March 6, 1925

Dear Sir,

I am writing this letter to you in the hopes that it finds you in the greatest of moods. The news that my mail carries to your promised ears is to be the news that is good to us all. Before I ramble on in my own way let me take a time to introduce myself, I am Hutulc Thanafg, a former ambassador’s son of most upstanding. My father has passed on to the world of the beyond; he puffs his pipe with the spirits of the land. In this death he has left me the key to the thing which you call that thing which shall not be named. I am sure that you have heard of this and I need not mention any more the import of what it is that I am saying. This provides us with an opportunity of unequaled providence. I only need some bits of information before I can engage you in a time that will be unforgettable to you and your family.

I trust in you that the key to that which is unnameable will be guarded with all your appendages. Without this I can not promise to you that the deal that we will enter will be a wonderful deal for you. As I made mention of earlier, all I need is some details of your home address, bank post information, and the location of your first born son. With this information in hand I can make post haste the arrangements to have the key sent to you across the expanse of the ocean. It is hard for me to imagine losing sight of the key but your name has been recommended to me by those in the positions of the highest standing in my country. I know that you will not do anything other than protect the key until my imminent arrival in the United States. For this small favor I offer to you the sum of $5 million dollars to be deposited in the account linked from the information requested above.

Looking forward to your fondest reply,
Hutulc Thanafg

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March 16, 1925
Mr Thanafg,

How can I let this opportunity pass me by? Please find enclosed the details that you requested. If you need anything else please write me as soon as you can. I am waiting.

Patiently Yours,

H.A. Wilcox

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March 21, 1925
Sir Wilcox,

With this letter the key that was mentioned before shall be found. Please guard it and let it not from your sight.

Graciously yours,
Hutulc

———————————
March 24, 1925
Hutulc,

What I have done? How can I right the wrongs of my curious ways? Hutulc, it is only you that I can turn to in this darkest hour. Please help me…

HAW

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April 3, 1925

Foolish Mortal,

You have failed. Your ancestors will rue the day that you used that key to unleash my indescribable horror. I will escape this dark continent and claim the flesh of your children and the wilted flower of your wife as my own.

Hutulc

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Deciding to decide you relinquish your freedom to decide.

Master:

Well ain’t that just as sweet as a peach in a pickle vat.

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What American author wrote an epic poem that is longer than Milton’s Paradise Lost? The answer surprised me.

But Time the cruel, whose smooth way
Is feline, patient for the prey
That to this twig of being clings;
And Fate, which from her ambush springs
And drags the loiterer soon or late
Unto a sequel unforeseen.
— Jerusalem “Nathan” I.17.331-337, Clarel

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What would we have in this world without stars? Not much, some gases, maybe… We can ponder life without stars, yet our very pondering would be absent if it were not for the stars. Metal, silicon, complex chains of protein and amino acid — all thanks to the stars. The Stars might be our destination but what is our starting point?

The stars they do not worry or care, they just are. We on the other hand, hurry, hurry, to the next banality. Missing our chance at stardom. So disconnected are we, that we overload the beauty that is a star with the ultimate in banality: a person, idolized, captured on film, enshrined by the masses into the collective conscious. Hardly a star, hardly even human. We can not worship stars, of any kind. This is folly. Worship is folly. Our lot is to cast about looking for the spark of happiness, the thing that makes us continue. That might even make us feel fulfilled. Stars, they just do not care. Stars just are.

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Tom was a psycho. Behind the collapsed cheeks and eyes that vanished into their orbits was a deeply fucked up brain. I tolerated his behaviors, well really I guess it was Tom who tolerated me. My normalcy would seem to have been loathsome to him but every time I knocked on his door he answered and welcomed me into his apartment. Hell, he even kept some Sierra Nevada Pale Ale on hand for me.

I stopped going to work on the one year anniversary of my meeting Tom. I was sure that I would be fired but I didn’t really care. The lack of sleep and nightly visions of Tom made me just not give a shit about anything anymore. The day before my abandonment of work I was at Tom’s house and he convinced me to pull my thumbnail off with a pair of cheap dollar store pliers. He showed me how it hardly hurt by pulling his own off first. As the nail pulled free there was a horrible sound, like a bandage being ripped free of a sucking wound. Tom did not even cringe. I pulled mine off and it fucking hurt. Christ on a stick did it hurt. Mine did not go as smoothly as Tom’s. After my first yank the nail was still embedded by the quick. I stayed away from Tom’s for three weeks after this incident. But as always I was compelled to go back, as if drawn by an invisible hand. Over the next seven weeks I pulled off the other nine nails at Tom’s request.

I, of course, was fired from my job. I had a little money, enough to live frugally for about a year. I had to give up beer snobbery. The natural choice for me was Blatz. Tom always had it and he seemed to welcome me to his world of swill. I was spending more and more time at Tom’s house. I was sleeping even less and subsisting on Ramen and Spaghetti-Os. I looked like a Romero extra.

My money started to run dry sooner than the year I had calculated. It was surely all the bandages I had to buy to keep all of my various self-inflicted wounds from bleeding out that sent my budget to hell. I moved in with Tom to save money. I had no finger nails, no toe nails, no pinkies, no ears, no hair, and stigmata like holes in my hands. All of this was done by my own hand at Tom’s urging. The wounds seemed to hardly heal but somehow infection never set in. I drank a lot of Blatz to dull the pain and to block out the every increasing terrible smell of Tom’s apartment.

On the last day I knew Tom I decided to impress him by sticking a metal skewer bent into a hook up my nose and then yanking it out. When Tom realized what I was doing he started to yell and lunged at me. It was too late, I was determined. I thrust the skewer up my nose. The pain was immediate and nearly caused me to collapse. I felt the warm flood of blood down my face and neck. Tasted the iron. I grew light-headed. I looked up to see Tom staring at me bloodshot eyes agog at what I had done. My vision started to gray. I quickly yanked the skewer back out feeling an unexpected resistance, as if there was something in my head pulling back. Then again maybe I was just growing weak. I pulled hard and the skewer came loose just before I hit the hard linoleum floor of Tom’s kitchen. I looked up, Tom was gone. Vanished. I was in my apartment. The skewer lay beside me with a quivering black mass impaled on its hook. What had I done?

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