Passing Through Innsmouth

Cthulhu took a wrong turn at the Miskatonic. Now the townspeople are nervous.

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Lovecraft’s Baby

Feeding Cthulhu was bad enough. The diaper changes were enough to make your skin crawl.

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Narlathotep Is Scary, Fool

Seriously, he’s all messed up.

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Perfect Illustration for a Fighting Fantasy Book

You turn a corner and before you stands Cthulhu, High Priest of the Old Ones. You have no choice but to fight it with your sword.

CTHULHU
SKILL 66   STAMINA 666

(Oh hell. You’re dead. Don’t even bother rolling the dice. Tear out this page and eat it. Burn this book. Check yourself into your nearest mental health facility).

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Aaaawww. You’re So Cute and Terrifying

Cthulhu will feast on your soul just as soon as he can extract himself from this frightfully restrictive and monolithic conveyance. You’ve been warned.

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Maybe Next Time

In consolation, a lot of Republicans think Obama is some kind of otherworldly demon that will usher in the apocalypse. In a sense, the electorate is just getting softened up for an eventual Cthulhu campaign win.

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No More Years

I quite like this campaign image for Cthulhu in Election 2012.

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Vote Third Party Candidate in 2012

We’ve got just the guy. Cthulhu 2012. Why vote for the lesser evil?

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Cthulhu in Storm Crow Tavern

As soon as I walked into the Storm Crow Tavern on Commercial Drive in Vancouver, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. Something was different. The crossbow and plate armor adorning the wall? No, that was perfectly normal.

Rocket Robin Hood cartoons from the late 1970s on the giant television screen? Nah. It wasn’t just really cool… I felt the true presence of evil.

Then I saw it. The grotesque green sculpture propped up on the counter of the bar. An unquestionable rendering of… Cthulhu!

Damn it. I can’t escape the little bastard.

I must return to Storm Crow once more to investigate further. Also, drink their beer.

 

The World Hears the Call of Cthulhu in the Streets

It had been been several months since Detective Rick Rhodes returned to America to recover from grievous injuries inflicted by the cult of Cthulhu; wounds that were both physical and psychological. He had succeeded in his mission to find the tattered old copy of the Necronomicon that the Professor needed. But would it make any difference, as the death cult began to threaten the whole world?

I flipped through channel after channel on the Professor’s battered old television set. It was the same thing on every station: a mob of cultists marching in the streets with their black flags, burning, smashing, intimidating everyone around them. When on rare occasion the police or security forces chose to haltingly intervene, their shows of force would invariably backfire; overwhelmed by the cult’s sheer numbers, the state’s monopoly of violence was shown to be a sham. The cult was in charge, everywhere.

The Professor finally arrived home. I heard his key turn in the lock, meeting no resistance. A look of trepidation was on his face as he entered and realized he wasn’t alone. He saw me and breathed a sigh of relief.