Too awful. Don’t read this!

It was a dark and stormy cauldron of boiling fat that great scaly Cthulhu tended, in the cavernous stony depths of the Miskatonic University Cafeteria. The churn and bubbling, the dry and scabrous slither of his slowly circling tentacles, the frightened, witless cries of the starveling catechumens, combined to emit a resonance to erode one’s very vitals.

“Great Cthulhu,” cried one over the awful tumult, “When will the deep fried Mars bars be ready?”

“Dread me and fall to silence,” came the blast of his vast & mighty intelligence, billowing and echoing through the wretches before him as though they were but motes in a standing wave of hatred. “Quit joggling my tentacles, it’ll be ready when it’s ready,” he elaborated. Silence great scaly Cthulhu was not to experience, as once again they cried out in anticipatory, slobbering horror.

“I’ve heard my pancreas will implode,” one whimpered, after many fumbling attempts to speak.

“I’ve heard his Grisly Scaliness will make us slam ‘buca shots afterwards until we all puke,” mewled another.

“I’ve heard he’ll charge us $5 and I blew all my money last night at the rub’n’tug in Ten-Tackle Alley,” whispered another, whose staring eyes and ashen pallor stood out even in that brutish assemblage of livid, ill-clad humanity.

“Man,” said another, not so bereft of fellow feeling as to be rendered unable to respond to such desperation, “I don’t know much, but you sure don’t want to owe that dude money. He makes Jabba the Hutt look like Stan Laurel.”

“It is time. The sacrifice is about to commence,” came the weight of great scaly Cthulhu’s thought, beating its way through the crushed matter of their brains, and the grey green, ichorous tentacle plucked up a skimmer and laid the first deep fried Mars bar on a plate with a side of tempered vanilla ice cream.

“I thought the frat hazing sucked,” breathed one, cherishing the breath that he knew was close to his last.

With hands that shook and trembled with such violence that clutching an implement was scarcely possible, the fear-frisson wracking their frames to a feverous pitch, they commenced their hideous repast.

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Born when atmospheric carbon was 316 PPM. Settled on MST country since 1997. Parent, grandparent.

4 thoughts on “Too awful. Don’t read this!”

  1. I can hardly stop him from so doing, if he is so inclined. Fudk, I screwed up some spelling. Must bo gack and fix.

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