The Best of House of Spades, Track 1
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Veronica assumed that the back half of a cat wouldn't be as inclined to jump onto a dinner table as an entire cat would be, but then again she grew up around dogs.

Brad, to his credit, had enough sense not to let his exotic pets ruin the shot, if not enough energy to actually come out from behind his camera setup to deal with it like a responsible pet owner. "Fuckin' Orvo's sake, someone get Fuzzbutt off the fuckin' table."

Veronica grumbled, half-heartedly looking over to Izzy who, as before, looked like one half of those annoying coffee shop PDA couples. Given the transitive property of usefulness, that left her and…

"Hey, Jack. Can you deal with this?"

Of course, Jack was busy too, if "busy" was an applicable adjective to describe either "fiddling with his phone" or "jacking off"; looking over, Veronica still wasn't sure which and hoped to g-d for the former. Still, she was at least greeted with a sheepish glance, which meant he was at least paying attention. "Oh. Oh, uh, sorry. Just…waiting on someone I called." Oh thank fuck. "You need something?"

Veronica vaguely gestured to the feline posterior that was currently tracking an abnormal amount of cat fur over the table.

"Oh, my turn already? I mean…I was Fuzzbutt duty last time, you know?" Jack fidgeted with the phone under table. "Shouldn't it be Izzy's turn? I think, at least."

Veronica turned back to look at Izzy, then back to Jack.

"…okay, listen, this is kind of a very important call. I dunno, maybe take an IOU?"

"What…what the hell did you even call about? You knew it was gonna be-" Veronica briefly paused to shove Fuzzbutt off her plate and onto her lap. "fuck, you knew it was gonna be picture day. Like…come on. I'm not halfassing Dead Pig's cover art for…g-d, what would you even be calling about? I mean…urgh, fine."

Veronica held Fuzzbutt to her chest, carefully positioning the little monster so that she was touching the Fuzz and not the Butt. "Hey, Brad. Fuzzbutt goes in the laundry room, right?"

"Tito took the dryer, and I'm not letting the fucker eat another goddamn pet. Lock her in the bathroom or something."

About halfway to the only properly shoggoth-proofed bathroom, Veronica's phone began blaring the opening riff of Omotenashi, which probably meant Ashy wanted to talk. As it turned out, holding a cat and fishing your phone out of your jeans was harder than it looked. Still, Veronica was a strong girl, she could hold Fuzzbutt just fi-no, wait, out of her grasp.

As Fuzzbutt disappeared under a pile of living-room junk, Veronica sighed into the phone. "Hey, Ashy. Something up?"

"Babe, that drumming?" Veronica resisted interrupting Ashton with a grunt of pain as her finger pricked whatever dumb cult shit Brad left laying around for cats to hide in. "Tight. Kickin' solo, too." For a second, Veronica was certain she'd caught the little rascal; she'd only caught claw marks, however. "That's the closer, right? Can't wait for Dead Pig."

"Oh, the show. Thanks. I mean, me personally, I feel like Jack could've played better." Fuzzbutt suddenly darted out of the pile, only to hide under another pile in the nearby study. "Shit…sorry, cat's giving me trouble."


"Well, anyways, I felt like he was distracted." Veronica made sure to close the doors of the study before rummaging once more through the occult garbage. "Plus, amusing as performance art is, I'm not sure that's in the Hos playbook. We're not exactly trying to be capital C Cool, yet…I dunno, maybe Izzy is." She's pretty sure she just touched something that giggled, but it had the texture of tanned flesh, which meant it wasn't a cat and therefore not important. "I mean, don't get me wrong. That was a neat show, props to her. But we're not art rockers."

"Like you don't roll with anartists on the reg." Ashton chuckled, which briefly lifted Veronica's spirits, at least. "Seriously. Shit's cool."

"I'll leave the Death Grips shtick for after we hit big." By the time Veronica finally caught Fuzzbutt, her arm was scratched almost as hard as it was after Hartley. Felt almost as good, too. "Anyways, I gotta put the cat in time out. See you at the party."

"Later, babe. See you at the party."

Cat butts thankfully don't meow like crazy when dumped into the bathroom. Shame that tidbit lacked real life application outside Brad's house.

Still, the exercise in anomalous absurdity did at least at least give Veronica time for one last look-over before she was immortalized in her own folly.

The mirror was tacky, as per most things in Brad's house, but it serviced well enough. The half undercut, dyed blue, probably screamed "tranny" a bit too loud, but it wasn't like she was an electro-swing artist or something. Her makeup was…smudged was one way to put it. Tutorials never seemed to help her all that much. Her jaw, while thankfully smooth, was…

Veronica remembered that she hated mirrors.

Sighing, Veronica made her way back to the dining room, careful to close the door behind her without either crushing Fuzzbutt or letting her escape.

For a thirty-six year old man who lived alone (with the exception of his exotic pets), Brad's house was surprisingly…well, Veronica wouldn't exactly use the word "clean", but he did do his share in removing dust and grime. She'll admit that she wished he'd actually organize his things, although she's not sure how much stayed in one place, or even liked to be touched. Still, his pets looked happy-at least, for things without faces. Veronica wasn't sure on shoggoth physiology, or whatever she was supposed to call a crawling ball of tendrils.

As Veronica looked out a window to the front yard, she felt it hard to imagine that Brad had it best out of all of them. Two-bedroom in a good neighborhood, stable career path, and hey, CIA had yet to spook him…

…of course, unless she's hallucinating, that might've changed.

Someone-or something, perhaps-was standing at the door. It was a bit hard to see from this window, but they looked like someone in a fancy coat, which was odd considering she's pretty sure they hadn't signed onto anything fancier than Audiotree. Maybe some glam rock friend from Izzy's Hydrocide Sisters days, here to once again delay the photoshoot.

Of course, the illusion of some dumb friend ended when, peaking through the peephole, Veronica spotted a man (already a charitable description, to be quite honest) wrapped entirely in bandages.

"What are you-" Veronica sighed, and began speaking clearly: "I am going to open the door, but that is not an invitation for you to barge in."

The Stranger almost seemed to slouch as Veronica opened the door. "Hell, I hate invitational wards. How'm I supposed to be taking houses call if the patient can't get up? Do I gotta use a phone? AT&T don't exactly sell to somethin' like me."

"That's funny, cause you're still not invited." Veronica did a quick lookover as she leaned against the doorframe. As with five years ago, the Stranger's skin was completely covered, head to toe, in pristine bandages, with not a single bit of skin to show for error. This was, of course, in addition to the glittery pink suit that somehow put her merry band of queers to straight shame, an impressive feat for an entity that almost certainly had no concept of gender or sexuality, all of which framed a frame that couldn't be 20 pounds over a starving human's. "We're shooting an album cover and I'm pretty sure none of us want to sell our souls, so get lost."

The Stranger's chuckle was the kind that made one either want to strangle the smug little bastard or nervously chuckle back; Veronica knew enough not to do either. "Is that how you treat a friend of five and a half years, Nicky?"

"Exactly five people get to call me that. You're not one of them." Veronica straightened back up, making sure not to accidently make any sort of inopportune body language. "Also, yes, that's how I treat someone who I met exactly once. Especially after they dig up my criminal record to try and sell me shit."

"Puh-leeeeeeeeease, Nicky-" "Veronica." "you're still freaked out by that? Have I done somethin' wrong since?"

"I'm going to assume the answer is yes."

"I'm just a simple sinner, after all. But I ain't here to screw y'all over, nah. I'm just here on…business. As usual."

Veronica raised an eyebrow. "We don't have business with you. Not at this hour, and unless Janice Raymond, Ted Nugent, and my dad all discover immortality at the same time, probably not ever."

"Funny you say that, I-"

"No." Growing up, Veronica rarely got the chance to interrupt boring men like this. It was almost intoxicating, getting to interrupt a crooked shyster with zero accountability. "We don't fuck with labels bigger than Audiotree, and they're not nearly as

At the very least, Izzy and Sara had been surgically removed at the forehead since she left.

Item: ███-B
Description: ███-B is the only known photograph of SCP-███ that predates containment by the Foundation. Item ███-B functions as the cover art for David Cameron Fucked a Dead Pig, an album released by American math rock band "House of Spades" in 2016.

Item ███-B depicts a cluttered dining room scene, attended by the four members of House of Spades, wearing custom tank tops containing fragments of the album's title. Each member is seated facing the camera, in such a way that their apparel, when read left to right, reads "David Cameron Fucked a Dead Pig". SCP-███ appears to serve as the main course, lying on the table with an apple in its mouth.

PoI-9521 "Jack Spade" sits at the far right end, wearing a top labelled "a Dead Pig". Spade is depicted tearing into a large chunk of meat on his plate, using only his hands. This act is seemingly assisted by hooks emerging from his palm and fingertips.

PoI-9521-D "Veronica Fitzroy", sits to the left of Jack, wearing a top labelled "Fucked". Fitzroy is depicted calmly slicing a slab of meat from SCP-███.

Unlike the other two, PoI-9522 "Isabella Kawajiri" and PoI-9522-D "Sara Yarkoni" are shown interacting with one another, wearing "Cameron" and "David" tops, respectively.

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