There are few things in this world that I love with all my heart. My wife, daughter and family. Writing. A nice, cold beer after a long, hard day at work. That’s about it.

Of course there are other things I enjoy. Podcasting. Talking to you fine folk on twitter, facebook, and wherever else our paths may cross. I also enjoy stories of all shapes and sizes. I have a deep love for old horror comics of the EC kind. Tales from the Crypt. House of Mystery. Weird Tales. You know the ones. The other kind of old stories I enjoy are those of a pulp nature. Old crime noir tales with cliched characters, similes, and dames that bring nothing but trouble. You may know those, too. Lastly, I love Cthulhu. While I’ve never been what you would call a hardcore H.P. Lovecraft fan, I’ve read his stuff and enjoy the mythos he created.

I’ve been reading a lot of old comics lately to prepare myself for future endeavours. Then, to my surprise and glee, the last time I was in Pennsylvania I happened upon a comic shop that had some rags called CTHULHU TALES from BOOM! Studios. I flipped through them, liked what I saw, and bought all the issues they had. After reading them, I read them again. I was in love. With my need to feed on more Cthulhu, I reread Lovecraft’s Call of Cthulhu. That was pretty much all it took to put the wheels in motion.

What follows is a mix of old crime noir and Cthulhu and yes, there will even be some EC love thrown in for good measure. It’s going to be a serialized project in text form only, so don’t ask me when it’s going to be podcasted. It won’t be. The language is raw and gritty and will probably offend some of you. Hell, maybe most of you. To be honest, I don’t care. I’m writing this for me, and giving it to you, so I’ll do with it what I want. Of course, your feedback in the comments section is always welcomed. It’s pretty much encouraged, as it’s what keeps me going most times. There will be no set schedule as of yet for what I’m calling CTHULHU THIS!. It will come as it comes. Maybe weekly, perhaps bi-weekly. We’ll see.

I hope you enjoy reading it, because I’m having a hell of a lot of fun writing it.

~JM

CTHULHU THIS!

PART 1

Everyday I walk the streets of this city, smelling its stench. They cling to me like a piece of linen. Assaulting me until I can do nothing but go back to my apartment and wait for someone to call, while choking down my own bile. Their conversations are like a factory line. Same shit new day. I hear them as I trudge along. Inside the coffee shops and shopping malls, outside the cafes and bistros. My ears vibrate like a cell phone, taking in every call. No I.D. is needed. I know who they are. They’re the people who go to work, do their jobs, and go home to beat their wives and husbands, diddle their kids, sell some smack, choke themselves with a cum stained stocking. They are the bottom feeders. Leeches. And somewhere there’s someone who needs me to sort it all out for them because they’re too weak and feeble to do it themselves. Everyone wants help, but no one is willing to help themselves.

I’m an ambulance chaser. A leech of a different kind. I don’t go to you, you come to me. I’ll tell it to you straight and empty your wallet with no strings attached. It’s what I do. I’ll give you the results, but there’s no guarantee you’ll like them. That’s not my problem, honey. Your husband was fuckng that rubbed glove stuffed water bottle long before I came along. Now it’s up to you to do something about it. I just confirm suspicion and in this place, everyone’s a suspect.

Have a nice day. Here’s my card.

I’ve seen and done a lot of strange things in my line of work. You don’t get to where I am by simply hiding in the bushes with a telephoto lens like the paparazzi. It takes creativity. You gotta blend in. Go with the flow. Shake a hand or two.

How ya doing I’m an old friend of Sarah’s from college we met at that party last year I like your hair that’s a nice suit have you lost weight?

Connection. You have. To find. A connection. Something that ties us all together in this daisy chain of life. After all, we’re all going to the same orgy, so I may as well call you by your first name.

There was this one set once who suspected that her husband was a homo. How in the world he would want to play batter when he had a piece like that at home was beyond me. She was gorgeous. But like all gorgeous women, her head wasn’t completely intact. That’s what I’ve learned over the years. The more beautiful they are, the higher they are in the clouds. Fuck the 30,000 foot ceiling. They’re shootin for the moon.

She wanted me to find the truth, so I did.

First I followed him around like a rough case of herpes, and when that turned up nothing I got in close. Real close. Introduced myself to him at a night club and we got friendly. After three months I went back to the wife and gave her the photos of her man bobbing up and down like a sea buoy on my shaft.

You gotta find a connection. Remember?

She paid in full and I fattened my nest egg.
Last I heard she was getting her muffin topped by a gal named Silky. Serving twenty-five to life for murder.
That’s the biz, as the saying goes.

But nothing, and I mean nothing, tops this one gig I had. Weirdest trip I ever went on, and if you’re not ready to say goodbye to everything you think you know about this crazy life, then maybe I shouldn’t tell you. Perhaps you’d be more comfortable in your Snuggie, playing with your Slap Chop and not knowing what’s really out there. Something tells me that’s not the case. You want… no…you need to know. Don’t you? It’s gnawing at your brain like cancer. Well fuck it then. My conscience left me right around the time of my second wife. Maybe you can make some sense of it. I sure as hell can’t.

Last September I get a call from a guy on the outskirts. Where the seven-figure folk live. He tells me his sister’s gone missing and he wants me to find her. No problem. I’ve located a few missing persons in my day. Some dead, but most still alive. Funny thing about this wallet though, he asks to meet me in person. No one ever wants to meet me first. It’s easier for them that way. I’m usually nothing but a bad blind date to my clients after the fact. I think of how I can swing this to my advantage, and tack on an extra grand. If he batted an eyelash, I couldn’t hear it.

“Do you want anything to drink?” he asks, after my ass is in the most expensive chair it’s ever been in. No, but I’d like to take a skinny in that wine glass you call a swimming hole out back.

“I hear you’re a man who knows how to find things, Mr. Chambers,” he says. “I want you to find my Caroline.”

He speaks like a hypnotist. In slow pours with a soothing body, and before I know it I feel like I just ate a Christmas ham and it’s time for a nap.

I distract myself by admiring the decor. I don’t know what this guy does for a living and after looking at the stuff he’s got on the walls and mantles, I’m not sure I want to. Creatures and symbols and rivers the color of a virgin first violated, mixed with hieroglyphics that would puzzle a sand nigger. It looks old, and I don’t just mean in style, I mean old. Like he found something that history didn’t. My eyes dart back and forth like mice, letting his voice slip in between the cracks. Then they land on a piece that’s sitting alone in the corner.

A large marble pillar that’s a shade shy of forest green. Spiraling upwards from the base to the tip are words I can’t pronounce, or ever wrap my head around. Perched on top of this thing is a figure so grotesque that if you took a squid out for dinner, you’d bring it home afterward just to save your eyes from ever gazing upon it. Over sized head. Tentacles, lots of them, protruding from where it’s jaw should be. It’s crouched on hind legs and the claws run down the side of the pillar like oil. The front legs also have them. One each. One long, thick, black claw on each foot. They curl down over the edge like they’re peaking into some abyss not meant for human eyes. It’s eyes. Not eyes, but slits. Thin red slits that don’t seem to be looking out, but inwards into your soul. My soul. It doesn’t like what it sees.

I’m usually pretty good at keeping myself in check. I have to be or else I would’ve been in Arkham about the time Hoffa took a dirt nap. After lingering on that thing though, my chest has begun to tighten like dried up leather and my breathing isn’t right. Like there’s a pebble in my respirator.

“Mr. Chambers?”

His voice has brought me back to the present and I’m looking at him. What the hell just happened?

“Can you find her? Can you find my Caroline?”

I swallow glass and nod my head. Whatever will get me the fuck out of there. He hands me an envelope and tells me it’s all I’ll need to get started.

“Good luck, Mr. Chambers,” he says.

I peel out of the driveway like I’m racing the sun and that’s when it occurs to me that I never told him my name.

…to be continued

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