Archive for November 13th, 2010

A sense of nameless dread filled me as I contemplated the remnants of the night’s repast, utensils and dishes protruding unclean from the stack in the sink like parts of a corpse exposed in an unmade grave.  Pilot lights glared at me from the dim reaches of the kitchen, crimson and baleful, the eyes of  creatures so horrible that to see them in their entirety would invite madness.  The ticking of the great clock in the living chamber of the old house penetrated the late night silence like nails being driven into the skull of an infant.

God help me, I thought.  I’ve done it.  I’ve forsaken the name of Cthulhu too often, and with a fool’s levity, and that will exact payment from me for the rest of my days, however short they may be.

The evidence lay strewn before me on the faux marble table.

Tupperware, you say?  You laugh nervously, exchange a knowing glance with your spouse.  You think of the whiteboard markers you have seen laying around the house, their tips desiccated, the telltale blue and green smudges beneath my nose.

Perhaps.  Perhaps.  Judge me if you must.  But I beg you to look at the damnable facts and heed their counsel.  If you have any sense at all you will see the truth in searing white sunlight, assemble loved ones and provisions, and drive your Subarus and Prii into the hills until the road dwindles into an EBMUD fire trail.  Then hide, hide, for the sake of whatever remains of the Sky God after the imminent holocaust, until you see that the juncture of sea and sky no longer writhes with tentacles.

For in my mocking levity I have opened a rift between the dimensions and loosed Chaos upon the mortal Earth.

The evidence.  Yes, yes … the evidence.  Two days ago, securing the remains of jambalaya I had prepared for my family (a little too much Louisiana Diablo sauce, but passable), I found four, seven, a dozen Tupperware lids, all equally sized, and not a single container.  Nothing in the icebox, nothing in the warren of storage areas surrounding the decrepit kitchen like the architecture of a drunken spider.  I cached the remains of  the meal as best I could.  The very next night, having prepared an excess of frittata, I once again attempted to leverage what I knew, without question, to be a voluminous repository of containers and lids, and – yes, you are nodding, yes – a multitude of containers and not a single lid.

In my mind’s eye I can see in the Stygian dimness of whatever interdimensional Hell Cthulhu calls home, illuminated only by the flickering, festering phosphorescence of the living, breathing walls, piles of Tupperare lids and a tottering wreckage of containers.  And Cthulhu and his horrible minions, reaching through the rift between dimensions, replacing lids with containers, containers with lids, their horrible laughter akin to the sound of children’s bones being crushed to gravel in the jaws of a great, loathsome Beast.

The laughter stops.  I hear Him coming for me, a sickening moist slither, drag, slither.  I’m sor-

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