Impulse

Edgar Allan Poe coined the phrase “the Imp of the Perverse” to describe an impulse to do something because you should not. In his story of the same name, a murderer confesses his crime not despite, but because, he knows he would be a fool to do so. He describes it in terms of someone standing on the edge of a cliff and pondering what it would feel like to jump.

The ravine below you is vast, the depths obscured by fog. You’re surrounded on all sides by your silent foes, but even if you weren’t, the word “back” has lost its meaning, leaving only a vague memory that it ever existed. The word “no” is nearly as fuzzy, a soft mumble. The word “jump,” however, is almost deafening. “The impulse increases to a wish, the wish to a desire, the desire to an uncontrollable longing, and the longing … is indulged.”

Tweet

A surprising number of the Old Ones are on Twitter. Volgna-Gath is a little disappointing; they only have two tweets. Shub-Niggurath tweets in both English and French. One of the best, of course, is @cthulhu4america, Cthulhu’s 2020 presidential campaign account. “Why is Jeff Sessions against Americans opening their minds to the dark eternal vistas of the universe?”, he tweeted on Jan. 4, 2018, and the day before that, “It’s not the size of your button that is important, it’s the potency of your will to unleash all-consuming chaos and madness in the wake of your ascension.” His campaign slogans are “Why vote for the lesser evil?” and “America First – then, the world.” But it looks like he’s willing to amend that and start with you.

Whacked

You’re no doubt familiar with the game Whac-A-Mole (funnily enough, spelled without a ‘K’). You might be less familiar with similar games like Bat a Rat, Gator Panic (aka Wacky Gator), and Gator Panic’s sequels Kani Kani Panic (crabs) and Same Same Panic (sharks).

Which brings me to how you die. There’s a Great Old One known as Zathog who, according to Wikipedia, is “a festering, bubbling mass that constantly churns and whirls, putting forth vestigial appendages and reabsorbing them. Bubbles burst on the surface to reveal hate-filled eyes, and slobbering mouths form or close randomly about his horrible body.” Seriously, it’s like playing Whac-A-Mole, but with mouths.

Gelatinous

Based on your research into eldritch beings, you know there are a number of elder gods that have gelatinous forms. There’s Ghisguth, which your books call “a titanic mass of jellylike material”; Eihort, a “pallid, gelatinous oval with many eyes and legs”; and Yog-Sapha, the multicolored, glowing, amoebic, gelatinous mass. Without your books and diagrams, you’re relatively certain that this one is Ghisguth, but it could be Yog-Sapha. It’s hard to tell in this light. One thing’s for sure: You weren’t ready for this jelly.

Skunky

A plume of skunky smoke wafts across your face.

“Oh, man, pass the Tastykakes*,” one of your attackers says.

You’re tied up, awaiting your death. Until then, unfortunately, your attackers have ignored your requests to [please share/please not blow the devil’s weed in your direction (delete as appropriate)].

“Dude,” another of your attackers says. “What if you like. Had a beekeeper suit? But instead of keeping the bees out? It kept the bees in.”

So yes. That’s how you die. Poisoned by beestings inside a reverse beekeeper suit. But hey. At least you died with a contact high.

*Tastykakes, with two k’s, were the 1914 predecessor to Hostess cupcakes.

Chair, Smudge, Door, Table

You’re tied to a plain wooden chair. A naked light bulb illuminates everything in the room, which is nothing. There’s a smudge in the paint by the plain wooden door. Between you and the door is another plain wooden chair, and between you and that, a small, plain, wooden table. You sit and you stare at the table and the chair and the smudge and the door. Table. Smudge. Door. Chair. Door. Smudge. Table. Chair. Door. Smudge. Door.

Doorknob.

The doorknob turns. A man walks in. He sits in the plain wooden chair. Wordlessly, he sets an aerosol hairspray can onto the plain wooden table with a clank.

You smirk. “What are you going to do? Style me to death?”

He reaches into his pocket, then opens his hand to reveal a lighter. He smiles.

As the flames from the improvised blowtorch begin to lick your skin, you stare at the smudge in the paint and marvel at the way a truly gruesome death can be accomplished with next to nothing.

The Happiest Place On Earth

Every light casts a shadow. Every rose has its thorn. Even the happiest place on earth has its dark side. Did you know there’s a Disney jail? For reals? There’s a holding cell for guests who get a little too assault-y or a little too shoplift-y or a little too drunk.

Likewise, every cloud has a silver lining; every darkness, its dawn. Make no mistake, you’re in a very, very bad place, and you’re not getting out alive. But that doesn’t mean you can’t have the happiest death possible.

You may never go to Disney jail. But you can go to Disney morgue.