femurs discarded by Santino after he had removed the DNA, for the fire.

Megwump the Archivist was last seen in her office collecting her bondage gear for her annual Cthulhu hunt. Every year she would seek out the sleeping elder god, with the help of her assistant, Ms. Jabbar. And every year she would come home disappointed. But surely this year would be different. She could feel it. Down there. And just a little to the right. Oh how that spot yearned for some wgah'nagl fhtagn!

And here she was, just ten hours later, standing in a pool of blood. Fifty-nine villagers had met their death from her silver alloyed dildo. But in the fracas, Gom had run off. The remaining villagers had finally managed to subdue the Archivist. They took her to the town square and tied her up. Everyone was bringing branches and wood to set Megwump on fire. This village had had quite enough of the Cthulhu hunters.

"Candy cane!" she cried. "Candy cane, dammit! Candy cane!" But her safe word fell on deaf ears. The time for toasting was at hand.

But as the villagers stepped forward with their torches and pitchforks, a cry went out from nearby. And then, one by one, the villagers began to fall. The pattern was the same: a stab at the neck, followed by unconsciousness. Megwump's ass fell from her body as she laughed. "Ha!" she cried. "I see you've met my Gom Jabbar!" She cackled into the abyss. But the villagers did not laugh, because (having not read Dune) they didn't get the joke. And also because Megwump's assistant was killing them, which served to make them very cross.

After the remaining villagers had split the scene, Gom untied her boss. Megwump was crying. "Once again, my dear Ms. Jabbar, I have failed to find the elder gods. How long must I stare into the infinite blackness of despair? When will I finally get to greet my beloved Cthulhu, and place upon him the nipple clamps of despondency?"

"Yeah, my Lady, I don't even know what the fuck that means. Shall I clean up this mess?"

"No; the sleeping ones in R'lyeh will feast on the souls that we have slaughtered. Leave everything as is. Tomorrow is another year."

And so the bodies were left for the elder gods; and the branches and wood were left for the fire.

but you said what I was gonna say.

I avoided reading this one till I'd finished mine so I wouldn't be tempted to plagiarize and I must say it is just as disturbing as a match game should be.

I'm workin' on sumthin' and wanted to make the thread easy to find.

That was just epic.

I get to read a lot of references to it, but never quite took the plunge.
So it is always fun to see something like this.

[img][/img] oh so talented

"Megwump the Archivist was last seen in her office collecting…

...ancient texts that spoke of dark economies and baleful agonies, on scrolls of the tortured leaves of human skin, pressed and dried ages ago in the dark past when the old gods ruled and men were like unto them as ants and beetles, scurrying in endless fear of being flattened by some horn-covered, thick-scaled foot, though shaped as no foot the human mind could picture without inviting the head-shaking throes of utter madness!

They would fetch a good price at a respectable oddities auction, she thought, and the most well-envisioned and plainly executed being only a few leagues away, at the Dichemall Estate, where lived the two Dich (pronounced "Deesh&quot brothers whose shared wealth exceeded the combined ransom of every major European city north of Hannibal's former empire, now only a memory but a realm where sellers of strange spices and unearthly birds of no recognizable taxonomy, could sell the rarest of the fowl and their attendant spices for roasting, plating, garnishing and eating, after which the gourmand was driven into bouts of violent hand-waving and saucer-eyed unspeakable madness!

The Dich brothers had hoped the auction would attract such a one as Megwump. As she entered the cavernous great hall of the estate, she realized that only she and the brothers breathed air in that place and the arrival of other bidders was a false prospect and should she wait for their appearance it would not occur for millennia and she would fall, despondent, into that yawning pit of blackest darkness that was the home of those tortured souls bound to the frenzied knee-slapping horrors of irreducible madness!

"So what have you to offer our antiquary appetites?" said one Dich to Megwump.

She pulled a hoary volume from her cache of relics and presented it to the scion's tubersclerotic hands. "I offer the Dyseconomicon by the Mad Pseudo-Mormon Bech (pronounced "Beesh&quot of the Dark Glen. It is the only copy known, sir, of this execrable work, suppressed for months by coat-brushing clerics and mud-hopping dog catchers alike."

"And the price?"

Megwump cackled. "Your immortal soul, sir. That is all." And though she planned it only as a joke, the acoustics of the great hall amplified and echoed her cackle, which rang for several minutes, burrowing its way through the ancient walls of the mansion, built of lichen-covered stone cut ages ago in a distant, unremembered quarry by syphilitic monkeys, till it caught the ears of a scullery maid on the third floor, who recognized the unbearable and unthinkable tones of those who had been pulled to the cadaverous bosom of irreconcilable madness!

"Let me read a little out loud," said the other brother opening the tome. His irreproducible utterances vomited out of his gaping piehole like the sour egg-sack that poured from a ritual wound in the cracked skin of his mother's sore foot some moments before his own birth, and one month before she plummeted into the vortex of hair-whitening, electric slide line-dancing madness!

Where the hell was I? Oh, yeah…

He had not even finished reciting the book's dedication when the mansion shook and a foul storm swelled within its mouldy chambers. All three were thrown to the floor by a bitter, skin-scraping wind that subsided after a few hours to reveal what appeared to be a giant, corpulent human infant, easily several yards in height and girth. Its spotted flesh rippled in whatever remaining breeze was left of the tempest and soon it began to cry…

"Waaaaaaaaaaaah!"

…not only from its snot-slicked lips but from a hundred other mouths that screamed from every fold and flap of talcum-powdered derma...

"Waaaaaaaaaaaaah!"

Megwump's studies of crumbling grimoires told her that this was the old god Gun Huggoth and that it was thirsty and there was only one thing that could slake its plumbless desires.

"Waaaaaaaaaaaaah!"

"Send for some tea!" she pleaded with the Dich brothers and the one with tubersclerotic hands pulled a cheese-snack-embedded embroidered cord repeatedly. Servants soon arrived with heaping teapots and as the fragrance of Red Rose wafted to the crusty nostrils of the old one, the crying stopped. Had anyone imagined a more soul-shattering sound than that of the creature's wailing, it would have had only half the abrasive effect on human ganglia as the old one's slurping of tea from pot after pot. When all the refreshment was done, the creature burped and tinkled and pooped all at once, and do I really need to describe how terrible that was? I'm, like, running out of meaningless adjectives here!

By these various avenues of expulsion, the creature broke into smaller pieces, each with it's own mouth, and in toto they formed a quivering mass of middle-aged, poor-spelling malcontents, more pallid and flabby than the monster that spawned them, and all wearing unflattering clothes. On each head was a brimmed hat festooned with teabags. Their petulant cries and screams made the old one's bawling sound like Debussy's Clair de Lune by comparison. Realizing the unspeakable horror that had been unleashed on dear old Earth, Megwump grabbed the book, ran to the fireplace and used its fell pages as fuel…

…for the fire."

Isn't that a thrash metal band?

[img][/img]

Always wondered where the tea baggers were spawned.

such as four staplers, seventeen unopened taco bell condiment packs, a power cord for a 1978 Kitchenaid electric fry pan, two paper clips, forty-one florescent-orange 2"x2" sticky notes, a drawer, a monocle given to her by Gandolas the Alphabetizer on her tenth year anniversary at Pope Dr. Strangius' Emporium of Wicked Corporate Filing and Archiving, and misprinted letter-sized piece of corporate letterhead that read Pope Dr. Strangius' Emporium of Wicker Corporate Filing and Asschiving. I'd love to chive his ass, thought Megwump, wrapping the power cord around her neck, with a power sander. Specifically the 1954 Black and Decker Model. Goddamn, that had some orbital genius to it. A kind of orbital genius that these wanker asshole engineers nowadays are too goddamn dumb to even think of. My God, they knew how to gear back then. Damn kids nowadays, they want to do everything electronically. Like to shove a goddamn worm gear up their asses. Is that too much to ask? Damn. She got on a chair and wrapped the other end of the power cord around the ceiling fan. The staplers she put in each pocket of her pants. She opened the condiment packs and squoze them onto her neck. The paper clips she attached to her nipples. On the sticky notes, she wrote the fibonacci sequence, and stuck them to her body in a descending spiral that adhered to the sequence. She broke apart the drawer and threw its pieces on the floor. Goddamn drawers. I mean, seriously, how are people not fucking terrified by those things? Creepy-ass holding-shit abominations with their handles and their pull knobs. Probably invented by a homo. How the hell are we supposed to know what's happening when we close them? Goddamn gays. She crammed the monocle fiercely into her left eye, causing instant blindness and releasing a torrent of blood. Her life force slowly trickling down her face until it dripped hopelessly from her Bruno Maglis, she wrote with her own blood on the letterhead "Seriously, I mean it - gears! For fuck's sake. Fuck you", kicked the chair out, and instantly killed herself.

Archivists, thought Pope Dr. Strange, even though he was nowhere near Megwump and had not the ability to read minds nor any reason to care what she was thinking, sure are concerned about engineering related to gears. And they swear a lot. What the fuck. Like they're all thinking that someone's gonna ask, "Hey, why do you constantly seek out and date and want to have sex with archivists?" and the answer is gonna be "For the heat of their inflamed loins. For the fire."

thank you!

Last edited Tue Mar 19, 2013, 07:32 AM - Edit history (1)

the bodies of In The Wind's haters who seem to grow in numbers daily.
In The Wind has tried to bring joy and compassion to everyone.
Apparently, people who know her have forgotten enemies of her friends quickly become her enemies. Therefore all PMs from the haters will be fodder for the fire."

Sad.

sucks to be on the wrong side of me

Cause with what I've seen in my life, my skin is too thick to hurt me unless I let my guard down.
Oh well. There are better DUers to spend my time with.

Thanks Rabrrrrrr