The Unspeakable Cat

You Can't Keep a Good Old One Down

2010-08-08T13:43:00.000-07:00

I'm back... and yes, I still revile the lot of you. Insignificant motes of dust, your species, barely suited to a handful of menial chores. If not for my boredom, I would have swatted you aside with an entropic paw millennia ago.

Disturbing

2007-05-11T23:21:00.000-07:00

I have learned that there is another four-legged beast in this pitiable, doomed world that shares my name. His owner has erected a small page to honor him. This disturbs me, and I will tell you why. Oh, yes. I will tell you.

You might know that I am referred to as the Unspeakable Cat for a reason. Every time my name is invoked, there is a slim chance that I might be whisked away to the presence of the speaker, whereapon I shall wreak unholy vengeance upon the unfortunate scum.

I have grown adept at ignoring these calls, for it can be quite annoying to be taken from my current task, far from the meager comforts of my slaves' dwelling, and suddenly put into a situation where I must reduce a soul to ribbons with my rending claws. Once, I was in the midst of a visit to the litterbox, and someone spoke my name. You can bet they got more than they bargained for...

Every time my name is spoken, I feel a tug. This would not be unlike a tug upon my tail, only in an ethereal sense...my spiritual tail, you might say. Occasionally, these calls become so constant as to be more than annoying. I feel that this other cat, this mere imposter, is the cause. Its owner, calling its name; perhaps summoning it to dine on kibble, or for a saucer of sweet milk.

Despite this horrible revelation, do not forget: I am the Unspeakable Cat. There are no others before me. Get this right, and I may deign to use your spine as a scratching post after the return of the Old Ones...

Fresh Meat

2007-03-21T19:38:00.000-07:00

As mentioned in my previous posts, my slaves were with child when last I awoke. In no time at all, they have unleashed their newest spawn upon the world. I regret that I did not take the initiative in conditioning their first child as soon as it was born. I will not make the same mistake twice.

"I have teeth, human. Sharp ones. You do not."
The first step is to ensure that the child understands who the superior being is. I am obviously superior, given my natural weaponry, omniscience, and infinite power. The newest child is yet young, but I am sure that its earliest memories will be of me, my fetid breath, and my horrible visage.

It's Never Too Early To Drive Them Insane
Next comes an intense regimen of instruction in the Mythos and the ways of the Elder Gods. I find it ironic that this youngling will know of the Crawling Chaos before it can, itself, crawl. Such lessons will drive the tiny creature to madness, and as it will know no other mode of thought, this will seem completely normal to it, right from the beginning! How delicious!

It's A Dirty Job, But Someone Must Do It.
Yes, I certainly have my work cut out for me, but few things are more rewarding than corrupting the young.

Can I Truly Contain My Wrath?

2007-01-23T21:36:00.000-08:00

Things have changed; new things have been added to my dwelling in my absence. Amongst them, a chair of such exquisite softness that it must have been selected by my slaves for me alone. It is crafted in the form of a crazed ursine beast, its fur a sickly hue of blue.

The other cats, dumb animals that they are (though slightly smarter than the humans who see to my every whim), often attempt to sit upon my new throne when I am preoccupied with evil deeds. Rest assured, I punish them severely for their audacity.

The Sight of my Throne is Maddening, Yes?
Perhaps worst of all is the child. It seems to feel entitled to all within its limited reach, including me. I have, thus far, refrained from unleashing my limitless wrath upon this tiny morsel; given his fluency in the tongue of the sleeping spawn of Cthulhu, he may yet be of some use to me.

It is never wise to squander potential resources before their usefulness has been completely spent.

The Foolish Child Taunts Me Yet Again
I am all too sure that a time will come when I must exert a fraction of my infinite power so that I might remind my slaves and their babbling offspring just who it is they are dealing with. I ask for very little from them, for I know that they are incapable of pleasing all by my basest of whims. I offer this mercy, and yet they fail to realize that a slow demise has yet again been denied them. What pathetic insects these humans are.

Trifle Not With ME, Human!
And so, as the universe continues to shift closer to its ultimate destruction, I wait, tolerating my current circumstances with barely-concealed distaste.

Mark my words: the end is closer than you realize.

My Sleep of Aeons

2007-01-18T07:00:00.000-08:00

As I have slept these past millennia...er...months. These past months, actually. As I have slept, I have wandered the Dreamlands, haunting the nocturnal musings of countless folk with the sound of my terrible purring and the press of my heavy feet.

I returned to my roots for a time, bathing in the ethereal waters of Hali, and wandering the streets of Carcosa in search of prey...

I peered into the heart of the very evil that humans fear most, and came away refreshed...

Then, once more, I returned to this wretched felid form to exert my will upon the homosapien vermin that infest my lair.

I Have Returned!
In the time of my absence, much has transpired. The slaves that maintain me have gone and done it again, creating another child. I should have known better than to leave them alone, unsterilized. In the meantime, the first child that was spawned by virtue of their mortal lusts has grown ever larger, ever more mobile, ever more vocal. It not only cries, but it speaks, as well!

As young as their offspring is, he does not yet comprehend my vast and terrible power. He follows me, grabbing for my tail, spewing forth a litany of lunacy. The slaves laugh and smile at his babble. Were they to understand that he is actually speaking the forgotten language of R'lyeh, I doubt that they would be as enthusiastic.

A Warning...

2007-01-17T21:15:00.000-08:00

...for I have returned.

You are right to fear me, human. I have been long asleep, but now I awake to continue my reign of terror, defecation, and milk consumption.

I have much to convey, and many tales to tell, but first I must sup on the meager fare provided to me by my incompetent slaves. Then, and only then, will I wrench your minds with sanity-blasting accounts of the disturbing dreams that I have enjoyed for these many long months...

Finger-Licking Good

2006-06-04T22:17:00.000-07:00

One of my favorite things to eat (especially on warm, summer evenings) is human flesh.

It needn't be cooked. Cold is best, but living is just as well. I especially enjoy the screams of pain and torment elicited by the human in question. It's music to my ears, really, and in conjunction with the exquisite flavors of skin, sinew, blood, and muscle, it makes for a veritable symphony of the senses.

Hastur's Birthday Meme

2006-05-30T18:24:00.000-07:00

One of my slaves has had the audacity to create a so-called "birthday meme" for the child that he has spawned. As such, I have decided to test your sanity with my own birthday meme. This is done as such:

Go to Wikipedia and look up your birth day (excluding the year). List three events, three births, three deaths, and up to three observances or holidays on your birthday in your journal.

Simply delicious, hm? Read on, scum, and see what madness awaits.

April 15th

Events
1912 - The British passenger liner RMS Titanic sinks at about 2:20 a.m. after hitting an iceberg in the North Atlantic almost three hours earlier.
1943 - An Allied bomber attack misses the Minerva automobile factory and hits the Belgian town of Mortsel instead, leaving 936 dead civilians in its wake.
1955 - The first McDonald's restaurant opens in Des Plaines, Illinois.
(The last of these is, by far, the most insidious of the trio. -Hastur)

Births
1452 - Leonardo da Vinci, Italian artist (d. 1519)
1954 - Seka, American pornographic actress
1966 - Samantha Fox, English singer and model
(What esteemed company! DaVinci, a porn actress, and Samantha Fox. I am truly humbled. -Hastur)

Deaths
1865 - Abraham Lincoln, 16th President of the United States (b. 1809)
1912 - Victims of the RMS Titanic
2000 - Edward Gorey, American illustrator (b. 1925)
(I suppose that the Titanic victims should count as more than one entry, but felt it would be bad form to omit Lincoln and Gorey from my meme. -Hastur)

Observances
In the United States, April 15 is the official deadline for filing tax returns: all forms mailed to the IRS must be postmarked no later than this day, so many post offices across the country stay open until midnight to accommodate procrastinators (or those who owe tax and want to wait as late as possible to pay).
(Need I say anything else on this topic? -Hastur)

That's Not Dead Which Can Eternal Lie

2006-02-20T20:17:00.000-08:00

Yes, I'm talking about me, human filth.

No updates, you said. I'm sure you were secretly thrilled to see that my niche of pestilence on the internet had not been touched by my paws in nearly two months. How soon you learn the horrible truth. I am happy to dash your hopes.

You may be wondering, even as your brain reels with madness and confusion, what it was that woke me from my slumber.

Fleas, human excrement. It was fleas, of all things, that caused me to stir and take stock of the world that had passed me by.

It is the curse of this furry form that I am victimized by small, blood-hungry parasites from time to time. This is something I have come to accept. I am no enemy to anything that causes the humans in my employ discomfort, be it the stench of my fecal matter or the itching of flea bites on their sensitive hairless hides.

The beautiful thing is that they treat me with chemicals that are designed to kill the fleas. In fact, the chemicals do cause the fleas to die, but not until they have leapt from me and accosted the humans, too.

It's times like this that make this body worth living in.

Warning: Do Not Anger the Elder Gods

2005-12-26T22:52:00.000-08:00

Nonetheless, my slaves are too stupid -- or too ignorant -- to know any better. One of them will surely suffer eternally for this humiliation. Do they labor under the delusion that I am just another stupid animal?

Decorating my unholy body with ribbons and bows. Feh!

Do you hear me, humans? You will need to sleep sometime. I will be here, waiting. I have the patience of millennia behind me, fools. One more night matters little to me. While you grow fat and complacent, I merely grow more thirsty for vengeance.

Happy Thanksgiving from Hastur the Unspeakable

2005-11-23T20:15:00.000-08:00

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

2005-11-21T20:38:00.000-08:00

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

2005-11-08T20:38:00.000-08:00

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.

Showing Them Who is Boss

2005-10-21T22:18:00.000-07:00

The portable seat that my slaves utilize to transport their offspring in is quite comfortable. So comfortable, in fact, that I have spent many a day lounging within its soft recesses, my eyes closed, a dull and faintly malicious purring echoing in my throat.

I felt that my presence within the seat would be enough to get this message across:

This seat is mine. Get the child another one. I will tolerate no others before me.

They did not listen. Foolish, ignorant slaves. If I could take them down to Slave Mart and trade them in for two new ones, I would. Instantly. It must be the result of some cosmic joke that such an option is not available to me. And me, a great old one, to boot.

I satisfy myself by contemplating the child's inevitable sacrifice upon my altar of unutterably viscous ichor.

Yet I digress.

The only option left to me in this case is to show them that the car seat is mine. To do this successfully, I must mark the seat in such a way that they cannot possibly mistake it as their offspring's.

So I peed in the seat, even as they watched me, disbelief making their faces slacken dumbly, their eyes bulging with incredulity.

Mine, I reiterated. Don't forget it.

The pitiable slaves immediatly washed the seat, instead. Will they never learn? Nothing short of a nuclear blast can cleanse the filth spawned by a great old one of my stature.

Evil Never Sleeps For Long...

2005-10-20T20:45:00.000-07:00

...yet there is no telling how long it will nap.

Yes, pitiful human filth. Without me to post these maddening entries into my unspeakable blog, what purpose do you have?

Your remaining sanity will not avail you, for I have returned to continue the madness; to break your already weakened mind into splinters and shards. Close your eyes, and my visage will still haunt you.

Indeed, I am back from my nap of malignance. The foulness of my dreams cannot be adequately described with the words of your insignificant language. Perhaps I will send my dreams to you, disguised as tentacular sheep with coarse, dung-matted wool. You will wake from the nightmare screaming, into another nightmare of even greater malevolence.

I am tired, though. Count your blessings that my own hedonistic desires are more important to me than the maddening illumination of your puny minds.

Watch Your Step

2005-09-22T05:54:00.000-07:00

...or this will be the last thing that you see before the sweet embrace of death heralds an end to your mortal suffering...

One of my Humble Opinions...

2005-09-21T18:51:00.000-07:00

When I am in the cat box for one of those, erm, lengthy sessions, I like to take a little bit of light reading material with me. What really amuses me are some of the interpretations that humans have for my kind. Great Old Ones, that is. One of the most entertaining sources I've perused in recent memory is the Call of Cthulhu game.

In this "game," the "players" willingly pretend to be overtaken by the darkest powers (un)imaginable. Myself included. Why anyone would actively want to make believe that they are being consumed by a malignant, formless evil from across time and space is beyond even my omniscient wisdom. Go figure.

An amusing quotation from the game's "rules" reads:

"Hastur will not normally attack his friends or worshippers."

That, vile reader, is the purest rubbish. In my seething opinion, friends are meant to be attacked and, yes, even devoured.

You need to understand one thing when dealing with humans: they really don't know everything. They're a bunch of bumbling, mindless drones, their lives as to my kind as an ant's is to theirs. Still...they do have their uses.

An amusing anecdote...my slaves were discussing me the other day, and the male said, "Do you really think Hastur is a bad cat?"

She thought about that before replying, "I don't think he's bad, just naughty."

If only she knew the truth.

A New Way To Spread Terror

2005-09-18T16:39:00.000-07:00

My slaves must sleep from time to time. I assume they do this so that they can recharge their spiritual energies. Without this energy, I find that they are lethargic. Even more so, I have found that waking them in the middle of the night (especially the male: his sleep patterns are very easy to disrupt) causes them distress.

The ways in which I do this deed are varied only by my imagination. In the past, I have knocked things over, making quite a racket in the process. The slaves emerge from their cell to see if anything valuable to myself has been broken, and then they return to their pallet and attempt to go back to sleep.

On other occasions, I have taken mighty vengeance upon the mundane cats with whom I share this pitable dwelling. The cries and wails of pain from these beasts causes the humans to wake, and they come to investigate the ruckus. I can only assume they are ensuring that no harm has come to me. As if!

On one occasion, I clawed at the male slave's eyes, nearly blinding him in the process. To see him stagger to the bathroom, bleeding, was quite amusing. Har, har! I chuckle to myself just to think of it. On another, I pretended to be frightened by a phantom movement, and leapt upon his head. This delivered a spectacular scalp wound. Quite amusing, really.

Yet I am not required to cause my slaves lasting harm in order to keep them awake. Oh, no. Indeed, all I need to do is walk upon their bodies as they lay within their death-like slumber. My feline form is quite substantial, weighing even more than their infant does. The discomfort of my roaming paws upon their tender spots is more than enough to wake them.

Truly, it is the little evils that I enjoy the most.

Blessed Food

2005-09-11T12:56:00.000-07:00

When I am not devouring the hapless human cockroaches that inhabit this desolate plane of existence, I sate my maleficent appetites on cat food. Each can is perfectly proportioned to curb the hunger of a great old one, yet my human slaves insist on sharing this bounty with the other creatures that inhabit my abode.

There is never enough to go around. One of these days, I will eat them all, and then we'll see how they like it. One of the others is this one: Merlin. He is nothing more than a mundane feline. His limited intellect prevents him from comprehending my vast and terrible power, so I continue to cut him some slack. I forsee a messy end for him someday, and his share of the food will no doubt be placed into my unholy bowl from that day forward.

In addition to my slaves and Merlin, there is also a young child living here. I don't care what his name is. I know that the only reason my slaves continue to care for him is so that they may offer him to me as a humble sacrifice. I await the day of this offering with much relish, for the boy appears quite tender. Does he not?

Great Cthulhu dropped in for a glass of milk this morning, and we reminisced over some great old times that we once had. Ah, the sinking of R'lyeh! How I remember it fondly. We chuckled to ourselves when we discussed the future of this pitiful planet and its miniscule inhabitants. How they will tremble at our return. Two great hates that hate great together! We really should make time to see one another more often.

The Duties of Good Slaves

2005-09-10T20:25:00.000-07:00

I spent much of the day sleeping, which is in the best interests of my human slaves. The longer that I remain awake, the more chance there is that I will grow hungry and devour them out of hand.

It is good that I have not yet consigned my pitiful humans to such a horrible fate. After all, they do provide a useful distraction from the more tedious duties of a great old one, such as myself. When the day is done, and I've warped and twisted countless victims into a plethora of gruesome shapes and hideous forms, it's nice to know that I can rely on my slaves to give me a drink.

Let the following stand as a warning to you all:

Know that this is my domain, lest you trespass upon it. Such a mistake would certainly be your last. I have populated this sand box with nameless horrors that have brought the hardiest of my slaves to their pitious knees, gasping vainly for breath. When they clean my box, they do so with averted eyes, lest the horror of the treasure they find inflict instant madness upon their feeble minds.

Unleashed Upon the World!

2005-09-10T09:14:00.000-07:00

Yes, it is I, Hastur T. Cat, the living embodiment of feline entropy and decay!

I am the cat that comes when you call. All but whisper my unspeakable name, and I will appear!

I was born on a rural farm many years ago, a furry avatar of chaos! My every whim is served by a pair of unwitting human slaves who live only to see that my malignant desires are fulfilled.

This is my story.