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A knife in the dark. Bloody teeth. And an appetite  

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about to bring an end to one of 
history’s most infamous monsters…

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The year is 1888, and the streets of London are 
teeming with tension and fear. In the daytime,  

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people struggle to find work, fighting each 
other tooth and nail for scraps of opportunity.  

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The sunlight only serves to 
illuminate the grime and misery,  

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the workhouses and the factories, the smoke 
stacks pumping poison into the sky. At night,  

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though, it's even worse. The gas lamps 
provide only ghostly wisps of dim light,  

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just enough to see a stranger's 
shadow from the corner of your eye,  

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but not enough to see if the glint of something 
shiny in his hand is his pocketwatch or his knife.

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You might glance over your shoulder for a closer 
look, but he's already disappeared into the fog,  

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if he was ever even there at all. These streets 
feel haunted even on the quietest of nights,  

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but lately, there are rumors swirling in 
the air of something far worse than a ghost  

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skulking through the alleys. More real than 
the devil, more evil than any ordinary man,  

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there is a killer on the prowl, 
and his name is Jack the Ripper.  

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At first, most citizens refused to take notice of 
his presence, writing off his victims as women of  

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ill-repute, bound to meet a dreadful demise 
sooner or later. But as the bodies piled up,  

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the sheer brutality of the killings became 
impossible to ignore. Now, everyone is on edge,  

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particularly if their daily business takes them 
to London's East Side, where the murders began.

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Once hoped to be a place of opportunity for 
those traveling to London from afar to seek their  

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fortunes, Whitechapel has become a den of sin and 
terror. No one can breathe easy here, not until  

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the Ripper is caught, if he ever is. There are 
theories, of course. Accused noblemen, surgeons,  

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butchers, and doctors. Whoever the culprit is, one 
thing is certain: he knows his way around a knife.  

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Still, no one suspect seems to stick, and 
no one theory is compelling enough to lead  

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to an arrest. Privately, behind locked doors 
where no policeman can hear them whispering,  

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the people of Whitechapel are beginning 
to wonder whether the Ripper will ever be  

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found. Perhaps this nightmare won't cease 
until the streets run red with blood.

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But even in the middle of hell on earth, 
day-to-day matters must still be attended to.  

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So, even as he worries for the lives of his 
customers and his own livelihood, the owner  

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of a local pub posts a job listing, seeking 
a new cook. He doesn't need anything fancy,  

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he can't pay for much, just a fellow who knows 
his way around a kitchen and can cook up decent  

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enough food without accidentally slicing his 
fingers off. Still, he's not sure there's anyone  

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out there who would be too happy to take a job so 
close to Jack the Ripper's domain at the moment.

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But the next day, as he comes in to unlock 
the doors and set up for the day, he finds an  

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applicant waiting for him outside, grinning ear to 
ear. He's a massive fellow, towering over the pub  

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owner at a height he's never seen before outside 
of a circus performer on stilts. But he greets  

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the pub owner with a firm handshake, and follows 
him inside (though he has to hunch a great deal  

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to fit through the door). It's not as if there's a 
line of applicants out the door, so the pub owner  

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goes ahead and hires him as the new cook. The cook 
is a Frenchman, but he won't hold it against him.

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That night, when the pub opens for business, the 
new cook gets right to work. From his disposition,  

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one would never know he's working for pennies in 
a dingy pub in the most dangerous part of town.  

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He bustles around the modest kitchen, chopping 
meat and singing in a warm, loud voice that  

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carries through the whole building, bringing some 
much-needed cheer to the exhausted customers.  

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Pretty soon, they get a taste of the 
new cook's work, mutton and potatoes,  

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and juicy meat pies. Whoever this new worker 
is, the crowd is pleased to have him around.

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The owner does advise the cook to stay 
in the kitchen, though. His food and  

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his singing may be popular, but his appearance 
might frighten the already-skittish regulars.  

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There's plenty to be afraid of these 
days, no need to add a giant to the mix.  

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When the pub closes up for the night, the owner 
stops for a moment to chat with his new cook.  

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He can't help but be curious about the man, 
where he came from, what brought him to London.  

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The cook tells him, tearfully, that he was 
once a soldier in the French army, but that  

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he lost his military career following a tragic 
accident he refused to disclose the details of.

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After that, he worked in a circus, then 
as a private chef in the home of a wealthy  

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French family, until he was thrown out over a 
forbidden love affair with his boss's daughter.  

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The pub owner isn't sure he believes a word of 
it, but he nods along just the same. He asks the  

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cook when he first arrived in London. The first of 
April, he says. And with that, he heads off home,  

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leaving the pub owner alone with his thoughts, 
the color draining from his face. April first  

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was only two days before the first Jack the Ripper 
victim was discovered. It couldn't be...could it?

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As the pub owner embarked on his journey 
home, he replayed the image of the cook's  

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work that night over and over in his mind. 
The man was plenty competent with a knife,  

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that was certain. He was strong enough 
to kill quickly, too. With those hands,  

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he could squeeze the life out of someone 
before they even got the chance to scream.  

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He could have done it. But why would 
he? He seemed like such a friendly man,  

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odd though he was. And he was odd, almost 
frightening. He had clearly lied about his past,  

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as well. What reason could he have for doing that, 
if not to conceal a dark and terrible secret?  

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The pub owner lies awake all night, horrific 
visions of his new cook keeping him from sleep.

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The next day, the pub owner's suspicions begin 
to fester and grow. He notices things he didn't  

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pick up on before, the strange way the 
cook always speaks through his teeth,  

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the deft way that he handles a butcher knife, 
slicing through the cuts of meat that he brings  

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to the pub himself. What butcher is he going to? 
Where is he finding so much meat in such scarce  

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times? The owner shudders at the possibilities. 
His customers are starting to take notice of his  

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change in attitude, too. They see the sweat 
dotting his brow, his furtive glances toward  

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the kitchen, and the way his hands shake 
when he brings them their plates of food.

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Several customers corner the owner 
and demand an explanation. These days,  

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they can't let any unusual behavior go on 
for long. Something sinister could be afoot,  

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after all. The pub owner relents and confesses 
his suspicions that his newly hired cook might  

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be the Ripper himself. Not only that, but 
he's afraid the meat he's been preparing  

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might not be sourced from any livestock, 
but from more of the Ripper's victims.

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It was an unwise choice to admit these fears 
to a group of men driven to the edge of reason  

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by their own dread, bodies in the streets, and 
a bit too much ale. They swarm the kitchen to  

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confront the cook and are shocked at the sight 
of the behemoth they find there. The cook greets  

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them with his usual smile, but they aren't 
having any of it. They attack him in spite of  

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his intimidating size, pummeling him with their 
fists. The cook tries to reason with the men,  

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but they are determined to get an answer out of 
him, and his previously unfailing smile falters.

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He opens his mouth wide, and in a truly shocking 
display, gobbles one of the men up in two quick  

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bites. He spits out a shoe, and it flies across 
the room, hitting another one of the men in the  

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face. There is silence for a long moment, 
and then...sheer pandemonium. The surviving  

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men tear out of the pub, spilling into the 
streets in a drunken, panic-stricken mob.  

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Wiping his mouth, the cook turns to see his boss 
staring at him with wide eyes, frozen to the  

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spot in fear. With a polite bow, the cook gives 
his resignation, apologizes for the disruption,  

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and turns to see himself out. Meanwhile, 
the pub patrons are cornering a policeman,  

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demanding he follows them to the location of 
a giant, man-eating monster who they believe  

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to be the Ripper. The policeman laughs in 
their faces, and advises them to head home  

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and sleep off their drinks before they 
get themselves into any more trouble.

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With a full belly, but without a 
job, and without anywhere else to go,  

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the cook ducks out the door to the pub and begins 
to stroll slowly down the dark, dingy streets.  

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Up ahead, he sees a woman walking alone. 
She drops something on the ground,  

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a small coin purse. She doesn't 
notice it fall, and keeps walking!

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But the cook is very much a gentleman, in 
spite of his cannibalistic indiscretion before.

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He hurries over and bends to pick it up. When 
he looks back at the woman, he sees a man,  

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creeping up behind her. The shadowy man drew a 
knife, and lifted his arm, preparing to strike.  

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The cook cried out to warn the woman, and she 
turned, letting out a bloodcurdling scream at  

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the sight of both the would-be killer, and the 
giant with blood still dripping from his chin.  

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She picked up her skirts and 
ran as fast as she could,  

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disappearing down a nearby alley and out 
of sight. The cook still holds her coin  

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purse in his massive hand, but there is no 
way she will come back to retrieve it now.

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The man with the knife turns on the cook with 
a roar of primal rage. He slashes at the giant  

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with his knife, but it merely glances off of the 
enormous man's tough skin, not drawing so much  

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as a single drop of blood. He tries again, and 
again, but fails to make even a mark. Frustrated,  

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exhausted, and still a little bit hungry, 
the giant grabs hold of the attempted killer,  

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lifts him into the air, opens his mouth wide, and 
swallows him whole in a single gulp. The knife,  

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still stained with the blood of its 
previous victims, clatters to the ground.

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The cook sighs, and tucks the coin purse into 
his pocket. Then, he continues on his way,  

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walking out of London, and on to the next 
chapter of his life's grand adventure. He  

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has no idea that his climatic meal in Whitechapel 
was none other than the infamous Jack the Ripper,  

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and the people of London will never know of the 
unintentional act of heroism he committed that  

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day. They will only remember the fear, and 
the sight of a giant devouring a man alive.  

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But soon enough, that will fade from memory, 
replaced with relief when no new victims are  

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found, and then replaced again with a mystery 
that will endure for hundreds of years.

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Though that cook was no Ripper, he was also,  

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clearly, no ordinary man. Before they 
decided to drive him out of town,  

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the people of Whitechapel had, unbeknownst to 
them, been eating and drinking with SCP-082.

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SCP-082 is, according to his genetic 
makeup, a perfectly ordinary human.  

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However, one look at SCP-082 makes it 
clear that he is far from ordinary.  

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Some sort of external process has caused him to 
grow to an enormous size, standing at eight feet  

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tall, and weighing around 700 lbs. Foundation 
researchers are divided in opinion over the  

00:10:24.420 --> 00:10:30.000
exact cause of SCP-082's unique proportions. 
Some theorize that it is some sort of mutation,  

00:10:30.000 --> 00:10:34.620
others propose an extreme hormone imbalance, 
some believe it to be chemical in nature,  

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while others insist that only a supernatural force 
could be responsible for such a dramatic deviation  

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from the norm. Whatever the case may be, SCP-082 
is a formidable and visually impressive specimen.

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His head is bald and slightly pointed, 
his chin and jaw are large and round,  

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his nose is bulbous, and his eyes are dark 
and sunken. His body has a high-fat content  

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but also contains notable muscle mass, and his 
physical strength should not be discounted.  

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His forearms have a circumference of around 
28 inches, and his fists are nearly an entire  

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foot across the knuckles. Suffice it to 
say, he is not the sort of opponent you  

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would want to come up against in a fight, and 
certainly not someone to antagonize. Though,  

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medical examinations of his body indicate that 
at least a few likely ill-fated individuals have  

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tried over the years. His skin is covered with 
scars, and though his X-rays are difficult to  

00:11:24.600 --> 00:11:28.380
read due to the density of muscle tissue, 
scans have indicated that there are dozens  

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of bullets and several blades, from knives 
and swords alike, buried in the man's flesh.

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Clearly, SCP-082 has been through a great deal 
of hardship. But you wouldn't know it from his  

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disposition! He is gregarious and polite, with 
a personality as big as the rest of him. Oh,  

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that reminds me, I've been extremely rude. 
He has a name, it's Fernand. At least,  

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that's what he says. Fernand speaks fluent 
French, but is proficient in English as well,  

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though he speaks with a heavy 
accent. Whenever he does speak,  

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he does so with a smile, talking through 
his tightly-clenched and massive teeth.

00:12:03.540 --> 00:12:09.120
Occasionally, he clenches these teeth so hard that 
his gums will begin bleeding from the effort. The  

00:12:09.120 --> 00:12:14.220
reason for this is unknown, but the SCP Foundation 
considers it "normal behavior" for Fernand,  

00:12:14.220 --> 00:12:18.720
whatever that means. I have my own personal 
theory regarding Fernand's penchant for  

00:12:18.720 --> 00:12:23.220
clenching his teeth, but I won't get into 
that just yet. Fernand does occasionally  

00:12:23.220 --> 00:12:27.600
open his mouth all the way and separate his 
teeth, but only when he is eating or singing.

00:12:27.600 --> 00:12:32.700
He is quite the musical talent, serenading the 
SCP Foundation with his takes on well-known  

00:12:32.700 --> 00:12:36.840
classical music as well as long-forgotten 
drinking songs and the occasional sea  

00:12:36.840 --> 00:12:41.040
shanty. He loves to sing while cooking, 
which he is permitted to do under strict  

00:12:41.040 --> 00:12:45.600
Foundation supervision. He is allowed access 
to a rudimentary set of cooking implements  

00:12:45.600 --> 00:12:49.380
whenever he prepares his food, including 
a butcher knife that he also uses to shave  

00:12:49.380 --> 00:12:53.820
his unusually thick facial hair. He is given 
various ingredients to prepare on request,  

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with the stipulation that these ingredients 
must not be too expensive, or human in origin.

00:12:58.320 --> 00:13:01.920
In spite of his off-putting appearance 
and tendency to speak through his teeth,  

00:13:01.920 --> 00:13:06.780
Fernand is easily one of the more likable 
anomalies contained by the Foundation. He  

00:13:06.780 --> 00:13:12.360
doesn't express overt hostility like SCP-682, nor 
does he attempt to diagnose staff with any sort  

00:13:12.360 --> 00:13:18.960
of pestilence like SCP-049. All he seemingly 
wants to do is cook, sing, and play dress-up.

00:13:19.800 --> 00:13:25.020
Did I mention his costume trunk yet? Well, he 
has one. Some of his favorite outfits include  

00:13:25.020 --> 00:13:29.760
a tuxedo, complete with top hat and a monocle, 
a military uniform circa the French Revolution,  

00:13:29.760 --> 00:13:35.040
a ball gown that comes with an elegant fan and 
matching beaded purse, and a clown costume that  

00:13:35.040 --> 00:13:39.660
includes a wig and a trick, water-squirting 
flower in its pocket. New costume pieces are  

00:13:39.660 --> 00:13:43.920
made on request, in order to keep Fernand's 
morale high. According to my findings,  

00:13:43.920 --> 00:13:48.000
in-house costumers are currently hard at 
work making Fernand a detective costume,  

00:13:48.000 --> 00:13:53.400
a chef's hat, and a set of footie pajamas. 
Fernand is an indisputable charmer, greeting  

00:13:53.400 --> 00:13:58.740
Foundation researchers with a wide smile, a joke, 
and, more often than not, an invitation to join  

00:13:58.740 --> 00:14:04.680
him for dinner. Unfortunately, those same staff 
members occasionally find themselves on the menu.

00:14:05.460 --> 00:14:11.100
In spite of all his endearing qualities, Fernand 
has the unfortunate habit of routinely snapping,  

00:14:11.100 --> 00:14:16.620
giving in to his voracious appetite, and eating 
his visitors alive. He doesn't intend to do so,  

00:14:16.620 --> 00:14:20.220
and frequently expresses regret 
at his poor manners. After all,  

00:14:20.220 --> 00:14:24.060
having company for dinner doesn't 
mean you eat your company. But still,  

00:14:24.060 --> 00:14:27.600
he can't help himself, no matter 
how recent his latest meal was.

00:14:28.440 --> 00:14:30.780
Though I have yet to confirm this hypothesis,  

00:14:30.780 --> 00:14:36.000
I believe this cannibalistic impulse to devour 
others may be the reason for Fernand's constant  

00:14:36.000 --> 00:14:40.560
clenching of his teeth. Whether consciously 
or not, I think he is attempting to hold off  

00:14:40.560 --> 00:14:45.480
on attacking for as long as he can, before he 
inevitably succumbs to the hunger once more.  

00:14:46.080 --> 00:14:50.460
When his gums bleed, it could be a sign that 
one of his attacks is drawing near. Again,  

00:14:50.460 --> 00:14:56.040
I have yet to confirm this. But it seems entirely 
possible. It's unlikely that Fernand will ever  

00:14:56.040 --> 00:15:00.900
be able to verify this for himself, as his 
connection to the truth is tenuous at best.

00:15:01.740 --> 00:15:05.460
Though he is highly intelligent in terms 
of his memory, puzzle-solving skills,  

00:15:05.460 --> 00:15:10.140
and grasp of language, Fernand struggles to 
differentiate between fact and fiction when  

00:15:10.140 --> 00:15:15.360
consuming media. He assumes that any movie or 
television show he watches is depicting a real  

00:15:15.360 --> 00:15:21.000
person and that any book he reads is essentially 
a biography. This doesn't limit his enjoyment of  

00:15:21.000 --> 00:15:25.800
this media. On the contrary, he gets a great deal 
of joy from watching films and reading books,  

00:15:25.800 --> 00:15:30.960
particularly works of fiction revolving around 
Hannibal Lecter, who Fernand has described as  

00:15:30.960 --> 00:15:35.100
his "Favorite person," and someone he 
would very much like to meet one day.

00:15:35.100 --> 00:15:39.600
To make matters even more interesting, 
Fernand does understand the concept of  

00:15:39.600 --> 00:15:44.160
lying. He is able to identify when someone 
is lying directly to him, and also displays  

00:15:44.160 --> 00:15:47.760
signs of being a compulsive liar himself, 
particularly when it comes to his personal  

00:15:47.760 --> 00:15:52.980
history. Over the course of his containment, 
he has claimed to be: a vampire, a homunculus,  

00:15:52.980 --> 00:15:57.900
beloved Sesame Street character Big Bird, also 
beloved actor and wrestler Andre the Giant,  

00:15:57.900 --> 00:16:02.700
Napoleon Bonaparte, French comic book character 
Obelix, the Foundation's own Dr. Bright,  

00:16:02.700 --> 00:16:07.440
The Incredible Hulk, Alexander the Great, 
Captain Hook, and detective Sherlock Holmes.

00:16:07.440 --> 00:16:12.960
He has also claimed, at different times and once 
on the same day, to be both Dr. Frankenstein  

00:16:12.960 --> 00:16:18.120
and Frankenstein's Monster. When called out 
directly on these lies, Fernand offers only this  

00:16:18.120 --> 00:16:24.480
explanation: "But I only lie when it's through my 
teeth!" Which, I have to admit, is pretty funny.

00:16:25.020 --> 00:16:30.480
SCP-082, Fernand, is currently contained 
in enlarged living quarters in Armed  

00:16:30.480 --> 00:16:35.820
Bio-Containment Area-14. As he is unfazed 
by most standard weaponry, his cooperation  

00:16:35.820 --> 00:16:40.500
has been ensured through deception rather than 
physical force. Fernand has been led to believe  

00:16:40.500 --> 00:16:44.700
that he is the acting King of France, placed 
in a secret palace for his own protection from  

00:16:44.700 --> 00:16:49.740
potential assassins. Any personnel that interacts 
with Fernand must address him as if he were,  

00:16:49.740 --> 00:16:53.700
in fact, the King of France, and any 
deviation from the charade is met with  

00:16:53.700 --> 00:16:58.740
swift discipline. Any housekeeping done in 
082's containment area must be performed by  

00:16:58.740 --> 00:17:03.240
Class D personnel only, as it poses too 
much of a risk to non-disposable staff. 

00:17:03.840 --> 00:17:08.880
Guards assigned to SCP-082's containment 
will receive Level-2 clearance, but are  

00:17:08.880 --> 00:17:14.400
not permitted to interact directly with SCP-082, 
no matter how friendly he is, no matter how many  

00:17:14.400 --> 00:17:19.200
knock-knock jokes he tells them, and no matter how 
he tries to entice them into a round of karaoke.

00:17:20.100 --> 00:17:24.000
SCP-082 is a curious mix of 
congenial and threatening,  

00:17:24.000 --> 00:17:28.860
a consummate host who loves to sing and cook 
for anyone willing to sit at his table. He's  

00:17:28.860 --> 00:17:33.420
also strong enough to snap a spine in half, 
and has teeth that can crack open skulls,  

00:17:33.420 --> 00:17:36.720
a skill that he demonstrates 
with stomach-churning regularity.

00:17:36.720 --> 00:17:42.060
Still, he seems to genuinely enjoy the company 
of others, and has an earnest, playful spirit.  

00:17:42.060 --> 00:17:48.960
From his giving spirit to his diet, SCP-082 really 
gives a new meaning to the word, "humanitarian."  

00:17:48.960 --> 00:17:53.640
If you ever have the chance to meet him, just be 
careful not to let your guard all the way down,  

00:17:53.640 --> 00:17:58.860
because there's a fine, fine line between 
being his dinner guest, and being his dinner.

00:17:58.860 --> 00:18:04.020
Check out the Dr. Bob Patreon and become 
a junior researcher today! Now go and  

00:18:04.020 --> 00:18:09.540
watch another entry from the files of Dr. 
Bob, like SCP-2611 Large and In Charge.