Museum of Idiots
rating: +48+x

Hall ██ of Site-██

Containment area for the Little Misters

Mr. Stripes

Doctor Leon Red and Junior Researcher Paulus Shirt looked down into the testing chamber. Inside, a gaggle of doctors were probing, poking, and otherwise inconveniencing the poor little mister contained within.

"So we're supposed to be doing tests on Mr. Stripes, huh?" asked Paulus, absentmindedly flipping through a data chart. "What've we gotten so far?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Absolutely nothing." Leon pointed at the documentation in Paulus' hands. "Did you even read the dossier?"

He shrugged, and flipped through a dozen pages. "Well, I tried to, but it was all redacted and stuff."

"Exactly. What's the use in someone who redacts the results of every test?"

Paulus dropped the clipboard into the trash can, and looked back down into the testing chamber. The scientists were now struggling to take notes on their experiment. "Hey, at least it'll be impossible to recover the data that details your miserable failure."

"True… you want to go do some thing. later?"

"What was that?"

"I askedif you wanted to do a nything after after we. get done?"

"Oh. Oh ████."


Mr. Hungry

It was on the eleventh hour, of the eleventh day, of the eleventh meal that Mr. Hungry put down his fork.

The attending volunteers looked on in confusion. "What's the matter with you? Don't you want to eat?"

Mr. Hungry absentmindedly picked at the menagerie of food stuck in his teeth. "You know? I've gotten a little bit of bad news, and it's put the kibosh on my appetite."

He got out of his chair, and went back to his quarters, satiated. For now.


Mr. Laugh

The video began with darkness, and the sound of a "Ha, ha, ha, ha." Video fades in, and in the center of the room a clown sits ramrod stiff, apart from his lips, on a bright yellow stool. His fingers tapped on his knees and occasionally his bow-tie would spin. A rope was tied around his waist, and a dozen men were pulling on it, to no avail. This clown wasn't going anywhere.

It clicked off after a minute, showed a brief image of the Foundation's logo, and left the room in silence.

"How long has he been like this?"

"Ever since we re-activated Alpha-9. We don't think there's any chance of recovery."

"Well, he wasn't going to be much of an asset, anyways. Store him back with the others."

"Yes, ma'am."


Mr. Chameleon

Incident Report 905-A: On 09/18/20XX, SCP-905 was briefed on the possibility of being an asset for new Mobile Task Force Operations, in exchange for extended privileges and other perks specific to SCP-905, such as the privilege of socializing with other "Misters".

In response, SCP-905 rendered itself transparent, and avoided coming into contact with researchers when they entered its containment chamber. When ordered to return to visibility, SCP-905 replied “You guys are full of [EXPLETIVE REDACTED] if you think I want to be recalled. Can't you go ask Redd or something?”

Due to the fact that it is impossible to move SCP-905, but it is unable to leave its containment chamber, it has been reclassified as Euclid and given much stricter containment procedures. SCP-905 still refuses to converse with Foundation personnel, but communication attempts are to continue to confirm that it is still in containment.


Mr. Life and Mr. Death

Item Description: SCP-1007. A humanoid which goes through an accelerated life cycle when a key is inserted into its back.
Date of Evaluation: 09/18/20██
Status: Not recommended for recruitment
Current Status: Contained within Site-██.
Notes: How the hell would this one ever be useful? -Dr. Aktus


Mr. Brass

On 09/18/20██, while discussing recruitment to Alpha-9, Mister Brass printed a piece of paper from an unknown device within its body, and then broke down to its individual components. Reconstruction efforts were successful, but Mister Brass has politely refused all further attempts at recruitment, citing "Warranty issues."

Mr. Brass can only click and jerk
A reliable friend, to kids alert
It doesn't mean he'll always work

But the Doctor's Orders, always a perk
Makes it so that he won't hurt
Mr. Brass can only click and jerk

So when the agents began to lurk
A fighting robot, power to exert
It doesn't mean he'll always work

Boy, we made them look like dorks!
Stupid, useless robot, no kids to report
Mr. Brass can only click and jerk

The parts popped off, just like a cork.
Rusted, suddenly, wet as a port
It doesn't mean he'll always work

They thought there was more to be borked.
They thought the Doctor might be a good sport.
Mr. Brass can only click and jerk
It doesn't mean he'll always work.


Mr. Soap

"Yeah, sure, I'll give it a shot." Mister Soap said, smiling from his slip-proof stool. "Not like Wondertainment ever did anything for me."

"That's excellent!" said Agent Pierre. "If you come with me, we can work out the details."

Mr. Soap smiled, nodded, stood up, fell down, and slid backwards into his cell.

"… Do you need any help?"

"No! I got this!" exclaimed the sudsy showman, as he attempted to right himself, and ended up slip slidin' away, into another wall. "Ow! Fudge!"

Pierre watched as Soap failed repeatedly to right his frictionless form. Before too long, all he was doing was spasming in a pile of suds.

"… Maybe you should come back later."


Mr. Moon

On 09/18/20██, SCP-917 vanished from its containment chamber. 11 hours later, personnel on Site Thoth-1 reported a humanoid entity wandering aimlessly on the surface of the moon. Attempts to recapture this entity, which was soon proven to be SCP-917, have been unsuccessful. Every time agents approach SCP-917, it flees on foot faster than they are able to move.

It is hypothesized that SCP-917 may be living out of the Apollo-18 capsule. Containment procedures have been altered to reflect the fact that the containment area is currently the moon.


Mr. Lost

"Well, we really can't find him this time," Darryle said, as he squinted across the smooth, Venusian landscape. "The probe's resolution isn't high enough to see him, and we've only got an hour till this sucker dissolves."

Behind him, Agent Alias shrugged. "Well, he's probably gone back to wherever he was from," she said, carrying binoculars in both hands. "Can you turn us around now? I mean, unless you think there's something else to gain."

"Naw. Let's go— wait, is that him?"

"You see him? What does that mean?"

"Shit, that means I have no idea where we are."


Dear SCP Fund!

Thank you for your interest in LITTLE MISTERS, BY DOCTOR WONDERTAINMENT! We sure do appreciate your collector's spirit and we hope you keep at it in the future, sports!

HOWEVER it has come to the attention of DOCTOR WONDERTAINMENT LITIGI-RIFFIC LAW SQUAD 6000 that you may be using your LITTLE MISTERS, BY DOCTOR WONDERTAINMENT in a way which violates the DOCTOR WONDERTAINMENT TERMS AND CONDITIONAL CONDITIONS LISTAROO.

Please discontinue this activity if you wish to continue using your LITTLE MISTERS, BY DOCTOR WONDERTAINMENT.

SINCERELY DOCTOR WONDERTAINMENT

O5-4 closed the Misters dossier. He pulled one piece of paper from beneath it, and stared. The containment procedures for Mister Collector, his predecessor, were very simple. It was only kept separate from the other Misters for personal reasons.

Mister Collector missed his friends terribly.

O5-4 wrote out a small response to the Misters mobilization proposal, and pushed it out of his sight.

not recommended for further consideration at this time/future considerations depend on alpha-9's needs


Dr. Wondertainment looked over the note leaked from Overwatch command, and strongly considered jumping for joy.

"Alright!" the good doctor declared, spinning in the spinniest chair. "We got 'em!"

Wondertainment pressed one of the myriad of buttons protruding out of the sexy mahogany desk, specifically the one labeled "CLEAR HANDICAPS".

Within Site-██, eight men sighed with relief, and got back to whatever they'd been up to before.

The other wondered how he was supposed to get back home.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License