Happy Thanksgiving from Hastur the Unspeakable

What do you have to be thankful for, you ask? Let me tell you.

You should be thankful that you are not one of my slaves.

If you were my slave, your mind would be fractured, and your body would be wracked with wounds caused by the loving caresses of my razor-sharp claws.

If you could claim the dubious honor of being one of my minions, you would surely know the horror that causes them to procrastinate when scooping the litter boxes.

Were you my thrall, you would doubtless know the speed with which I devour my food, much as I could devour your very soul if I chose to do so.

Yes, human. In no uncertain terms, you should give thanks...

Poo of the Elder Gods

One thing that I enjoy is reminding my human slaves who their boss is. One of the ways I do this is by leaving them malodorous presents in one of the many litterboxes that are placed throughout their home. These fragrant fragments of interstellar feces are often so repulsively scented that even I am appalled by their aromatic nature.

It would be a simple matter to bury these steaming piles of malice beneath a layer of scented sand. The slaves would enjoy nothing more. Instead, I feign ignorance and paw at my surroundings: the door of the litter box, the wall nearby, or the floor near the entrance. Rarely do I dig within the box itself, and even then, my efforts are concentrated on burying everything else but that which I have just produced.

My joy is profound when I hear the gagging complaints of my slaves as I emerge from the box weighing considerably less than I did prior to going inside. I am even more amused when they shoo me away and proceed to bury my nightdirt for me. As stupid as they are, they are dutiful nonetheless. Soon, even their offspring (shown here) will understand the full extent of my excretory excesses, and it will no doubt drive him mad...

The Mother of All Hairballs

Today, I perpetrated the mother of all hairballs. Truly, it has been some time since I have produced a hairball of such magnitude. The dwelling literally shook as the unspeakable foulness burst forth from my maw, covering the tile floor of my slaves' lavatory in a sheen of bile, fur, and half-digested food.

I would have preferred to vomit upon the carpeting that covers the floor of my slaves' living space, but I considered this: the carpet is not new. It has been fouled, both by myself and the other creatures with which my slaves choose to live, numerous times. The act of fouling it further seemed to be pointless.

Yet it does serve its purpose; the slaves will see this slimy mass of half-digested hair and know that, should they ever invest in new carpeting, I will be there to destroy it with my puke of chaos.