As a devoted member of the Great Devourer God, I eagerly await his awakening from slumber deep in Ry'Leh. As a member of his brood, do you know how much longer the followers of the great Cthulhu will have to wait to be consumed? I am worried that if I die before he returns, he will not eat my corpse. Will he munch on the dead as well as the living? Any thoughts on how I can put my stump-lemur mind at ease?
The-not-so Giant Sulli
I feel a great deal of the chagrin, evidenced in the aged-haematoma yellow of my epidermis as I dictate this to Lab Monkey Rob (Have I mentioned that, for reasons unknown, my in-tank keyboard has gone upon the "fritz"? Sang has much manipulated it with his clever primate-like paws, and still to no avail, thus my dictating at or near Rob. And, let it be known, that though Rob has a cock the size of a fucking baseball bat and is, like, a crazy-muthafucka in the sack, he is no great secretary or taker of the dictations. Sigh.) I realize that, in columns past, I have spoken at great length, breadth and height of the Suffering to Come for your mouth-breathing, air-swimming ilk. I have spoken verbosely on such topics as the devouring of skin; the flaying of arm pits and tender regions; the slow roasting over volcanic vents; the tearing asunder of organ-meats, and the subsequent regeneration of said meats, only so that they could be torn asunder again as one floated atop the single, salty Sea of Earth, eternally broasting and screaming under the merciless rays of your quaint yellow sun. I sang the aria of baroque savagery my Once and Future Lieges were and are to enact, detailing each to minutea that such chimpish amateurs as Hieronymus Bosch might drive themselves mad to envy. My mating tentacle grew basaltically hard and reefishly sharp with such grim imaginings and, more than once I shame to divulge, my ardor overcame my reason, and my thrusts upon glassed tank wall, food-dog and/or well-meaning pressure-suited tank-maintenance-specialist led to both a loss of regard in the eyes of my cohort among the Poor Mojo's Staff, and possible structural damages to the erstwhile Tower of Glass and Steele in Foul CinCinAtti. (Another of the many serendipitous reasons that this movement north has been a blessing).
Do I mean to confess I overstated the facts? Not the slightest. All that I wrote shall come to pass— has come to pass once before, in the very least that I can recall. Agreed, it was well before I was squirted into the oceans blue by my Huge and Terribly Madre Diabolique. If you believe me not, then please turn to Genesis, chapters 6 through 9, inclusive, of your most Comical Biblios, and ponder: the rising of seas brought about by a dark and much angered God? The vast loss of folly-filled human life with the maintenance of only a seedling, inbred (or thoroughbred?) subset of lemurlings, complete with a full supply of animals to hunt, chase and devour? And remember, as is spoken at the very first of the very first testament of your Book Primary, your god glided Upon the Faces of the Deep— who among you could dispute the optical perfection of his eye? Are you catching where I am drifting, Readers Few?
But, all matters epistemological aside, all I mean to say is that I feel I may have needlessly terrified many and several Beings Humano. As the vast pleasure cruiser slipped, slowly but most surely beneath the icy Atlantic waters, they were few, those Mamas and Papas who felt obliged to tell dearest Suzzy and apple-cheecked Johnny that, yes, indeed they would most certainly perish in great and freezing agony poste-haste. When the outcome is most certain, why throw the damped blanket upon the Fires of Hope? Won't Death herself provide such service, at no extra fee, as she ferries the cold-blued tykes across the Stream Styx to their eternal groaning? (I can, in my even more perfect eye that rests inside of my mind, see the children arrayed now in their icy death, frozen and suspended in the ice of incorruptible eternity like rag dolls in lucite.)
So, then, here I find myself betwixt the lemma: upon the one tentacle, I wish to ease monkeykind, viz., their fast-approaching and most certain demise as the Elder Gods expand ever outward in both Space and Time, and upon the other tentacle (my slightly more dextrous sinister manipulator,) I wish to forever destroy your particular fear.
Oh, John Stuart Mills, had I not torn off your genitals and eaten your face, how we might in this moment debate the good of the many to the good of the few! Perhaps I am getting old, soften in the ventricles, but I am tossing the Utilitarian Concern to the currents wild, and shall seek out to coo only on the latter count:
Please rest assured, Midsized Sulli: The Walker from a Dimension Beyond Time savors both humano vivre and humano mori with equal gusto. It is, after all, the clinging Soul which sates his fickle pallete, and the Soul can be torn from the corpus no more easily than the shadow from its castor.
Best and Kindest Wishes in this New, if Final, Year,
The Giant Squid
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