Roget Things
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"This is Dr. Boyd, recording test number eleven, for the O series of SCP-1799 testing."

Inside the cramped observation chamber, Dr. Boyd wiped his nose and peered through the opaque glass. Down below was a small and colorful man, staring at a large, orange-clad gentleman. They each eyed the other, one with a look of resigned defeat, the other wearing a mask of cliche' disdain.

"D-0917, please approach SCP-1799."

The orange-clad man glanced up, shrugged, and began lumbering in the desired direction. Without clowning around, SCP-1799 said something. It was inaudible from behind the glass, but it was quite the opposite for the D-Class. He was chuckling.

Mr. Laugh sighed. Then, he signed. 'I don't feel comfortable doing this.'

Dr. Boyd pressed his finger on the blinking red intercom button. "SCP-1799, continue with testing procedures, or you will be returned to special confinement."

The clown let out an especially designed resigned sigh, and said something else. Who knows what it was, probably something rude, or unhappy, but it didn't matter. The result was always the same. D-0917 began laughing, at first in the form of a small chuckle, then rolling into full out laughter, guffawing, pounding on the table, rolling on the floor hysterics.

Dr. Boyd noted the time it took in a logbook, then took to the microphone again. "Alright, SCP-1799. You may return to your normal containment chamber for today."

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The first one to stop was Mr. Life and Mr. Death. One day, the key turned, but all the Foundation's Doctors and all of its men, couldn't put the ashes together again. They kept him in a box, and remarked that he was neutralized. Somewhere, a man in black-ops re-marked him as "Unsuitable" for work.

Then, they just began to stop. Sometimes, like Mr. Lost, this stopping was quite literal. Dead in his tracks, at the bottom of the ocean, he sat on a reef and stared into space. Took a little trip to the petty mall, as Director Gillespie would say. Never moved a muscle, never blinked. Somebody just flipped a switch inside of him.

The day after that, Mr. Laugh, Mr. Brass, and Mr. Soap just broke. The makeup pigmentation of the clown slowly dripped off onto the floor, followed shortly thereafter by his skin. Security footage analysis following the incident showed that Mr. Laugh exhibited an expression of relief as his distinctive look dripped off of him, and even brought himself to laugh at the end.

The bubbles in Mr. Soap's containment chamber blocked the view one day. When they finally subsided, he was gone.

Mr. Brass just collapsed into a pile of pulverized pieces, never to be re-assembled again.

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