FESTERING BACKWATER part three

by "Jack Hammer" a.k.a. Jeff Wanshel

"...what did Cthulhu love most? Nubile women..."


At 4:30 a.m. in Scorpion City Little Nell was devoured on seventh street and avenue a, although some say it served her right in that godless town at that ungodly hour, and she had it coming when good-time all-night CTHULHU stuck his tongue down her throat and kept going.

While the odds of any one individual running into "the ghastly one", "Loathsome Cthulhu", were not great, tell that to the hapless victim. The reassuring odds against meeting up with him were more than offset by the depressing inevitability of doom
if you did.

Once settled in for a long eat-fest, Cthulhu could never be satiated, not even by wholesale-masticating hapless denizens of whatever hick-burg he was then terrorizing.

Uproar was sure to follow. For his malignant routine mocked at the very basis of society and set at naught many constitutional guarantees.

That a solidly conservative family, good voters, should settle down to meatballs, lima beans, boiled potato when up leaps Cthulhu and bolts down little Thelma, this casts a pall over the suburbs, it will never do.

Cthulhu always popped up just when least expected. Then typically one gave vent to a yowl of blood-curdling terror. For monsters, so unalike, in this are uniform, the clamor they occasion when appearing unannounced.

Philosophy teaches us to prepare for death, which can come at any moment. But it did tend to startle when Cthulhu jumped up and bit off your head with a grunt and chewed you up like a meat grinder bones and all.

Many victims dropped of shock on the spot. And perhaps these were the fortunate ones. For all living and dead were forced hastily down Cthulhu's maw and set aslosh in intestinal acids.

Cthulhu had a bottomless repertoire of slime which would pour in on you as though from a hole in space.

And what was it exactly? No doubt some unspeakable sauce.

While instinctively furtive, Cthulhu did not skulk wholly out of caution; he lurked because "that's how it's done". To stalk, to pop up slavering, to toy with hapless quarry, to joyously mangle, then feed: for these Cthulhu lived and ravened.

Distracting with lures, zeroing in for the kill, trap-science, surrounding and engulfing, in all these Cthulhu reached a kind of malignant perfection, they were his bread and butter.

It may be said in his favor that he did not kill wantonly but only to eat (and ate with gusto).

But was infliction of excruciating mortal injury chance by-product? No. Cthulhu relished the damage he did, with the bucket-of-ice self-absorption of the born ogre.

The last useless struggle and death agony not only didn't trouble Cthulhu, he doted on it. The victim writhing, frantic shrieks added a kind of spice to the proceedings, whetted Cthulhu's appetite.

Had his victims not squirmed and thrashed, roared and bellowed inconsolably amid the good smells of crackling flesh, Cthulhu would have worried he was "losing his touch".

And he enjoyed striking poses of exceptional menace which never failed to call forth the sought-for reaction.

But what did Cthulhu love most? Nubile women, nude preferably. Admixture of polyester or rayon muddied the exquisite savor, offended his gourmet sensibility; and Cthulhu had to watch what he ate, his digestion was of late less certain; things stuck in his maw.

But Cthulhu shrugged these episodes off, at bottom he could, if needs be, digest a Buick. His gastric juices, in cascade, would burn a smoking rift wide as the Hudson River Valley.

After the very first he was hooked: helplessly smitten. Cthulhu developed an addictive weakness for the female sex.

He thought breasts dandy, preferred his bosoms firm but not hard, teat upright, and served on ice, chilled slightly to make the nipples (innocent pink, worldly brown) pucker brightly.

He liked men too, preferably hard-boiled.

Cthulhu sometimes paralyzed his victim with a bite like a spider. And in pleasant weather he emerged from his screwship to griddle his prey whilst quaffing a home-brew. He saved the smoked leftovers to string up for later delectation, classifying them by planet and kill-method, and noted: best consumed before (see date).

He filled the ship to overflowing with these fragrant trophies. But when access to glimmering control panels became problematic, or if, strolling a flesh-clogged passageway, he bumped his head, then in a foul rage Cthulhu cleared out the whole vile collection of jerky, unceremoniously dumped it.

Then, wearying of the infernal routine, bored to death with jumping up pop-eyed, pseudopods gesticulating, to a gratifying chorus of howls, Cthulhu would stalk victims blatantly blocks at a time, surprising no one but just squelching inexorably into view, not relishing but ignoring their screams, all the senseless racket such as police sirens irritating him and giving him a headache. And in his haste to get on with it he would gobble them down with ill-disguised offhandedness, gulping absentmindedly. He felt guilty afterwards, because his father had oft-times admonished him: taste your food.

But in his heart (I use a figure of speech) Cthulhu relished these incidents, he looked forward with optimism to the glorious day when he would boil along unafraid, prey freely in the sun, seethe proudly, no stigma attached

To sum up. Cthulhu felt himself: indestructible, implacable, too-clever; a monster's monster. In his own opinion he was simply the best, and proved it every time he killed and ate.

We'll see.

But Cthulhu feels pangs, he must feed. He seeks form. "When in Rome do as the Romans." Cthulhu seeks:

A lure ...

Jack Hammer a.k.a. Jeff Wanshel

helileft

heliright.gif