eight legged infinity

anthony pierson hacked off his legs last week as part of a botched attempt to graft on the lower half an octopus which he had been feeding up and nurturing until it was an adequate size. he had been in love with midori 8 ever since she had undergone the brain transplant two years previous and her cthulu inspired porn flicks had become instantly hot amongst those plugged into the small elder gods niche market.

he had been into the arcane science of flesh-shaping for a long time now and had been using stuff from different planes of reality whose frequency he had managed to tune into and had a pretty good business going selling sex toys made from the distilled essence of nub shiggurath and other lesser known gods from the abyssal realms of nightmare. that was how he had got into octopus porn and discovered midori 8.

he wheeled his chair over to the switchboard and connected himself up to several people he wanted to get together in a room for a new experiment he had devised. he promised the crack whores the purest drugs he had been able to secure – drugs he had obtained on a promise of providing the murder spree fuckbuddy cult Meathaus with fresh bodies. he had talked a coterie of beautiful failed suicides into showing up as well, so this was quite an exciting occasion.

as they gathered in what he had euphemistically dubbed the waiting room he flipped a switch and pumped a fine mist of LSD laced aphrodisiac into the air. octopi were allowed out of their tanks into the room and they too were coupled with in perhaps the strangest breeding program devised.

channelling the orgone energy through a quantum state, which he believed to be a replicated moment from one of his successful interactions with one of the eldritch ancient powers, he succeeded in opening a gateway and allowing Nyarlathotep to manifest. his god was pleased and gifted him with his desired number of tentacles and the woman he had fantasised about for so long. anthony was a happy hybrid.

Squid Pro Quo 2

Bailey hadn’t been able to do much for him over the phone. He’d told him to go lie down and if it got worse to ring him back. No one knew what the hell kind of bacteria something like that would have on it so the fact that he had a dodgy stomach wasn’t exactly the biggest surprise ever. It may have been the stupidest thing that he had ever done. Not the stupidest thing he would ever do, but up to this moment

It could of course just be the worst case of upset stomach that he had ever had – what kind of remedy could you take for this sort of thing though? Damn, whatever was happening to him it was happening at a pretty rapid rate. His vision was flickering, blind spots firing up and dying down like fireflies in negative. His hearing also seemed to be dialing through the spectrum of audible sounds. Wow, was he going to actually benefit from this in the end. The pain shot through him and he jack-knifed – goddamn, he needed to do something and do it quickly.

He once again reached for the phone and hit the number one.


‘Uh, yeah. Something is happening to me.’

‘Dumb, Deek. Fucken dumb. I’m coming over and I’m bringing Coltard.’

‘Ah, shit.’

‘What? Yule ‘ave to get over yer rivalry with him. ‘E’s saved ar bacon more than once.’

Deek let out a strangled noise and dropped the phone. The pigment of his skin had changed, or rather it was changing – cycling through various shades of green. Damn, Bailey was right – he had been fucking stupid. What kind of moron chows down on a creature from some other dimension before carrying out tests on it? Was he really that hungry? Had he ever been that hungry? No – shit, he had a full larder. It was all so unnecessary. Thank God, Bailey didn’t live too far away – that had to be him at the door now. He never locked it and Bailey never knocked so he didn’t have to worry about dragging himself down there to answer. Nope – Bailey came lumping up the stairs.

‘Oh shit.’


‘Jeez-us, man you look rough.’

Coltard so wanted to snicker. He looked at Deek and he saw something and he wasn’t exactly sure how to describe it and he had seen some weird fucked up shit in his time. Seeing someone who professed to being a professional hunter of the monstrous sporting squid tentacles and developing a beak was not something you came across everyday. He would have laughed if it were not for some of the psychic emanations that he was picking up, suggesting that something were coming through from a higher dimension.

‘Goddamn it, Bailey, can you sense the broadcast that he is kicking out? There’s never anything that makes that much racket on those frequencies – all those artifacts we find tend to have a slightly dulled action even when they’re drenched in blood. He’s become some kind of superbeacon. Has this happened to him before?’

‘Well, ‘e’s been complainin’ that there’s been a rash of invasions of his bedroom.’

‘One of them did this to him – it infected him and I sure as hell don’t know how to burn it out.’

‘Crap. ‘S why I brought you here.’

‘Oh, you’ll need me to fight the fuckers. Let’s get him down into the van – the lead shield should dampen his signal a bit hopefully.’s

Squid Pro Quo 1

It was purely an evolutionary quirk that had made the thing, which appeared to be pulling itself through a tear in the very fabric of reality, resemble a giant squid. Apparently reality was akin to a crystalline structure suspended in some liquid hyperreality that the varying membranes separating different multiverses hung in like ice in cold water. This thing was born out there in the intense pressure regions of ultimate truth and this form was the one most suited to navigation. Others might have considered it a god but he considered it a damned nuisance.

The belief gun, charged up with oneiric energy from the dreamcatcher, barely made a dent in its cohesion matrix. This one seemed a lot more robust than the last one. It was ironic that the fact he had experience with these things may actually be the determining factor in their increased strength. If belief was a key sequence that unlocked the upper dimensions, if it was indeed a beacon which drew these creatures in, then every time that he encountered one he was going to become a stronger draw for them.

He had been sleeping so he supposed that he must have been dreaming. Becoming an anchor for the bloody things was kind of antithetical to someone who spent most of his life dealing with supernatural infestations. He wasn’t sure what this bugger was called because he rarely stopped to note their names down in his little black book before he shot them point blank between the eyes.

He reached into his backpack by the bed and produced a null-bomb. The tentacle slapped wetly against the wall leaving a trail of gelatinous goop hanging. Shit – he’d only just decorated. The bomb hit the thing in the eye and blew up – the blast wave was a strange phenomenon: the null-bomb healed reality by planting disbelief in the wielder and detuning the immediate area so that any intruders lost their purchase. What could you say it was? A reality enema? The existential equivalent of an electromagnetic pulse generator?

He wondered whether or not the thing might actually taste like what it resembled – he liked calamari so if it proved to have a nice flavour then he would be well in. It did not bother him that he may be eating one of the elder gods. He picked up his cellphone and hit number 1 on the speed-dial.


‘Yup? Wass cookun, Deek?’

‘This Cthulu-type thing that manifested in my bedroom, can I eat it?’

‘Maybeso, not sure as I’d chance it, mate, but maybeso.’

‘You have any recipes?’

‘I’ll text it over ta ya. Do us a favour though, eh? Be careful – never know what eating that shit might do ta ya.’

He picked up the huge snake-like limb and made his way to the kitchen. It was going to involve some chopping to get this down to the right size for frying. It was still wriggling slightly and he was praying to whatever agnostics prayed to that it possessed no sentience. He put the oil in the pan and got it so hot that it was spitting – so hot that it would be a fight to stand to near it. The smaller, finely chopped pieces were then flung into jaws of this frying pan contained hell.

‘Nuke the fucker!’ he cried, having at the remains of the animal he had slain and intended to eat.

It tasted, even with lemon and some garlic salt on it, what you might call rum. Not entirely good in a slightly unnerving way.

He hit 1 on the speed-dial again.

‘Erm, Bailey.’

‘Yes, Deek?’

‘I think I may have made a mistake.’