Recently, The President of Russia V.V. Put-In was asked about what does he think of Great Chthulhu's upcoming awakening. Put-In expressed general distrust, suspicion towards Cthulhu and others like him.
This inspires me to ask the following questions
My Dearest Alexus Terriblus,
I am most glad that at least one of my many followers was keen enough to catch this missive from the great and terrible Dwarf of the North, Mr. Pohshaltzsta himself, the Dark Lord Put-In.
To begin, it is worthy of note that this report comes to us by way of the much esteemed Times of the Burg of Peter who was Sainted. This Peter was first called Simon son of Jonah, and was later re-christened by Your Meat-Lord Jesus (as was his wont) to Peter, which means The Rock in the lingua Greek. Ah, I do fondly recall Simon Peter, son of Jonah. His father I did know better, for I did free him one eve from that Great Fish of the sea — which was, as it turned out, something of a mistake, but I have not the space to expand upon that theme here. Suffice to say that ultimately Simon Peter and I made of the tag-team tangling terrible within the confines of a Hell 12-Feet-Squared he with his professional name of "The Rock," and I under the nom du guerre "The Descending Midnight Sandwich" (a name assigned to me also by the man Jesus for reasons known only to him.) He was a fine and good wrestler, yet still those were, for both of us, wayward years when we did travel the great semi-professional grappler's circuit along the shores of the southern Peloponese. He has since been obliged to degrade himself, and now only applies his People's Elbow and flying crossbody in the service of working as the Heavenly Doorman for the Common Spirits. I too know what it is like to fall from great heights into darker depths.
Let us not dwell on the degradations of The Rock, for they do bring the sadness.
Nonetheless, the Times of the Burg of his Sainted Namesake is a Paper of Record, and did report these utterences of Vladimir:
After wrapping up an online conference last Thursday, Putin took a few minutes to answer several of the most-popular questions sent in by Russian Internet users, Kommersant reported Friday. The two journalists who hosted the 130-minute webcast had largely ignored the top-rated questions submitted online from around the world, focusing instead on foreign and domestic policy issues.Put-In is indeed a canny man. "Something" indeed "more serious was behind the question."
[ . . . ]
Asked about the possible awakening of the giant mythical octopus Cthulhu, the fourth-most popular question among the more than 150,000 sent to Putin, he said that he believed something more serious was behind the question. Cthulhu was invented by novelist H.P. Lovecraft and was said to be sleeping beneath the Pacific Ocean.
Putin said he viewed mysterious forces with suspicion and advised those who took them seriously to read the Bible, Koran or other religious books.
"When did you start to have sex?" Kommersant reporter Andrei Kolesnikov then asked, verbalizing a question that was on the minds of 5,640 Internet users.
"I don't remember when I started. But I can remember the last time," Putin said.
Your Flesh Lord, the Christos, who built his church upon the well-oiled and muscled back of "The Rock," did indeed portend this "something" when he did say in the Good News according to Lucas :
"This generation is an evil generation; it asks for a sign, but no sign will be given to it except the sign of Jonah."
These are the codes in which the adept must speak: Put-In commands you all to look back to your motel-pilfered Bibles, for they are echoes of one Scripture that is Deeper and more True, a Scripture writ in the cold silence carved into your world of Sound-&-Fury-Which-Signify-Nothing. The Great Sleeper is poised to awaken, and the Put-In knows of this, has heard tell from many of the aged and ill-paid submariners in his employ who report upon secreted cabals daily. They bring brine-soaked and barnacle-encrusted news to Moscow of the tremors and tribulations of which that Christmas Tsunami in the Indian Ocean was but only one of many.
The tentacles, spread deep beneath the mantle, do flex and shimmer in a slumbering stretch, for the sun is rising high, the piercing light of God's eye is shining down into those depths, and the Dread God, the Old One, is crawling through dank levels of awareness into a New Dawn.
This is indeed an evil generation, and the sign to look toward is that of Jonah. That father of "The Rock" was just a warning. Jesus is calling you to be wary, for the death of the sea might swallow you and regurgitate you, you might dwell in her darkness for three days and then God might send the tentacles of a young squid to tickle the belly of your Beast, your tomb, and you are returned safely to this world; or, if you are not careful, it might swallow you whole and sink you away into those secret crannies of the ebon and benthic deep where you wait as a pustulated and exploded corpse for the Unknowing Maw and Unblinking Eye of the Awakened Sleeper.
Jonah is a dire threat of violence from the Bladed Shepherd of the Sky, and Put-In, the Dark Lord, knows this warning well for it casts its cool gaze on him as much as any man of the earth, breathing the dry air.
The question came to him in the city of that Sainted Doorman, whose father was spit out by that fish of the sea. "You should be so lucky," the question implied, and Put-In did but shiver up the spine.
But deeper in this is a puzzle even the Dark Lord has not teased out. For the Sleepless Sleeper and the Son of Man are but reflections of each other. When one descends, the other rises, and then we enter into that most Strangest of Eons.
When those two gods meet, the Murdered Ones, we enter into the age of the triple-sixes, the Tiphareth, the sixth sphere, and then who can say what comes of any of our physical forms? It is the age of the Sun's Son, the age of the Christos, the Age of Light, and this has always been seen as a stark and beautiful age, an age of searing contemplation.
But will it be so? Will the searching light, the gaze that falls down upon us, be an unmitigated good? It shall rouse the Sleeper and his kin, I shall say that.
All things shall return, Hell shall be emptied, and we shall be upon this earth all one in the flesh that we last had.
Bodied Put-In, who cannot remember his first blubbery comeuppance, shall Put-In again and again and again, his body unending.
Shall you follow in his sweaty path? Put-In and In and In and In and In? But to what avail?
When that Strange Aeon is upon us, when death has died, what of the pleasures of the flesh? Pleasures whose focus is the petite mort that begets still more flesh?
I do not need to use any of my varied and arcane resources to contact the Great Sleeper of R'lyeh and ask him of what he thinks of Put-In, or of this puzzle.
His being is a manifest answer. Cthulhu is the body, the slithering tentacled matter of our existence, and he is awakened by the numinous Light of the Son of Suns. The searching fiery eye of the Shepherd God is cast down through the Air, past the mountains of the Earth, deep into the black tarn of the benthic and watery abyss to awaken that phlegmatic body. The sleeper is a toothed maw surrounded by a mass of writhing, and its sleep (can we even call it "Him"?) is troubled, penetrated, by the long shaft of the sunlight, and in this act is Life Everlasting, the Eon, the Thousand Years.
And we are left here in our animate corpses, Deathless, the whole of the planet over-cast with our shuffling and our moans.
Cthulhu need not speak, need not pass along its judgment. Cthulhu is the judgment, the corruption of flesh made flesh, a monument to this evil generation, and I, his agent, am Manifest.
And to this Put-In does call us all to "look!"
Put-In. Or Put Out.
I cannot answer this for you.
As such, I have writ a postal card and had my typist, Jarwaun, attach sufficient postage and deposit it in the Outgoing Mail. The Sleepless Dreamer is likely to reply within the next four to six weeks, at which time I will post its thoughts on the topic.
Dear Readers, why do you insist on asking such questions, and inviting me into such depressive maunderings? This is not what Friends do unto Friends.
The Giant Squid
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