by Mark McLaughlin



This story is from Mark's book, SLIME AFTER SLIME
available in paperback from www.DeliriumBooks.com

Click on the lips above to go back to Mark's webpage.


Take the Pickman Turnpike three miles past the billboard for Squamous & Rugose, Attorneys at Law, then turn left at the Shunned House (the blood-red one where Izakiah Whateley died screaming on that ill-fated Candlemas Night, not the baby-blue one with the cutesy hedgehog lawn ornaments) and follow Highway 8 until you see a little store that sells apple cider – but don't stop there! Go another half-mile and you will see, on your left, a dark and sinister shack where, during lunar eclipses, mad women have been known to dance madly to the fluting of lurid panpipes from beyond the stars. Drive past all that and turn right at the old stump, onto a little gravel road. Follow that into town and park next to the Civil War cannon with the broken wheel, outside the fire station.

That's where I work.

Well do I remember a certain lightning-streaked, eldritch and mystery-strewn Thursday night. Skoglund, Cheswick and I were sitting around playing Old Maid when we received the call from the house of the Terrible Old Man. I was the one who answered the phone.

"You must come quickly," he sputtered. "I am desperately in need of immediate and confidential medical assistance."

"Have no fear: we'll be right there," I said. I hung up and returned to the game. Half an hour later, we were on our way.

The gambrel-roofed residence of the Terrible Old Man sits on top of Sentinel Hill like, well, a sentinel of some sort. When we arrived, the elderly albino housekeeper, Florence, showed us into the sitting room – but our host was not seated.

The Terrible Old Man, wearing nothing but a pink paisley bathrobe and purple bunny slippers, rested bellyside-down on an overstuffed yellow sofa with dusty lace doilies on the arms (of the sofa, not the Terrible Old Man). I noticed that the nearest doily had a greasy stain on it. "Remove that filthy antimacassar," I said to Cheswick. He responded by shoving Florence out the door.

"I am glad you are here," whispered the Terrible Old Man in a voice like autumn leaves being arranged into a festive holiday centerpiece. "It would seem that I have had a bit of an accident. Earlier this evening, shards of hell-wrought green lightning tore the skies asunder, and a curious and singular intergalactic anomaly – a meteorite, if you will – plunged out of the night's yawning abyss and into my backyard."

He shifted uneasily, perhaps trying to find a more comfortable position, before continuing. "I instructed Florence to bring this extradimensional souvenir into the house," he said, "so that I might examine it. Upon inspection, it proved to be tube-shaped, of a roseate hue, warm to the touch, and pretty hefty, too. Whether it was a product of nature, or instead forged in some forbidden kiln of strange lore and otherwordly technology, is pretty much up for grabs. As I examined the lengthy alien cylinder, I turned to fetch something really scientific from a low shelf. It was then that I slipped and fell, and–"Here the old man blushed. "I just happened to fall in such a manner that the meteorite was lodged, once again, in my backyard. So to speak."

I nodded sagely, and with trembling hands, lifted the hem of that accursed paisley robe, so that we might view the scene of the Terrible Old Man's misfortune.

From between his withered and lugubrious nether-cheeks protruded a pink extrusion of prodigious girth. Skoglund, Cheswick and I, in turns, tried first with gingerly caution, then with steadfast insistence, finally with workmanlike vigor, to remove the meteorite. All without success. During our efforts, the Terrible Old Man simply smiled in a disturbing, insidiously pleased fashion.

Finally, I grabbed the protuberance and, instructing Skoglund and Cheswick to each take hold of my elbows, we gave that stubborn obstruction a mighty tug.

It was then– God help us! – that the meteorite, with a loud and resounding SMACK! – popped out of its fleshy mooring.

I stared horrorstruck at the vision before me. Between the Old Man's bony mounds gaped a pink-rimmed orifice that opened into a nightmare vortex of swirling mists. Skoglund fainted dead away. Cheswick shrieked like a little girl and cried out not only for his Mommy, but also for someone or something named Mr. Boo-Boo Bear.

And then – merciful heavens! – SOMETHING oozed forth from out of the depths of that Terrible Old Man: a writhing conglomerate of oleagenous, rainbow-hued bubbles, twisted neon-blue tentacles, snapping squid-beaks, three-lobed burning eyes and flexing monkeytails. The creature worked to squirm free of its rectal receptacle, and as it did, it began to grow, and to release an odour ... the likes of which no human nose should ever be forced to endure.

This ripe, loathsome stench brought to mind a bubbling cauldron of gangrenous corruption – a sickening stew made from motor oil, rancid bacon, three-month-old cottage cheese, cat piss and a week's worth of diapers from a colicky baby that had been allowed to eat guacamole.

Suddenly that stinking monstrosity from beyond that enflamed colon of terrors REACHED TOWARD ME with a pustulent, obscenely engorged tentacle, dripping with the digested remains of the Terrible Old Man's last several meals. I surmised that the Old Man was especially fond of broccoli. The tentacle glowed from within with a hellish sort of light, of a colour I had never seen before – but it reminded me of certain fumes I had peripherally perceived floating up from the toilet bowls of ill-rumored truckstop men's-rooms along the Pickman Turnpike.

I looked around the room for something, anything to use to fight off this ghastly intestinal interloper. But what? All I could see were shelves and shelves of books – self-help books, how-to gardening guides, tips of redecorating, bound volumes of carpet samples, and a really big, medieval-looking leathery thing with the title Necronomicon. I thought perhaps I could hit the creature with that, so I reached out for it.

"No! Stop!" cried the Terrible Old Man, who was watching me from over his shoulder. Florence, who had crept back into the room, began to fling thick paperback romance novels at me, and Cheswick latched onto my leg, screaming "Make it better, Mr. Boo-Boo Bear!" in the sort of high-pitched voice one usually associates with circus clowns addicted to crack.

I dodged Florence's barrage of bodice-buster bestsellers, but one hit Cheswick in the temple and he fell to the floor, out cold.

I lunged forward, grabbed the leatherbound tome from its shelf, and turned to do battle with the rectum-spawned abomination.

The monstrosity's grizzled eyebrows shot up. "Ooooh! Can I have a look at that?" it gurgled. "Yog-Sothoth told me my picture's in there."

So the Terrible Old Man made room on the couch, and those of us who were still conscious gathered around the book, turning pages, looking for the vile, unholy creature's picture.

We found it on pg. 387. It was a group shot – the colon-fiend, Cthulhu, and some Lemurian serpent-priests at the annual temple barbeque. The monster said it looked fat because of bad lighting, but I said that it looked fine. Still, it wasn't convinced. With a disappointed sigh, the repugnant creature returned (with a little cooperation from the Terrible Old Man) whence it came.

Finally Skoglund woke up from his faint. With a trembling hand, he pointed to a small, slime-streaked pile on the floor – an unspeakable token of soul-shredding horror left behind by that grotesque fecal daemon.

"Hey, my car keys!" Florence said. "I've been looking for those."


-- End --


A special thanks to Pamela Briggs for her help with this story!