A hideous creature from another dimension hosts its own show on the Food Channel. Chaos ensues.
A horrifying creature of unfathomable grotesqueness squishes into view of the camera, shambling slimily across the white tile and finally leaning with a sickening sound against the kitchen island, where it rests its vile appendages and raises dozens of glowing, compound, gleaming mucus-yellow eyes in madness-inducing greeting. A parody of a smile curves across the sucker-like mouth no less loathsome than the maw of a hagfish.
It says in a voice like a thousand skeletal fingers scraping on a chalkboard, “Hi there, puny humans of the inferior Earth-realm! My name is, (unpronounceable) a name too complex, strange, and (legion) to be spoken with the human tongue. It is a proud name, and I bear it with the deepest respect for the Great Old One, whose generous sponsorship allows me to be here among you all. Plus the mere mentioning of (holy crap that’s just wrong on so many deep profound levels) may cause your miniscule, pathetically quivering monkey brains to bleed uncontrollably and drip with unbearable agony out of your ear canals, therefore providing nourishment to our ravenous producers after the show…sooo… to prevent all that, you can just call me Bob.”
The hellish eyes fix on the audience with charismatic cheerfulness.
“Today I’d like to show you the proper and most hideous way to prepare this special recipe culled from the family of The Great Cthulu itself!”
A fake recorded audience cheers and claps.
“It is one we on the wet side of Ry’leh like to call, Cagahaloosmaslegabahigah. But let’s just call it a casserole so we don’t have any madness going on here, at least until the show ends and we all descend upon you and take you as minions of the Nameless Void.”
The abomination holds up in one quivering tentacle a scrap of old (Oh dear God that’s horrible) parchment, which gives everyone who’s currently watching a sudden case of the hiccups.
Yet we continue to watch because we’re hopelessly morbid.
“The ingredients are the best part, but be warned, dear puny humans. If they are prepared in even the slightest wrongness, death or stark raving insanity is sure to follow. So you must pay attention...careful attention…no, wait. Not THAT much attention! What’re you trying to do? Comprehend it? Oh no, that’s not right at all. Just don’t. That would be bad for your mental health. Seriously…”
Somewhere in the audience, someone begins to sob with terror.
The appendages of the cook lash with agitation, and it makes a gurgling sound of annoyance as the crier is hauled out of the room by a pair of gruff, underpaid Deep Ones.
“Anyway,” the monstrosity croons as though nothing ever interrupted. “Where were we? Ah! The recipe, handed down for Aeons, must be prepared with the greatest care. First, you must gather two cups of the blood of a sacrificial lamb and mix it well in a bowl with seaweed.”
Bob reaches under the kitchen counter and pulls out a rotting, splintery wooden bowl, which is crusted with unnamable matter and remnants of the wild-berry Kool-aid prepared countless years ago by dark cultists. Then it goes to the refrigerator behind it and removes a pitcher of
blood and a plastic Tupperware container of vaguely luminous green seaweed. With a wire whisk, whistling as it goes, the star-spawn of the Food Channel stirs these two unsavory ingredients for a moment, then speaks again, this time in a piercing shriek of excitement, “Now, reach into your chest of random blasphemous horrors and retrieve a medium bottle of swamp slime, as well as two of the eggs of a mutated inbred chicken. I know this seems disgusting to you, but trust me, once it’s cooked, you won’t even taste it. Besides, these things are (poisonous, oh God it’s poisonous) GOOD for you!”
The faux audience squeals in eagerness.
Bending beneath counter for a moment, the cook retrieves two immense black (cancerous) eggs, and the glass bottle of swampy goodness.
“Once you have these mixed in, you can go ahead and get the main ingredient started, for this is just the dressing.”
With a grunt, Bob raises one strange mottled hand and rips one of the largest tentacles from itself. Alien guts in colors outside the human sight range rain all over the counter, and transfixed viewers fight the urge to vomit. Unsuccessfully.
Although the appendage is separated from the abomination’s body, it still moves and writhes like a snake.
“I suppose you’re wondering where in the world you could find one of these. A farmers market is a good place to look, preferably one near a portal into some god-forsaken extra-dimension. Because if we find you, we’ll probably give you one. (In exchange for your very immortal soul, or at least a hand) This isn’t a recipe you’re going to find everywhere, but it sure is good, and worth the trouble!”
Bob reaches under the counter yet again to retrieve a pot in which to boil the tentacle. Once that is done, it mixes the gruel in the bowl again. Noxious gasses begin to rise from the boiling pot on the stove.
“Okay, here is the tricky part. You must search within yourself and find a dash of hopelessness, a leveled tablespoon of despair, and a cup of pure horror. Otherwise, this recipe will fail; the ingredients will take on volatile lives of their own, and swarm over you in a cloud of acid and demonic hate. Alternatively, you can find someone else and extract these things from them via a series of bizarre and painful rituals. But make sure you get the right things in the right amount, will you? The Great Cthulu commands you.”
The cook gazes expectantly around the room, and grins hideously. “Now, I’m going to need a volunteer from the audience. He must be brave, but neurotic, and without any trace of antidepressants.”
Only one raises his hand. A tall sinewy man with a narrow face and horn-rimmed glasses. He explains that he just declared bankruptcy, and that he’s also in extreme mortal terror at the sight of the cook.
“Excellent!” exclaims Bob, gurgling. “Come on up, dear sir! Give us what you got!” (Give ussssss…..)
“But before we perform this exciting and profoundly disturbing ceremony, here’s a word from our sponsors! We’ll be right back!”
The screen fades to black and then to a commercial of a frustrated woman tossing and turning in tangled sheets, trying fruitlessly to get to sleep. She groans and sighs impatiently, staring at the dark walls.
Do you have insomnia? whispers the narrator in a soft, creepy voice. Do you feel that no matter what you do, sleep will never come, and that life is an endless nightmare of misery and woe?
From the open window, a large glowing green moth flies in, lazily; it’s strange almost translucent wings flapping silently and slowly as it floats toward the bed.
The woman’s eyes widen with terror.
There is no need to be afraid. It only wants to help you sleep. Try it now. There is no need to ask your doctor if it’s right for you because Loonesta always works, despite what the (side effects God-awful deadly side effects) Television networks make us tell you.
Transfixed with horror on the approaching insect, the insomniac shivers but is unable to move away. The moth flows inexorably toward her waiting face.
You’ll never have trouble sleeping again. Loonesta is right for you. You’ll have deep restful sleep and awaken refreshed and exhilarated. (AND BRAIN IMPLOSION, DON’T FORGET BRAIN IMPLOSION, HEART ATTACK, STROKE, FACIAL SWELLING, PROJECTILE VOMITING, STRANGE DREAMS, TENDENCY TO SLEEPWALK OFF BALCONIES AND INTO BUSY TRAFFIC)
The woman wants to scream but can’t. The moth finally lands on her face, its spindly legs resting on the bridge of her nose. The wispy feelers brush frenziedly against her cheeks. She can’t draw back. A strange green vapor blows from the moth and the woman falls back onto her pillow, gasping, smiling insanely.
Ask your doctor to prescribe Loonesta for you. Or we’ll come and find you.
The moth swoops up in a graceful arc from the twisted countenance of the insomniac, and gently pulls the covers up to her chin. She blabbers wordlessly and finally falls into unconsciousness.