Friday, April 29, 2011

Delicious monsters, or, stop the work, I want to get off

Once upon a time, in a galaxy far, far away, George Lucas gave Miss Prunella Vulgaris, Duchess of Hammer-on-Dulcimer & Juan, the Earl of Valdez, their eight bucks back. Cursed by the indifferent cosmos with this sudden influx of spendables & joined by Bear, bait & lovable ursine scamp, they foolishly wandered beyond the Cyclopean brutalism of their foetid asylum, beyond legend-haunted Aegypt MLK Boulevard, beyond even the brooding monoliths that rend the heavens, over hill & dale, pothole & orange barrel, into an eldritch place named only within the hushed whispers of the wisest of sages --  























--La serre du parc Rockefeller.



















A strange house, full of stranger aeons, & horrified gazes --



















-- for here there be vegetal horrors shewing as victuals. Oh, misery.
























The crumbling remains of the Marquis of Twain, long thought lost in the fiery tributary of the Callahooga tribe, a warning to trespassers.


















Turtle, how thou doth mock my writing desk.

















 

Every man-eating vegetation has its thorn.
























What unnameable alien flora deigns usurp sanity with such palpable strength?


















Egads! Dread Cthulhu! Peonage, you must needs run!























No! Bear's infected by the Old One's cosmic goo how can that be?
Sadly, he must be left to his nameless fate.
























His blasted eyes are everywhere! Cthulhu's, not Bear's, just so we're clear.



















Freedom, horrible freedom & the knowledge it brings!



















If this sea creature will not proffer a blackmail-worthy photo for either hero, then perhaps it can reveal safe passage --























-- to Cleveland, always classy &, most importantly, spawn of the stars-free.























That's nice.


















That's nice, if you partake of human sacrifice & what cultist doesn't.


















"We're going back to the asylum, aren't we," inquires the Earl.
"Duty bound is the Peonage," replies the Duchess."Plus, no slimy tendrils."



















Such an underworld expedition mayhap be cliché, but at least it didn't cost anything. Eight bucks'll buy a whole gallon of petroleum distillate.

Fin.

11 comments:

Beach Bum said...

His blasted eyes are everywhere! Cthulhu's, not Bear's, just so we're clear.

That picture was freaky and I have not had a drop of alcohol, yet.

ifthethunderdontgetya™³²®© said...

Nice pics!

Poor Bear!

Beach Bum, I'm sure it's 5 PM somewhere on the globe. Cheers!
~

Randal Graves said...

BB, certainly an extra swanky tree, though I admit to being conflicted about stealing/not stealing the nearly-ripe lemon from the one next door.

if, Bear's one tough mofo. He'll be back.

Drinks for everyone, this round's on whomever has the most money in their wallet not me.

susan said...

Quelle magnifique assemblage de quelque choses magique et horrible. Je vous salute, mon frere!

ps: NS gas price is $5.50/gal this week. Sacre bleu!

Nunly said...

Well, that was nice! Although it did look like the head of Mark Twain was popping out of the ground and that was kind of creepy.

I'll be at the Sox game today (watching them lose, I imagine). I'll wave to you. I hate these early Spring games...too damn cold. :-(

okjimm said...

whoa... looks like some hard-rock vegetation.

S.W. Anderson said...

Good one, Randal. The visuals are engaging and the story line (after yesterday) is downright recognizable as such. I do think working in a fast-food angle would've lent a bit of authenticity, but that's a minor quibble.

Randal Graves said...

susan, le gasp! Je suis désolé mais je ne parle pas français, mademoiselle, je ne parle que la langue de gaz.

nunly, unlike the plants, that wasn't labeled, but hell, who else does it look like? Unless Orville Redenbacher grew a moustache.

If it's too cold, why are you going? Your logic baffles me!

okjimm, you should see how much they charge for burgers.

SWA, first, we didn't stop to get food and second, are you suggesting that tentacled monstrosities from outer space are too far-fetched?

thatgirl said...

the Duchess approves of this post.

Demeur said...

You just wait till city budget time doth come then such free spirited frolic will cost ye dearly. The only free venture then will be a trip to Reagan's tomb with chants of "all hail the great communicator may he rise from the fiery ashes and take us to the land of no taxes".

Randal Graves said...

thatgirl, I don't think Beatrix would, her being in league with not just Jesuit Illuminati but said slimy tendrils.

demeur, no way the state distributes trips all the way to Californistan. Moses Cleave, Chopin & Wagner are cheaper, thankfully. Fucking hippies, yuck.