rhetoric beyond what might be expected from their relative lack of lyrical or musical sophistication.
PoI-6965-1's most famous and effective piece of music is 1945's "This Land is Your Land," asserting the universal ownership of the entirety of the United States of America by its citizens, regardless of claims to the contrary made in defence of private property. Emphasis is placed on the land's natural beauty and bounty, and its vast scope capable of accommodating persons of every description who possess inalienable rights to it:
As I go walking this ribbon of highway
I see above me this endless skyway
And all around me the wind keeps saying:
This land is made for you and me
Individuals exposed to this song almost universally experience a heightened sense of the promise and possibility of the land so described, the brotherhood of mankind, non-jingoistic patriotism, and often open-mindedness toward political ideologies on the communist spectrum. Historical data suggests that the advent of the 1960s "hippie" movement is owed at least partially to this single track. That select verses are often taught in American schools to impart nationalist sentiment to children, but the verses espousing socialist views are omitted, is testament to the compulsive power of both.
Later works address more specific grievances, such as the dehumanization of seasonal workers from Mexico in "Deportee (Plane Wreck at Los Gatos)," and "Old Man Trump," which vilifies American real estate speculator Fred Trump for his racially targeted profiteering. Each issue identified by PoI-6965-1 in this way became a cause célèbre in left-wing circles, often resulting in government studies and actions taken to liberalize legislation covering the relevant industries.
Though the context of many of these songs of protest is attached to the eras in which they were written, they have demonstrated an unlikely staying power and still produce statistically significant results today.
Blank: This is why I'm against the Analytics Department playing at social science. They're bad at it. The irony of taking an approach like this is simply staggering: by engaging in cliometrics, using economic logic to examine history and make spurious conclusions, the AD is basically doing what Woody accused the 'Big Money Men' of doing. Trying to cover up the real narrative with a false one that serves their purposes. A song from 1945 caused the 1960s hippie movement, all by itself, memetically? That's one heck of a slow burn. I'm not saying there's no correlation between Woody's music and the enhanced profiles of the tragedies and injustices inspiring him, there absolutely is one, but historical effects are rarely traceable back to the actions of one individual. You can't boil the agency of millions of real human beings down to one digestible chain of events.
Not to mention that nonsense about the lack of sophistication. Folk music isn't about clever wordplay, it's about saying something with crystal clarity so that people can't help but sing it back at you, and clap, and stamp their feet. It's governed by the same principles governing protest marches and choral music: inhabiting a feeling, and sharing it with like-minded others. It's popular because it's simple and direct. Never mind what it looks like on the page, or even how it sounds all flattened out on the record. You can't judge its power until you actually hear it live and alive. It's heart and brain chemistry, not thaumaturgy.
Folk music isn't about the musician, it's about the folk.
Okorie: Inclined to agree. This music didn't make these people feel the way they felt, and it didn't need to be magic to wake them up — I speak now as both a human being who listens to music, and a human being who is capable of performing magic. These songs might have clarified things for people, given voice to things they couldn't articulate, but it didn't change them overnight. It was representative. And it continues to be representative because some struggles never end, they just change with the times in subtle ways that don't diminish the power of these first formulations of protest against them. The power of art to evoke and transmit emotion is incredible, but not at all anomalous. Our job is to protect the world from truly esoteric threats, not cheapen the accomplishments of ideological movements we find inconvenient by applying magical thinking where it doesn't belong.
Lillihammer: Our job is to assess this file's contents and determine whether or not to swing the truncheon. Don't get all starry-eyed about our role in this drama, or the nature of our work. These people would not reciprocate your appreciation.
Examination of PoI-6965-1's personal papers after his death revealed a number of passages apparently excised from his 1943 autobiography Bound for Glory. Each passage pertains to a character named Old Fritz, who does not appear at any point in the completed work, and fits seamlessly into the text of its respective chapter.
[from Chapter II, "Empty Snuff Cans"]
There was an old feller at the gate while I sang my very first song, and he was watching me real close. I never did know what his name was, but everybody called him Old Fritz on account of him being German. He told any man that called him Old Fritz that he weren't from no Germany, thank you very much, leastways not no more. He was big around, like a barrel bursting full with malt, and he had the pep to go with it. He wasn't any more ritzy a character than me or mine: suspenders hauling up a pair of careworn sack-cloth pants, a sad old weather beaten face behind a big white beard under a hat that might've been shaped like something other than his head in yesteryear, but wasn't any longer. He liked to stop and listen to things, did old Fritz, a lot more than he liked to talk, and he liked to talk plenty. On this particular occasion he listened to my song, and he called it good.
"You write that yourself, Woodrow Wilson?" he asked me.
"I ain't no Woodrow Wilson," I told him. "He's off in Washington, and he don't even write his own speeches. I'm just Woody, and I wrote that song shore 'nuff." My little chest puffed out with pride.
"You drive at the point," Old Fritz told me back with a smile. "You keep on driving. If more folks would get to the point more often, this old world would get on alright."
[from Chapter VI, "Boomchasers"]
I didn't sell many papers, but I could always sell one to Old Fritz. We got into a sort of rhythm. I would say "Ho! Mr. Fritz!" and he would say "What ho, Woodrow Wilson! What's the news!" And I would tell him he could have at his fingertips all the news of the world if only he would part with a measly dime. He always did, with a laugh and a wink, and then I'd watch him stare down every page like it was an endless river of friends' obituaries, or maybe a minefield. It just about blew him down every time, and I wondered if he laughed and winked to kind of prepare himself for the fight. He was looking hard for something, and he didn't want to find it. It was writ in his eyes, but the rest of his face played like he was just another old fogey checking out the horse and political scores. I couldn't stand to watch him at it long; I had trouble enough of my own without borrowing none of his.
It was a few years before I started really reading the papers myself, and then I thought I knew what'd been troubling him. It'd be a long time after that when I finally found out the truth of the matter.
[from Chapter XI, "Boy In Search of Something"]
It got so I was taking a little pride in my signs, and not only as they were my meal ticket. I had a fancy set of sable brushes that came plenty dear but paid out in overtime, and there wasn't anybody my side of the tracks who could paint any prettier or neater. Old Fritz, he knew a thing or two about sign painting. Said it was what he done in the Old Country, which I still took to mean Germany no matter his opinion on the subject. Long years of broken glass and sharp words had taught folks from Germany that it wasn't any place to be from any more, not unless they were fed up with their neighbours being neighbourly. I didn't rightly understand it, but that was just fine, as I didn't much want to. Fritz said he'd painted his signs up and down the Old Country in a time long ago, before the war, before a whole lot of wars in fact, and his signs had been a marvel worth coming from parts far off just to see.
"I don't want to paint no dern marvels," I said. "Just good enough for a few cents of stomach filler of an evenin'."
He told me that was a fine outlook to start with. I asked him did he have any sense for how I might improve my craft, seeing as he was such a marvellous painter of signs himself. He told me flat out that he did not: "I can't teach you how to express yourself, because I'm not you. I could teach you how to express myself, but that would make a liar and a copy out of you and redundancy out of me, as you'd doubtless excel the original."
I told him I was just looking for new ideas, and he laughed. He had a way of laughing that told a body he wasn't laughing at you, just generally around the outline of you. Not all scratchy and wheezy either, like a holed up old accordion, like most old Okie geezers; he laughed like he wasn't any older than my pa, though his hair was whiter and wispier than the clouds rolling up over his beat up cap. "You and me both, son. But you won't get new ideas from old men from the Old Country. The ones we once had were either used up fresh, or held dear until they became old and musty. You don't want me putting my old ideas in your young head. You want something raw and hearty in your larder, and you won't find it rooting through my trash."
I told him, "I done plenty enough trash rootin' as it is, and a little more cain't do me no serious harm I reckon."
He just shook his head and said, "Son, the crisp and good has a way of sliding right out of you when you aren't looking, being so smooth and slippery, while the sour and rotten works its way into the cracks where all the brushes in creation can't draw it out. It only gets more sour and rotten inside you, and it makes you sour and rotten, too. I'm not telling you to shy from hardship, because you can't take two steps out in this world without seeing some wrack or woe, and anyway growth is just healing up from injury. I am telling you only to take in what makes you the purest, best, brightest version of yourself. Let the bad crust up on your skin while the good seeps down deep inside, and what comes out when you paint, or sing your songs, will be clear as a bell on the coldest morning."
I don't think he told me nothing I could use at that particular moment, and nothing besides that I didn't already suspect myself. Still it was good to hear him say it; he did have a way with words, though he declined to show me how he was at painting signs.
[…]
They had Old Fritz at the library, too. I was starting to feel like they had Old Fritz everywhere, and I told him so, and I asked him: "How come you all the way from Okemah, Oklahoma down to Pampa, Texas anyhow?"
"I come and go as I please," he smiled. "There's a rumour, and it lives in the words, and they carry on the wind. I follow."
"What do you know about words?" I knew old men liked to talk, but I never knew them to say much when they did. Old Fritz had a way of saying just enough with too much, where I liked to say just a little and mean a lot. Each to each.
"Everything, and not enough." He shook his newspaper at me; just like in Okemah, he was never without it. "Words are always changing. Evolving. Adapting. Words are life. Theology, philosophy, medicine, religion."
"Shucks. I got philosophy coming out of my ears, and I had enough religion for two fellers twice my age. That all these blamed books can do me fer?"
He never minded when I got surly with him, like the other old timers did, Old Fritz. The more scurrilous I got, the more that man smiled. "There are two ways to profit from books, Woodrow Wilson. You can take things out of them, things you need; or you can put things into them, things you know, things the world needs."
I made a sound like a sinkhole opening up in a mudflat. "Tell the world? What have I got to tell the world that it ain't already heard?"
He shrugged. "Too soon to say. You're building up your vocabulary. One of these days you'll have had your fill, and then some, and—"
"And it'll all come bustin' out again!" I laughed. "Gonna cough up an education across these whole United States, I don't reckon."
"I believe you will," he said, and he looked so serious when he said it, well, I let it go at that.
[from Chapter XV, "The Telegram That Never Came"]
Stumbling between islands of camp and candlefire, I come across an automobile by way of walking right plumb into the open trunk. Pow. I saw stars, and they didn't fade. When I saw how bright they were burning, I realized I was down on my back in the dust. I'd gotten mighty acquainted of dust by then; it was in my eyes, in my lungs, even up my nose so's I could hardly breathe without snorting like a horse. The automobile was snorting too. Model A, from its looks in the moonlight. No wonder I'd found it, me swimming along in the black and it waiting patiently for my visit; we was cousins, me and it. It was what they called a Woody Wagon, on account of it being half hacked out of dead tree. The snorts were coming from the pair of live horses what hauled it along the open road, meaning whatever gent owned the thing couldn't afford to keep it full of John D.'s rainbow whiskey.
The stars were a mite pretty with fire-brackets on either side, polluting the sky with extra light it didn't hardly need but put to lovely use, and I thought I could lay there a spell and watch the sparkle show. Then I heard a low voice coming out of the car, and nearly set myself upright all in a start: "That you, Woodrow Wilson?"
I knew that smile in the dark. "That you, Old Fritz? You must be a hunnert and ten, shore 'nuff. Not dead?"
"Not dead. You famous yet?"
"Not famous." I set up for real. "But not dead neither."
"Still painting signs?"
"Paintin' pictures, more like. With my guitar."
I could sort of see him now, a fuzzy, bowed silhouette on the hood of that old wagon. He was leaning toward me. "What sort of pictures do you paint?"
"Lots o' things. How it was. How it is. How it ought to be, far as I can figger it. What brought you to this rambler's camp?"
"I am a mendicant," he said, and he looked up at the stars. I could see them shining in his eyes, and I took to wondering how I'd never noticed that for such an ancient customer, he never did need no eye glasses. "I sell tonics, analeptics, cordials and invigorators. Restoratives, bracers, pick-you-ups and bring-you-downs, not to mention strengtheners and roborants." The lights in his eyes dimmed some, half-way, and I fancied he was winking at me as he used to done. "Not an ounce of difference between them all."
"Sounds like a mighty poor trick to play." I stood up. "Takin' folks' hard-earned pay for a bottle o' nothin'."
"It isn't nothing," he said. "It's hope. Hope is the thing in this world that's the least like nothing, Woodrow Wilson. Hope is a balm."
"Balms," I spat, setting off into the night again. "Folks these days only got the time of day for bombs, old feller."
"There will always be more bombs," he whispered at my back. "Bombs are easy. What comes after—"
And we was gone away from each other again. I never did get to know what came after, and I still don't. We might find out together, if this old war ever ends.
It is likely, in consideration of the connections earlier established, that "Old Fritz" is in fact immortal Austrian cryptomancer Thilo Zwist, SCP-6382, and that PoI-6965-1 developed his own cryptomantic capabilities as Zwist's apprentice.
Okorie: It's a lot more than likely. I've only spoken to Zwist a few times, and even I can recognize one of his didactic monologues — not to mention that lovely likeness. Seems obvious that Woody left these snippets out of his book because they connected the two together, posing a threat to both if one got caught.
Blank: I beg to differ, editorially.
Okorie: Well, go on. Bloviate.
Blank: Woody says it just fine himself. Zwist wasn't telling him anything he didn't already know. He was just giving the kid nudges here and there, watching and waiting. He's an extraneous character in this narrative, and that justifies his excision. There's nothing here to suggest that he provided anything more substantial than the occasional kick in the pants. HOWEVER.
Blank: I've read Bound for Glory. Woody claims he spent time as a fortune teller, sizing people up on the spot and telling them exactly what they needed to hear to clear their heads and get their lives back on track. He also claims he and another folk singer stopped a racist riot against the Japanese Imperial Bar in Los Angeles, after Pearl Harbor, by getting a crowd to link arms and sing "We Shall Not Be Moved." I always figured it was metaphorical exaggeration, if not outright fabrication. Making a point, and a good one. But could it have been cryptomancy instead?
Okorie: I think you've read too much analytics.
The most egregious example of PoI-6965-1's cryptomancy was a song he wrote and re-wrote many times over the course of the Second World War, both at home and abroad during his military service. It was never officially published but instead manually pressed to vinyl singles and delivered through unknown means directly to Adolf Hitler. Fourteen different versions of this song were recovered from the Führer's private quarters in the Hitlerbunker by an embedded Foundation operative after Germany's surrender in 1945. The first dates to 1941, and the last was sent just weeks prior to Hitler's death. The latter was found in a phonograph in the same room where the dictator and his wife, Eva Braun, took their own lives. The song's contents differ between each edition; lyrics for the final recording are presented below.
"Talkin' Hitler's Head Off Blues, Attempt #14"
Woody Guthrie
The ceiling's gettin' closer and the walls are closin' in
The ceiling's gettin' closer and the walls are closin' in
The ceiling's gettin' closer and the walls are closin' in
You're runnin' out of space, herr Wolf, they're closin' down Berlin
Them fancy clothes won't mean a thing when Stalin makes you stand
Them fancy clothes don't mean a thing, they ain't made you a man
Them fancy words don't mean a thing no matter how you scream
Them fancy words won't mean a thing without your black regime
Oh shall we cut his tongue out and parade him through the streets
Or stick him in the pillory and paddle up his seat
Or make him shave his moustache and apply the chicken suit
He's gonna wish he'd taken aim and had the nerve to shoot
Them swastikas don't mean a thing, and friend they never did
Them swastikas won't mean a thing to them Red Army kids
Them medals they don't mean a thing, you struck 'em off yourself
That fancy pistol ain't no good just sittin' on the shelf
There's cracks up in the ceiling and the walls are comin' down
There's cracks up in the ceiling and the walls are comin' down
There's cracks up in the ceiling and the walls are comin' down
It's time to say goodbye, herr Wolf, goodbye to Berlin-town
It is impossible to determine whether the receipt of these records materially affected Hitler's actions during the war, as erratic and imprudent behaviour was his norm. Memetic testing of each record was also inconclusive, as the intended audience was already dead. No anomalous effect on non-Hitler test subjects was observed. The intentions behind the lyrics, however, are clear.
The embedded operative also reported that Hitlerbunker staff attempted to obscure the circumstances of Hitler's demise, and furthermore that rumours were spreading that Braun alone had shot herself after "something else happened to the Führer." No credible evidence for this was recovered.
Okorie: To be perfectly clear: we are asserting here that Woody Guthrie killed Adolf Hitler?
Blank: I think we're asserting that Adolf Hitler killed Adolf Hitler because Woody Guthrie told him to.
Lillihammer: I took that cryptic statement about "something happening" to mean the record made Hitler's head explode.
Blank: I did not do that, because that is crazy.
Lillihammer: No, that's cryptomancy.
Blank: I don't see how that's a "no."
Okorie: Nobody going to address this casual declaration that we had an operative in the Hitlerbunker?
Lillihammer: I can think of some obvious things to say about it, but they wouldn't be very productive.
One final piece of memetic music created by PoI-6965-1 was delivered to Site-01 on 07/09/1969, the day the SCP Foundation created the memetic glamour known as The Frontispiece to protect its operations worldwide. For reasons he could not subsequently justify, O5-1 invited the other Overseers to his private quarters and played the record on his personal phonograph. The lyrics for this vinyl single are reproduced below.
"On Judgment Day"
Woody Guthrie
Thirteen chairs around a table seating men who claim they're able to direct the course of chaos into channels safe and straight
But the magic doesn't harken to their hunting hounds a-barkin' at the shadows they're afraid of or the miracles they hate
Oh you're tyrants men, all tyrants
And we're gonna turn you out
Gonna turn you out, you tyrants
Turn you out on judgment day
If we'd wanted your protection we'd have held us an election, so you self appointed saviors with your hands behind your backs
Put the knives down if you're able, set your cards upon the table, let us judge the peril plainly with your figures and your facts
'cuz you're liars men, all liars
And we're gonna lay you bare
Gonna lay you bare, you liars
Lay you bare on judgment day
Will you stand before the Gates whereat your reckoning awaits and tell the angels tales of valor with your hands vermilion red?
Do you think they'll buy the stories of your homicidal glories? Do you think they'll stay their blades and let you justify the dead?
'cuz you're killers men, all killers
And we're gonna lay you out
Gonna lay you out, you killers
Lay you out on judgment day
Do you dread the hour the truth rolls in and your accumulated sin evaporates like shadow in the coming of the dawn?
Do you wonder what there will remain to signify your hollow reign when all the chairs are empty and the stench of you is gone?
'cuz you're nothings men, all nothings
And we're gonna see you fade
Gonna see you fade, you nothings
See you fade on judgment day
And you're losers men, all losers
And we're laughing as you lose
Laughing as you lose, you losers
Hustlers, thieves, and false accusers
Malefactors and abusers
At your final judgement day
All thirteen Overseers reported no ill effects after exposure to this SCP-6965-A instance. The Analytics Department reports, however, that deadlocked votes and inter-Council schisms occurred with increasing regularity over the remainder of the calendar year, and into 1970.
Lillihammer: We know he knew Thilo. We know Thilo knew a lot about the Foundation by this time. We know Thilo liked to talk, and we know Woody didn't like bullies. Having a few disarticulated details at one's disposal doesn't make one a cryptomancer.
Okorie: We're on the same page about the O5 schisms, right?
Blank: Yeah, nothing new there.
Okorie: So, this was posthumous. Who delivered it?
Blank: Probably Thilo. He was still fifty years away from being fine with us at this point.
Lillihammer: I wouldn't say he's fine with us yet. He'd probably find precious little in this song worth objecting to, if we showed it to him right now.
Blank: Yeah, no comment.
Okorie: So, a dead man's switch situation. "Fuck you" from beyond the grave.
Lillihammer: I've already got mine figured out.
Though PoI-6965's primary method of cryptomancy was the creation of SCP-6965-A instances, he is also believed to have utilized his abilities to imbue physical objects with cryptomantic potential: SCP-6965-B instances.
SCP-6965-B instance.
PoI-6965-1 habitually inscribed or labelled his guitars with the following phrase: "This machine kills fascists." It is believed that this practice began in 1943. A photograph of PoI-6965 recording the final version of "Talkin' Hitler's Head Off Blues" with one such guitar was found by Archives and Revision personnel at Site-43. This gave rise to the theory that the phrase acted as some sort of memetic or probabilistic intensifier for the efficacy of PoI-6965-1's cryptomantic music. The Procurement and Liquidation Department subsequently acquired all known instruments bearing an SCP-6965-B instance, replacing them with identical replicas, and intensive study began.
SCPS Wiesenthal, 1996.
The Department of Artistic Anomalies attempted to create an SCP-6965-A instance of their own using each of these instruments — a Foundation anthem, to bolster morale — but failed in each attempt. In the early 1990s Dr. Trevor Bremmel Sr. theorized that the label itself might be removed and applied to a different device, one whose workings were already known to Foundation science, for a long-term functionality test. The removal took place in 1994 at Site-43. Dr. Bremmel initially proposed applying the label to the central computer system of the Ethics Committee; this was vetoed by the O5 Council with prejudice. His second proposal was that it be applied to the SCPS Wiesenthal, a submarine used for covert operations against suspected cells of OBSKURA, the waning successor organization to the Nazi Obskuracorps. This proposal was accepted, and the label was affixed to the Wiesenthal's torpedo bay. Operational efficiency increased fivefold over the following three years, contributing to the rapid collapse of OBSKURA. The loss of the Wiesenthal in 1997 at the close of the operation was initially believed to have neutralized the label, but it was subsequently recovered from the wreckage with only minor water damage.
Okorie: I am stating for the record that the three of us all possess Security Clearance Level 4.
Blank: Uh oh.
Okorie: I consulted on this part of the file, though my findings were inconclusive so they don't appear in the final text. I was told to search the Wiesenthal records for any suggestion of thaumaturgical intervention. There wasn't any, but I did notice something unrelated: judging by the damage, whatever sank the sub originated from inside. Within the torpedo bay.
Lillihammer: Misfire? Or sabotage?
Okorie: Or.
Once conserved, the label was transferred by request of O5-7 to the Department of Applied Force.
SCPA 98533 in flight.
Its next proposed use was on SCPA 98533 (Moonlight Maria), a modified B-52 Stratofortress being outfitted with an advanced chemical weapons system at Treatment Area-21. It was designed for bombing runs against Chaos Insurgency firebases and/or suspected sympathizer cells in developing countries, salting the earth surrounding each facility with high impact soporifics to effectively remove enemy personnel from active duty.
The exact date of the craft's deployment was kept secret so as to prevent security leaks. On what was supposed to be a routine test of SCPA 98533's systems, the research staff were mustered to a secure location while agents applied the label to the plane's interior. As this deployment was intended to be the first step toward total neutralization of the Chaos Insurgency, O5-7 attended in person for a final inspection. Upon their arrival in the hangar, SCPA 98533's turbines were brought up to speed.
Treatment Area-21 hangar fire, 2001.
The plane exploded, completely destroying the hangar and killing O5-7, their entourage, Area Director Cecilie Kaspersen and the head of the Moonlight Maria project, Dr. Solveiga Adomaitis. Though sabotage was suspected, no supporting evidence ever emerged. The research team was interrogated at length, reported killed in action, amnesticized and redistributed to sensitive black ops projects worldwide.
The label, again having suffered no serious damage, was returned to Site-43 for long term storage. Its further use was permanently barred by order of the O5 Council.
Blank: It jammed the torpedo. And blew up the plane.
Okorie: What the hell did they expect? It's right there in plain language: bombing "sympathizer cells in developing countries." Sic semper tyrannis.
Lillihammer: Calm down there, comrades. I still don't see any of this being likely; Thilo is a pacifist.
Blank: Woody Guthrie wasn't. He had very, very clear opinions on what to do with fascists.
Okorie: How long are we going to talk around the obvious implications here?
Blank: I'm ready when you are.
PoI-6965-1's son Arlo performed a version of "On Judgment Day" at a concert in Jamestown, Virginia one month later, wherein the first verse was altered to describe twelve seats instead of thirteen.
Blank: Oh my god.
Lillihammer: So, verdict on Woody before we move on to Arlo?
Blank: I think the AD stuff was all garbage, but the label has just about convinced me. There's probably something there.
Lillihammer: I think the AD stuff was all garbage, and the label doesn't convince me. If it's a probabilistic multiplier, why did it wait so long to sink the Wiesenthal?
Okorie: The operation was almost over. Nearly run out of Nazis. I'm neither convinced nor unconvinced… maybe the next subject will be simpler.
Blank: I guess you don't know Arlo Guthrie very well.
PoI-6965-2 Phenomenological Profile: Arlo Davy Guthrie is a folk musician born in 1947, and active as a singer-songwriter, sociopolitical activist, and cryptomancer up to his retirement in 2020.
PoI-6965-2 potentially creating an SCP-6965-A instance during a live performance.
Blank: I am heavily biased in favour of this individual.
Okorie: I am not, after you tried to make me listen to that song that just won't end, so your bias is accounted for.
He adopted the folk tradition and elements of his father's style, and began producing music of his own during his college years. He was classified as PoI-6965-2 after the release of his first studio album, Alice's Restaurant, in 1967. Surveillance of the subject began at the direction of Site-43 Director Dr. V.L. Scout shortly thereafter; one month later, Dr. Scout received the following letter from Zwist.
Vivian,
I believe I saw a few of your black sedans on the street whilst visiting a friend. I asked him about it, and he gave me a little message to pass along:
Jingo Jangle
You ain't got cause to be cross
Just 'cause of the way that I floss
I ain't on track to complain
At the slaughter you got on the brain
If you and me can't have no truce
I'll go my way, hangin' loose
And you go your way
Steppin' goose
You ain't got to be mad
That you couldn't keep up with my dad
I ain't upset, on review
That I can't hate better'n you
We don't got to come to blows
Except'n if you tread my toes
In that case, brothers
Decompose
I could hardly say it fairer myself.
I suspect there has been some sort of mistake on your part. What quarrel you could have with such a fine young fellow, I cannot begin to imagine.
Nor can you imagine the effects of my taking up that quarrel on his behalf.
Regards,
— Thilo
On receipt of this letter, Dr. Scout ordered surveillance of PoI-6965-2 terminated indefinitely. He was summoned to Site-01 to explain himself to the O5 Council directly; a note was subsequently left in PoI-6965-2's file reading simply "Anomaly, if any, is low risk. Containment presents existential threat."
Lillihammer: Translation: we'd love to stomp on socialism, but not if it means getting erased from the English language by an angry Austrian.
Okorie: You think Thilo could really do that?
Lillihammer: Yes.
Okorie: Think he would?
Lillihammer: Yes. He doesn't think in black and white, but he's more than capable of seeing it.
Blank: I didn't know how much I didn't need an Arlo Guthrie song about my job until I had one.
The Analytics Department has provided the following review of PoI-6965-2's potentially anomalous recordings.
PoI-6965-2's musical catalogue is less extensive than was his prolific father's, but still provides multiple candidates for memetic persuasion. Two songs in particular are notably effective at transmitting their messages.
"Alice's Restaurant Massacree," the title track of PoI-6965-2's debut album, is an eighteen minute comedic monologue connecting two loosely fictionalized events: his high profile arrest for littering in 1965, and his subsequent Vietnam draft disqualification on moral grounds. These events are presented as a linked series of absurdities inflicted on him by overzealous or unduly suspicious authority figures; the United States Army comes under particularly heavy scrutiny for its disregard of civil liberties, crimes against humanity, and homophobia. The song is performed live, and at its conclusion PoI-6965-2 invites his audience to join him in the "Alice's Restaurant Anti-Massacree Movement" to resist such aggravating infringements on individual rights. ("Massacree" is Ozark Mountain slang for a series of ridiculous controversies.) Analytics Department data suggests that the song imparts a mistrust of authority to its listeners, or strengthens this mistrust where it already exists, as well as conveying anti-war sentiments, an enhanced sense of community with others sharing these sentiments, an increased attention span, and a sympathetic attachment to American Thanksgiving. A film based on the song was released in 1969; analysis suggests it produces similar, though muted, results.
"The Motorcycle Song" is a short collection of nonsense verses about PoI-6965-2's love for his motorcycle. The album version is a studio track. When performed live, the same song becomes an extended narrative recounting a near-death experience on a mountainside which ends in a brief altercation with the police. Analytics Department data suggests that in addition to a devil-may-care attitude, many listeners also acquire both the singer's fear of his own mortality and his lack of interest in receiving pickles.
PoI-6965-2 performs an updated version of "Alice's Restaurant Massacree" every ten years, noting that the social issues originally identified therein remain relevant; of particular note are alterations briefly tracking the evolving profile of the LGBTQ+ movement, which he supports. One such performance contains an extended coda wherein he claims that an opened copy of the original record was found in the personal collection of former United States President Richard Nixon, of whom he was a vociferous critic. He goes on to note that a gap exists in Nixon's illicit White House audio recordings matching the song's precise runtime, muses that this may not be coincidental, and goes so far as to suggest that listening to the song may have precipitated the President's impeachment and resignation. Whether or not this constitutes an admission of cryptomantic intervention is unclear, though PoI-6965-2 does stress the incident as proof that music has the power to change the world. The existence of a track directly attacking Nixon as a corrupt imbecile, "Presidential Rag," supports this possibility.
PoI-6965-2's live performances often feature introductory monologues for each song which rival, and frequently exceed, the lengths of the songs themselves. The efficacy of these monologues, generally themed around resistance to state-authored stupidity or overreach, suggests that he is actively engaged in cryptomantic thaumaturgy during each performance. He also frequently performs his father's material, obtaining similar results. As he has performed almost continually for over five decades, the cumulative effect cannot be overestimated.
Blank: The long-term popularity of "Alice's Restaurant" is certainly remarkable, but I would be quicker to blame that on the fact that it's very funny and the themes are general enough to resonate with a wide variety of people. Is the AD really arguing that people only get mad at the government when Arlo Guthrie tells them to? And I'm not sure what the bit about 'increased attention span' means; I think the first time most people hear that diatribe, they're just too confused to stop listening until it's over. The version of "The Motorcycle Song" that actually got radio or phonograph play is far too basic to have had much effect, cryptomancy or no, and the live version can't have been that widespread in the 60s or 70s. But granting that Arlo's performances were popular, attributing his audience's opinions to his music is putting the cart before the horse. Mistaking a linear progression for a pattern of causation is the worst kind of history, i.e. the kind done by people who are not historians. There was something in the air, there were obvious facts that needed pointing out, and someone had to be the first to find the right words. In the 40s, that was Woody. In the 70s, it was Arlo — among many, many others.
Lillihammer: To play devil's advocate: the best memetic effects are the ones that can't be identified as such.
Okorie: To play angel's advocate: if we can't identify it as such, we can't identify it as such.
Lillihammer: Angels don't need advocates, and there aren't any here.
In 1981 PoI-6965-2 held a free concert at Long's Park Amphitheatre in Lancaster, Pennsylvania wherein he debuted a new song, "Go Find Your Own Guitar." The concert was partially rebroadcast by radio stations across the United States and beyond; each broadcast included the new song, which the Analytics Department has subsequently identified as an SCP-6965-A instance after collating data from the Department of Procurement and Liquidation.
"Go Find Your Own Guitar"
Arlo Guthrie
Go find your own guitar
They minted a million, and it ain't that far between the
Smokey station and the guitar shop, where they can make a human being from a rent-a-cop, they'll let you
Pick out your own guitar
Because this one's taken and you ain't no rock star
What the hell does that mean.
<The audience laughs.>
I wanna tell you 'bout the garage sale we threw three weeks back for my cousin Wilbur in Rockville, Maryland. Now Wilbur hasn't got a garage, folks, he's got a shed, but you got to get a permit for a garage sale in Rockville, Maryland where Wilbur lives alone in a two-storey bungalow with pretty white clapboard on the front and an ugly green Dodge Charger rustin' out on the lawn, and you can't get a permit for a shed sale, but you can get a permit to let your ugly green Dodge Charger rust out on the lawn, which Wilbur did, and that's a microcosm of the problem with this here nation in which we live.
<The audience laughs.>
We in the family tried to push for Wilbur to write his congressman about a law permittin' permits to be issued for shed sales, but Wilbur's a man who cannot be pushed, so we had to make do. Wilbur's a man who cannot be pushed, but sometimes he can be nudged, and so we nudged him into openin' up his shed and divestin' it of knick-knacks, bric-a-brac, sundries and assortments, hodge-podge, potpourri, odds and ends, et cetera, oddments, novelties, rubbish, rummage, paraphernalia of the miscellaneous variety, an' all that groovy stuff. We was determined to teach him the merits of lettin' go, and it'd be a comfort later on when he found out how much we figured our time was worth.
<The audience laughs.>
So my cousin Clarice — that's a different cousin from Wilbur, on account of bein' French, and also on account of bein' Catholic, and a woman — Clarice decided it'd be nice, for the ambience — that's what they call it in France, when they feel like speakin' English — if I'd set up at the top of the driveway and sing the folks a song so's they couldn't hear Wilbur cryin' behind the shed like a big ol' baby while they browsed. Clarice thought it'd be nice, because she's a skinflint and she ain't never bought none of my records so she don't know, and so's I set a spell on a ten dollar stool and had myself a think.
And whiles I was thinkin' of what to sing, this man in black come walkin' up from yonder sidewalk, as you do. He was all black, and I mean he was all black, head to toe, except for where he wasn't. The parts he didn't get to choose, the parts between the clothes which was lily white, the white of a fella who'd be mortified to be caught black on somebody else's driveway in a good neighbourhood in broad daylight, which was lucky for him I guess. Kinda guy who could run for top cop in Minneapolis and win, sort of fella. Monochrome. He come up to me whiles I was tryin' to think of what to sing, and he says to me, he says "Son? I'm here for that guitar."
Well I told 'im it weren't for sale, and he told me, in so many words, that he weren't buyin'. That's when I knew him for what he was: a representative of the state, what they call a g-man, an agent especial-like, sent down from Mount Washington D.C. to silence the voice of the people, by which I mean my own self. And in that moment, folks, I knew what I had to do. I mean I knew what I had to do. I mean I had a powerful feelin', a feelin' of what I had, I say I had to do. I had a song in my heart alls of a sudden ladies and gentlemen, and since my guitar was strapped on tight and he couldn't have that, and since it was strapped on so tight it was crushin' the song from my heart into heartburn — that's how it works, you understand, with the pressure and all, it's called science — I gave him my heart-song instead, as a comfort and a relief to the both of us, just belted it out where it couldn't do neither of us no harm, though I know it harmed Clarice plenty and she weren't sorry she'd never bought none of my records once she heard.
<The audience laughs.>
Here's what I sang:
Go find your own guitar
There's plenty to choose from, if you roll that black car
Down the highway to the music store, where they'll even serve the skippers and you know what's more, they'll help you
Pick out your own guitar
So you can quit that foolish pingin' with your po-lice radar
I mighta sung that first verse too, the one from the start. I can't remember. I done told this story so many times already I can't keep straight of what really happened and what the rhythm wanted. But no, he didn't like that, no sir he didn't like that at all, he didn't like my tellin' him he couldn't have my old guitar, and so he made this kind of gesture at a little black car parked a ways down the street — not the sort of gesture you or I might make at a car, you understand, in the heat of the moment. This man was wearin' a fancy suit and takin' Uncle Sam's dime, and a lot of options open to you and me was closed to him. And that was the first time I noticed the little black car, but it probably ain't the first time you noticed, since I might've spoiled you about it with the chorus just now. I ain't apologizin', but you understand it wasn't me what wanted to do that, it was the rhythm.
So this man makes his gesture, and out of the car come another guy who looked about the size and shape and general texture of an old oak door with fancy varnish on top in a club where they know all the mayor's girlfriends' names and you're allowed to use all the words in the English language in polite conversation, especially the ones pertainin' to the folks what aren't allowed to join. I mean he was granulated. Striated. There was rings on him, and he was varnished. This triple tree trunk of a fella walks up to me, real slow, and as I'd only had time to think of one or two verses to sing so far, he had to walk up to the sound of Wilbur cryin' behind the shed, which I think unsettled him a mite. Made him walk kinda funny. Might've also been the heat he was packin' under each arm, in a suit tailored for double machinegun funerals, and it might've been the rod up his unmentionables, the one they install for free with every suit what costs more than fifty dollars, but I like to think it was the sobbin'. It was mighty fine sobbin'. Real soulful. Proud. Wilbur sobs like a man who cannot be pushed, because he is — you remember that I told you he is — and maybe this hunk of beef saw me sittin' there, armed with an old guitar and two and one half feet worth of curls, indominable weepin' backgroundin' my Herculean silhouette against the very sun — Wilbur lives on the high ground, you understand, so as better not to be pushed — and he felt intimidation for the first time in his life. Could happen.
<The audience laughs.>
But bein' brave and so very large he comes up to me just the same, heedless of the danger, and says, he says, "Son? We'll have that guitar now."
I told him I was just holdin' it for a friend.
<The audience laughs.>
He asked me where my friend was. Now friends, I was surrounded by relatives and strangers, and in a pinch there ain't a whole heck of a lot of different between the two, so I was in a jam. I mean I was in a jam, man, and there wasn't much I could do to get un-jammed. So in an appeal to the raw masculinity we both shared, the only thing what could save me now, I pointed wordlessly at the sobbin' shed, and I said "thataway." It weren't my finest moment, but I was gettin' kinda tired of the sobbin' anyhow, so it was Wilbur versus the world, and one or the other was a-gonna have to move aside. I could've moved aside myself, o' course, but I was holdin' down the stool.
Well my new friend didn't see at all, didn't even look as I recall, and he told me so without tellin' me so. Tall men got a way of doin' that, even when you got the benefit of the sun at your back. But here's what I told him in response, my counterproposal, if you like:
Go find your own guitar
And while you're at it you can add this to your repertoire: I'm thinkin'
That everythin' you see might not be yours; it's a premise we've established with a couple of wars, so you should
Pick out your own guitar
To occupy those sticky fingers, herr kommissar
Now that's a little German, folks. I thought he might understand it better than English, because his English weren't too good and he was a little German hisself. A real period piece too, circa 1940, not the type to pick up on subtle inclinations like the one you and I are sharin' right now. Big ol' slab of iron. They roll 'em out of a mill somewhere in Indiana, or maybe Bakersfield. Or Essen.
<The audience laughs.>
A human boot, one size treads all. But I could see straight off that I was wrong, because instead of takin' my advice and headin' off somewheres to find a guitar of his own, he turns and gestures at that car again and out pop two more men. Like corks out of a pop-gun, if'n the pop gun was too tight and the corks was kinda deflated and also there was two of them in one little black gun on the side of the road.
These fellas was thinner, leaner, meaner-lookin', and I asked the big guy was they like that before, or did they get that way from ridin' in a little wee car with such a great big galoot? Only I didn't call him a galoot, that was just to avoid repetition in the song. I don't like repetition in a song. But galoot or not, he tells me that I ought not be talkin' no more — I can hear you all sympathizin' out there, don't think that I can't — not 'til I hear what these new folks has to say. So, I waited. They jockeyed for position on the driveway, lookin' mighty put out. They might not've known who they was dealin' with, since it wasn't my driveway I was sittin' on, and anyway the radio wasn't givin' me no play no more since I started talkin' in my songs, or somethin'.
<The audience laughs.>
So it weren't my driveway, and truth be told it weren't even my stool. It was a stool sample Clarice got from the stool sample store near the guitar shop, for ten dollars. I already told you about the guitar shop, by way of the chorus, and I already told them too, about the guitar shop that is, twice over. I don't think they would've wanted to know about the stool sample shop, seein' as how they already walked like they knew their way around a stool.
<The audience laughs.>
Now when these two new fellas made their way to the top of the drive, I could see they was real uncomfortable indeed. They was feelin' that they was in the presence of a man resilient to their methods, though they couldn't see him behind the shed. So before they could even say what they wanted, because I had a pretty clear idear already, I sang them this:
Got out of tune with the guitar loop, just bear with me for a second.
<The audience laughs.>
Alright:
Go find your own guitars
They pack a heart in every one for them what ain't got none, so you can
Learn to live and love a little bit, and maybe even have a laugh or two if weather permits, so fellas
Pick out your own guitars
And you can try to keep the beat up with your flat set of feet, my brothers
Now by this point I'd exhausted my stock set of rhymes for the word 'guitar', leastways the ones I could drop easily into a verse I was writin' on the fly; if I'd have said the word 'tsar' out loud in Rockville, Maryland in broad daylight in front of halfway decent people, then the cops would've been out in force to get me right quick. They got my number in any weather, after the business with the Anti-Massacree Movement. You might'n have heard of that.
<The audience cheers.>
And bein' out of respectable rhymes like I was troubled me heavy, ladies and gentlemen, as I pride myself on my powers of makin' up rhymes at garage sales, and that pride is partially transferable to the nearest cousin of the humble garage sale, the cousin's shed sale. And I was mighty afeared of what might transpire should one, maybe both, possibly three, or Lord forfade and forbid all four of these fine large gentlemen gesture at that little bitty car again. It might'n blow up, or a whole army of tiny Gestapo come streamin' out, hammerin' home the metaphor a touch too hard for a song this short.
<The audience laughs.>
Well, it's shorter'n some. But before they had the chance to gesture at the car again, and unleash God knows what sort of besuited monstrosity on the quaint and bucolic world of my otherwise charmin' shed-gone-garage sale vignette, and before I had the chance to make a few choice gestures myself, the kind their suits wouldn't let 'em make 'emselves so I'd have had to do it for 'em, the fear of the Almighty Lord was put in each and every one of these no-account g-fellers and they was put in their places readily and irrevocably when the man of the hour, my cousin Wilbur, finally put in an appearance at his very own to-do! Folks, he stepped out from behind that shed at last, hallelujah!
<Silence on recording.>
I was sorta expectin' you might give me a hallelujah back, since I given you so much these past fifteen minutes.
<The audience laughs.>
Hallelujah!
<The audience cries 'Hallelujah!'>
And he walked in front of me, did Wilbur, and he fell right down.
<The audience laughs.>
Fainted. Fell dead away. Tumbled face-forward like a statue in a country where they used to have a tsar, and he pulverized the cash box on his way right through the table. There was an explosion, a veritable explosion of currency, a grenade of green, minted shrapnel flyin' in every direction, whiles not so much as a manly moan escaped from the lips of our stoic host. His face cleft the table in twain, and Clarice cried out in mortal terror for the fate of every dollar note. Clarice was mindin' the cash box, by the way, and boy did she mind it now. I didn't think you needed updates on Clarice, because she owes me twenty dollars and ain't never bought none of my records any no-how.
<The audience laughs.>
Now you might think what Wilbur done was an act of mean retaliation, a mighty rude thing to do to a relation, bargin' in on a private conversation out in public with this fine delegation from honestly I do not know, where all our friends and neighbours, these bein' very distinct and different things, as I told you, could see. You might think Wilbur was retaliatin' for the sale, after sobbin' up a storm all afternoon behind the shed, but that's 'cause'n you don't know Wilbur. The man ain't got a vindictive bone in his body. He had a doctor take 'em all out, so's he could dodge the draft. They won't take you without your vindictive bones, 'cuz then you'd only shoot at folks what deserve it, and that ain't no use to nobody.
<The audience laughs.>
So you might then think instead that I'd arranged this eventuality, the downfall of a great man, in some mean and underhanded way, so as to make my escape, but that ain't true neither. I've still got my vindictive bones, as you can all testify by now.
<The audience laughs.>
But you might even think, the presence of all these men in dark suits fittin' into very small black cars havin' clouded your mind to the possibility that there is light, nay the very brilliance of benevolent justice in the world, that someone with a guitar strapped tight to his body and two and one half feet's worth of curls might even have tripped that poor man and pushed him, if not to his end, then to the end of this song more or less, where you want us all's to be at anyhow. But I'm tellin' you, I am sittin' here and tellin' you, folks, that this weren't the case. This was a case of divine intervention, Almighty God hisself on his golden throne reachin' down through the clouds and lettin' everybody know that the possession of a fella's guitar was no matter of state, but a holy matter of church that ought not be interfered with by mortal man. And the good Lord chose his instrument well, just like me when I chose this old guitar and got me a job confusin' crowds of folks for a livin', when he chose to act through the august personage of my cousin Wilbur. That my friends is what transpired, before God and the green Dodge Charger rustin' out on the lawn and the pretty white clapboard on the two-storey bungalow in Rockville, Maryland, "America in Miniature": the instrument of my salvation stepped forward, and into the pages of history, with all the right of divine retribution behind his noble collapse. He knowed that he was needed, and he rose and fell to the occasion.
Ain't nobody put Wilbur down but Wilbur, because Wilbur — you'll remember I told you this before — is a man who cannot be pushed.
<The audience laughs.>
And in all that excitement — 'cuz this is what passes for excitement at a garage sale in Rockville, Maryland — I made good on the chance that the Lord gave Wilbur's dignity to provide, and made my escape. But before I did, takin' note of how stiff and joyless was the faces of these fine young men freshly pressed from the fine young man mill — where they're switchin' to churnin' out Republicans next spring, 'cuz they can save the cost of brains and charisma, and you don't even need to dress 'em up, 'cuz nobody'll even look at 'em but sideways — I sang 'em one more verse, a sort of Hail Mary moment in recognition of the good deed the good Lord done me, 'cause Lord knows everybody at the shed sale needed some grace. And you know what I sang 'em?
Sing along with me!
Go buy some used kazoos
<Confusion. The audience laughs.>
Yeah, I changed the words on you. Serves you right for thinkin' I'd let you sing along. You ain't even paid me; I ain't even been paid for the garage sale, since it turns out I also ain't got a cousin Clarice, and the cousin Clarice I also ain't got made it across the state line with our seventy-three dollars and eighty-nine cents, plus a button some kid sneaked in there for an old piece of penny candy, and the sample stool from the sample stool store next to the guitar shop, as established beforehand on multiple occasions.
Where was I.
<The audience laughs.>
Oh yeah.
Go buy some used kazoos
It's a gadget fit for goobers and my brothers, that's you
Can't play guitar because you got no souls, but you can fake it 'til you make it if you stick this in your holes
Go buy some used kazoos
And while you're blowin' hard and heavy you can blow me, too
Pigs
<The audience laughs.>
God ain't never love a cop, and that's the shorthand truth.
Okorie: This was one song?
It is believed the incident recounted in this song is an extreme extrapolation from an encounter between PoI-6965-2 and Agent Herbert Ruyter of P&L, who politely requested access to the former's musical instrument collection to test each item for anomalous properties. The latter politely declined; the performance took place two weeks later. Multiple P&L staff members recall listening to the concert, and particularly the new song, whilst engaged in their duties driving between sites, inspecting garage or estate sales, and arranging for the purchase of private collections. A subsequent productivity drop of 9% was recorded over the remainder of the calendar year, attributed to a sudden rise in hobby activity among P&L staff. Said staff frequently engage in their containment activities while off-duty, but did so considerably less often after encountering the SCP-6965-A instance in favour of developing musical talents or, more rarely, engaging in other creative endeavours. Incidences of stubborn behaviour among P&L staff also increased dramatically, by 24%, with affected individuals expressing an unwillingness to be 'pushed around' or similar terminology. Self-reported work satisfaction reached an all-time low during this period as purchasers began associating their activities with the suppression of free speech and congregation, and even the disapproval of the Abrahamic god where relevant to their personal faiths, despite the fact that P&L almost exclusively deals in equitable transactions to acquire its materials.
Blank: See, now these statistics aren't crap. Once again we've got one very good example supported by a bunch of trash.
Lillihammer: I dunno. If I heard a song about how my job is evil over and over while I was out doing it, I might reconsider.
Okorie: No, you wouldn't.
Lillihammer: That was the collective, theoretical "I." Of course I wouldn't.
Blank: And it's not like we need a song, at this point.
Okorie: In any case, this is obviously targeted — he even used the word 'skippers', which is audacious as hell — and has had a measurable effect.
Lillihammer: I agree that it's targeted. Thilo clearly told Arlo about us, or else Woody did. But it's just as likely that we're in the unusual position of being harassed by a private citizen with no anomalous capabilities whatsoever. There's plenty of people inside the Veil who don't have magic powers.
Okorie: I don't think you want to make that argument, Lillian. That argument gets him amnesticized, or worse, and he doesn't deserve that.
Lillihammer: Deserved or not, it isn't going to happen. Have you forgotten about Zwist? This is a story about Zwist.
Okorie: You think the O5s are afraid of one old man with word magic?
Lillihammer: Yes.
Blank: One old man whose word magic maintains the Veil, and could instantly bring it down on top of us. Yeah, I think Thilo's threats carry weight, and we know damn well we're in the wrong here.
Blank: So Arlo Guthrie, cryptomancer or not?
Lillihammer: Cryptic, sure. Cryptomancer, no.
Okorie: Quacks like a duck, but a duck in the distance, where we can't see it. And if we can't see the duck, we can't shoot it, so another no vote from me.
Blank: I'm quite certain he's a mugician, so once again we're three-way deadlocked.
Lillihammer: You promised to never say 'mugician' again.
PoI-6965-3 Phenomenological Profile: Sarah Lee Guthrie is a folk musician born in 1979, and active as a singer-songwriter, sociopolitical activist, and potential cryptomancer up to the present day.
PoI-6965-3 during a live performance.
She began her own career while touring with her father, subsequently partnering with husband Johnny Irion as a recording artist. While her studio output is more generally folk-oriented than the explicitly political material produced by PoI-6965-1 and -2, she has also recorded or re-recorded works penned by her father and grandfather and often engages in politically-motivated live performances, alone or in concert with family members. In addition to PoI-6965-2, said family members include siblings Abe, Annie and Cathy (PoI-6965-4, -5 and -6) who are also musicians, though their involvement in the creation of SCP-6965-A instances is as yet unproven.
The Analytics Department has tentatively identified PoI-6965-3's concert appearances with an increase in left-wing sentiment, including support for social justice issues and politicians aligned with socialist ideology. No single commercially-released song has yet been identified as a potential SCP-6965-A instance.
However, Thilo Zwist received a thumb drive in the Site-43 internal mail while visiting Dr. Lillihammer on 01/25/2023 which contained a single song recorded by PoI-6965-3, with the potential assistance of her siblings. The method of delivery, as with "Talkin' Hitler's Head Off Blues," remains unclear. Zwist has declined to comment on the event at this time.
The Warning
Sarah Lee Guthrie
Were you watching when they raised their guns in the air
And made a thundering statement that never again
Would they bow to the clouds that gathered
Or suffer a setback to their campaign?
Now I wonder if you ever knew
How to keep your faith in the cauldron of change
And I worry if you've fallen for their line
How we'll rise to the challenges that remain
Can you see it from where you're standing?
Can you see the light of the rising sun?
Can you see the end that you mean to reach
Or remember the reasons that you started to run?
Oh, but you've strayed from the trackway
Oh, now you're walking on their path
Oh, and you've lost the connection
You'd better find it fast
We've been listening to your sermons
You've been speaking a lot, but the words don't ring true
Are you getting tired of walking the walk?
Are you thinking it's easier just to talk?
They're holding your mic with their left hand
And stifling our cries with the right
Does it matter that it don't matter?
Does it matter that might makes trite?
Do you care about our birthright
Do you know the sound that freedom makes
When it rings across the nations
And it jangles the shackles until they break
Oh, we don't need their protection
Oh, and we don't feel secure
Oh, they contain a disease
We're gonna find the cure
Has it somehow escaped your notice
That the days are shorter, and colder the nights
Can it be that you've all decided
You can weather the storm alone on the heights
'cuz we're feeling a bit abandoned
As the earth is trembling beneath our feet
There's a flare on the horizon
And I think it can crack concrete
Can you see the stars are burning?
Can you feel the heat where we stand in the dust?
Can you see the sparks raining down in the dark?
If you've been fighting the fires, then I think that you must
Oh, but you're in their inferno
Oh, and you're off our brigade
Oh, and we're manning the hoses
So it's time that you fade
Oh, don't forget that we know you
Oh, and remember the songs
Oh, of my fathers before me
We're gonna right your wrongs
PoI-6965-3 refused to grant an interview with Dr. Blank, but when pressed, agreed to answer a single question. Dr. Blank asked whether the callous entity described in "The Warning" was the Foundation, and Zwist the subject of its direct address. Her response: "That's up to you, isn't it?"
Okorie: Did it have any memetic effect on Zwist?
Lillihammer: Listen to yourself. "Memetic effect on Zwist." Like that's even a thing that can happen.
Okorie: Has it had any effect on us?
Director McInnis: If you suspect you have been exposed to an active memetic effect, I trust you will report to Health and Pathology immediately.
Blank: What's the verdict on Sarah Lee?
Lillihammer: Even less evidence than the other two. Not magic.
Okorie: Agreed on the evidence, not on its meaning. I think we need a more in-depth investigation before we can say for certain.
Lillihammer: Drygioni Protocol has produced a total deadlock, far as I can see. I think this is all bunk, Harry thinks some of it is real, and Udo is conflicted.
Okorie: Well, when in doubt…
Blank: Interview log. Leave it to me, and meet back here in two days.
Lillihammer: If anyone is going to interview a cryptomancer, it should be a memeticist.
Blank: Please let me have this.
Addendum 6965-1, Interview: As one element of the ongoing Drygioni Protocol review, Dr. Harold Blank requested and received permission to interview PoI-6965-2 at the latter's home in Micco, Florida.
Interview Log
Subject: PoI-6965-2, Arlo Davy Guthrie
Date: 01/25/2023
Officer of Record: Dr. H. Blank (Chair, Archives and Revision)
<Dr. Blank and PoI-6965-2 are seated on facing couches in the latter's living room.>
Dr. Blank: The wrong thing to say at the start of this interview is "I'm a big fan of your work."
PoI-6965-2: I expect so. It's downright offensive, considerin' the source. I ain't a big fan of yours.
<Silence on recording.>
PoI-6965-2: I'm sorry, kid, but I don't know what you expected.
Dr. Blank: I expected that, I just wasn't… yeah, never mind.
PoI-6965-2: Ask your questions.
Dr. Blank: Are you a cryptomancer?
PoI-6965-2: Am I a crypt romancer?
<Dr. Blank laughs.>
Dr. Blank: No. Well, I mean, sure. Are you a crypt romancer?
PoI-6965-2: Depends on which way it goes. I've got one foot in the crypt already, so any romancin' I do might be seen in that particular light. But I don't romance any crypts, 'least not as I'm aware.
Dr. Blank: Glad we got that sorted out
PoI-6965-2: We're makin' progress.
Dr. Blank: Are you a cryptomancer?
PoI-6965-2: I'm a kleptomancer.
Dr. Blank: What's a kleptomancer?
PoI-6965-2: A guy who learns from stealin' stuff. Wait, no, I got my wires all crossed up again. That's you, ain't it?
<Silence on recording.>
Dr. Blank: You're everything I'd hoped you'd be.
PoI-6965-2: Except a cryptomancer.
Dr. Blank: So, you're not?
PoI-6965-2: I might be. I don't know what that is, and that makes it hard to tell.
Dr. Blank: Someone who uses words to produce anomalous effects.
PoI-6965-2: Oh, well, sure. That's me.
Dr. Blank: Yeah?
PoI-6965-2: Yeah. Just yesterday I made water from nothin', then turned that water into wine.
Dr. Blank: Do tell.
PoI-6965-2: I made that nice young man you sent down here to ask me for an interview cry when I asked him did his mother know he was a no-account thug, and then I badgered him 'til he stopped cryin' and started whinin'.
Dr. Blank: Alright, let's try this from a different angle. Do you know Thilo Zwist?
PoI-6965-2: Hum a few bars.
Dr. Blank: Throw me a bone.
PoI-6965-2: 'course I know Thilo Zwist. He knew my father, and he knows my kids. Probably know my grandkids some day.
PoI-6965-2 (right) and -3 (left) in concert.
Dr. Blank: And did he teach you anything?
PoI-6965-2: Sure enough. Taught me that life begins at four hundred. He's been a lot sunnier these last few years, for some reason or other. You know why?
Dr. Blank: I have a few ideas.
PoI-6965-2: Mm, that's dangerous. You oughtn't have more than one idea at any one time, your line of work. Next thing you know you'll start comparin' 'em, and a fella doin' what you're doin' can't survive much comparin'.
Dr. Blank: Is this the part where you make me cry?
PoI-6965-2: Nah. I made the last one cry, and all that got me was you. What if the next one's worse?
Dr. Blank: The next one will definitely be worse.
PoI-6965-2: Ol' Thilo wouldn't like that.
Dr. Blank: What's the nature of your relationship?
PoI-6965-2: Used to be we was real close. He always had a solid head on his shoulders. Big and bald, from all that thinkin' he does. He told me a lot of things about the world, and some of them was true.
Dr. Blank: Like what?
PoI-6965-2: Like how there's some people want to know everything, take everything, hide everything, and they won't be happy 'til alls that's left for everybody else is the stuff they don't have any use for. People like you.
Dr. Blank: I don't really want much more than I have.
PoI-6965-2: That so.
Dr. Blank: Yeah.
PoI-6965-2: Then what've you got against starvin' kids in Africa?
Dr. Blank: I beg your pardon?
PoI-6965-2: Starvin' kids in Africa. Ain't you seen the telethons? They been starving down there for decades now, since you was a little bitty baby I bet. And your bosses ain't done nothing for them, but they could. They could feed every child, woman and man in this world, if they wanted to. They could stamp out every disease, but they'd rather stamp in lockstep or kick in people's doors.
<Silence on recording.>
PoI-6965-2: You alright?
Dr. Blank: I'm fine. You're saying the Foundation is fascist.
PoI-6965-2: I don't like to come right out and say what I mean. I'm lyrical that way. Give people some time for the meanin' to percolate in themselves, so's they end up believin' it. You come right out and say what you're thinkin', like my dad did, and people can point at you and say "That man right there is a commie," or "That man right there is a socialist," or whatever else is the same as bein' a lyin' thievin' murderin' scoundrel these days. But you put it so's they're too dumb to understand, and the folks that matter can figure it out in their idle leisure, then boy you're in business.
Dr. Blank: So you're implying that the Foundation is fascist.
PoI-6965-2: Ain't but all I got to do. Am I wrong?
Dr. Blank: I don't think you are.
<Silence on recording.>
PoI-6965-2: That set alright with you?
Dr. Blank: You can see that it doesn't. We do things I could never be party to personally, and those are just the ones I know about—
PoI-6965-2: The things you know about, kid, I couldn't never sleep at night if I knew I was helpin' them to happen. You're party to plenty enough of the evil in this world, and part-party to the rest by doin' nothin' about it.
Dr. Blank: How much do you know?
<PoI-6965-2 picks up an acoustic guitar leaning on the side of his couch.>
PoI-6965-2: Don't play so good since I took a few strokes, but I think I can handle somethin' your speed. How's this for a fun little ditty? 's called "The Alphabet Song."
Well
You start it off with "A," and brother "A" is a-okay
You can be alright with "B," go on a buzzin', spellin' spree, but
Beyond the "C," the holy "C," there ain't no more you'll wanna see
'cuz ain't no rhymes, and tough is times
On "D"-day.
<Silence on recording.>
PoI-6965-2: Well?
Dr. Blank: What do you expect me to say? Yes. We run extrajudicial prisons with no chance of release, and the most inhumane treatment you can imagine. Everything I do right helps them perpetrate that wrong, and who knows how many others. I'm implicated. There's blood on my hands by association.
PoI-6965-2: So why do you do it?
Dr. Blank: Why did you vote Republican in 2008?
PoI-6965-2: Oh, for fuck's sake.
Dr. Blank: Well?
PoI-6965-2: I didn't vote for no party. I sent a man to Washington for Senator who I figured wouldn'ta turned his nose up at signin' the foundin' document. I'da been fine with Bernie goin' all the way this time around, if the shitters'd let him. A man got the right to change his mind, so long as he uses it. How much farther you think we can get in this world if alls we have is two sides, and one's evil, and one's bastardly, and none of them's any good? They both got to be doin' what they think is right, if there needs to be sides at all — and I'm not saying there does, but there is, and that's all we got to work with right now. They both got to do the right thing from their point of view, and if you fill them both up with folks whose point of view ain't crazy or stupid or evil, and let 'em muddle through it all together, you'll get a better world in the end. The one my dad wanted. The one I want for my grandkids. We can't have that when you got one side wants everybody that ain't like them to starve to death, and the other side don't care so long as they gets their bribes on time.
Dr. Blank: You thought, for a moment, that you could fix them.
PoI-6965-2: My dad said human beings is hopin' machines, and he wasn't wrong. But that's the thing about hope, the thing that makes it powerful and dangerous at the same time: you can hope for things that ain't possible.
Dr. Blank: You just have to keep hoping, and sharing that hope, until they become possible.
PoI-6965-2: I don't disagree, but we're a long ways off from where we ought to be right now. The kinda folks I'd vote for, the damn parties wouldn't even let 'em run. The good in this country came from arguin', debatin', and figurin' out, and that ain't what we got any more. They let that genie out of the bottle, the one that says it's okay to make a bed of lies and keep lyin' in it, and so long as you never stop lyin', you don't never have to change your mind. They ain't never gonna put it back, because they're happy livin' like this. You can't fix folks what don't wanna be fixed, and that goes double for your lot.
Dr. Blank: It's not the same thing.
PoI-6965-2: Like hell it ain't. You done much worse than stop people from votin', or votin' yourselves more power, or even turnin' deceit into a glorified national pastime. Them kleptocrats ain't got shades on you. You stole the whole damn world, you're still stealin' it, and you ain't even doin' it 'cuz you're too dumb to know better. That's all hate is, you know? Dumb. Rock solid stupid. Hate is honest, simple foolishness, and that's what I spent these fifty years tryin' to tell people. But you, you ain't no fools. You're the kind of bad my dad and his union buddies was tryin' to put a stop to before I was even born. You ain't got the honesty to hate nobody, you just want, want, want. So you take.
Dr. Blank: And if we didn't, the world would have ended about a hundred times already.
PoI-6965-2: The world can't end but once, and from what I hear, you didn't try all that hard to stop it last time. Real keen on change, long as it's other people changin', not you. I don't expect you'll try too hard next time neither, and I know there's a next time comin', in spite of all that takin' you think you was right to do.
Dr. Blank: What's that mean?
PoI-6965-2: Don't pretend you don't know. Do me that kindness. And don't try tellin' me you're gonna tidy up your mess from inside, free the slaves and give back the loot and issue everybody a gold-framed apology letter with a ten dollar Applebee's voucher tucked in the mattin', 'cuz we both know that ain't how it works. You can kill the engine, but that train been pickin' up speed for a long damn time now, and it ain't about to stop. It'll keep itself goin'.
Dr. Blank: You're aware of the schriftsteller and giftschreiber?
PoI-6965-2: Ah, yeah, there it is. We can't do nothin' to fix ourselves, 'cuz there's Germans needs worryin' about.
Dr. Blank: Austrians. And they're a lot more than that now. But that's not the point; your father knew perfectly well that they had to deal with Hitler before the robber barons.
PoI-6965-2: That's right. And Hitler's been in his grave seventy-some year now. What's the status of the robber barons, remind me? When'd we lick 'em?
<Silence on recording.>
PoI-6965-2: You ever read the copyright on them old songs? My dad's? This song belongs to me for twenty-eight years, and in the meantime I'd be much obliged if you'd pretty please steal it and sing it like it was yours, because what's mine is our'n and fuck them lawyers if'n they say otherwise. And what? Some no account paper pimps still suin' anybody who sings his songs without their go-ahead, one entire generation of man later. You know what a patrimony is?
Dr. Blank: Yes.
PoI-6965-2: Well there's a lotta folks owe the people in this country, and every other damn country too, a lifetime's worth o' patrimony payments for all the things we rightly own they think they can box up and sell back to us. That goes double for you; ain't nobody in history fell in love with boxes like you folks, indiscriminate with what and who you stick in 'em. Boxes ain't even an efficient use of space! We already got the whole wide world to contain ourselves in, why you gotta go ahead and plot out solitary allotments for? A three metre cube for one human bein', too confined and too spread out at the same time. Y'all are lunatics and imbeciles, by way of bein' too smart for anyone's good.
<Silence on recording.>
PoI-6965-2: We ain't even traded one monster for another. You was monstrous then, and we've still got you. Now the world's fillin' up with hundreds of little Hitlers, and you don't even care. You're lettin' it happen. You're of a piece with 'em.
<Silence on recording.>
PoI-6965-2: Aw, hey.
<Silence on recording.>
PoI-6965-2: I can't say I'm all that sorry, kid. I wanna, but I can't.
Dr. Blank: No, you wouldn't be you if you did. Or his son, or their father. We both know you're right.
PoI-6965-2: And that's why I don't talk to Thilo no more, because he don't know it. Or he does, but it's safer not to think about. I ain't gonna do that good gentleman the disrespect of givin' him the time of day 'til he gets some sense in his old head, and sees you for who you are.
Dr. Blank: Which is what? State it plainly.
PoI-6965-2: Plain's against my nature. You strike me as a man takes sixteen thousand words to say nothin'; I take half as many to say not much.
Dr. Blank: Bullshit.
PoI-6965-2: I come from a line of straight-talkers, but the line got a little wavy when it got to little Davy.
Dr. Blank: Channel your dad, then.
PoI-6965-2: Well, I can sure do that.
Winston's gunnin' for you, and Josef's gunnin' for you
Franklin's gunnin' for you, too, so Dolf you grab that gun
Monty's gunnin' for you, and Charlie's gunnin' for you
Ike is gunnin' for you, too, so Dolf you grab that gun
You only got one single shot, so Dolf you hit that spot
Himmler he won't miss you, and Goering he won't miss you
Goebbels he won't miss you none, so Dolf now don't you miss
Eva she won't miss you, Blondi she won't miss you
Nobody gonna miss you none, so Dolf now don't you miss
Dr. Blank: Which attempt was that?
PoI-6965-2: One of the middle ones, if I recall. Maybe #9.
Dr. Blank: Did your father kill Hitler?
PoI-6965-2: Might've done.
Dr. Blank: Did he think it was pointless? Did he murder a man for no reason?
PoI-6965-2: Name a man deserved murderin' more.
Dr. Blank: There can't be many. But was there no larger point to what he did? Hitler was already finished. All he had in front of him was a trial, and a rope. Did your father plan on killing the rest of Germany, once Hitler was dead? And Austria? And Japan?
PoI-6965-2: You ever hear of the riot at the Japanese Imperial Bar?
Dr. Blank: Yes. Did that really happen?
PoI-6965-2: Did it happen. Who cares if it happened? It's what it means that matters. That's all that ever matters. It ain't the people that's the problem, it's the things they got rattlin' around in their heads. Blamin' good folks for what bad folks've done. My dad, he thought he could put a stop to all that. Give 'im another few lifetimes, he might've done. What do you think it meant, "This machine kills fascists"?
Dr. Blank: I don't know.
PoI-6965-2: What do you think?
Dr. Blank: I think it might have meant what it looks like, literally. The music he was making would help to put the fascists in their graves. But… I like to think he meant something more. What he says he did at the Imperial, shaming the mob into changing their ways. Music can kill the fascist inside a person, even kill the category of existence that we call 'being a fascist'. Because it isn't enough to kill the ones who can't be changed, the ones who want everyone who isn't the same as them to die, or suffer, because if you don't kill their ideas, the next generation picks them right back up. And that's what's happening right now. Those mini-Hitlers you're talking about.
PoI-6965-2: So do you think you can kill the ideas that make your own people the worst mass murderers and thieves since Adolf wore his cape? Do you think that about yourself?
Dr. Blank: No.
<Silence on recording.>
Dr. Blank: I'll try, I really will try, believe me, but it won't be me that does it. It might be a few of my friends who start the ball rolling, but even that won't be enough. It'll have to be a lot of people.
<Silence on recording.>
Dr. Blank: It'll have to be a movement.
<Silence on recording.>
PoI-6965-2: You quotin' some old song back at me now?
Dr. Blank: Your songs never got old. Neither did your dad's. Whatever Thilo told him, the fact is that some ideas don't age. They're evergreen. At some point all of you believed you could change the world, and that's a thread that's never been broken since people learned to talk to one another.
PoI-6965-2: The world is just a place, kid.
Dr. Blank: Exactly. And so is the Foundation. It's just a shape, and we can fill it with whatever we want, and it'll reflect what we put into it. It won't be long before we can't keep everything hidden, and then we'll have to decide what we want to do about that. There'll be a turning point.
PoI-6965-2: The folks you work for would rather see the whole thing burn and fall down than see it change.
Dr. Blank: By the time that happens, we'll be sitting in their seats. It'll be our turn to decide.
PoI-6965-2: And you'll see what they had, what you've got, and you'll want to keep it for yourselves.
Dr. Blank: Not if the ideas we bring with us are strong enough. And that's your job.
PoI-6965-2: I've said my piece already. Done what was in me to do.
Dr. Blank: Then your children.
PoI-6965-2: And theirs?
Dr. Blank: No. We haven't got that much time.
<Silence on recording.>
PoI-6965-2: I'm sorry I told you I wasn't gonna make you cry.
Dr. Blank: I'm glad I still can.
PoI-6965-2: It's a mark in your favour, no mistake. One.
<Silence on recording.>
Dr. Blank: So, are you a cryptomancer?
PoI-6965-2: Ain't that that funny money on computers I keep hearin' about?
<Dr. Blank sighs.>
Dr. Blank: I suppose we'll be in touch.
PoI-6965-2: I suppose I might allow it.
<Dr. Blank stands up.>
Dr. Blank: Oh, uh.
PoI-6965-2: Yeah?
Dr. Blank: I always loved "City of New Orleans." That's my favourite one.
PoI-6965-2: You know I didn't write it.
Dr. Blank: Yeah, but you believed it. So I did, too.
Lillihammer: You fucking idiot. You're going to get yourself terminated. Even under Drygioni review, this shit gets mirrored to SCiPNET!
Okorie: He was obviously just playing to his audience.
Lillihammer: Have you read your own messages in this file?
Okorie: Have you read yours? We're all a little fucking preoccupied here, Lillian, if you haven't noticed!
Blank: We might as well talk this out right now, because it's germane to the topic at hand. So, new thread:
Blank: Is the SCP Foundation fascist? Is that why the torpedo blew up in its bay, and the Stratofortress blew up in its hangar and took an O5 with it? Is that why we're considering squelching these people for speaking their truth to our power? If the Guthries are anti-fascist cryptomancers, are they necessarily anti-Foundation as well? We can't continue this analysis without tackling the underlying questions. It wouldn't be scientific. The Council can't expect us to ignore the facts.
Lillihammer: We're not fascist. Fascism is nationalist and right-wing. We're politically neutral authoritarian. There's a distinction. It's still bad, but it's bad with a reason.
Okorie: I don't think this distinction would much impress the Guthries. Look at the creativity arrayed against us, and the creative bankruptcy of our approach. Containment is conservative. Conservatism and creativity are practically antonyms. We're sitting here baffled by something that can easily be explained by human beings behaving genuinely!
Blank: Exactly! We got fucking old, folks. Subverting Common Practice? When's the last time that was anything but a slogan? I used to think we were trying to find a better path for the whole Foundation. Now I wonder if we've just been patting ourselves on the back for being so righteous and enlightened while the most monstrous shit imaginable got done in our names behind our backs. What are we, Albert Speer? "I'm the good one, take my word for it." The fact that we see people believing things, and sharing those beliefs with others, and convincing them, and we think 'must be magic'; that's what makes us fascists.
Okorie: I would've said it was the slave army, but okay.
Blank: Point.
Blank: We're authoritarian because we believe that only authoritarianism can address the problems that only we perceive. Of course, only we perceive them because we've set everything up that way, on purpose, to preserve our authority. That makes the critiques in these songs directly applicable to us. So, yes? Yes, the Guthries are by their nature opposed to us, and we'll oppose them right back by our own nature? Because that is not sustainable. If they decide to come at us for real, and they have the powers this database entry claims they have, they could turn the entire world against us. The last time that happened, we needed to invent a memetic glamour to save our asses. The man who made that possible is on their side, as much as he's on ours. Maybe more. If we force him to make a choice, will he choose us?
Okorie: Is this your argument for why what we've said isn't grounds for termination?
Lillihammer: If it is, he's right. We've been in a vicious holding pattern for decades, and it isn't helping resolve the overall situation. The world is very literally falling to pieces right now, and the way we've always operated is very much part of the problem. If discussing that gets us executed, then everyone who works for the Foundation is inevitably going to have their brains fried for the greater good by a scary old man with the proven capability to do so, and what's more, he will be right to do it. He's only on our side because we've proven that 43 does things differently than the norm, and he hopes what we've got might be catching. There's a lot riding on his hope not being wrong.
Okorie: I knew you weren't as indifferent as all that, Lillian.
Lillihammer: Yeah, well, fuck both of you for making me say it out loud.
Director McInnis: Good evening, doctors. I see you've started updating this file again; it's not presently being mirrored to SCiPNET because of some irregularities with the content. If you'd come see me in my office as soon as possible, I'd like to clarify a few things with you.
DRYGIONI PROTOCOL: CONCLUSIONS
During Drygioni review, three members of the Site-43 senior staff were exposed to a previously unrecognized memetic trigger contained within the file: the lyrics to an unpublished piece of music entitled "Jingo Jangle." Experimentation by Memetics and Countermemetics personnel has revealed that this trigger induces ideological anxiety in SCP Foundation personnel, progressively developing into subversive thinking and revolt against certain vital organizational principles. Emergency deprogramming measures were sufficient to reverse the effect in full; all three doctors have been temporarily relieved of duty and demoted to E-Class personnel for observation, but restoration of their security clearance levels and administrative privileges is expected in short order. SCP-6382, allied cryptomancer Thilo Zwist, has confirmed that he was the author of both this memetic trigger and the one discovered in 1969 which led to the initial classification of SCP-6965. In light of this, and the lack of further evidence, the SCP-6965 database file has been found inauthentic and will be closed.
Friends,
Though it was lovely to be reminded that you're not all marching in lockstep with your less-conscientious peers, you will need to be more circumspect in the future. You've been under mounting pressure, I understand, and the cracks were going to start showing eventually, but I wish I'd known how close to collapse you all apparently were. I don't want to lose you, because you and I, what we're doing, we cannot lose. We must win through. Those little rants weren't going to accomplish anything but your own destruction, and while I'm happy to play the scapegoat, the excuse your Director and I concocted isn't likely to work twice. The next time you speak your consciences, there will be consequences. Such is the price of integrity — there is little virtue in being both idealistic and safe. If there were no danger involved in utopian politics, we would all be utopians already.
A single person can only make a difference by expressing the will of multitudes, and you simply aren't there yet. You've spent too long set against the many to champion their cause at this juncture. None of you is Woody Guthrie. You haven't walked with the people, or walked in their shoes, you haven't taken a literal or even metaphorical ride on their freight trains, or learned the words to properly express their grievances. As you yourselves have noted, the confluence of actors and hour is needed to set sweeping change in motion, and as yet we have neither.
The time, at least, may come soon, and I am not so afraid of that as once I was.
I am reminded of a few brief words written for me by a friend, in the midst of the worst hardship his world had ever seen:
The chains they bring me down, oh Lord
The chains they bring me down
They ain't on you, nor mine, nor me
They ain't so close as I can see
But Lord I ain't never be free
Ain't never gonna stand my height
And win this everlastin' fight
While any man endures the plight
Of chains upon his back, oh Lord
The chains they bring me down
Whatever he was — and I'm still not commenting, you understand — he was certainly no apprentice of mine. He was a student of humanity writ large, and I for one will never stop learning from the example he set.
But had he suspected the first percentile of your organization's vast and heavy stock of chains, I think even Woodrow Wilson Guthrie's indominable courage might have flagged. He would certainly have hated me for colluding with the world's worst jailors, the prototypical and monstrous Big Men against whom he strove 'til the strength left his tortured body. But whether he would have agreed or not with my thinking, we are engaged you and I in the great and bloody fight which so enflamed the passions of his short and wonderful life.
We are fighting two wars simultaneously, against the schriftsteller and giftschreiber: fascism and anarchy, slavery and massacree, and some of the battles in those wars must be waged within yourselves, in the very halls wherein you live and work. The point isn't only to win. It isn't even only to save the world. It is to make the world a thing worth saving. You will have to set a great many people free to earn your right to share this land with the people you profess to protect, and conquer the suspicions of their unfaltering champions. You will have to forfeit something. You may have to forfeit everything — everything but your integrity.
There is yet a long and bumpy road ahead before you are called to stand for your beliefs, like that lonely but never truly alone young man who, with nothing but his guitar, the clothes on his back, and his firmest convictions, could not by any means but victory be moved from where he planted his feet in the ashes and dust.
It is my hope, my desperate hope, that we will all be standing together.
— Thilo
P.S. More famously, but no less truly, the same poet once wrote: "This world is your world. Take it easy, but take it."
