Place Your Bets | SCP-7452

The The The The The Hold up in a dank hotel room. Morris leans his back against the cracked and crooked headboard of a bed that hasn't seen clean sheets and who knows how long. The sheets have been changed daily, but maybe not with clean ones. Morris suspects they're just moving soiled linen from one room to the next instead of washing it. His eyes rimmed with red from lack of sleep. Morris glances across the room at the box sitting next to the TV. Not a flat screen, but a barely functional tube TV nearly the size of a mini-cooper. We got to rest up before we go again. A low rumbling grumble of a voice that goes out of the box. But Morris can't quite make out what it's saying. He thinks about getting up and opening the box, pulling out what's inside. And one look at the bandages on the inside of his arms, dissuades him. He already said what his course of action is. He needs rest. Probably some food. Morris' stomach grows. Yeah. Definitely needs some food. He reaches over and grabs the handset from the bedside table. There's no dial tone. Morris checks the cords. Everything is plugged in correctly. But the phone is dead. Crap. He'd use his cell phone, but he ditched that over a week ago, so the foundation can't track him. Slowly, making sure he doesn't pass out from blood loss, Morris swings his legs over the side of the bed and carefully stands up. When a wave of dizziness doesn't send him falling to the stained and soiled green shack carpet, Morris takes a few tentative steps toward the hotel room store. He glances over his shoulder at the box. I'll be right back. Gotta go get some food. His voice is weak and raspy from too much shouting. Shouting at the dogs at the dog track, right up until they stopped taking his action and threw him out. Shouting at the roulette wheel at the casino, then at the big burly bastards who barred him after the money piled too high. After he'd already given as much blood as he could afford, shouting at the dice during that crap's game in the alley, pressing his luck on a roll he had to guess at. Shouting at the big burly man who threw him out of that alley. As he stares at the box, Morris knows he's lucky to be alive. The money he piled up in six days wasn't luck. Losing it all on a crap's roll he had to guess at was. He knew he could amass a fortune. It was all about the box. You hear me in there? I'll be right back. Don't do anything. Weird. Morris leaves the hotel room, not knowing if the thing in the box can even understand him. Sometimes, he thinks it can. Sometimes he's certain it can't. He closes the door behind him and makes sure it's locked. Then he kneels down, looks left, looks right, making sure the coast is clear, and plucks a hair from his head. Morris pulls out a small roll of tape from his pocket. He tapes the hair to the door and the frame, setting himself a little alarm system. If anyone opens the door, you'll see the hair has been disturbed and knows someone's been in his room. It's an old trick he learned as a kid from countless spy and thriller movies. Then put into use during his time with the foundation. Satisfied with his little tool of intrigue, Morris makes his way slowly down the outside walkway to the stairs. The air is cool and crisp, a nice autumn morning. Morris wraps his arms around himself, cursing that he didn't think to bring his jacket. The view of the parking lot below makes Morris shake his head. Old, busted cars, prostitutes stumbling out of rooms, hurrying to go pay their pimps and catch some sleep before the sun comes up. Ready to start the commerce all over again when the sun sets again. Junkies huddled next to the vending machines, hoping someone will leave their change in the slot, which will never happen, because no one wants to use the vending machines while the junkies are there. And as exactly why Morris changes his plans, as soon as he's down the stairs and standing at the edge of the parking lot, he was going to grab as many snacks as he could, but the side of the junkies changes his mind. Morris looks a few spots down at the Beter Nisan he borrowed a couple of nights back. He'd changed the license plates, so he wasn't worried about it being spotted. It looked like a thousand other Beter Nisons on the road. Morris thus thought of getting in the car and driving anywhere right now that almost makes Morris' knees go weak. He'd probably fall asleep at the wheel before he got more than a couple of blocks. Instead, Morris turns left and shuffles to the hotel's front office. The bell dings over his head as he opens the door and steps inside. The stink of smoked meth and 10-day old body odor assaults Morris like a punch to the nose. Although a punch to the nose would be better, because then he couldn't smell the funk that clings to the office like a rotten fetus. Hello? Morris sees no one behind the front desk. He slowly moves to the desk and leans on it, grateful for the assist against gravity. There's a bell on the stained and burned counter with a sticky note on it that says, «Broken, we'll help you when we feel like it». For Morris can call out again. He hears the passionate cries of a woman faking an orgasm. Many hears a man shout something, followed by a lot of movement. The door to the back office opens and the noise grows louder. Morris catches the glimpse of a naked woman sipping from a Starbucks cup as someone wipes her down with the towel. An obviously aroused man stands close by, naked as the woman. He's on his cell phone and talking wildly. His free hand waving about, as his member bobs up and down. The man who comes out of the back office nearly jumps when he sees Morris. Then he quickly shuts the door in turns, glaring hard. «Got to be careful sneaking up on folks, mister». The man is maybe in his late 30s, although it's nearly impossible to tell, considering he's obviously strung out on meth. He could be early 20s for all Morris knows. If it takes its toll, sorry. Morris points at the sticky note. The bell is broken. «For a damn good reason, that thing gives me a headache». The man, obviously the desk clerk, looks Morris up and down. «You ain't looking so odd, mister. You need something to get you, right? I can help you get fixed. What do you need? Crystal, smack, pills. I got a great connect who swears as stuff hasn't even looked at fentanyl. Let alone got any in it. Morris assumes that means whatever the desk clerk can get him, it's all fentanyl. If he takes the guy up on his offer, Morris will be dead before lunchtime. Morris' stomach grouse. «Where's a good place to eat around here? Good place? There ain't one. I mean, there's places to eat, sure. None of them is good. The clerk snorts a glob of mucus back up his nose. Ben scratches his ass. «What's you in the mood for? I can point you to what's open. Red meat. Burgers are steak. » Morris resists the urge to scratch at the bandages on his arms. «I'd take liver if they had it. I just need some iron in me. You shacking up with the vampire? The desk clerk laughs. When Morris doesn't laugh with him, the guy coughs a little and rubs at his nose. «You ain't got a vampire in that room with you, do you? Tumpy, stupid. Vampires don't exist. » Morris says this, but isn't completely sure that his statement is true. He's seen some wild shit while working for the foundation. No vampires, but things equally as terrifying. He thinks about the box in his room and what's in it. It requires blood, fresh blood, to work. So isn't it in a way of vampire? «Hey there, nodding off in the office. The desk clerk snaps his fingers, bringing Morris out of his thoughts. Sorry, I'm just tired and really hungry. Yeah, sure, I get you, mister. In there. Someone shouts from the back room. «Yeah, I'm coming! The guy hooks a thumb over his shoulder. Gotta get back to it. He leans across the desk and points to the right. Go out to the road and hang a left. There's a 24 hour diner about two blocks down. You packing? Am I what? Packin. You got a piece on ya? A piece? Like a gun? The diner's only two blocks, but it's a rough two blocks. Having a weapon is a good idea. To get two blocks? To get one block, mister. Morris pats the waistband of his jeans just above his ass and nods. Yeah, I'm packing. The guy eyes Morris, Browning. Yeah, what you got? Browning 22. It's 22? Man. The 22 won't do shit against the squirrels around here. You need something with power. The guy looks around as if they're being watched, then waves Morris over. I got something for ya. Only six bills. I don't have six bills. Not anymore. Morris thinks immediately. Those guys at the Crap's game worked him over and took everything he had, which was a serious role. Morris knows he's got to get that role back up so he can really do some damage and get a serious payoff for a change. How much you got? I'm sure I can find something in your range. My 22 is fine. Morris pantomimes holding a gun and putting it to the back of someone's head. Powerful enough to pierce the skull, but we can't know if the bullet doesn't go out the other side. It just rickets shades around the inside of the skull, turning the brain into Swiss cheese. Power. He pulls back his imaginary gun and blows on the end of the imaginary barrel. Jesus, you some sort of a hitman, mister. Morris smiles. If I tell you the truth, I'll have to kill you. The desk clerk gulps audibly. Someone shouts from the back again. Um, yeah, whatever. Good luck getting to the diner. Thanks. Morris leaves the office and follows the guy's directions. He's out on the sidewalk heading right and barely half a block from the hotel's parking lot when a woman steps up to him, flashing a straight razor. Andy them pockets, bitch. Morris stares at the straight razor. His gaze follows up the blade to the hand holding it. Sores and bruises coat the woman's skin. He looks a little further and sees the purple bruises of brown out veins and the crooks of her arms. Morris can sympathize, although he doesn't even get the bonus pleasure of drugs. Now, his wounds are from draining out, not injecting in. I got like 30 bucks, lady. Morris nods at the diner sign that flashes a block and a half away. Morris is pretty sure that the sign isn't supposed to flash, but it is. I need to eat. Put that blade away and I'll buy you a cup of coffee. Stir you bitch. Give me that 30 bucks. I'll buy my own damn coffee. Morris sighs and keeps walking. The woman tries to block his path. The second she's close enough, Morris's hand whips out and grabs the woman's wrist. He twists and a loud snap echoes in the early morning air. The woman cries out, dropping the straight razor. Morris kicks it into the gutter. You should have taken the freak up of coffee. Morris shoves past the crying, whimpering woman. She'll live. When Morris reaches the diner, he counts the people inside to the front windows before he opens the front door. There's a man slumped over the counter. A woman sitting in the far corner, talking to herself while she shreds anapkin. Two men dressed in construction gear sit in a booth close to the front door. And a waitress who is taking her sweet time as she moves from customer to customer. Morris walks in and is thankful for the warmth. Yet, and realized how cold he'd gotten just walking to blocks. He shivers as a last chill runs through him. Anywhere you like, hon. The waitress grabs a fresh pot of coffee and crosses the diner to the two construction workers. We're out of country ham, but we still got Canadian bacon and plenty of regular bacon. I think God himself would come down and smite us if we ran out of regular bacon. The waitress laughs, and it's full of flamm into lifetimes' worth of mistakes. You got steak? The waitress finishes filling the construction workers' mugs and turns to a praise, Morris. You a neem it. My mom and sister are a neem it. And you got that pale look about you. Then she sees the bandages and frowns. Oh, I see. Not sure if steak's going to help you much. Maybe go three blocks over. There's a park there where some folks can help you get right. Morris suddenly feels self-conscious, which isn't a feeling he's used to. He forces himself not to touch his bandages. It's not like that. These are medical. Morris swallows hard. But yeah, I'm anemic. Could really use some iron. Closest thing we got is country fried steak, which is just ground beef battered and fried. Personally, I'd go for our double cheeseburger. Jimmy back there can cook it nice and rare, so you get all that good iron juice. That worked for you, huh? That'd be great. Make it two. Two? Two. The waitress looks Morris up and down again. Not to be rude, hun, but you got enough on you for two double cheeseburgers? I got cash. Yeah. She purses her lips and the nods. OK. Then take a seat. Coffee? Please. The waitress nods again and follows Morris as he takes the center booth by the front windows. She flips over the coffee mug already on the table and fills it. I'll have them burgers out for you and a gif, hun. Then she casually walks off, sets the coffee pot back on its hot plate, and slips through the swinging door and into the kitchen. Morris can hear her barking out the order while the man barks back. Relaxing into the booth, Morris picks up the steaming mug of coffee and sips. Not the best he's had. That would be from site 56's commentary. But the coffee is black and strong, which is all he needs. The seat is sticky with something, same with the table. But Morris is too tired to care. His eyes fall on the two construction workers. They were chatting and sipping their coffee when he passed by on the way to his table. Morris had noticed a couple of plates in front of them with what looked like half eaten eggs and pancakes. Something about the plates worries him. But he can't say what the issue is. There's a feeling just out of reach. And being as exhausted as he is, that feeling will just have to stay out of reach. You a gambling man? Morris jumps and spills some of his coffee on his lap. Ah, sorry, sugar. Let me help you with that. The woman from the corner booth is standing over Morris. Her hand full of wadded napkins, which she applies to Morris' wet jeans before he can even squeak out a word. You got a blot, not white. Blot, not white. The woman says this more to herself as she attends to Morris' crotch. He grabs her hand and gently pushes her arm away. Thanks. I can take it from here. Morris snags a handful of paper napkins from the holder by the window. And does as the woman said to do, he blots at the coffee. She ran, sorry about that. The woman doesn't wait for an invitation and sits down across from Morris on the other side of the booth. She sets the wad of wet napkins off to the side and then folds her hands and smiles at Morris. You never answered my question. Morris stops blotting in stairs at the woman. She's middle-aged and has had a rough life from what Morris can tell. Cold sores dot the edges of her lips, and her hair is flat and stringy. But she has brilliantly blue eyes and is focusing them directly on Morris as if he's the only thing in the diner. What was the question? Morris asks, even though he knows exactly what the question was. Are you a gambling man? The woman tackles. Because you should take a chance on me and buy me breakfast. She tackles again. Morris relaxes. She's not here for him. Just crazy and looking to scam some food. Her cackles get the attention of the two construction workers. They look over at Morris' booth, the rise narrow, studying the scene. Morris can't help but wonder if they are construction workers. Shouldn't they be at work by now? Don't construction crews have to report super early? He had an uncle in construction who left the house before dawn every morning of his life until he retired. He died a year later. Too much sleeping in after retirement ruined his health. Morris' aunt had said at the funeral. The woman follows Morris' gaze and looks over her shoulder. The construction workers look away, returning their attention to their conversation and their coffee. The woman looks back at Morris. So, you feel unlucky, sugar? And why should I gamble on you? Morris raises his cup when the waitress comes out from the kitchen. She nods and heads for the pot of coffee. I don't know you. I know offense. I'm not sure I want to. I'm not looking for new friends. Who said we had to be friends? You bought me breakfast. Then afterwards, we go out back into the alley and I treat you right. Ah, I see. I should have known. I see you've met Zoe. The waitress fills Morris' cup. She bothering you. Not really. The waitress raises an eyebrow and frowns down at Zoe. We've talked about this, Zoe. Now bothering the customers. What? I ain't bothering no one. She jabs a finger at Morris. He even said so. He said I wasn't bothering him. Have a bat and you get back to your booth, Zoe. Or do I need to call the cops again like the last time? Get her a cup of coffee on me. The least I can do. Sure is the least you can do. Zoe huffs and scoots out at the booth. She grabs the wad of coffee wet napkins. I'll be taking these, thank you, since they're mine. She shoves past the waitress and stops, turns, and leans in close to Morris. The stench of body odor and something else fills his nostrils. Next time, I hope that coffee is so hot it burns your dick off. Zoe, get it. The waitress looks like she's going to kick the woman, but Zoe jumps out of the way and carries back to her corner booth, where she starts tearing a new napkin to shreds almost the second she sits down. Arise locked on to Morris. Idol money lies in your current account picking crumbs out of its belly button wondering, should I eat them? But when you start investing with Monzo, your money's always busy. It turns on regular investments, invests your spare change, and tops up your stocks and shares, I say. It even helps you make sense, a risk and return. Monzo, the bank that gets your money moving. You could get back less than your invest. Monzo current account required UK residents 18 plus decenties apply. Morris watches it all, turns around in size, glad he's facing the opposite direction. She's mostly harmless, don't pay her no mind. I won't, thanks. Burgers will be right out. You need anything else while you're waiting? Just the coffee, thanks. The waitress starts to walk away. Oh hey, um, can I ask you a question? Sure, hun. Morris leans a little and lowers his voice. You know if anywhere around here I may be able to lay a little action on some games. The waitress clicks her tongue a few times, then shakes her head. No, can't help you with something like that. Are you sure? Morris looks about the diner. Now offense, I feel like this place may attract some customers who know where that sort of thing is handled. I also feel like you hear everything and see everything that happens in this diner. You a cop. No ma'am, I swear to God, I am not a cop. I am not an informant. I am not affiliated with any law enforcement organization. Morris doesn't feel like the last part is a lie, since the foundation is not law enforcement and not technically part of any government. Although he knows that if the woman found out exactly what the foundation was and what Morris has done for the organization over the years, she'd run from Morris faster than if he were an undercover cop. Can I give you some advice? Sure. Get help. I don't know if it's just the gambling, but you look strung out, hun. You don't need to be mixing with the kind of folks you're asking after. Morris nods. Yes, yes I know. And I'd rather not mix with him, but you got yourself in a pickle and need just one more lucky break to get free, that is. Morris shrugs. Something like that, yeah. Jesus. The waitress rubs her forehead, glances at the two construction workers, then looks back at Morris. Let me see what I can do, hun. She grins. Of course, I expect my tip to reflect my helping you out. It's not a problem. And if things work out as I hope, I'll come back and share a little, as that sound. It sounds like a song and dance I've heard and seen a thousand times, hun. But sure, if you hit big, you come on back and shower some of that winnings on me. It's a deal. The waitress laughs and shakes her head as she walks off. When she gets behind the counter, she sets the pot on the hot plate. But instead of going in the back, she nudges the shoulder of the past out man at the counter. He comes awake instantly, and the waitress leans down and whispers in his ear. He straightens, looks over his shoulder at Morris, then returns his attention to the waitress. They chat quietly, and the man nods, gets off his stool, and walks out of the diner. Morris watches the man the whole way, then realizes that the construction worker facing his direction is carefully watching him. Morris lifts the coffee cup in salute. The construction worker stares for a second, then goes back to his conversation with his buddy. Outside the diner, Morris sees the man from the counter using a pay phone. The diner must be a hub for illicit activity, if there's still a working pay phone that hasn't been decommissioned yet, like millions across the country already have. The counterman talks briefly, hangs up the phone, then walks inside and heads straight from Morris's booth. He sits down without being asked, and stares at Morris. What are we talking? I'm sorry. You're looking to make a wager on some games, is what I'm hearing. What are we talking? Football? Pro or college? Basketball starts tonight, and hockey is going. The counterman laughs. Unless you're looking to put up some scratch on the soccer playoffs, you a soccer guy? Football. A couple of college games. A couple of college games can do. How much and what games? Morris frowns and rubs his chin. I'd rather talk to the bookie directly. Not how it works, pal. You tell me what you want, and I parlay the bet to my friend, which brings us back to how much and which games. I'm not giving you money upfront. The counterman shrugs. I didn't ask you to. I know where to find you. Saw you pulling yesterday to the hotel down the street. Room to 11. Morris can't hide a surprise, and the man laughs. I may not look like much, pal, but I'm dialed in around here. He stretches and cracks his neck. Last time I'm asking, how much and which games? Morris hesitates, then makes his decision, and pulls a folded piece of paper out of his pocket. He slides it across to the counterman, who snatches it up and reads the paper quickly. Benny grimaces and reads it again. He flips the paper around, showing it to Morris. What the hell is this shit? Those are my bets. Are these college teams? I've never heard of any of them. Does that mean bets can't be placed? It means I doubt my guy even has a spread on these schools. I gotta go check. Counterman taps at the number at the bottom of the paper. And you're sure about this? Because you bet that kind of scratching you lose. Can't cover. It ain't just money. The deck keeps running, and it might cost you a couple of fingers. Maybe some toes. I know how it works. The counterman grins, studying Morris. Yeah, you look like you do, unfortunately. I cure the poster boy for healthy living. True dad, pal. True dad. The counterman gets up and nods at Morris. I'll get these placed, if possible. Then I'll find you at the hotel after the games. Room 2-11. Room 2-11. The counterman walks out of the diner again. Places another phone call looks back over his shoulder, shakes his head, then hangs up. He walks off, and Morris watches him until he's out of sight. Here's your burgers, hon. The waitress sets two platters of burgers and fries in front of Morris. You need anything else? There should do it. Great. Give a holler when you need more coffee. We'll do. Morris opens both burgers and pulls out the patties. They are cooked just above rare and dripping with juices. Morris's stomach growls, and he digs in. After he's finished with the patties, Morris eats some of the buns and fries. Completely stuffed. He pays and leaves the diner quickly, making sure not to make eye contact with the two construction workers. As soon as Morris is outside, he ducks around behind the diner and steps into the shadows of the back alley and waits. Changed your mind, did ya? Morris whirls around and sees Zoe squatting by a dumpster as she peas. Give me a second. And maybe we can work something then. The voice trails off. And Morris turns back around to face the two construction workers, who he knew would follow him. You took something that doesn't belong to you. And the foundation isn't happy. Before they can say anything else, Morris pulls the Browning 22 from his waistband and fires twice. He barely aims. He doesn't have to. Muscle memory and years of experience make sure the two rounds hit their targets. A small red hole appears in each of the men's foreheads. They collapse into a heap at the mouth of the alley. Morris drags them deeper into the shadows, then turns, and gives it terrified and still squatting Zoe a sad smile. Sorry. He puts a round between her brilliantly blue eyes. This listens hard and doesn't hear anyone coming. Then he puts the pistol away and hurries out of the alley. As if nothing had just happened, Morris walks nonchalantly back to the hotel. When he gets to his room, he freezes. The hair and tape are loose from the door frame. Someone has been inside his room, which isn't surprising. Morris makes a point of being loud as he slips the key in the lock with one hand and pulls the browning 22 back out of his waistband with the other. He gives the door a hard shove that moves to the side out of the way of any unfortunate surprise gunfire. Instead of shooting, a voice calls out. Come on in, Morris. I'm not going to shoot you. I'm just here to talk. Morris knows that voice. A shoulder slump. Morris is or was a very good field agent for the foundation. The man inside his hotel room is much, much better. We're into the thick of the season now and so does Carl's reward shaker with even bigger rewards and offers. The half and half scoffers shaking decisively for once. They backed a super boost. Next to them, the procs sandwich brigade. Oh, they've shaken up a free bet after that free lunch. Play Carl's free reward shaker to win bigger, guaranteed daily rewards and offers this season. Carl, we're here for it. 18 plus UK max, one reward offer per player per day. 8 am to 8 pm. Reward restrictions and season season. Climb. Gabel aware. Come in, Jesse. I have my browning out, but I'm putting it away. He doesn't put the browning away. I already said I'm not going to shoot you, Morris. Just get inside and close the door. Morris complies. And after locking and bolting the door behind him, Morris turns to face the man sitting on the edge of his bed. What are you doing here, Jesse? Man eyes the pistol. Still in Morris' hand and smiles. What am I doing here? What are you doing here? This place is a shithole. It does the trick. Which is what? Hide you from the foundation. Jesse spreads his arms. How'd that work out for you? I found you. And I'm not the only one. The two guys in the diner. Jesse gives Morris a finger. Nailed it on the first try. They with you. Jesse shrugs. Me? You know I only work alone. But they will be here any minute. I'm sure they followed you. You were never very good at shaking a tail. Jesse's attention goes to the box by the TV. And you know what they want. The question is whether or not you're going to give it to them. I'm not. And I'm not going to give it to you either. I don't want it. Jesse shrugs again. Not directly. It responds to you. Which is something it hasn't done in all the years. It's been locked up at Site 56. I find that very interesting. He smirks. Take some time off and go on vacation. And while on vacation, maybe bump into my old friend and colleague, Morris. And see what he's gotten up to. Morris moves to a rickety chair set in front of the room's draped window and sits down. The browning's still out and now aimed at Jesse. The other man acts like he doesn't care. The foundation doesn't know that you're here. Jesse keeps murking. What do you want, Jesse? Listen, man. I've read the file on this anomaly. Jesse points at the box. It's quite the object. A black bear skull that has flames in its empty eye sockets and talks in a deep voice that sounds like James Earl Jones. That's kind of cool on its own. And throw in that it also tells the future. Well, now that's downright intriguing and worth a little time off. It doesn't tell the future. Oh, I think it does. As I said, I read the file. I also read the writing on the wall and can see that the brass are downsizing. Specifically in our department. Not as much of a need for wet works these days. Not when troublesome individuals can be handled through blackmail and extortion due to all that personal information they think they aren't sharing online. People really need to learn proper and safe password protocol, don't they? It is true what Jesse is saying. Morris knows it. The foundation brass are phasing out targeted assassinations and hits in favor of personal and financial pressure instead. The rationale is that the target is much more useful alive and controlled than dead and buried. Even if they hold information that could significantly harm the foundation. Morris doesn't agree with the shift since people are people and eventually they will crack and turn on the foundation. But there's nothing he can do about it. Except to steal an item that can sort of tell the future, including gambling outcomes and has the potential to make Morris very rich and no longer dependent on the foundation. It hasn't exactly turned out that way. The bruises on Morris' body and ego attest to that. And it hasn't come without a cost. The bandages on the insides of his arms are proof that nothing is free in life. The black bears skull demands its tribute and that tribute comes at the price of Morris' blood. It took a bit to track you. That bookie in Cleveland, the casino in Virginia. Those fools out back in that bar. You left a mess along the way, Morris. You're getting sloppy. I'll ask one last time. What do you want, Jesse? I want a piece of the action. And I assume you've already laid down some action today. Jesse stands up. He holds his hands out, away from his body, showing he's no threat and not going to pull a piece. I can help, Morris. When those two agents come knocking on your door, I'll go out and talk with them, explain how this is all a misunderstanding. And we're just running enough above their pay grade. With my reputation, they'll buy it. At least long enough for you to cash out whatever winnings you're getting from the bookie you've contacted. Don't deny it. I know you. I'm not denying it. But those guys won't be coming, Jesse. And you've made a huge mistake. Jesse laughs. When Morris doesn't join him, the laugh dies away. Ah, come on, Morris. Don't be like. The gunshot from a 22 isn't quiet. But it isn't loud either. No one in a hotel like the one Morris is in cares a single bit about a loud bang coming from one of the rooms. Gunshots and screams are just part of the environment. Morris gets up after Jesse's body collapses dead on the nasty carpet. The man's blood adding to the many bodily fluids already staining it. He drags Jesse into the bathroom, struggles to get him into the tub, pulls the meal-dude, shower curtain closed, then goes back out into the main room. He figures he's got about 12 hours before the games he bed on are over, and the counterman comes looking for him. That's a lot of time for things to go wrong. Exhausted and not looking forward to what comes next, Morris strips off one of the bandages, finds the drawer in the bedside table, withdraws the kit from there, and gets to work. In seconds, he has a syringe full of his blood in his hands. Morris, already tired from the bloodletting despite his large breakfast, staggers to the box and opens it. The black bear skull glows with fire from its eye sockets. Morris empties the syringe into the things skeletal mouth. What is your question? Are more agents coming for me right away? Or do I have time to stay here and wait for my money? You have time. Agents will not find you for another 75 days. While Morris isn't thrilled about the last part of the skull's prediction, he is glad he can stay put and get some rest. Good. Thanks. Morris closes the box, replaces the bandage on his arm with a fresh one, and settles onto the bedbug infested mattress. He'll leave the hotel as soon as the counterman shows up and pays him. Until then, he can really, really use a nap. SCP-7452 is the skull of a black bear, Ursaus Americannus, bed radiates in intense and unstable form of Elon vital energy, known as Eve. The object was recovered from Eric Klaminsky, now designated Person of Interest 7452. According to Klaminsky, when SCP-7452 is active, flames ignite within its empty eye sockets, and the skull speaks in a deep, masculine voice. It is believed to possess the ability to predict future events, most commonly games of chance, but only after being offered a sacrifice of blood by the user. It's coming into Foundation custody, SCP-7452 has remained dormant. Attempts to reactivate the anomaly have failed, and no reliable method of awakening it is known. Klaminsky himself claimed no understanding of how the skull is activated, only that, at some point, it was.