The Four at Meg's Diner | SCP-1295

Warren gripped the handles of his motorcycle and revved the engine, as if expecting it to actually accomplish anything. It, of course, did nothing to alleviate the standstill line of cars and trucks squatting in front of him. How long had he been sitting here? 10 minutes? 15? Maybe 30? Christ almighty. It was 96 degrees and windless at 2 in the afternoon, and it seemed no one but him had a place to be. All he wanted was to grab the lunch special at Megs. He had been going to Megs every day for many years, and every Thursday without fail, he got the lunch special. Chicken dinner with filling and potatoes, a big slice of homemade pie, and a cup of coffee. His bike was a 1976 Harley-Davidson chopper, with a finish so red it reflected in dark crimson streaks against the grimy asphalt, and it rumbled impatiently in the mid-western heat. The golden outline of Estallian's head on the gas tank seemed to melt in rivulets in the sweltering air. Every so often, traffic would lurch forward ever so slightly, before coming once more to a grinding halt. Everyone wondered what was holding everyone up. An accident? Or maybe some idiot broke down in the middle of the median. Dwight once told everyone that there were far too many people nowadays for everyone's own good. Be better to sweep them all down like big stalks of corn, and open up some goddamn breathing room. Most of the time, Warren would tell him he was a misanthropic prick who needed to settle down and finish his chop steak. But today, maybe Dwight had a good point. Ahead, he could see the familiar orange cones and electronic billboard on the right shoulder, surrounded by a gaggle of men in neon green vests, each seeming more interested in bumming cigarettes off each other, other than moving anything along. Warren grit his teeth and pulled up slowly behind an SUV. Now sandwiched between that and one of those little cube-shaped cars he couldn't remember the name of. He checked his watch. 2.20pm. If he didn't get there by 3.30, he'd miss the window for the lunch special. He revved his engine again, and the exhaust wind like a wild horse above the discordant rumbling and backfiring of the traffic jam. Where the hell is Warren? Pat rolled his eyes as he finished off his second glass of Coke. He agreed 2 o'clock in the afternoon, didn't we? We all get here by 2 with some of us. Pat put extra emphasis on some to drive the point home. Had to reschedule our appointments. We still have work to do here, you know. I pushed back a trip to Libya just so I could be on time. Crysake Pat, simmer down. Frederick fingered some onion rings on Pat's plate before taking a handful to eat. You heard what the waitress said, didn't you? They're doing road work on Route 95. Wouldn't surprise me if he's stuck in traffic. That's not the point. If we all agree to meet here at a certain time, we should all. Pat stopped his ranting, looking at the empty space in the booth next to Frederick. Is Dwight still at that machine? After all this time? The two older men looked back across the little diner, spotting another older man fiddling with the joystick of a claw machine. He was trying to win a prize. Perhaps either the stuffed Raven toy or the novelty hourglass. From the bin of cheap novelties and knickknacks the machine offered. Ah, he says it's a battle of wills. Either it gives up and lets him win, or he goes for broke. You know how it is with him. But personally, Frederick shrugged, thumbing out to the massive pale Peterbilt cab sitting in the parking lot. I'd say he wants something for that truck of his. He spent, oh, $5 in change trying to win something from that damn thing. These past few days. Besides, at least he's trying to keep occupied around here. Well, it's his money after all, but I'm certainly not giving him my change so he can gamble on a kitty machine. Pat huffed and sat back in his booth, looking over the menu once again. Senior specials today were half a sandwich and a bowl of soup, meatloaf, liver and onions, and fried fish. Pat settled on a salad. A man in his line of work always liked to eat organic. Do you want me just to put an order for Warren? Frederick asked, looking over to where Warren usually sat next to the window. I mean, I can't imagine him ordering something different from what he usually does. It'll save us the trouble of waiting for his food, too. No, no. Pat wiped his eyes under his thick glasses, half inspecting a few nets buzzing outside the window. Jesus, you do that and you'll get all pissy that you didn't order it the way he likes. For a man who's as old as the ever-loving Earth, he gets himself worked up like a toddler. One little thing and it's like he wants to march in the elephants. In all fairness, you got cranky last week because they didn't have your favorite pie that day. Frederick's skinny frame troubled with laughter as he ate. You were being a real test about it, whining that you had to settle for cake. Ha, ha, I had an off day. So what? Everyone has them. You, Warren Dwight. Besides, I apologized. Left a pretty decent tip the day after if you remember. I think it was because you were trying to impress that cute waitress who flirted with you last week. What's her name? Dolly? Molly? Polly? Pat rolled his eyes, making something of a smug grin at his companion across from him. At least she thinks I'm cute. You saw how she winked at me yesterday. You know, in my line of work, I have to be pretty intimate with the human body. Especially with sex, you know? Maybe she thinks I'm...what's the word? A silver fox. Is that it? Frederick shuddered in disgust, putting down the onion rings he had been snacking on. Hey, I'm sure she'd love to hear about how you oversee who gets scabies from an afternoon fuck. Ugh, makes me sick just thinking about it. Well, it made you stop eating the food off my plate, didn't it? Pat chuckled darkly before pointing to the newspaper. Anything good in the paper? I didn't get a chance to read up on it yet. There came a muttering of someone swearing under their breath from behind them. A tall, elderly man with a small face walked up to the booth and sat down in his usual spot. Dwight scowled, looking at the other two as they smirked knowingly at him. Lose again, huh, creamy boy? Shut the hell up, Frederick. Piece of shit machine. We'll trade in the horses. The way things are going nowadays, we need to have something that's faster. And the big guy says we should get with the times anyway. Pat's voice echoed in Warren's thoughts. Yeah, this was faster, Warren thought. In the old days, Roodalus would have carried him over this traffic jam like they were riding above the throngs of Legion. But now all rest he was taking it easy at a farm up the river. And he was sitting there, sweating his ass off in the middle of a ten-mile traffic jam, because a bunch of lazy sacks of shit can't get a move on. Honest to effing god, I've seen double amputees crawl through a trench faster than this. Warren thought to himself, once more furiously laying on the horn of his chopper and letting the trumpeting sound echo above the hum of engines. Let's go up there already, freaking up an atom over there. Warren's bellowing did no good, save for attracting the curious glances of a family in a station wagon parked next to him. Having a can of Commander Brand chewing tobacco from his vest pocket and putting some into his lip, the old man squinted through the harsh sunlight toward the road ahead. Just a little beyond the traffic jam, right up the road about half a mile was an off ramp, like the glittering road to heaven. Thank the baby Jesus and all his little cherubs. Of course, Warren still had to get there. He had spent the last five minutes at a near standstill, and they moved about four inches under quarter before coming to a sudden stop again. The way he was going, he'd be here about another 45 minutes, and that was assuming these glassy-eyed road jockeys didn't decide to take another 15 minute cigarette break. What the hell were they even doing just standing around anyway? His stomach rumbled like the well greased engine of his motorcycle. He could already taste Meg's homemade cherry pie with that brown sugar crumble on top. Assuming, of course, Frederick didn't make a pig of himself and eat the whole damn dessert counter before he got there. A tractor trailer roared by in the passing lane, honking boorishly as it rattled past. Obviously, to the untrained observer, this was the recipe for an even longer delay. Trucks that try to get as far ahead as they possibly can and then try to merge right at the front when the lanes shift into one. You know exactly the type. Usually this meant that slow-merging truck would press into the bumper-to-bumper ahead, and that ass-hat driver would inevitably misjudge his turn width, sideswiping a family or two under the trailer. All in all, it would be very inconvenient for everyone. But something a little strange was occurring in the cab of that roaring Mack truck. The driver, a 40-odd-year-old man with a beer belly that brought to mind a late-stage pregnancy and a mullet as tacky as the shag blankets he slept in, seemed a little lethargic. It wasn't a tired type of lethargic that drivers like him experience after driving for days on end. No, it was more like apathy, a general confusion as to where and what he was doing. He had a feeling that maybe he should slow down as he rumbled past the warning lights. There was the barest inkling that he should possibly try to break as he saw the group of construction workers standing around the torn-up roadway. But whatever was going through the trucker's head, it didn't register as all that important. In fact, his foot remained steadily on the accelerator, pushing his snarling, smoking 18-wheeler towards the road crew as an unstoppable missile. Perhaps most unusual of all, however, was that no one on the road seemed to be in a hurry to dodge out of the way. Please, stop clear of the gap. Another morning, another reminder there's a gap to be careful of, but maybe it's time to bridge the one between your 9-5 and your dream of living life on your own terms. At HSBC, we know ambition looks different to everyone. Whether it's retiring early or leaving more for your family, we can help. Because when it comes to unlocking your money's potential, we know wealth. Search HSBC Wealth Today, HSBC UK, opening up a world of opportunity. HSBC UK current account holders only. You know what I hate? What? Dwight shifted in the booth, his small, narrow face looking dismissively at the newspaper in front of him. Is that people these days live too long? Look, look at this. He pushed a coffee-stained obituary page in front of Frederick and Pat. Woman from Chicago lives to be 102 years old! 102! Unbelievable. Seems like you're slipping, huh, Dwight? Frederick barely looked up from the menu, considering trying either the roast turkey sandwich or a BLT for lunch. Back in the day, you used to nab folks if they tried to break past 51. I'm telling you, it's insane. Dwight tapped the table for emphasis, the silverware clattering with every bony tap. You'd think with all these new electronic thingamajigs, whatever the hell you call them, life expectancy would be cut clean in half. Hell. You know, when they first invented the car? I had people lining up for the ferry every 20 minutes just from car crashes alone. Nowadays, they got seatbelts and airbags and brake detection. Can't do my job if people are driving around in bubble-wrapped cars and being so damn careful. Dwight shook his head, looking out at his Peterbilt sitting next to a black 1979 Chevrolet Monte Carlo and a white 1977 Volkswagen Beetle. Frederick's and Pat's cars, respectively. And what's wrong with living until you're 50, huh? It's a perfect system. Spend 20 years growing up, another 20 years raising a family, and then another 10 years. You're just kicking rocks until one of my boys shows up. So you're arguing for a lower lifespan because it's more convenient? Hey, if you ask me, I'm being generous. Back when? When? The old man scrunched his narrow face and snapped his fingers rapidly. Ah, what the hell was his name? Charlie, yeah. Back when Charles V was around, people lived until they were 30. I'm throwing on 20 extra years. You're a wellspring of kindness, aren't you, Dwight? That's side, shaking his head as he read through an article regarding upcoming cold and flu shots at a nearby pharmacy. But I will agree that things aren't as simple as they used to be. Back in the day, all you needed to get the horses up and running was a decent outbreak of plague. When Europe got whacked with it real bad, I almost thought that was the cue to get riding. Not today. Too many vaccines, too many pills. We'd need quadruple the death toll we got back then just to even get a maybe from the big guy. And that's being generous. Famines aren't as bad as they used to be. Frederick nodded solemnly. I mean, there was that one thing in the 80s around Africa, I think. But nothing like how it used to be. A couple of empires run a little low on bread, and they'd be blowing the trumpets until Pat broke out the locusts. Higher standards, I guess. Dwight sifted his black coffee, taking another glance out the window toward the highway. I just wish the boss would let us know what to look for. You know how upper management is nowadays? Pat grimaced. Bunch of pencil, necks, and paper pushers who haven't touched earthly soil since the big guy's kid lived down here. I get there's a bit of logistics to it, but it's always will they, won't they with them? We've been waiting now long now and still haven't even gotten a callback. Speaking of waiting, Dwight looked at the empty space beside him. What the hell's taking Warren so long? Oh, I don't know. Maybe he's stuck in traffic. Dwight let out a dark, unamused snort. Traffic? Ah, oh. That sure to get him riled up. Well, we'll hear about it from him when he comes in. Frederick agreed, turning his attention back to the menu. Say, do you think the beef and rice soup is any good? Or is it too hot for soup? No one would ever be quite sure why none of the road crew, let alone even the driver of the tractor trailer, did what they did. One would think that, upon seeing an enormous 40 ton hunk of steel and rubber barreling towards you at 75 miles an hour, you'd at least try to get yourself out of the way, no matter how vain it would be. But none of the men seemed too bothered to care. Instead, they stood there, balancing lazily on shovels, hands in their pockets, and drool on their lips as the gigantic truck hurled through the flimsy barriers. The blinking traffic signs smashed off the left fender and caught under it, the now twisted heap of metal and wiring being dragged, sparking and screeching as the truck thundered along. For a brief few seconds, the cab wheeled itself up on the concrete barriers, driving at a 35 degree angle on one side before it bounced off and sent the truck airborne toward the men like a belching missile. The first few men had hit flew off the fender, like dumbfounded deer bouncing off the hood of a car. One man was unlucky enough to have been caught underneath the cab as it came crashing back down again. Though in the precious few seconds before vanishing under the grimy fender, he didn't seem all too concerned by it. Another man bounced clear off the right bumper and was pressed between the snarling truck and the concrete dividers. The man was dragged for a good few feet, smashed between the truck and concrete like hamburger meat until the trailer veered away, the misshapen mangled lump bouncing awkwardly after it. To say nothing, of course, of the four-man crew laying down hot asphalt as the truck came upon them. The scalding asphalt and bloody smears covering its windshield might have made it rather hard to see, had the driver been interested in slowing down or seeing where he was going. There came a tremendous crash as the cab slammed directly into the side of a steamroller, the forceful impact jackknifing the trailer and pushing the enormous piece of construction equipment back about a foot and a half. The driver, who up until the very moment of the crash was still flooring the accelerator, had only microseconds to react as he hurled through the tar and blood-covered glass of the windshield like a human bullet. The rest of the cab itself, mimicking the skull of its former driver, caved in as it drove into the heavy machinery. Grease and transmission fluid bursting like blood from ears through the crumpled hood, followed by a hideous mechanical mass of clanking, hot metal entrails. Behind it, the trailer, which by some unfortunate coincidence was a load of crude oil destined for the refinery in Roxana, rode up on top of the cab like an eager child on his father's shoulders before tipping sideways. Twelve thousand gallons of oil gushed from the silvery tank, a dark, all-encompassing wave that swallowed bodies, machinery, power tools, and stalled cars before pooling, radiant and bubbling on the road. The death of the driver and seven workers would be tragic enough, and the ruined profit of all that otherwise good oil would be by some margins considerably worse from an industry standpoint. But all of this, this horrible and senseless accident, might not have escalated into full-on calamity had the twisted traffic signs still underneath the cab not have come into play. A live wire shooting sparks like a venomous snake touched a small puddle of crude oil and in an instant, all was aflame. Drivers from all directions watched as, in the span of only a second or two, the wreckage of the trailer, the construction site, and a few hapless vehicles disappeared into an enormous column of fire. Had the drivers in any of the cars seemed actually bothered by the display, they might have assumed they were also in danger. But none of the drivers, be they the woman with fake extensions and a cigarette dangling from her face, to the shabby tow truck driver in grease-soaked overalls appeared to be too concerned with what they were seeing. It was as if whatever spell had come over the driver and the road crew had affected them also, preventing them from reacting with any sense of self-preservation. Even when the first explosion hit, sending the severed arm of a former worker now cooked to perfectly well done onto the hood of a Toyota, a few drivers decided to get out of their cars and walk closer toward the fire. Way in the back of the line, replacing his now sweat-soaked red bandana with an identical one he kept in his back pocket, Warren saw the explosion rise above the line in front of him. He closed his eyes, gripped the handles of his chopper, and mouths a silent, god damn it, to himself. He was never going to make mechs in time at this rate. They don't have Sinatra? For the last, I'm looking at the effin' thing, aren't I? They don't have Sinatra. Your greasy fingers keep going too fast. Slow down. I'm telling you the last time we were here, they were playing Sinatra on this thing. Maybe it was on the radio. I'm not seeing it in here. Dwight rolled his eyes, squinting through the glass of the old bubbler jukebox as Pat flew past faded catalogues of songs. You're telling me they don't have my way in here? They have all this other kiddy bubblegum shit, but nothing by Sinatra? Pat was about to say something to the effect of, it's my quarters in this thing, and I'll listen to whatever the hell I want. But before he could say anything, he noticed something in the jukebox and stopped. He tapped Dwight on the shoulder, pointing at it with an air of interest. Huh, check this out. Pat pointed to a certain song in the catalog. I didn't know that Glenn Campbell guy wrote this. Who? The Wichita Lyman guy, right? Dwight looked at the song and gave an amused chuckle. Huh, I thought the only folks who wrote about us were those metal, metal. I don't even know. Warren might. He likes the kind of stuff more than I do. Pat pressed the song number to the old faded keypad and watched as the little mechanical arm picked up the song card for display. With a soft whir and a click, Glenn Campbell's voice broke over the usual din and clatter of the Midwestern diner. When they returned to the booth, Frederick was looking thoughtfully out at the parking lot. Outside, it was still a perfect summer day, and the late afternoon sun hung all seeing and hot over the stretch of highway below. In the parking lot, a family was sitting at some picnic tables on the grass, eating prepackaged sandwiches and bottles of soda. A man in a cowboy hat stood on the bed of his pickup truck, checking on a large, sheeted object he had tied down. A child no older than seven sat in the back of an old station wagon, guarded by an enormous dog that was more hair than beast. There was a smell of fresh dandelions, fryer grease, and upturned gravel that filtered through the bug-battered screens and mixed with the aroma of asphalt and diesel exhaust, and the music played low and gentle through the bubbling neon tubes. Frederick said, scratching his gaunt face and recollection. I suppose you're right. Pat nodded, looking around the diner from its chrome-lined counter to the outdated knickknacks on the walls. Betty Boop in a waitress uniform, an advertisement for a movie with Danny Kay from the 1960s, and a literal blue plate framed and hung on a rack. At least down here, everything's changing. Better or for worse, people aren't too bad either. Some easier on the eyes than others. It's not like anything else is going on at home either. Dwight agreed, letting out a half-chuckle as he remembered something. I never even had a cheeseburger before we got here, and now I can't live without one for lunch. It's not perfect, God knows, but it's what's it called unique. There was work putting into making all this. Frederick gestured with empty hands, as if to signify the totality of everything around him. The diner, the food, the people, the sky, even the way it smells down here is different. They sure as hell built this place to last. Remember the boys from Luz said it wouldn't even last a quarter of a millennium. Hah! So what does that make us? Pat asked, thumbing over to their vehicles parked neatly in the lot. We're the demolition guys appreciating the old house before we tear it down. No, well, alright. When you say it like that, yes. Dwight agreed, reaching for his mug of coffee. I tend to see us as more of the equilibrium, I suppose. We each have a job to do, and that job is to make sure certain things stay in order. Sure, when we can get the order, we'll ride on just as we always do. But we do it because it's part of the whole scheme. What we do is just as natural as... Pat pointed through the window to where a young girl from the family at the picnic table was stumbling along with a bottle of juice. Is that kid learning to walk? We have a job to do, and we'll do it when it's time. But for now, we just have to find the best of a bad situation, I suppose. When the hell did you get so philosophical, Dwight? These Snapple Caps. Whoever writes these things probably makes a killing for what he does. By now, the fire on the interstate was completely out of control. Fed by a virtually endless supply of spilled oil and gasoline, the Inferno had now moved to devour not just the wreckage of the tanker truck, but also five SUVs, two pickup trucks, and a classic 1956 Buick special. The driver of whom had only just moments ago stepped out to get a better look at the river of boiling fire advancing towards him. There came a secondary explosion, followed by a third smaller one that had the impressive effect of launching everything from burning tires to flaming hubcaps into the line of trapped cars. This might have posed something of an issue provided that, again, anyone in the surrounding area had any urgency. The family of four on their way to Six Flags Great America didn't seem too concerned when a smoldering engine block flattened their car and pulverized their windshield into so many sparkling granules of glass. Next to them, a man in his convertible ignored the red-hot hood hurling towards his exposed neck like a guillotine the same way you'd ignore a moth. The woman driving her car towards the flaming wreckage may have considered it a somewhat remarkable sight in the moments before she'd be impaled on what was formerly a speed limit sign. There were some people, of course, who had the common sense to try and get away from the pile-up. Some ran from their cars, others tried to make pitable U-turns, and a brave few might have even attempted to help those who could still get away. But even these people soon found themselves growing apathetic to the chaos around them, turning to walking, walking turned to bored, lethargic shuffling. It was as if by some invisible force, all drive and motivation had been sucked from these people. A total loss of all survival instinct that was replaced by childlike curiosity. There came another roaring explosion, the hellish sound of metal against metal and the choked screams that never reached a crescendo. Flights that were once human lurched past burnt shells like carpenter ants, illuminated by the flames that consumed clothes, air, and skin. In any other situation, those with even the most severe burns would still roll on the ground in a desperate, if not feeble, attempt to save themselves. But among the charges of bloodied, maimed individuals, none did so. They walked aimlessly, confused, through the wreckage, and even as the fire singed away skin and roasted muscle, they continued to walk, screaming like toddlers in the choking smoke. By now the pilot had consumed 25 cars, 3 semi-trucks, and about 33 individuals. Much the same way the ancient Israelites saw a pillar of fire in the distance, so too with the drivers. The once blue sky was tainted as sickly yellow by chemical smoke, and the sweet summer air tasted of corroded metal and copper. If there were any in the crowd of drivers that noticed this, they remained silent. Save of course, for Warren, who wiped the sweat from his bandana and spat on the road in anger. To hell with this! Warren snarled under his breath and gunned the engine of his chopper again. He turned his bike hard to the right end, narrowly avoiding ramming the person in front of him, and pulled onto the shoulder. There were no police around to see anyway. The driver, who at the moment had been melted into the seat of his patrol car. Warren thundered down the shoulder, squeezed between the line of cars and the guardrail with an inch or two to spare. With all the aggressiveness of a driver who had mastered road rage, the old man roared past the line of unmoving tractor trailers, flew by the group of workers whose only response was a meager yell and a shrug, and then onto the exit ramp. The moment Warren reached open road, the chopper nade like a wild horse and took off into the distance. As the single old man, scarcely noticed by anyone, disappeared into the distance, something incredible happened. The spell that had washed over the crowd, the mass of lethargic, childlike wanderers who bobbed lost and confused through the flaming wreckage, had suddenly broken. In an instant, the air was filled with a chorus of screams, of mortified shrieks and agonized groans. In the span of less than a minute, 104 car doors flew open, and the men and women stumbled shrieking down the road in terror. A man whose back was covered in greasy flames threw himself onto the road and rolled flailing, while a woman carried a swaddled infant from the remains of her car. Now suddenly present and aware, the whole highway became a madhouse, shrieking, honking and wailing. Another explosion silenced most of these cries. Warren however, heard none of it. Well, look who finally decided to show up. Cris took you long enough. Warren scowled as he sat down next to Dwight, grabbing the menu from off the table. Yeah, yeah, I'm late. Crucify me. I'm not too late for the lunch special, am I? Frederick shook his head. Nah, though Daisy was asking about where you were, we were just about to order without you. Thank God. You wouldn't believe the traffic I ran into today. Warren shook his head in disbelief. I would have gotten here 30 minutes ago, but it was bumper to bumper for almost 10 miles. I'm surprised you kept your temper this time, Warren. That said, usually when these kinds of things happen, we all hear it. We hear about it. Hey, I've been working on my attitude. Warren didn't even look up from the menu. Was as cool as a goddamn cucumber the whole time. Are you sure? Dwight asked, his tone incredulous. I mean, you know what happens when one of us loses their temper, and you out of all four of us. Look, look, I said nothing happened. What the hell is with all the questions? Nothing, nothing. It's just, you wouldn't happen to know anything about the pile up on the highway we've been hearing over the radio, right? Warren looked at his three companions, his face a combination of slight embarrassment and defiance. He shrugged and waved his hand. All right, I may have lost my temper a bit. Oh, for God's sake, Warren. Really now? Hey, it ain't like any of you guys haven't gotten pissy before. Everyone Frederick got all cranky and folks started biting each other's fingers off. But when Dwight got mopey and everyone got all hypochondriac, or what? Aren't you boys finally ready to order? Or do you still need a couple extra minutes? Warren's rant was cut off by the prompt arrival of a cigarette smoking, curly haired brunette with a pencil in her ear and a notepad in her hand. At this, the four elderly men stood at attention, forgetting their conversation in favor of their order. Oh yeah, sorry, hon. I'll take the lunch special, extra gravy on everything, cherry pie. BLT with extra bacon, fries with gravy and cheese, apple pie with ice cream and a diet soda. Farmers salad with extra croutons and greens, coffee with two creams and sugar. Oh, and the apple pie too. Meatloaf special, lemon cream pie and a black coffee. The waitress took their orders down, making a note about the unusual arrival of Warren in her book for her bosses to review, and then strode away to the kitchen. Alright, what are we talking about again? I don't know, something about. Dwight stopped mid-conversation. Oh, look at those kids by your bike, Warren. They better not touch it. I just got the damn thing cleaned. With that, the four men, older than man and perhaps fated to outlive him, lost themselves in a conversation on how today's kids have no respect for their elders. SCP-1295 denotes a cohort of four elderly males whose anomalous properties manifest exclusively when an individual instance is obstructed from accessing or forcibly removed from Meg's Good Eaton diner between 0900 and 1800 local time. Each instance exhibits a distinct activation latency following removal. SCP-1295-1 demonstrates onset within 5-10 minutes. SCP-1295-2 within 2-3 hours. SCP-1295-3 immediately. And SCP-1295-4 within 30-40 minutes. Upon activation, SCP-1295-1 induces profound lethargy and complete suppression of self-preservation behaviors in individuals within an initial 100 meter radius, with radial expansion of 100 meters per hour. SCP-1295-2 causes subjects within an initial 500 meter radius to lose the ability to differentiate edible from inedible matter. Frequently resulting in hazardous ingestion behaviors, its affected radius expands at a rate of 1 kilometer per hour. SCP-1295-3 produces instantaneous eradication of all endogenous microbial flora in individuals within an initial 50 meter radius, leading to severe physiological dysfunction with an expansion rate of 200 meters per hour. SCP-1295-4 elicits extreme hypervigilance, paranoia, and debilitating self-preservation responses in subjects within an initial 150 meter radius, also increasing by 200 meters per hour. Subjects simultaneously exposed to SCP-1295-1 and SCP-1295-4 enter a comatose state, likely due to conflicting neuropsychological pressures. All anomalous effects intensify proportionally to the duration each instance remains separated from the diner. Attempts to monitor or track instances of SCP-1295 outside of the diner have uniformly failed.