Cthulhu on the Rocks

This is a mocking homage to a discussion started by Dreamspinner author Sue Brown. We needed explosions, fluff, nasty spirits and tentacled beasties.

Cthulhu on the Rocks

Claude glanced across the crowded bar. He’d been coming here for years, wondering if his heart’s desire might arrive on feathery soft wings. Not that he searched for an Angel or anything kinky, well, still, an Angel sounded sorta cool, but romantic Claude knew his heart wanted to give him something special, aside from a heart attack from eating too many cheese steaks and greasy onion rings.

A tall gentlemen clad in a long black robe entered and sat at a back table. How weird. Judging from his shiny silver scythe he must be a member of that bizarre religious cult that purchased Joe Miller’s farm.

When lissome Pete, he clad in his usual tight denim short-shorts and strategically-ripped red silk tank top, walked away from the gentleman’s table, he appeared troubled. Claude’s heart and long male arousal fluttered in pork-rolled desire. A few feathers tickled his throat. When would sweet Pete notice Claude’s true love? “Why the long face, Pete?”

Pete shrugged sexy shoulders crafted from sugar, spice and long hours at the gym “I don’t know, the dude at the back table is a little strange. He makes me feel odd inside.”

That son of a bitch! He upset sweet Pete! “Odd how?”

Pete’s misty gray eyes, they the color of a week-old kitten’s first soft fur, blinked in befuddlement. “Like my soul is destined to come to a fiery end via a lethal explosion.”

“Did he threaten you?”

“No, but he did order the strangest drink. A Cthulhu on the Rocks.” Pete’s smooth face screwed into a charming pout. “I don’t understand what’s happening to me! Hold me, Claude!”

The satisfied Claude pulled Pete close against his beer belly and sniffed his long, fragrant, the color of old embers from a fire set by Angels black hair. Pete’s drink orders fluttered to the wooden floor. The old wooden floor trembled in protest.

A slimy tentacled monster burst though the needing-replacement floor. Tentacles darted left and right, snatching up patrons and tossing them into the creature’s parrot beak.

There men dressed in para-milatary garb burst through the front door. They launched grenades, bullets, flames and macho attitude toward Cthulhu.

Cthulhu’s tentacles sliced them in half.

Pete shrieked in caterwauling dismay. “Excuse me, you call that a rescue?” He tossed his artfully-disheveled hair and resumed pouting.

“I’ll stop this mayhem!” Claude ran behind the bar. The former high-school quarterback hurled bottles of bourbon at Cthulhu. “Begone, foul thing! Don’t mess with the brave men of Peachtree Springs!”

The gentleman in the long black robe stood and stared at Claude. Claude’s arm halted tossing bottles. Two red eyes the color of his hemorrhoids regarded him in triumph. “Thanks, darling.” Bony fingers snapped a flame into life. The flame hit the alcohol-soaked sawdust floor. A flaming line raced toward the propane tank display next to the ice machine.

Claude received his wish to meet the Angels.