What?! What the fuck do you want? Get back to work! Oh… Sorry, though you were one of the employees, got to keep a noose around their dicks or else they won't fucking listen to an old Irish fart like me, know what I mean?
So what can I >Belch< do for you? Sorry, took a little swig of the bottle a few minutes ago, want some? No? Alright… So why are you here? Its not befittin' of a '05' top hat to walk among the workin' classes…
Anger management classes? Complaints? I ain't heard of any fucking complaints. Who was it? Johnson? Daniels? I'll fucking rip their dicks out their throats those mutinous…
What? I'm not fucking stepping down for any length of fucking time, fuck your council. This is bullshit! I put my heart and soul into this fucking job! Who else are you gonna get to do this shit job? Ryan? He couldn't find his arsehole with a map! Lord knows that bastard Johnson doesn't even have half the balls to deal with what I have to every day. I shouldn't have to deal with this shit… Fuck…
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>sigh< You sure you don't want a drink?
Suit yourself.
…
You know, when I signed up for this job, I thought I'd be working with the big leagues. The legendary Kondraki, who's rumored to be half insect; The mysterious Clef, who I'm told is actually the devil; The ever-living Bright, who gained immortality through a deal with Clef; Gears, the supposed 'Metal Man' whose skin is supposed to be made of that mesmerizing alloy shit; and Mann, the one who supposedly shits out apple seeds. You hear all those stories and rumors about Skips, and sometimes a heavily censored document floats through the grapevine. The living shadow, some badass dudes from the Bible, a creepy children television show, a motherfucking zombie virus…
I've heard my share of weird tales, you heard them all the time during the war, and I told my fair share as well. The imagination of men scared shitless in the trenches was a powerful thing. Remember the story of the Bulletproof Jerry? Had the squad up for a whole fucking fortnight. Even the Captain was pissin' in his boots. Those were some terrifying things to imagine, But what you hear about here makes those stories seem like a afterthought shit-stain on Lovecraft's panties.
How long have we known each other, 'Mr. 05'? A whole century? I still remember when I pulled you out of that bombed-out trench while the rest of them ran, I remember fighting the Jerries with you at my back, knee-deep in human waste. That was a war, where there were people to kill, brothers to protect, heroes forged, and an enemy. Especially the enemy. A villainous bastard to fight against…
I remember when I was approached that night and offered this job. He wore a fancy suit and talked the about same. The bastard called me Colonel, which I hadn't heard in years. He told me I would be doing the world a service by working for SCP. He told me all about what they do, Securing, Containing, Protecting about a council and someone who asked for me personally. To be completely honest I was kinda shit-faced at the time, but I knew what I was getting into. I thought I was finally gonna get beck into the action.
It was supposed to be a new war. That's why I signed up, to meet legends, to fight a new enemy, to protect the common people. That's what they told me I'd be doing. That's what I tell myself I'm doing. But then I remember…
I fucking sell soap.
Dead people soap.
'Start at level 0 and work your way up' my ass.
Just because I don't have a doctorate or a PhD or a head the size of a fucking watermelon doesn't mean that I couldn't be useful for something. Put me in security, or one of those squads with those ridiculous fucking names. Give me a fucking gun at least! Do you know what it's like to work in this fucking place? The workers never stop complaining, I got human right bastards crawling up my ass for desecration of the dead, and not to even mention the fucking stench! It's like the trenches, only there isn't any fucking shelling! Come to think of it, we could probably use some fucking holes in the roof to let the god awful smell out.
Three wars; one-thousand, two hundred, and forty three confirmed kills; and my fucking left leg, and what do I have to show for it? I'm now proud CEO of Soap from Corpses Products Inc! What a fucking joke!
But I'm not stepping down, you know better than to fucking ask me that. This may be a shit job, I may hate everyone that works here, and It may smell like someone took year old eggs and shit on them, but it's…
Its…
It's all I have left.
My final fucking attempt to be a hero, because no one else would possibly do what i do. It's my occupied France. My trenches. My Vietnam.
I'll be damned if I'm just gonna let this go. So you can take those complaints and shove them, because I'm staying. You can go and tell your little 05 friends what I told you.
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Just go.