When I opened the door into the elm-arched blackness a gust of insufferably foetid wind almost flung me prostrate. I choked in nausea, and for a second scarcely saw the dwarfed, humped figure on the steps. The summons had been Edward’s, but who was this foul, stunted parody? Where had Edward had time to go? His ring had sounded only a second before the door opened.
The caller had on one of Edward’s overcoats—its bottom almost touching the ground, and its sleeves rolled back yet still covering the hands. On the head was a slouch hat pulled low, while a black silk muffler concealed the face. As I stepped unsteadily forward, the figure made a semi-liquid sound like that I had heard over the telephone—“glub . . . glub . . .â€
– H.P. Lovecraft, “The Thing on the Doorstep” (1933)
Recommended listening: Finitribe – Monster in the House (from a 1990 single)
I know I run the risk of alienating some folks by leaning hard on real life political horrors this time round, but I don’t give a flying fuck.
October 6th, 2020 - 5:12 pm
Nor should you (give a flying fuck). Lean hard.
October 7th, 2020 - 12:54 am
*smiles*
*thumbs up*
October 7th, 2020 - 8:15 am
Lean as hard as you like.
October 12th, 2020 - 6:41 pm
Fuck those that can’t face the disgraceful reality Oompa Trump has caused.
Since when do you give a fuck…punk rock up