Ass Sea Pee, how many lives have you fucking ruined!
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You enter the subway in the evening and wait for the doors to close. The bell rings and the carriage moves toward your destination. At this point, you feel like a golden stainless steel block that a bartender puts in a drink in a fancy hotel.

You brush your hair, apply your makeup, pick up your petite bag and walk out the door of your suite, followed by your husband, who asks where you're going because he suspects you're having an affair.

You get up from the construction site and dust off your rough work clothes a few times, your work gloves full of mud and dust. You get on the bus, take out your cell phone to scan the code, and find a circle of people on the side who, intentionally or unintentionally, look at you with disgust. Then you realize that the sky outside is dark as shit.

You all have a common destination, the SCP Writers Guild. It has branches all over the world, so much so that you can reach a particular site in exactly one hour. The SCP Writers Guild is a society dedicated to weird literature in a rigid format, writing about all kinds of anomalies, with branches in every small region of the world. Clean and tidy, immersed in a creative atmosphere. There are rumors that its predecessor, the SCP Foundation, was dedicated to all kinds of monsters, but those are just legends. The people in the Guild have never denied or confirmed this. It is worth noting that the buildings of each branch are arranged to make it look like there really is such a thing. This one is rumored to be a humanoid containment chamber, and this one is rumored to be a biological control center.

It is very consistent with the world you wrote about.

In your written world, the SCP Foundation is a large institution that specializes in keeping anomalies from the public, and there is some kind of amnesia tool that sounds fabulous. But everyone knows that this is not possible. Rumor has it that two years before the SCP Writers Guild opened, all the anomalies went away, so the Foundation opened up and became a writers guild. You guys just smile when you hear that. You are all reasonable people, and no one takes it seriously.

You have A-Class, B-Class, C-Class, and D-Class personnel, each with a different role in the containment of anomalies.

You are D-Class, I mean in reality you are D-Class in the SCP Writers Guild. You start writing in a certain format, designation, special containment procedures, description, and whatever addenda you want. You can add journals, audios, videos, whatever you come up with. You use a slot, form an anomaly in your mind, and then submit it to the Writers Guild website, and those same people in the Guild give you a score, +1 or -1, and all those scores add up to determine whether your writing is dead or alive. You're D-Class. I mean, you write crappy, trashy, rotten stuff that can only be called toilet paper after you wipe your ass. You desperately write, desperately describe, desperately refresh your post on the official website. You watch the score start at 0, go up and down a bit. First it goes up to +1, then it attracts a lot of "-1", so the rating starts to fall, to -3, to -7, to -19. You silently watch, suddenly curse and shakily delete it.

Rumor has it that the SCP Writers Guild is just a front company for the SCP Foundation. Any surviving articles you write will be added to their database. The articles you write are real. The ideas in your head are not yours, because the moment you walk in the door, you no longer own your ideas.

The SCP Writers Guild is the best writers guild in the world. The most powerful writers in the world are in the SCP Writers Guild.

The Nobel Prize in Literature has been awarded to people in the Guild for seven years in a row.

You walk into the Guild.

The clean white walls, the sci-fi decor, and the accidentally opened room that pretends to be suffering from the effects of a biohazard all reassure you. You enter the Guild and the attendants and volunteers lead you step by step deeper into a room. Rumor has it that it's been converted from a former D-class bedroom, and you smile faintly; you don't believe it.

But as soon as you put pen to paper, the anomaly designation, the special containment procedures, the description and the addenda come to you. You write, immersed in this world where anomalies and the SCP Foundation exist. You dive in, you write, you squint at the score going up and down, and you sigh.

You are C-Class because you write articles with an average rating of 50 or more, which makes you C-Class. You are entitled to be C-Class. You role-play as C-Class. C-Class plays a major role in every article you write.

You are B-Class. You write three articles with an average rating of 100 or more, or to be precise, an average rating of 127. More specifically, it is this evening at 8:26 pm when your average rating is 127, since every minute can make a difference. You take a deep breath, while D-Class asks you with adoring eyes how on earth you managed to write so well. You don't say, you don't know, you don't understand how others write so badly. A long time ago you were willing to teach, and then you stopped. You don't want to.

There are rumors that the whole Writers Guild is a scam, a trap to get you to work for free for the real SCP Foundation behind it. You just laugh when you hear that. You come willingly, you don't believe it's a trap. Here you meet a lot of people, here you make a lot of friends, here you believe you can improve your writing.

You want to win the Nobel Prize in Literature, even though you have only written seven articles, all of which have been deleted by the administrators for low ratings. You face the computer, you face the telephone, you put your hand on the keyboard - either in the computer sense or in the telephone sense. You do it willingly.

You promise your wife that one day your book will be in the most prominent place in the bookstore, that tens of thousands of people will come, and that you will make millions from a book signing. But the highest rating you have is only 10.

You quit your studies, you drop out of school, you ignore your parents' advice, you believe that writing will change your destiny, and the SCP Writers Guild is the best opportunity. When you heard about the Guild, your whole body shook, your heart glowed, your eyes were red, and you believed that this was the place you were meant to be. You didn't care when your mother fell to her knees and cried, you just didn't care. You reached 20 on your first article, and then none of your other articles survived.

You leave your company. A few days later, when your employees tell you on WeChat that the company has closed down and gone bankrupt, you type desperately in front of the Guild's computer with a blank face. Every word you write is your heart, your blood, your madness, everything you want to say and all your dreams.

The SCP Writers Guild is the best writers guild in the world, and the best writers in the world come from this guild. The strongest people in the Guild are entitled to be the O5 Council, the in-universe leaders of your Foundation. In other words, this title is the highest honor in the Writers' Guild.

You sit in front of your computer, rack your brains, turn your head to the side, and notice that the D-Class guy next to you has a high rating of 30. You are jealous, you are vindictive, you want to cut off his Internet access even if it would get you kicked out of the guild. You are just jealous. But he doesn't even notice your eyes, he just chuckles at the rating in the top right corner of the screen and sees a downvote as his right hand hits refresh on the keyboard. You laugh out loud and he gets annoyed. You both get kicked out of the Guild. Later that night, you shake hands in a bar and then kill yourselves.

You haven't written a word in nine days. The attendant behind you asks in a clear voice if you need help. You shake your head and say that you have an amazing idea and that once you write it, you will be promoted straight to A class.

An O5 Council member is only 24 years old; you are 70 years old and still D-Class.

You bet your youth, your career, your brain, your inspiration, your time, your life, your interest, your expectation, all on this piece of treasure. You want to become famous here in one fell swoop, you want to hang your article in the sky, you want others to discuss it for days and nights.

Come when you have time. Everyone is welcome here, except those on the blacklist. Everyone is welcome here, especially those with good writing skills.

You look at your watch and save your article. You get up, and the attendant behind you hurries up to you and politely asks if you want to leave. You nod, and the two of you walk to the front door, one after the other, like a farmer herding cattle. The walls are white, the floor plain but somehow techy. You take one step at a time, one step at a time. You realize that your whole being has fallen in. You've thrown your whole being into this for the sake of ratings, for the sake of popularity, for the sake of having more people on the discussion page arguing about the cleverness of your characterizations and allusions. Then you mention it to the attendant leading the way in front of you, and he just smiles faintly. You see a cowhide file in the inside pocket of his coat, like some kind of top secret. You shake his hand and say it's so nice here, the atmosphere is so appropriate and everything is so great. You say you can definitely become a great writer, famous for centuries to come. You say these words with a smile, you rehearse your tribute to winning the prize, you smile, and your smile is also a rehearsal. And the attendant would say, "Yes, sir. He even has a great smile that can be highly rated.

You leave the Guild and realize that the sky is as dark as shit, as despair, as all the lost fantasies, as the flowing yellow sand-soaked river that flows a thousand times in the ditch. You write down these metaphors to use in your article the next day. You will write about a D-list poet who would say, "Ah, this day, dark as shit, as dogshit, as fucking dogshit. Then you're going to write about a C-list poet who's going to go toe-to-toe with the D-list poet and say, "Ah, your poetry, is like shit, like dogshit, like fucking dogshit.

And then you realize that you're the dogshit.

You can't see the streets, you can't see the cars, you can't see the pedestrians, you can't see the smiles on their faces, you can't see the steam of life. You can't see the residual heat in the kebab cart as it closes on the side of the road, you can't see the smile on the kiosk owner's face as he pulls down the roll-up door. You can't see anything because you're in the SCP Writers Guild and you don't have to pay attention to that. You just have to pay attention to the ratings and the fucking ABCD. You can definitely win the Nobel Prize in Literature in your lifetime. Why the Nobel Prize in Literature? Because you just fucking know that there's a Nobel Prize for Literature.

You're surrounded by people like you. The pounding of the keyboard echoes in your head.

So you take your right foot and step on the ground, lift your left foot and step on the ground further in front of your right foot. That's how you walk home, like a pedestrian.

Your wife smells if you have perfume in your hair. Your friend asks about your daily distractions. Your boss sends you a pink slip, even though you are the only one being laid off. You know that it is all worth it and that you can give everything for your dreams.

So when a sincere looking person comes by and tells you that all your surviving articles are being used by a mysterious group backstage, you kill him and go into a trance. You don't have a knife, and there are no rocks on the side, no knives, nothing that looks like it could be used to kill him. You start thinking about how the hell you got him into a bloody mess, the police car comes by and you're arrested.

You walk the streets late at night, you despise your excellent classmates, you despise the beggars on the street, you despise the homeless, you despise everyone who doesn't understand you. You remember your way home, street signs, black, trance. Crows fly away, crazy like plastic bags in the storm. You look up, the stars are gone, the moon is still there, white as mothballs.

Then you go home, your husband leaves a note, half the stuff in the house is missing.

You go home, two men come out from behind you, tie your arms behind your back, and you go to juvenile hall.

You go home. You don't see anything, you don't see anything, all you see is the light that's not on, but it's actually invisible because it's not on. The light on the side is also not on. You can't see that light because all the lights aren't on. But you see it, just that invisible light. You feel a mouthful of phlegm coming up in your chest, and you suddenly realize something, so you fall to your knees and scream angrily:

Ass Sea Pee (SCP), how many lives have you fucking ruined!

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