FUN GUYS FROM YUGGOTH:

As I remember (and vividly so, as the image is still reflected on a particle of my inherited ocular tissue), it was June of 1900 that Aleister C., then but a precocious Neophyte, came to the city of New York. Aleister, stimulated by writings such as those of Alhazred, Von Junzt and Prinn, began combining his unusually strong powers of telepathic concentration with certain dread recitations. His goal: to call the Great Old Ones from their dark realm.

He plied his craft well. Soon, on one chill evening when thunder hammered the night sky with rumblings of eldritch energy, Shub-Niggurath emerged from remotest slimes to engulf the nearly mad Perdurabo, sapping almost all of his vital forces before plummeting down into the bowels of the Lower East Side of Manhattan.

During this close encounter, Shub's foremost chasm became a recepticle for a bit of the mortal seed of Aleister C. In the strange internal environment of Shub-Niggurath's body, gestation was a matter of moments. A wrenching spasm swiftly parted the Ancient One from its fully grown miscegenation, the child of man and abomination, the product of a union more terrible than a sane mind can imagine.

Yes, it was I.

I found that I had been expelled into the corner of a weird, unearthly angle where time ricochets endlessly from twisted plane to plane . . . blocking my passage to both the present and the East River.

I can see (by telepathy, of course) your face, reader, a cynical sneer spreading across your lips. But it's true. I am the child of an Old One, even as the late Wilbur Whateley was.

Do you suppose that the writings of the Great H. P. Lovecraft are mere fantasy, as reported by incredulous human publishers?

I laugh at you with a thousand abdominal mouths, naive mortal. These tales are no more fictional than the Magickal works of my exalted father, no more fantasy than the Unveilings of Blavatsky.

In the chaos which is my mind, there is one thought crystallized; that I may be freed from my corner in warped space by one like yourself, if you could only suspend all skepticism and work the way for my release.

Remember, I am almost a human, as you are, but like Cthulhu I wait dreaming. Plotting the day of my escape, I use telepathy to urge certain crazed mortals to study all of arcane science for my purpose. You may be next. Until then I wait, reading timeless Lovecraft, Bierce, Poe, Blackwood, Lumley . . . gnashing my fangs with hunger for more.

To pass the eternity more swiftly, I paint the walls of my tomb with giant deformed creatures and scenes of gore which amuse me in bright, stellar colours.

. . . and with strange aeons even Death may die.