Saturday, September 8, 2012

The Madness That Gibbered (Part Two)

The Madness That Gibbered
Part Two

    It is with a most heavy heart and discordant soul that I travel now to the American south lands. But I've steeled my resolve and, though sleep may never find me again, I have abandoned my precious library and have found myself, after days traveling by train, aboard a bus that promises to take me into the heart of Pillock Hill, Louisiana.
    From the moment myself and my assistant, Louisa, boarded this ill-equipped transport my nerves have been most tumultuous. This conveyance, if one dares give it even that much recognition, is little more than a pile of rusted metal and worn bolts. But this death trap could almost be considered a haven of light and reassurance when one considers its driver.
    Never has the sight of a man filled me such seething dread. His eyes are bulbous and not at all unlike that of a underwater denizen of the deeps. I am reminded of a tale my poor, doomed colleague Dr. Marvin told me of the doomed town of Innsmouth. Certainly, this decrepit half breed of a man who sits in the driver's seat in front of me is one of those degenerate races of half man/ half fish that once plagued the shores of my home state of Massachusetts.

    “Wait a minute,” Amos looked up from the journal. “Does he mean Enos?”
    “Do you know anyone else who drives the bus between here and the train station in Baton Rouge?” asked Goober.
    “Well that's just not fair,” Amos said, stabbing the book with his index finger. “Enos has Graves’ Disease for chrissakes. That's why his eyes are all bulgy like that. You'd be hard pressed to find a nicer soul on this earth than Enos McGruber.”
    “Hey, I know it,” Goober said, holding out his arms. “But that ain't the worst of it. Read on.”
    Amos flicked through the pages a bit until he found one closer to the current date.
    The town of Pillock Hill is a darkened nest of debauchery and abhorrent excess. The streets are ill-maintained and the townsfolk all have the darkened cast that bespeaks of an unholy blending of the races. Surely the proprietor of the local dry goods store is in league with the foul minions of Shub-Niggurath.
    I was certain that he had cheated me out of more than half a pound of dried jerky, with which I had planned to use in the breaking of my fast, but so fearful was I in the face of his blatant and profuse criminality that I had no choice but to leave his establishment with nothing more said than a few harsh, pointless words hurled in his direction. Never again will I set foot into so damned a....

    “He's talking about Percy's place isn't he?” Amos asked. “Now this just ain't right. I mean Percy is a cheat and he'll try to get away with just about anything, but to call him a minion of...hold on...”
    “Say it out loud,” Goober said, reaching onto the porch to get the jug of shine.
    “Shub-Niggurath,” Amos gasped. “This fella's a racist! Percy may be a cheat but he's a cheat ‘cause he's a cheat and it don't have nothin' to do with....well I never!”
    “I know,” Goober said as he took haul off the shine jug. Wheezing a bit and exhaling moonshine fumes, he continued. “This professor guy is walking around thinking he's all educated, but he's really just an old Yankee bigot.”
    “Well then,” Amos said, rising up out of his rocking chair and walking over to where he had his pitchfork leaning. “I think it’s high time we showed this professor fella just what kind of religion we practice down here.”

No comments:

Post a Comment