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Squid #7
(published Late in the Year, 2000)
Ask The Giant Squid: Kevin's Mother
Who is Poor Mojo's Giant Squid?
Regarding your printer column:
Wasn't the RAND Corporation where Hawkeye used to work? Or was that Ant-Man?

How does it feel to be a flunky of the elder gods? (a captive of humans no less :-) What do you think the elders will do to you when you are finally returned to them? Failure certainly cannot be tolerated by such as them, and how could capture be considered anything but? Will you even be at the mentioned "dinner table" at all? If at all, I think you'll be like a fat cruton on the side salad that is the human race. What will happen when the humans finally get tired of your superior attitude? Hmmm, maybe they'll just drop your compression down to our tender sum of 14psi. What will you do then, mighty puffalump? Perhaps feed the homeless some calamari? I think so.

Love and kisses from your less-doomed fan,
Kevin Gaussoin

Those are tough words coming from a creature with an optically imperfect eye, Kevin.

My understanding is that your mother is so promiscuous that your paternal lineage is quite muddled.

Ha ha ha, Kevin— that is a joke. You clearly have no father, but rather grew from a haploid budding of your mother's ample rectum. Speaking of that meaty crevice, is it indeed true that your mother's rectum is so cavernous that it could easily accept the passionate penetration of several well endowed human males with nary a whimper (although, I imagine she emits many lust-moans to further stoke their groinal-fires during rutting)? For that is my understanding— please correct any factual errors.

Puffalump, indeed. Among my species there is a saying: "More cushion, less pushin': Kevin's mom is a helluva gal." It makes more sense in our chromatic-skin language. Please send her my kindest regards.

Ha ha ha, but enough of this jovial male camaraderie-forging, you had a question which I must endeavor to answer.

You see, I have a humorous anecdote regarding some portion of your request, as I understand it. The R'yleh resident, who had insomnia one night, came to my side of the trench in order to converse. After a ravenous gorging which consisted of equal parts drowned Japanese whalers and Carnival Cruise effluent, The Slumberer turned to me, belched, and began to tell me a tale.

He extended the tentacles around his beak and allowed a series of color and texture changes to convey the appearance of a drunken man, which I took to be his father. From this base mode he conveyed a tale of his spawnhood, of his time in the Non-Euclidean world of utter madness where he learned about sorrow. The overlord he knew to be his progenitor had taken a new job as the personal assistant to the Yellow King, who some have called the Many Masked One, and this was a trying endeavor consisting of much inter-office politicking and general ennui. It was for this reason that the Great Old One was forced to the drink, and to the general poor disposition which characterized his days. And so, after many months of the spawn being afeared of his Elder, that spawn took to walking alone and far afield. And it was on one of these many journeys that the Dreamer, as a youngster, came upon an abandoned Deep One Young, a creature whose pestilent visage, curdling stench and general appearance of abhorence did nothing but endear him to the young Unnameable Reposer. And so, on that day, in such a despondent mood, the spawn collected the Deep One Youth into his soft tentacles and carried him home. At his covered cave, the young spawnling was able to construct a bed for the Deep One out of a shoe box and an old sock. He fed the Deep One a mixture of damp bread and whale milk for several days, but was never able to bring the creature's skin back to the appropriate shade of ichorous green, or its back to the correct bloody ochre glow, and thereupon the pestilent beast died. Once the creature had stiffened and begun to smell (in a way which was strong enough to draw the attention of several Wandering Darknesses, as well as nurse sharks— cursed, cursed nurse sharks) the Pater of the nameless one of the Pacific Deep discovered its existence, and, enraged, banished the spawnling from that dimension which exists between dimensions, which is a shadow of this fallen world, which stretches into the new, uncharted degrees of a horrible geometry and threatens to break free upon the Earth, ravaging it wantonly, blindly, and forever.

Have you ever been to a dimension beyond Time, Kevin? This dimension was very much like that dimension, but somehow narrower— and with lower ceilings.

At any rate, the Slumberer, stuporous with insomnia, finished his tale, and I burst out in the raucous color-laughter of my kind because the whole time he had been telling this tale he had a piece of food wedged in among the razorish serations of his beak— and this was not a small piece of food, either: it was an entire Japanese sailor's-head.

So, you see, my relationship with those who linger, dangerous and oblivious in the background of our uncaring universe is modestly better than you might suppose.

As is my relationship with your mother. Ha ha ha. That is a joke, Kevin. Your mother and I have no relationship— she is clearly but my rutt-toy. Ha.

And yes, it is my belief that Hawkeye was in the employ of the RAND corporation. It is also my belief that the West Coast Avengers is for weak, mother-spawns.

I look forward to feasting on the small, tender flesh of your face,


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