Cthulica

"Was that supposed to be scary?" Gordon asked and Casey shrugged.

"Not necessarily," she said.

"Because it was rubbish at that, love," 

"It was just a story with the lyrics like the dice say, I wasn't trying to make it scary,"

"Well enough at that. You might have knackered a few OAP's with the mention of rock and roll but other than that it was a little mental,"

Casey glared at him and folded her arms across her chest.

"Suppose they tell some real bombs in London, Gordon?" Joe added and Gordon shrugged.

"How the fuck should I know? There were stories, sure enough, but nothing that would really raise hackles and all that,"

"Well go on then," Casey demanded, "I'd love to hear what you're sitting on,"

"Besides another man's lap?" Parker said and Gordon picked up a clod of dirt, hurling it at him.

"Shut your rot you cow," 

Casey offered him the die but he waved it off. 

"I'm choosing a one just like you got otherwise we're just comparing apples and ampersands,"

"What?" Casey said and Joe laughed

"I'm just surprised he knew ampersand,"

Shut it you lot, I'm starting. 

Once there was an old ocean, where anyone who saw it grew old with the sea. So we were terrified of water, and of all the sons and daughters no one dared to see. 

It was said that the man who discovered this stretch of beach was a sailor left to die by a mutinous crew of pirates. In those days, the Royal Navy was brutally hunting pirates operating in the seas that touched her empire, and many captains found themselves hanging from wharves and slowly rotting in the salty Dungenes breeze. 

The sailor was a young captain, easily duped by his crew into giving up the coordinates of an enormous stockpile that the captain had acquired since beginning his career as a cabin boy. They bound him to the mast and spat on him, laughing with rum soaked tongues as they left the open water and threw him into the shallows just off the southern coast of England. It had been a moment of opportunity for the crew as an island they could not find on their maps had come out of the fog and rolling seas to grace them with a place to leave the poor captain. They waved their asses at him as the ship disappeared on the horizon, leaving the captain with only a two-day ration of bread and no water. 

The captain became furious, for you see, he was building his wealth in order to pay for a wedding with his young love back on the main island and to think that men he once trusted were blindly spending it on drink and women made him sick with anger. What was worse, when the fog lifted he could clearly see that he was no more than a few hundred yards from the home shores of England, but the seas were too rough for a raft to survive on. Many times he attempted to swim off of the island but the current and the waves drug him back to that horrible shore.

As thirst and weariness took hold of his sanity, the young captain forsook God and pledged his soul to the Devil in exchange for revenge against the men who stole his life. A terrible howl erupted from the sea and a squid-like monstrosity burst from the waves, its great eyes staring down at the emaciated captain and its tentacles scarring the clouds in the sky. It opened its massive beak and roared.

"WHAT DOST THOU ASK OF CTHULU?" it demanded, the voice tearing cloth and flesh from the captain as its waves grazed him.

"That my former crewmates be brutally punished for what they've done to me and that this island be a prison for their souls," the captain said, mustering what little strength he had left. 

The beast returned to the sea and moments later returned clutching the captain's boat in it's massive spongy arms. With frighteningly deft movements it ripped the men from the boat, one by one, and mutilated them before the captain. When it was over, the shore was littered with the bloody mess that was formerly a crew and the captain was bathed in their frothing juices.

But the captain, in his haste for revenger, had forgotten his pledge. Cthulu had not. With a swipe of his tentacle the captain's legs were broken at the knees and he fell into the bloody sand, yelping in agony.

"If this is a prison for these damned souls, you shall be their jailer," roared the beast and it tore the flesh from his bones, scattering it amongst the vegetation a hundred yards from where he had stood. 

It is said that the captain's soul forced the crew he'd punished to build themselves an impenetrable fortress of pain and misery. That anyone alive who visits the shore will age in seconds until they die upon the beach and are collected by the unholy jailer. Many sailors have come to port with shocks of white hair, speaking of sand made from bones and trees caked in blood. 

"The end," 

"Was that supposed to be scary?" said Casey and Joe laughed.

"Fuck you both, that scared the Jesus into me when I was a kid," 

Junkyard Dogs

"What is it that is the correlation between campfires and scary stories?"

"Not sure Gordon, I suppose camping isn't a common activity across the pond is it?"

"Fuck if I know, the most I can tell you chaps about ole Blighty is that she gives a wicked blowjay. Doesn't mean I call er' in the mornin."

Before Mali inquired further on the meaning of Gordon's statement, Casey put her hand on Mali's shoulder and shook her head.

"....anywho, I rolled a 1 and I'm feeling randy so I'm going if you kids want to gather around."

"Only if you explain to me who randy is and why you are feeling him. I mean I knew Gordon was gay but you?"

"You cheeky cunt."

"You get one Gordon and you just used it."

"What did I say?"

"Yeah, I'm gonna go ahead and go."

There once was a man named Leroy Brown

"The baddest man in the whole damn town?"

"The very same Casey."

Leroy had quite the reputation among those that traveled his circles. He never left the house without his razor or his 32, a fact young Charles was not aware of. Leroy was a towering man at 6'4, accented by his gaudy jewelry, three rings on each hand that spelled "Bad Man" in diamonds. Charles didn't care for that either. He was a simple man who recently married a wonderful girl by the name of Doris. Leroy was often referred to as the treetop lover, a phrase that stroked his ego even more than references to him having the capability of taking on King Kong himself, were he not fictional. Leroy attempted to make advances toward Doris, a move that was swiftly denied. Leroy's egotism would not allow for such a rebuke and he pursued further. After all, that was his town, his Eldorado outside, his custom Continental waiting at his lavish house to be filled with women. It had been awhile since his dogs had been fed. Some said that Leroy's glare could petrify even the most savage of mutts. Charles paid those whispers no mind and continued sipping his drink, that was until Leroy had pushed it a little too far. Leroy's advancements on Doris escalated to the point where his hand was on her shoulder. With that Charles had had enough. No one speaks of what happened that night aloud, but in the comfort of their homes, the people whispered. Their murmurs and insinuations rang of a very interesting tune. That Leroy found himself at the end of Charley's bottle. That the baddest man left the bar leaving some of himself behind, unintentionally. But those are but the tales of wives who would dare not speak in Leroy's presence.

Haunting

"Why are we camping again?"

Casey wanted to say it was to alleviate the situation of being entirely too lost, convinced the only people who ever wanted to be in Texas were Texans, but instead she opted for a much kinder approach.

"I'm sick of going through the same old habits. We go to a town, eat at will inevitably be shitty diner food and stay at a motel or sleep in the car. The weather's nice, there's a starry sky, and it looks like Gordon has given us a bonfire."

Mali and Joe turned to see Gordon emptying a bottle of whiskey into the pit, creating a glorious blaze that lit the night sky.

"........Yeah, I was totally starting a bonfire for us....roast something....that's it...."

"Maybe we should tell scary stories, I mean this is the right setting."

"Not a bad idea Joe, let's do it around the bonfire like back at Jesus Camp."

"And I'm officially not surprised."

"Of what Mali?"

"....nothing. Anyway, after my episode, I think I'd rather wait a bit before I go."

"Yeah, who the fuck is afraid of spiders? Why not be afraid of something like Jason?"

"Seriously, Joe, if you're going to invoke a horror icon, you can do better."

"What like Freddy?"

"Yeah Freddy, he's definitely scarier than Jason, or at least he could be. Dreams are far more frightening than real life because they're malleable. They can bend and mold without you having any real say in the matter and that sense of powerlessness really brings the fear. Jason just chases you and as long as you pay attention where you're running, there's a chance of escape."

"But that's what I like Casey, a false sense of hope, because when he does catch you, and he always does, your mind is crushed right before your skull is."

"Yeah, okay Joe, or maybe their last thought was maybe I shouldn't have had sex. Jason had weird rapist tendencies and really was pretty boring. I think creativity is a part of fear. I mean what's scarier, a guy who stabs people or a guy who dismembers them and eats their eyes?"

"Well that depends, are the stabbings random? I think people feel better knowing they don't fit the modus operandi and if there is no m.o. it is much more frightening."

"Silly Joe, people will generally fear the more sensational, even if the likelihood is small. Look at shark attacks, more people are killed by coconuts per year than sharks."

"Both o' you blokes are wrong."

"Welcome to the fold Gordon. If you are such a scholar on the subject matter, do share."

"Honestly, the dice speaks louder than I do, all six lil eyes o' hers. The truth is, reality is far more frightening than fiction. You'd be amazed what absurdities people have reached carrying the banners of the soft science and such in hand."

He was a physician, one of the best in all of Europe and Asia, documented for his roll in developing the first heart and lung machine, a scientific breakthrough that allowed the sustenance of life through artificial means. Reaching that point was laborious and required years of experimentation.

"Here's the new batch you ordered Dr. Bryukhonenko, ready to be processed."

"Alright, pick one and prep it for test #574A."

He wasn't the first dog to be captured by the Soviets, far from it in fact. Bruno was the 574th in a series of experiments propagated on his species for the advancement of the Soviet cause. He was unaware of the fate that awaited him, of the infamy he gain.

The nurse sedated the canine and placed him on the moving tray to be wheeled to the doctor. But first a stop had to be mad at station 2. Station 2 was situated in the back of the facility and had the appearance of a meat locker, complete with center drain. The nurse then passed the tray off to a large bald gentleman of 40. Silently the man picked up the bonesaw, the glean of the metal casted dancing lights on Bruno's soft white fur. The saw came down around Bruno's neck and with several motions, Bruno became matted with sanguine fluid. Sparks of plasma decorated the nameless man's apron as he applied a lumberman's task to the tragic canine's collar until his job was done and Bruno had big good morrow to his body. The nameless man then quickly wheeled the cart over to Dr. Bryukhonenko and the physician quickly hooked up the autojektor to the lifeless head. Within minutes the head awakened. It responded to stimulus and even made attempts at eating, though the treats lief was short lived as it dropped from the back of his throat. The experiment was considered a rousing success, but many more were to follow. bruno's had was cast aside, his life removed with the pull of a switch, treated like so many appliances that would succeed him.

The Old Switcheroo

By the time anyone could sensibly respond to her piercing cries of unutterable horror, Mali had practically climbed into the driver's seat.

The van swerved to and fro across the double yellow line, threatening to pitch them all over the precipice of a gaping slope to their left. Joe wrestled her from the floorboards betwixt the front seats as she kicked and howled and Casey reared her right arm for a firm, well-deserved hand across Mali's cheek.

"Spider!" she insisted, as though they were the crazy ones to not be screaming their heads off as well, indicating with two accusatory forefingers the seat she had been seated in a moment before.

Gordon leaned forward from the rear of the van and inspected the seat cushion. His nose scrunched up and he nodded with grim disappointment, "Yeah. Spider."

"Well, kill it!" Mali pressed.

Gordon shrugged and collected the shoe from his left foot in hand before steadying it high above the fearsome intruder, poised for the kill.

One swat, splat.

Parker expressed his disgust with a drawn-out ewww! while Joe searched the glove compartment for a tissue to clean up the remains of the tiny conquistador.

"Now where am I supposed to sit?" Mali groaned.

"Squeeze in with Gordon and Parker in back, I guess." Joe shrugged and turned to face the window, his interest now dissipated in Mali's troubles.

Mali worked her way down the narrow aisle of the van, careful to avoid the goo left by the spider. The boys parted, but it was asses to ankles for all intents and purposes, and Mali was left no choice but to slide onto Parker's lap. They exchanged an awkward smile before both stiffly fixed their eyes on opposite things.

"Are we still lost?"

"We've been lost for almost a day. I have no fucking idea where we are," Casey snipped, tired of driving and being accused of getting them all lost, but no one offering to replace her spot most of all.

"Well, we missed Rifle, clearly. Maybe Denver--"

"At this rate, it could be 'maybe Guadalajara'."

"Story time?" Gordon suggested, weary of the bickering.

Joe pulled the die from his pocket and gave it a toss down the aisle without a look.

"That'd be two," Parker affirmed knowingly.

Carl Marx was more than a man with a coincidental name; he was a hero - or to such esteem he held himself, at least.

The idea for his greatest feat came to him one notably average Tuesday morning, a moment of eureka that struck him the instant he lifted the carafe to fill his empty mug for the third time. The shock and awe of the scheme overtaking him was enough to spill the carafe across the table and onto the floor, rivulets of the steaming brew spreading over the kitchen like the tide. He knew he'd struck genius.

Marx shared more than a name with the deceased German philosopher; the two, should they ever had met somewhere in space and time, could have slapped one another on the back to commend their agreement in their perspectives on religion. 21st-Century-Marx, however, insisted on taking the analysis two steps forward, and every evening after work he would perch at his computer and ponder a way to serve all the religious of the world even just a teaspoon of their own bullshit. And finally, on a very average Tuesday morning, he at last had a plan.

As head of his graduating class from the most prestigious computer science academy on the western seaboard, Marx had been treated to the inside information of network diagnostics and security innovations in the computer realm since he was a teenager, and as such was one of the most gifted ---"

Gordon stopped in the middle of his story, his jaw left hung agape.

"Aw, fuck." Joe spoke for all of them.

Passing the right side of their van was a green highway sign, adorned with an enormous cowboy hat, reading in brilliant red, "Welcome To Texas, Partners!"