The Don of Fries | SCP-5642

The French fry refuses to hold still so that I can draw fluids from it with a syringe. Not only does it refuse to hold still, but it keeps screaming at me. You'll get that needle anywhere near me, and I swear to all that is holy, I will mess you up. I will drop you like a ten-ton meatball. I'll grind your bones to make my freaking bread. And I make the best bread, Italian loaf, all fluffy inside with that crunchy crust. Mmm, mmm, mmm. The four-inch tall piece of talking fast food keeps me back by swinging a rather sharp toothpick in my direction every time I come in with a syringe. Listen, all I need to do is, I do not care what it is you think you do or do not need to do. Oh, and one other thing. You call me French again, and I swear to all that is holy, I will mess you up. I will drop you like a ten-ton truck full of cannolis. I'll slice off your skin and make crostinis. Maybe add some nice extra virgin olive oil and fresh moths. The fry stops yapping and looks down at the needle sticking out of the spot on its potato body that I have to guess is where its belly is. Would you look at that? Ain't that something? Sorry, I just have a job to do. Yeah, well, we all got jobs to do. The fry looks down at the syringe, up at me, down at the syringe, up at me. You gonna start sucking here or what? Oh, sorry. You say that a lot. Get some balls, kid. Don't let no one make you sorry about nothing. Yeah, thanks. I pull back on the plunger, and thick, yellowish fluid comes out. The fry puts one of its tiny hands to its head and moans, careful there, pal, don't sup me dry. The fry passes out, and I manage to withdraw the syringe before it collapses onto the stainless steel shelf next to the deep fryer. I give the little guy a nudge with the tip of my finger. Hey, you okay? The fry doesn't move. Um, hey there. Fry guy. Uh, you alive? I shake my head as the words come out of my mouth. I just asked an animate, sapient French fry if it's alive. What is my job? Well, well, well. What have we got here? A little fry aside? You a fry killer, pal? That what you are? I spin around to see dozens of fries standing on the make table behind me. One of them steps forward, holding its own sharpened toothpick. Except, instead of brandishing it at me, it sticks one end into its mouth and rolls the thing back and forth. Due to the size discrepancies between the fry and the toothpick, it makes him look like he's sucking on a broomstick. In unison, all the fries behind him stick toothpicks in their mouths. I don't know what I'm looking at. I just hold the half-filled syringe in the air as I stand and stare at the new group of fries. What's the problem with you, pal? Cat got your tongue? The other fries nod, and some move forward, taking their toothpicks out of their little fry mouths so they can point them menacingly in my direction. We hate cats. They play with us more than eat us. Yeah, and we're made to be eaten, not played with. All the fries turn to the last fry and glare. He shrugs. What? I'm just saying. You guys know what I mean. What my esteemed colleagues Mickey Dips, Lewis Crinkles, and Tony Sweetpots is trying to say is that a little communication goes a long way. I wasn't saying that at all, boss. Me neither, boss. I don't even know what we're talking about no more. The boss fry holds up his tiny fry hands and the rest goes silent. He steps forward and bends in half. I assume that's an animated Fry's way of bowing. Put it back in, pal. Do it. Yeah, do it. Do it. The entire gang starts chanting for me too. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Johnny Tubes holds his fry hands up again. The gang quiets down instantly. Forgive them for their enthusiasm. My boys can get passionate when one of our own is taken out. Um, still ain't dead. Yeah, well, won't be long, Nino. This jabroni has your insides on the outside of you. Yeah, no, I think I'm gonna be fine. Really, just give me a sec, Johnny. Nah, Nino, your time has come. Happens to the best of us. No, I ain't kidding, Johnny. I'm feeling pretty swell right now. Nino pushes up on his fry elbows. See, I can sit up. Maybe I can stand up. The Fry gang all plead with him to stay down and die like a real stand-up Fry. I just continue to stand here, my arm in the air, the syringe held aloft, the needle pointing at the ceiling. The gang and Nino keep going back and forth about whether or not Nino should get up or give up. Enough! You's giving me a headache with all this racket! Sorry, boss. Won't happen again, boss I blame Nino The dead ones are always the loudest Hey! Go dunk yourself, Tony Oh yeah? Well, why don't you stand up and come make me? Don't tempt me Come on, then I will Then do it Or go dunk yourself Boss, you're killing me here Sorry, boss Yeah, sorry, boss. Slowly, so I don't alarm any of the fries since I don't want them throwing those sharp toothpicks at me, I reach into my lab coat pocket and pull out a vial. Carefully, I insert the syringe's needle into the top of the vial and depress the plunger transferring the yellow fry goo from the syringe and into the vial I cap the syringe and toss it into the trash Then I pull a second syringe from my other pocket I, uh, need at least four samples. Any volunteers? Before anyone can answer, the kitchen erupts in fire, and I fly across the make table, my shoulder slamming into a set of metal shelves as I tumble to the floor. My head smashes against an under-the-counter reach-in, and stars explode in front of my eyes. Pain shoots down my neck, and I lie still for a minute as black smoke fills the kitchen. I blink against the smoke. What just happened? There's a loud ringing in my ears from the explosion, but through and around that ringing, I can hear the screams of a dozen french fries. I've been julienned! Why, God, why? My crispy skin is too crispy! Too crispy! Oh, God! That ain't ketchup! That ain't ketchup! Reaching up, I grab the edge of the make table and pull myself to my feet. Thick smoke fills the kitchen, and the fire alarm blares, adding to the chaos. I stumble forward and stare at the fiery mess that used to be the deep fryer. Smoking, flaming oil coats the floor, spreading out in all directions. I think to throw some water on it, but remember that water makes an oil fire even worse. Spinning in circles, almost ready to panic and flee, I hunt for something that will put out the flames. I see a storage container with the word FLOUR written in Sharpie on the side. Racing over to it, I tear off the lid, turn, and chuck handfuls of the white powder out onto the flaming oil. I empty the entire container, but only extinguish half the flames. Panicked and having a hard time breathing, I drop low and crouch-crawl my way to the far end of the kitchen. There! A fire extinguisher! I hurry as fast as I can to the red canister, stand, and pluck it off the wall. It takes me a second to get situated. Then I aim the nozzle at the flickering flames and depress the handle. White foam spews everywhere, coating the burning oil and sending a noxious plume of grey steam up into the air. I spray and spray until the extinguisher is empty. Then I toss the hollow canister aside. My lungs feel like I've been smoking crack for a week. Not that I've ever smoked crack. Not recreationally, at least. I did have to smoke some enchanted crack for the foundation. when I first started as a research technician. To this day, I'm still not sure if it was an official experiment or just hazing. Covering my mouth and nose with my arm, I wade back into the mess, looking for survivors. But as I walk the foam-coated, suit-stained kitchen, all I see are the silent, charred remains of dozens of fries. I approach the make table and the boss, Johnny Tubes, lies there, his starchy eyes staring up at me, the life in him extinguished. just like the oil fire. I sigh, then get to work. Finding a clean gallon baggie in the bottom of a scorched box, underneath the melted ones, I gather up as many fry corpses as possible, placing them carefully in the large baggie. It's more than I need for research, but you can never have too much material in my opinion. I turn around and take a look at the rest of the mess. The fryer is a warped hunk of metal and plastic. I don't know how it happened, but somehow it blew up, like exploded. The sides are nothing but jagged hunks of torn metal. A bent and flattened fry basket sits on the floor, half coated in fire suppressant foam. Smoking oil drips from the ceiling. I stare up at it, amazed that the entire ceiling didn't catch fire. Then I hear a voice. I search about, trying to find the source, and finally kneel close enough to the ground to see half a fry floating in the foamy, scorched oil. Nina, is that you? It's me. I pick up the fry and he coughs over and over, spitting whitish starch everywhere. His entire lower half is gone, with bits of cooked potato leaking out onto my palm. I try not to shiver with revulsion. I know who's responsible. The fry coughs over and over and more bits of his inside spill onto my palm. A thin line of starch oozes from between his lips. It's the Carlucci family. They work out of the bread shelf in the pantry. The Carlotti outfit? What does that even mean? No, the Carlucci family, not Carlotti. They're in the walk-in on the lettuce shelf. Oh, Carlucci? I still don't. But the little fry can't help me anymore. He coughs once, reaches up with a gnarled hand, and cries. I'm coming, mama! Get the ranch dip ready. I'll be with you! The fry goes completely limp. I gulp, sniff a little, then put Nino's body in the large baggie with the rest. Freeze! Do not move an inch or I will drop you! I let the bat go, and it splashes into the mess. I pray the seal is tight as I throw my hands up in the air. I'm Foundation, Avery Rittenour. I'm a research tech sent to gather samples of the instances of this anomaly. Really? What's the SCP designation number for this anomaly? SCP-5642. We're at the Monument Cafe. I've been assigned to gather samples of the instances. That right? Who sent you? Give me the name of the head researcher in charge. Uh, it's changed a lot in the past few weeks, and I'm new, but the assistant researcher who gave me the assignment is Chip Lowenstein. He's really tall with dark red hair and smells of blue cheese dressing every day. With my arms still above my head, I slowly turn to see a Foundation Mobile Task Force operator aiming a rifle at me. The operator pauses, then laughs and lowers his rifle. Yeah, I've heard of that guy. He turns his head. All clear. Looks like we got ourselves a war amongst the outfits again. I don't know who he is shouting to, but then a couple of heads peek around the corner, each taking in the scene. Damn, I haven't seen a mess in this kitchen like this since the Russos tried to take out the Messinas. Reminds me more of the turf war between the Romanos and the Lombardos. Nah, this is like when the Falzones made that play against the Musos. The operators all nod and laugh. Yeah, it's totally like that. Um, can I put my arms down now? The two other operators disappear back to the front of the cafe while the first one nods and gives me a smirk. Yeah, come on out of here, let's talk. He leaves and I quickly pick the large baggie up, shaking off the gunk, then follow the operator out to the front There are no customers in the cafe which is really more of a roadside diner than an actual cafe Greasy spoon might be an apt description Two more operators are sitting at one of the red booths, their eyes focused on a pair of tablets. One of the operators, an older man, looks up when I come out of the kitchen. He stands up and offers me his gloved hand. He doesn't seem to care that my hands are covered in goop. I'm Commander Rogers. We shake. His grip nearly crushes the bones in my right hand. I pull away and try not to show my discomfort. But from the grin on his face, I'd say the commander knows his own strength. He nods at the other operators. You know Green. That's Howard and Cardinal standing there. And Long is in the booth working hard, as always. Someone asked you. Avery Rittenhour. I'm a new research tech at the site. The commander's eyebrows rise. That's so. Which site is that exactly? Uh, Site 73, sir. 73? You folks usually only handle safe class objects. What are you doing dealing with a Euclid? I, uh, didn't know we only handle safe class. I was told we handle all anomalies and instances in the state of Texas. Commander Rogers looks around at his men, his eyes narrowed. Well, son, I'm not sure who told you that, but you were given the wrong information. Site 73 does not handle all anomalies and instances in the great state of Texas. No, sir. Each anomaly is assigned to a site based on its particular skill sets. We're Mobile Task Force Theta 10, and we're out of site 666, assigned to this SCP-5642, amongst other anomalies. The operator, still seated in his booth, pumps a fist without looking away from his tablet. Site 666, Vegas, baby! The operators all raise their hands and high-five each other from a distance. Or I assume that's what they're doing. You never know with these MTF guys. They're all a little crazy. Especially the teams out of Site 666. The commander studies me, looking me up and down, then nods and gestures for me to have a seat in the spot he just vacated to shake my hand. I take the offered seat and grab a handful of napkins out of the dispenser so I can wipe my hands and myself off a little. The operators all watch me closely, waiting patiently as I clean off. Then as I set the pile of soiled napkins aside by the dispenser, Commander Rogers sits down next to the other operator in the booth, long, and they both stare at me. I find it interesting, Avery Rittenour, that you are here at the Monument Cafe without even a peep headed our way that you'd be here when we arrive. The commander makes an exaggerated point of looking around the cafe. I also find it interesting that out of all the nights you could show up, you chose this night in particular, the one night when we shut the cafe down and are about to conduct a top-to-bottom search for some troublesome instances. He nods at me. What you got in the bag, Avery Rittenhour? I hold up the large baggie for everyone to see. Instances I need to take back to Site 73 for further examination. Commander Rogers shakes his head. You see, there's a problem right there. No instances are ever removed from this anomaly. Ever. Not without my express permission. This means that a site director cannot authorize such removal unless I sign off on it. He leans forward, clasping his hands as he rests his forearms on the table. Do you have any idea what would happen to the fast food industrial complex if a sapient, talking French fry were to get loose? It wouldn't be good. Correct, Operator Long. It wouldn't be good at all. It would be downright catastrophic. traffic, he holds out a hand. May I? I reluctantly hand him the large baggie. He studies it for several seconds, turning it over and over in his hands. Then he sets it down on the table, but close to him. He does not hand it back to me. This is what I'm talking about. You can't leave here with this baggie, Avery Rittenhour. It's against so many Mobile Task Force operating procedures that we'd be here until next week if I listed them all. It's a long list. Commander Rogers leans back in the booth and crosses his muscular arms over his muscular chest. He clicks his tongue a few times. His team moves in close to the booth, boxing me in. So, how about you tell me what you are really doing here? Operator Long clears his throat and turns his tablet toward the commander. The commander nods. then grins at me. And while you're at it, how about you tell us who you actually are? Operator Long spins the tablet around to show me a picture of a research technician named Avery Rittenhour. He looks nothing like me. Whoa, hold on. Who's that guy? Why is there a different picture in there? There's some mistake. Is there? Because I think the only mistake is that you didn't get out of here before we arrived. You screwed up, kid. Time to own it. A gloved hand slams down on my shoulder, and I look up from the booth to see a not-grinning Operator Green standing over me. Get up slowly. Hands at your sides, nice and easy. The second his hand grips me, a switch is thrown in my head. I look away from Operator Green and directly at Commander Rogers. The person I have been pretending to be, the Avery Rittenhour overlay, disappears from my head. Now, I'm just me, which is too bad for these operators. I don't get up. What I do do is I slowly smile at the commander. Yep, you got me, Rogers. I'm not who I say I am. Operator Green's grip tightens. I reach up, grab his hand, and twist it to the side, turning it at an angle that human wrists are not meant to go. He cries out and falls to his knees. At the same time, I kick out underneath the table, demolishing Operator Long's left kneecap. He screams as I reach over and grab his tablet from his hands. Then I swing it straight at the commander's face, colliding so hard with the man's mouth that teeth go flying across the cafe. I'm up on my feet fast, climbing onto the table, kicking out at Operator Green with my right foot. Green's head rocks to the side, and the snap of his neck echoes through the empty cafe. Grabbing the napkin dispenser, I smash it against Operator Long's head, knocking him cold. I keep the momentum going, and the dispenser then collides with Commander Long temple as he tries to recover from the mouth smashing I gave him With Long Rogers and Green out of commission I leap off the table executing a perfect flying roundhouse kick at Operator Cardinal's head. He tries to duck, but I catch him across the crown, which sends him off balance and falling to the floor in a daze. I land on my toes and sprint straight at Operator Howard, who is raising his rifle and taking aim straight for me. Falling to my knees, I slide under the gunfire, coming to a stop right at Howard's legs. Two hard jabs to the crotch send the man falling almost on top of me. But I spin myself around and onto my knees, avoiding the gasping, crying man. I'm up on my feet and retrieving Howard's rifle before he can recover. Pop, pop. Howard's head turns to mist as I put two rounds through the back of his skull. Pop, pop. Cardinal's head is gone. Pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop. Click. Not a single member of MTF Theta-10 is left with an intact head. Makes it easier to know they're really down. No need to check pulses when they've essentially been decapitated. I throw the empty rifle to the floor and walk back to the booth. I collect the large baggie, wiping off some of the blood from the plastic, then stroll casually back into the kitchen. A French fry waits for me by the griddle. I hold up the baggie. Johnny Tubes and his lot are done for, and that pesky MTF team won't be bothering you anymore either. The fry stands straight, looks at me, looks at the baggie, then nods at the trash can by the end of the make table. Toss them in with the trash. He spits. They don't even deserve that. So their souls should feel damn lucky. I shrug and throw the baggie into the trash. Then I turn and bend down, getting eye to fry with the instance that calls himself Don Pitata. I expect the rest of my payment to be transferred immediately. No delays like last time. The Don holds up his little fry hands in protest. Why are you busting my balls? Have I ever not paid you? You took out that produce delivery guy for us and you were paid. You took out that bread truck driver and we paid. Now, after all you have done for us, you insult me by thinking I won't pay you? The nerve on you. I jab him with my finger and he stumbles back, but recovers quickly, his eyes turning into angry slits. Touch me again and let's see what happens. The nerve on me? I had a personality implant installed inside my skull so I could get inside this place without any issues. There's a dead research tech in my trunk out in the parking lot and for an hour or so I actually believed I was him. That's the nerve I've got, patata. So when it comes to breaking balls, you can get your damn hammer off of mine, understood? Oh, I understand. Don't you worry none. I understand perfectly. He chuckles. The thing is, I don't think you quite understand. You see us as sides and not the main entrees. Well, that's your mistake, not mine. He stops chuckling and his fry face gets serious, deadly serious. And in my outfit, there's no room on the plate for mistakes. You hear me? It's my turn to chuckle. Is that so? What do you actually think you can do about it? I can crush every last one of you without breaking a sweat. You're what, five inches tall, if that? More like four. I'm a goddamn human being. Sure, you know how to throw an aerosol can into a fryer to make it blow up. Neat trick. I weigh a hundred times what all of you put together weigh. You don't stand to... My world turns opaque, and I'm struggling to breathe as a plastic to-go bag is suddenly dropped down over my head. I instantly claw at the bag, but my hands are attacked by a hundred knives at once. Then a second and a third bag are dropped over the first one. I feel dozens and dozens of small feet running around and around my neck. The plastic bags tighten across my throat and face. Again, I reach up to tear through the plastic, but both of my hands are covered in writhing, fighting french fries, making it impossible for me to get my nails against the plastic material. Then I scream like I've never screamed before. The damn fries are pulling my fingernails out! I fall to my knees, slapping at the bags, as blood spurts and coats the outside of the translucent plastic. My world becomes nothing but strangled gasps and spurts of blood. Desperate, I try to shake the prize free, but they aren't coming off. It's like they've glued themselves to my skin, which is possible considering the amount of starch in these little bastards. Far off, like he's miles away, I hear Don Pitata say, You may think my outfit runs on hard-earned cash and hard-fought territory, but it don't. It runs on respect. And you, Mr. Personality Switcher, have shown me very little respect. You and the world and that damn foundation too. No respect shown. Now, yous are all gonna pay the price. I try to reply, to plead my case that I'm still very useful. How many humans does he have on his payroll? It can't be more than a handful, maybe three at the most. He needs me. He needs... He... Needs... Me. As the world goes dark, the last thing I think is that a squirt gun filled with malt vinegar would have been a good idea. But I didn't expect the threat to come from the fries. Don Patata was right. I didn't respect him or his outfit. Now I'm paying the price. And as the last of my oxygen leaves me, I have to wonder how it all came to this. I don't know what upsets me more, that I've been taken down by a bunch of sapient French fries or that I'm dying in Texas. They both equally suck. Item number 5642, Object Class Euclid. SCP-5642 refers to a series of phenomena surrounding French fries within the property of Monument Cafe, a diner in the city of Georgetown, Texas. While they are within the diner, French fries do not decompose or spoil, but can be consumed normally and destroyed with force. This phenomenon does not occur when French fries are inside the diner's dumpster. The secondary phenomenon surrounding the French fries occurs from 10pm to 3am. During this time, all French fries within the diner spontaneously manifest appendages that allow for bipedal movement and the grasping of objects. Further inspection has shown these appendages are made of potato starch and water. The way the structural integrity of said appendages is kept stable is unknown. During this window of time, French fries, hereby referred to as SCP-5642-A instances, display a limited degree of sapience and adopt characteristics and beliefs commonly associated with the Italian-American mafia.