What if there was a person whose life was a Lovecraftian nightmare? What if he had a blog? Enjoy.


Cults, I hate cults. They are not so bad when they are secret and impotent—I mean, sure, they try to pull off some sort of malicious hocus pocus, but they are almost always taken down by some random kid in a triumph of hilarity. It is when they actually manage to succeed in calling forth their malevolent deity that things start to go downhill. All of a sudden your town is reduced to gibbering morons and folks screaming for their lives as they run away. Though to be sure, the latter is a minority in the village of morons turned village of gibbering morons.

Where the hell are those screaming townspeople going to run to? Sooner or later that tentacled godling they summoned in the cavern below the lake will roust itself from its near-slumber. What then? The thing isn’t going to feast on its followers, not while there are plenty of fleshy meals running in terror towards the next town in the path of conversion. In this race between a old school god of horrifying terror and some alcoholic smoker running at full speed, who do you think will win? Yeah, my money is going to be on Manyconsonants the Unpronounceable.

To be honest, I do not even understand these cults in the first place. If there is one thing to be sure of, it is that your new god will not be ushering you into some sort of afterlife paradise. It is a horrible, tentacled beast-god of Lovecraftian proportions—sooner or later it will get hungry and there will be nothing around to eat because you weren’t quite bright enough to learn a way to transport the tonnage from one lake to another. It will look around and there you’ll be, right there in tentacles reach, a tasty little morsel to sate the god’s hunger until someone else walks too close.

Obviously someone has to clean up this mess. The kid from before has been turned into some lobotomized servant to High Jackass of the Cult, so it is too late for him to do it. That guy with all the guns already packed up his stuff and ran away as fast as he could. The priests are all on their knees praying to their God, trying their best to do nothing at all beyond denying that anything is going on. I can tell you this much though, if you want to get away from a cult-born deity, make sure you have a priest handy. Those gods eat them like bonbons. Priests and children, though I know of so few who are heartless enough for the latter. Still, if you find yourself in such a position, there is always the option.

Back to the mess and having to clean things up. You know who is left to that? You don’t do you? No, you were off running away or drinking the communal offering to become the latest in the long line of gibbering morons or maybe you are one of the cultists yourself. I am left to clean things up and I don’t like to do it. Not. One. Bit. I am not even sure how it is I get suckered into doing it. One minute I am enjoying a beer and watching the game, the next I have some ancient sword, a few sticks of dynamite, and a book that I can’t understand. You can bet that the book is not “How to Destroy Old Gods for Dummies.” No, this book is made of human skin and appears to be written in blood—if there is a title I can’t find it and it was likely slobbered away by some ancient god of ooze.

Here’s the thing, you can’t kill the gibbering morons. Oh, you would think, “Hey, wouldn’t it be easier…” No. That sort of thing is looked down upon when the authorities wake up from their stupidity or show up out of the blue several hours too late. It is obvious that these people were cut to pieces with a sword and guess who happens to be walking around with one? Yeah, can you believe that the police rarely take, “They were demented by an ancient evil and I was forced to take them down to save the world,” seriously?

Beyond that, I do not think that many cultists actually know what an old god looks like once it has been chopped, blown up, and finally, with the help of a near unreadable chant from the book, melted into a giant puddle of goo that fills the chamber with a wave of ichor, body parts, and what may well be ancient evil sperm. Furthermore, I don’t think they know what it is like to be trapped in that wave and have it fill nearly every orifice. I have heard cultists say how their god will bring madness upon the world, but nearly being drowned in that is twice as bad as looking upon that vile horror. It’s enough to bring tears to my eyes and vomit to my throat even thinking about it.

Cultists, please stop this behavior! Sure, a world of terror and madness and who knows what else, sounds great now, but you aren’t the ones who have to clean up the mess. No, you get eaten and leave the hard part for people like me. You don’t have to swim through the internal juices of an ancient god, you don’t have to cut down people where they stand, and you don’t have to pay for the therapy afterwards! If you want to join a club that dresses in robes and chants things, go to church and worship that God. And if you come up with some way to bring Him to life in some lake somewhere and force me to kill Him, I will not take it kindly.

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