The Stomach Plunger | SCP-1829

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But here at the ass end of Addison, Wisconsin, Wild Springs was what Ricky would have called a dump at best, and a rundown hunk of crap at worst. Marketed as a budget-friendly and family-friendly alternative to other more popular water parks, everything in Wild Springs had been built as cheaply and as quickly as possible. Four of the five slides they had were pretty beat up by years of weathering and use. Hell, one of them was held together mainly by duct tape, superglue, and whatever rubber bands Tony found in his glove compartment. The kiddie pool was almost always being cleaned. God forbid some white-trash parents couldn't be bothered to keep their kids from turning the pool into a public septic tank. The food was overpriced and lousy, 75 cents for a goddamn coke at the start of the summer. Worst of all, all the bosomy beach babes Ricky had dreamed about were mainly fat women in ill-fitting bathing suits, who 30 or 40 years ago might have been considered cute. Still, money was money, and if you wanted to be driving a Mustang Daytona to school in the fall instead of that hand-me-down station wagon from his uncle, Ricky needed this job. Wasn't all bad, though. Randy was here, and he made the day a bit more bearable, even if he could be a moron sometimes. What you got for your schedule today? Randy asked, handing Ricky a cold can of Milwaukee's best. Tony's got me working lifeguard duty today, so I ain't able to snag any freebies from the snack shack today for you. The cool beer on Ricky's lips tasted better than any coffee could. I'm running the stomach pumper today. Frickin' crazy how he told us last month we're too broke to give us a raise, but he blows it on a brand new water slide. Nah, Ricky should've said. I've heard from Ali and Theo that he got it dirt cheap, somewhere from Mexico or Russia, I bet. Things probably build out of old tires, spray paint, and plywood. Lisa said the slide isn't even made of the hard plastic stuff, more like some kind of cheap-looking rubber that smells like roadkill. Well, it's been running since Thursday, and it hasn't heard or killed anyone yet. Ricky shrugged, looking at the enormous, towering structure that loomed over the closed park in the morning sun. A gigantic serpentine slide, neon orange and yellow tubing, twisting and bending in two sharp turns, emptied into a small pool of shallow, chlorinated water at the bottom. You ask me, that's a pretty damn good record for this place. Randy let out a snort, rolling his eyes as he crushed his empty beer can and chucked it into the bushes out of sight. It's cheap enough that people won't complain anyway. Hell, ain't nothing else around here they can go, for a buck fifty a person. We could just have everyone stand ass naked in an empty pool, hit him with the garden hose, and they'd still come here. Yeah, and Tony will still pocket our damn checks. Ricky took another swig of his beer, savored the taste, and in accordance with park rules regarding drunkenness on the job, reluctantly dumped the rest of the beer and hid the empty can in the bushes. We'll be opening soon. I better get the slide ready before the crowds come in. Oh, and tell Brenda I'll see her later behind the garage. July 11th, 2010. Dr. Harris had to admit there was something absurdly comedic about the situation he was in. Here he was on a scorching summer day in the middle of an abandoned amusement park, carrying a fresh pig corpse up the steps of a waterslide that hadn't been used in nearly three decades. If he were a comedian, Harris thought to himself he'd appreciate it more. But the heat made it hard to appreciate anything less than how heavy the swine's corpse was and how many steps the staircase had, step by step, and in between cursing the way the pig was slippery in his hands, Harris finally reached the top of the slide. Waiting for him, standing beside the feed chute to the slide itself, was Dr. Jordan, busying himself by watching jets of water fill the loading pool and disappear down into the dark, musty interior. Ah, there you are. Jordan watched as Harris tossed the pig corpse onto the creaking wooden deck. I was wondering when you'd get up here. Yeah, thanks for the help. Harris wiped sweat off his brow and spat off the side. I don't remember telling you I'd carry this 55-pound piece of pork up here myself. I bought you lunch the other day, remember? And you said you needed to get some more exercise in anyway. Harris would have made a snarky comment, but decided to save it for later. Instead, he rolled his eyes and checked his watch. It was almost 12 in the afternoon, roughly 15 minutes until feeding time. He almost wished they could just throw the pig in and call it a day. But the last time they did that, the thing got finicky, like a spoiled animal expecting its food exactly on the dot. That little tantrum, or the closest thing to what tantrum the thing could do, resulted in roughly $6,000 worth of retiling and water delivery and a guard having to get treated for caustic burns. Do you know what I've been hearing? Jordan asked, handing Harris a water bottle from his bag. Harris drank the semi-cooled water greedily. What? The guards. What are their names? Michael and Donovan, yeah? They said that they've heard SCP-1829 making noises. Noises? This thing doesn't even have a mouth, let alone any vocal cords or a tongue. What exactly could it be doing? Jordan shrugged. I don't know. They told me that sometimes, around late in the evening, they swear they hear loud hissing or rasping at night. He looked out above the rest of the decrepit park, as if to scan for any other predators. The main pool stretched below them, empty and choked with weeds that lined the graffiti-stained walls. Decade beach chairs were scattered around the lot, some torn apart by wild animals, others rusting into the brown, unkempt grass. A faded advertisement for wild springs had fallen from its post and lay in the filthy, rainwater-filled reservoir that had once been the kitty section. You know SCP-1829 can get a little impatient when it comes to food. Even if it does make noise, it's not like it can go anywhere. It doesn't have any limbs. Air has finished off the water bottle, crumpled it flat, and shoved it into his coat pocket. Out of all the anomalies we contain, SCP-1829 is one of the very few that doesn't pose an active danger to the public. Well, at least not now it can't. If it wants to make noise and cry for more food, then it's just being spoiled. Jordan looked back at the water slide and walked over to the chute. Sticking his hand into the gushing jets of water, he was surprised by how cool it was. It felt like ordinary, everyday pool water, which he had no reason to suspect it wasn't. Considering the nature of what they were doing here, even the simplest signs of mundanity made the situation all the more surreal. How much longer until feeding time? About, oh, ten minutes. July 11th, 1979. Has anyone seen Ian? The middle-aged woman and an oversized son-at yelled, darting back and forth through the crowd of park-goers. She looked frantic through her sunglasses. Her sunscreen-smeared face contorted in panic. He's about nine years old. He's wearing Star Wars swim trunks. On the top of his perch on the stomach pumper, Ricky looked down at the commotion below. God, the way she was screaming, you'd think someone had just been killed. Sure, he could understand why she was upset. But after a month working here at the park, reports of missing kids always turned out to be that they just walked off to get a hot dog or snuck onto one of the slides when their parents weren't looking. Besides, it wasn't too busy a day for the kid to have just gotten lost in the crowd. You'd am hot even for a water park, Ricky thought, almost laughing to himself at the irony of it. Deciding that now was as good a time as ever to take an early lunch, Ricky locked the entrance gate to the top of the stairs and descended the winding staircase. As he passed underneath the winding curves of the slide, he could just make out the shadow of rushing water, gushing and licking against the smooth, rubbery walls. Even though the park wasn't as busy as it had been the previous day, there was still plenty of activity. Barefooted kids ran across the scalding hot sidewalk. Men in garish floral patterned swim trunks and women in department store one pieces climbed in and out of the worn, tiled main pool. And in the air was the scent of chlorine, hot grease and suntan lotion, carried by the hot winds like the natural scent of an artificial boardwalk. Ricky was sitting on the lifeguard chair, lazily spinning his whistle around by its rope as he watched a few kids play fight in the water. He'd blow his whistle once or twice to put a scare into them, but for the most part, he seemed content to let them do what they wished. In fact, he seemed more interested in his lunch than anything else. Ricky, what are you doing here? Randy looked down from his chair. Shouldn't you be manning the slide? Nah, took an early lunch. Besides, it ain't like we're packed today. Too hot for that. Ricky leaned himself against the side of the chair. What the hell's going on down here anyway? Someone lose their kid or something? Randy swallowed his turkey club. No, well, yeah, kind of. He spoke with an air of casualness that betrayed the concerning subject matter. I've had a couple of moms running around screaming like friggin' harpies for their kids. I've been up here since 930, and I ain't seen anyone taking kids out of here to a windowless van. They're probably just running around with their friends. You'd think they'd be happy to have some peace and quiet from them for once. Hey, you tell them that. Ricky looked at the other half of his turkey club, decided that he was too full to finish it, and passed it off to Ricky. I'm surprised the stomach plunger ain't more popular. The last few days, kids were almost pushing each other off the steps to ride it again from what I heard. Yeah, it is kind of weird. Ricky said in between bites of his sandwich. I must have sent, what, four or five kids down and none of them ever came back to ride it again. Not that I blame them, though, since the slide smells like the inside of someone's asshole anyway. I'd tell Tony about it, but he'd prob. There came a very low rumbling sound. It wasn't a particularly loud sound, but audible enough that it made Ricky pause his conversation to listen. Clean support beams and rubbery materials shifting back and forth. The rumbling seemed to last for only a minute or so before the screaming took its place. Unlike the low and quiet sound before it, the screaming was loud enough that everyone turned to pay attention. From the direction of the stomach plunger, a heavy-set man in bright red swim trunks dashed away from something unknown, yelling something incoherent at the top of his lungs. A mother carrying a sunscreen slathered baby ran past him with a look of shock on her reddened face. This was then followed by a surging mass of people and the sounds of shrieking, yelling, and the unmistakable sound of rapid surging water. Idle 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 ICER. It even helps you make sense of risk and return. Monzo, the bank that gets your money moving. You could get back less than you invest. Monzo current account required UK residents 18 plus T's and C's apply. July 11th, 2010. There was a heavy thud as the pig fell into the loading chute. Its warm, stiff body splashed by six roaring jets of water. The entrance to the slide remained open as always, eternally patient and expecting, like an obedient pet. Harris ran over a checklist he had taken from his pocket, stopping only to remove from his coat, a small bottle of capsules, and then carefully dispensing each little blue pill into the hog's limp mouth. There we go. It should be all ready. He gave Jordan the thumbs up. Drop it in. A light but forceful shove was all it took to get the pig moving. In an instant, the enormous, fat carcass disappeared into the darkness, carried by the intensely flowing water. Both researchers heard a sickening wet sound from somewhere deep in the twisting tunnel, like a massive weight slamming off a moist, rubbery surface, followed by a dull, splattering sound. Through one of the light orange tubes, illuminated partly as a ray of sunshine passed through it. They watched the now upside-down corpse sail around one of the two turns, trailed by long, slailing entrails, before disappearing once again. God! Said Jordan, watching the water that poured into the loading chute bubble and froth furiously. This thing must have been starving. What was that again? Fifty-five pound land raise? Fifty-five pounds of pork and a cocktail of PPI's, lept in stimulators and morphine. Harris shrugged. You know, to help keep it satiated and to deal with the whole gastric buildup issue. You know, why do we only feed it once a week anyway? The thing digests almost everything we give it in a few hours. Harris shook his head, taking another look at the second turn of the slide, right before where the slide twisted just out of view for a brief moment. Nah, they tried that in the 80s with Dr. Brenner. You know, Brenner from Site 56. They found that it can only digest so much at a given time, see, so it holds anything else you give it in its, uh, I suppose you could say its intestines. At a certain point, it'll try to digest more of its waiting food by cramming more into its stomach. Like when someone is overeating then? Yeah, exactly. It could break down the material inside its stomach, but the resulting slurry is too much for its stomach to handle. Again, just like someone who tries overeating, all of that slurry and undigested food starts to build up and with nowhere else to go, Harris made a gagging motion, pointing his finger at its throat. It vomits, blows chunks. I heard the research team not only had to feed it antacids, but they had to burn most of their clothes afterward. So you're telling me this thing's too dumb to know when to stop eating then? Not dumb, I mean, smart enough to know what to eat and not to eat. It's only problem is that it never seems to understand what to do when it's full. July 11th, 1979. By the time Ricky got back to the exit pool of the stomach plunger, the place was a madhouse. People of all shapes and ages, from balding fat men who spilled their soda to toddlers with their arms stuffed into floaties, were running away from the pool screaming and shrieking. There's blood, there's blood! Christ almighty, I think there's a dead kid in there! Where's my baby? Where's my baby? Shove his way through the crowd, Ricky could finally see the pool itself. The shallow water, once clear and smelling of heavy chloride, was now a murky dark red color, not exactly the color of blood, but more pinkish yellow color. He looked over to the chute, where riders would normally appear to plop back into the water and he let out a swear of disgust. Instead of the usual water, there was a flood of what he could only describe as a thick, foul slurry gushing down into the pool below. There was a faint smell of something oily and rotten in the air, and against the quivering material of the tubing, he saw little chunks of indescribable things, organic and dripping off the edge of the slide in long mucus strings. But what terrified him the most, wasn't what was pouring out of the slide or the rancid smell in the air, it was what was floating, quivering, just barely visible under the frothing surface of the pool. It looked to Ricky like a kid, a toddler, a misshapen shadow just bobbing up and down wildly beneath the water. Perhaps it was human instinct that drove him, or maybe it was some little golden fragment of Ricky's cynical teenage heart. Whatever it was, something had compelled Ricky to leap into the water, throwing himself into the five foot deep pool of churning, stinking sludge that had once been an ordinary public pool. But the water, if it could even be described as that anymore, felt hot and dense. Long strands of something pink and jelly-like clung to his bare back, and on his lips he tasted something sour and metallic. Above the roaring and sloshing of the slide above him, Ricky could hear the little child's coughing and splashing desperately for help. Ricky came to the child, a little girl no older than five, wearing only one floaty and a now filthy baby blue bathing suit, and lifted her into his arms. She coughed and cried against his chest, her skin warm and tripping with clumps of squishy pale blobs. Her hair had been matted together into thick knots by something oily, and across her skin, Ricky noted odd patches of discoloration that reminded him of minor sunburns. But from the way she shrieked and jumped wildly in his ears, the girl seemed more afraid than hurt. It's okay, it's okay. Ricky tried to sound comforting, ignoring that burning taste that filled his mouth whenever he spoke. He clenched her tight to his chest with one arm, and was waiting back to the edge of the pool through the tar-like liquid when there came another roaring, deeper and more intense this time, sounding almost like a low, guttural groan. He looked up, and his suspicions were confirmed. The waterslide indeed seemed to be shaking. His neon orange and yellow tubing trembled and convulsed ever so subtly in the sunshine. Through one of the tubes, something dark and round appeared, semi-solid and sloshing as it rushed down the slide towards freedom. In an instant, everything happened at once. One moment, Ricky had practically tossed the kid onto the edge of the pool, watching her stumble shrieking to find her mother. The next moment, an incredible projectile force, a great pressure of heat and wetness, had sucker punched him underwater. There had been a fantastically loud rumbling, the sound of air being ejected out, and something had exploded from the mouth of the slide. Ricky couldn't see under the water, but he could still feel. There was a rough scraping against his back, presumably from the concrete of the pool bottom, and a sharp burning against his face, cheeks and chest. Something hard and solid had struck him directly on the side of the face, and even in the murky sludge, he could taste the blood dripping down onto his lips. He managed to grab onto the metal bar of the ladder. The sensation somewhat painful as he wrapped his hands around it, and managed to steady himself enough that he could put his feet on solid ground. As Ricky's head burst out from beneath the water, he was instantly greeted by the sound of screaming and yelling. He opened his eyes, adjusting to the piercing sunlight, and looked around. The slide was still vomiting out more of that liquid, a slurry of unidentifiable chunks and strands in a thin pinkish yellow liquid. Beside the pool, he could make out Tony, Peaty, and Deborah, standing out the pump to the slide, with Tony screaming frantically in confusion and horror as the two employees desperately tried to shut it off. The crowd was pointing and gesturing in horror at something in the water, some vomiting, others turning their heads away, and some staring frozen in disbelief. A more familiar voice came from above him. Ricky, Ricky! Randy yelled, having broken through the crowd with Julia from the first aid station. Ah, Jesus Christ, look at you! God damn! Here, here! Julia said, frantically opening the little first aid kit she had with her. Get him out of there, and I could... I don't know. Let's see how bad it is. Randy, what the fuck? Ricky felt them grabbing by his arms, and dragged him like a fish out of the water. The sensation was mildly painful, their cool skin hot and digging into his skin. What... what happened? It was then, in the clear light of day, Ricky could see his body. There was blood dripping down onto his chest from his busted nose. That was no surprise. But the rest of his body was in much more bizarre shape. On his hands, the skin had peeled off in long, flabby strips to reveal a scarlet rawness beneath. Like ten little red worms wiggling in loose coats. His cheeks had been rendered bare, and even the summer wind felt like knives against the muscles. His chest and legs were covered in those same sunburn-like marks he had seen on the little girl earlier. Red, smooth sores whose edges were lined with peeling skin and whitish scabbing. His legs had been burned so badly that part of the skin all the way up to his kneecap was almost completely gone. And to even move them slightly made the muscle beneath pulse and squelch hideously. Oh, oh, God! Oh, God! Ricky shot up, only to fall back down again cursing in pain. Jesus, what happened? I... I... There came another shriek of terror from the crowd. This time the voice sounded far more familiar. It was the woman in the huge sun hat, pointing to something floating in the overflowing pool. That's Ian's! That's my Ian's! The woman shrieked, gesturing wildly at a shining black object drifting along the surface. At first, no one in the crowd seemed to understand what it was they were looking at, until one brave man managed to grab it and lift it up to the sun. It was the remains of what had once been a pair of Star Wars-themed swim trunks. The material itself was corroded and melted. The face of C-3PO, now an obscure golden smear that clung to the brittle black internetting. As the man lifted the trunks, something heavy and misshapen fell from one of the legs and landed with the clatter at his feet. The mother, perhaps on some matriarchal intuition, let out a deafening peel of horror when she identified the thing as resembling a grotesque mess of pelvic bone and half-liquified flesh. By then, it had become all too clear that what was pouring from the slide and heaving short bursts was a stream of blood and human remains, at least what looked like had been human remains, considering most of the limbs had been so badly mangled that only a few recognizable ones could be used as evidence. In the frothing bloody water, a small arm bobbed next to a fragment of spine. A half of a skull no older than nine years old was entangled next to a ruined pink one-piece. Curse of hair or fat held together by some unidentifiable secretion floated by and disappeared into the pool filter, where they inevitably formed a sticky wall of human debris. As the crowd desperately tried to pull the remains from the water, under some belief that they could find someone alive in all the viscera, there came another low roar from the slide. The stomach plunger seemed to vibrate intensely for nearly four seconds before, with another rejuvenated gasp, a large object shot from the opening and landed directly into the pool. It vanished beneath the surface for a split second before returning to view. It was clear this was a child, or at least was a child in some form of imagination. Most of the skin had seemingly been flayed away, leaving only a hideous patchwork of paper-thin blotches of flesh and shimmering muscle. The blood lacked no hair or eyes, except for clumps of fibrous tissues that were wrapped lovingly around its naked, burnt body. The arms had been wrapped so tightly around the chest that each limb had, through some intense heat, been fused together across the breast in a single, unbroken coil. The legs had been curled up in a cannonball style, with the right leg having been almost cleanly severed down to where a few pitiful strands of tendon clung to the mutilated torso. The internal organs had been exposed, the long intestine down to the kidney having ruptured from the tiny stomach and followed, slithering down the slide behind its body like twisted streamers. The only traces that this thing, this abominable corpse, had been alive only just hours before, was a pair of tiny, rubber-soled sandals that had now melted directly against the toeless, misshapen hooves that were once feet. The last thing Ricky saw before he lost consciousness was the way the half-digested child suddenly jerked in the water as if crying for help. Project Hail Mary is the first masterpiece of 2026. The world is counting on you. Critics are in agreement, it's utterly spellbinding. So, I'm an alien. Mesmerizing and profoundly moving. You are bravest human I have ever met. Project Hail Mary. His joke, I only meet one human and is you. Get cinemas now. July 11, 2010. Both doctors watched as, with an explosion of air and a reeking stench to suit, SCP-1829 released the remains of yet another meal into the shallow pool. A bloody, caustic slurry of pig bones, undigested fat, and mangled hooves splashed into the sparkling water, with the glistening juices of the creature's digestive tract forming yellow foaming puddles. You'd think SCP-1829 would at least say excuse me after that. Jordan grabbed the nearby net they had brought and poked at a swaying ribcage in the middle of the water. How long did it take to digest that? Oh, three and a half hours I'd say. Harris said, watching as Jordan scooped up the partially digested ribcage, a now deformed skull and a hoof. Faster than we expected, which is good. Director Elliott's been running with that idea about using SCP-1829 as an alternative to waste disposal, so he'll be happy to hear digestion times improving. So once a week we'll just be feeding SCP-1829 de-class remains, anomalous organic matter, and lunches from the cafeteria? Hey, think about the money we'll save on the garbage bill. The two of them worked quickly in the early afternoon sun, the already humid air rippling above the stew of bile and digested swine. Jordan would fish out any of the undigested matter with the net, and Harris would carefully place each bone and hoof into standard foundation disposal bags, though Harris would refer to them as ordinary trash bags nonetheless, to be taken back to the site for incineration. It wasn't hard work, but SCP-1829 had made quite a mess when it was done eating, so it went slower than hoped. You ever wonder where it came from, Harris? You know, SCP-1829. I mean, I went over the file on it the other day. It said back when we first learned about it, back in 79, the thing was just a regular waterslide when it got installed. Four whole days went by without a damn thing happening, and then, boom, one of our guys and the Addison police got a call, some kid got ground up and depaced by a waterslide. That much we know. Jordan shook his head, pulling a pig jaw from the tangled net. But did we ever find where it came from? Like, who made it? They interviewed the owner of the park and ses in the files. The guy named Anthony Morovich says he ordered it through a cheap equipment contractor. That's all we ever got. That's my point, Harris. Jordan looked up at SCP-1829, watching the now-satisfied waterslide breathe slowly in the afternoon sun. If there are other things out there like this, people who can make and supply these, how can we be sure there aren't any other SCP-1829 sitting around? Harris had to admit, Jordan had a point. There were, rather coincidentally, other anomalies that were associated with slides well known to the Foundation. SCP-1562 was perhaps the most infamous one, being a metal tube slide that sent its riders to a cramped, dark pocket dimension outside of time and space. Granted, it didn't necessarily devour people as SCP-1829 did, but it wasn't too far-fetched to believe that other anomalies of SCP-1829's type were still out there. How many water parks were in the United States alone? Or perhaps even the entire world? SCP-1829 surely had to come from somewhere, after all. And he was to say it didn't have siblings of its species undocumented anywhere from a major amusement park to some backwater camping resort. Well, we haven't seen anything like SCP-1829 in over 30 odd years since we first found it. I'm not saying that there possibly aren't any more of them we haven't documented. Harris took a quick glance behind him, as if the slide itself would hear them. But three decades is a long time to go without finding any more. Besides, the tests we ran on SCP-1829 show it has no sexual organs to begin with, so it's not like it can reproduce anytime soon. What do you suppose it is then? A new kind of anomalous offshoot of a snake? Or maybe some sort of parasite inhabits it and is just using the slide itself as a shell? The two doctors looked at the towering behemoth of a slide. SCP-1829 stood there, water flowing into its pool, like drool from the jowls of a dog. In the humid air, it remained unwavering, silent, but with all the sense of a living breathing animal. I'll tell you what it is. It's SCP-1829, and it's an anomaly of the SCP Foundation. We don't know where it came from or what it is, but it's an anomaly through and through. Harris sealed the last of the undigested viscera into its back before grabbing two heavy, soggy bags in both hands. That's all there is to it. Jordan, who had hoped for a bit more in-depth answer, had to agree. At the end of the day, whether or not SCP-1829 was the only one of its kind where the first of many undiscovered didn't matter. It was something to be contained, to be studied, and most importantly, fed. No amount of speculation between the two doctors would change the most basic fact. The two doctors, with plastic bags full of sloshing semi-digested awful, and bile, left SCP-1829 to stand once more in silence. They never saw the soft, bubbling belch it made, or saw the way the veiny, sticky tubing pulsed and clenched in anticipation of its next meal. July 15, 1979. Ricky Nelson wouldn't recall what exactly had happened prior to waking up in the intensive care unit of Addison General Hospital. The well-dressed men, who told him they were from the Occupational Safety and Health Administration, had been kind enough to inform that he had been burned in an accident following the failure of a water temperature regulator at the park. He wasn't sure whether a water temperature regulator was a real thing, but he had no real reason to doubt them. The bandages wrapped around his body were proof enough of their story. The good news was that he would recover in the next week or so, and that any damage, aside from minor physical blemishing, would be relatively benign in nature. The bad news was that, following this terrible accident, wild springs were shut down for various public and workplace hazards and unsafe working conditions. At least, that was what Ricky was told, and he again had no reason to doubt it. He only wondered what Tony's face looked like when he got the news that cheap, greasy bastard. He'd have some faint nightmares, nonsense dreams about a mangled corpse, floating in a pool of blood, or a waterslide that defecated human remains. They were, of course, nothing more than just nightmares brought on by medication and stress. The only thing Ricky Nelson would need to worry about was getting better. Entire, burnt, jobless, but all else alive, Ricky Nelson would continue to live his life as normally as he did before. SCP-1829 is a 19-meter-tall orange and yellow waterslide made of an unknown material, appearing normal until a rider passes its second curve. At that point, the slide's surface secretes living tissue that traps the subject, drains the water, and floods the area with gastric acid to digest them over several hours. The remains are then pushed through an organic intestine and expelled into the pool below as a slurry of acid, bile, mucus, and bone fragments, which is recirculated through the slide's pump system. If multiple subjects enter during digestion, additional webs of flesh restrain them until the process is complete. SCP-1829 was discovered at the Wild Springs Water Park after it consumed a child in front of witnesses, having functioned normally for four days prior to the incident.