Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

Minosian fools. Do you not see? The compact that we, the Many of the Abyss, made with the citizens of the circles city was always already the seed of their demise. We demanded from them a single child be made to suffer the most heinous tortures so that the rest of the city might know peace and prosperity; that very act and the acquiescence to it that every adult in the city undertook with their coming of age tainted their every last action with the stain of the Abyss.

And what of the price I asked? If any kindness or compassion were to be shown the child, the lives of every come-of-age adult, their souls, and their flesh would be forfeit to me. Grist and blood and sinew to be reshaped to serve the will of we, the Many of the Abyss. They sought to protect against that, building a fortified dungeon to hold the child, erecting a barrier to keep others out, and making judicious use of cantrips and magicks to erase the very memory of anyone who left the city or had birthed a sacrifice-child.

But there is no protection, no plan, no magicks that can stand against our most potent weapon: time.

In time, the child would be shown a kindness and the compact would be broken. It was inevitable, whether in centuries or even millennia. And by binding themselves to we, the Many of the Abyss, at their comings-of-age, the citizens were already perfect vessels for our howling birth upon your plane. For the Many of the Abyss are eternal and patient, and we have built up our dominion here from a single plane-tainted ant to a gestating army which will remake the world in our image.

What can you, fools of Minosia, do against such will, such power, other than break upon it as a wave upon stony shores?

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The Crimson Emperor Neris II, for reasons of his own, sent the crack 7th Imperial Legion not to some far-distant battlefield but to a little-known place in the hinterlands of his own domain, a morass known as Mossfallow Fen.

Neris II was the first Emperor by that name since Neris I nearly 250 years ago, and that emperor’s disastrous reign had long overshadowed the name, despite it being the most common given name for noble-born boys for generations in either direction. Emperor Joron III, Emperor Doricus IV, and Emperor Testarossa II had all borne the proper name of Neris but had chosen to drop it in favor of another of their many names or even a nickname. But the Dowager Empress had insisted that her son would make the name noble again, and many at court felt that his rash, impulsive, and overwhelmingly forceful responses to any perceived threat were the result of the burden of his name.

So none dared question Neris II’s deployment of the 7th Imperial Legion to Mossfalow Fen, and when he bypassed the usual Imperial command structure to do so, his bureaucrats obligingly stepped aside. The 7th Legion departed without any of its usual command staff or Imperial Commissioners. Only the Prince-Elector of Kryne, one of the Emperor’s closest confidants, accompanied the troops, relaying his orders directly to the men through their officers.

One month later, a single Legionnaire from the 7th returned to the Crimson Emperor’s court. He was Centurion Joeax, of the Southern Marches, a sunlit and breezy land far removed from the dour overcast of Mossfallow. It is recorded in the histories that Joeax commanded an auxiliary unit of archers in the 7th, and that he arrived apparently uninjured but without his bow, riding a horse with the tack of a much senior officer and armed with a long cruciform heavy infantry sword rather than the short stabbing sword issued archers for personal defense and lat-ditch melee.

Joeax was quickly borne to Neris II, and the emperor demanded that his audience with the man be utterly private. It was a brief meeting, not more than fifteen minutes, and at the end the Emperor’s advisors found that their liege had slain Joeax with his ornate sword of office–the first time it had been stained with blood since the Great Rebellion. In a rage, Neris II demanded that every man, woman, and child who had contact with Joeax and might possibly have heard or intuited part of his message be put to death.

1000 people died in the subsequent purge, and at the Emperor’s orders his scribes and historians did their best to expunge all mention of the 7th Legion from the record. At this they failed, presumably because most assumed that the Legion had risen against the Emperor and that the latter’s overthrow was imminent. But no such challenge arose; Neris II ruled for a further 10 years, but within six months of Joeax’s execution he had sunk into howling insanity with only the briefest periods of lucidity, leaving his son the future Doricus V as regent.

Not one of the 10,000 men of the 7th Imperial Legion including Prince-Elector Kryne was ever seen again save Joeax, nor was a single item of their equipment ever recovered, though many enterprising souls scoured the muck of Mossfallow for the site of a presumed battle. Emperor Neris II had been successful in one sense: not a living soul ever discovered what news Centurian Joeax had borne to his liege.

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I located a large public area, like a library, and then lay in wait until someone left their car keys unattended on a table. You’d be surprised–shocked, even–how often people do this. When I was really lucky, someone would leave their keys behind entirely and I could take them on the pretext of turning them in to the lost and found. I never took anything else, like a laptop or even cash, because the cops knew about those theft rings and were far less likely to believe my excuse.

Once I found a set of keys, I’d go out to the parking lot and try the automatic unlocker key fob to see what vehicle responded. Sometimes I even went so far as to try the key in every lock that matched the key’s design. Then I’d drive the car to a safe spot to take stock.

There usually wasn’t much money, but you’d be amazed at the things people leave in their cars or (if they’re slightly smarter) their trunks. I could usually drive to a local pawn shop and get some cash for the things rattling around inside before selling the car to a local chop shop or abandoning it.

A simple con, but it’s what kept me going those long lean months in the middle of my darkest days.

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With unlimited information
And unlimited free time
Never underestimate
How willing someone is
To dedicate their life
To ruining yours

– Charter of the Republic of Slon, Part IV: Aphorisms

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“In civilian life,” said Lt. Darrow, “he was an accountant, if you can believe it. He never talks about it, though.”

“How do you know Lt. Ringo was an accountant if he never talks about it?” Maj. Stubb asked.

Lt. Ringo’s plane circled around for a landing, displaying brilliant nose art of a tax form firing a machine gun labeled Internal Audit.

“I figured it out somehow,” said Lt. Darrow drily.

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Today marks the tenth anniversary of what has become an annual tradition in our community, the Dreadfather’s Day Picnic in Glover Park. For those who have avoided the dreammist fumes and shrieks of the insane that routinely surround the park during the celebration, this Father’s Day event honors the Grand Aged One Ctathul the Dreadfather, foremost of the Eldest Entities who held sway over the world when terrestrial life was mere shapeless protoplasm in the primordial seas.

“Days and dates are meaningless to dead, eternal Ctathul, consort of Rnyugnatlath, master of Holaak-Hliqu, who lays in bitter slumber beyond the ken of mortals and immortals alike,” says Iznarna the Gibbering, a middle-aged Ctathulspawn at today’s gathering. “However, they are useful to mortals and near mortals as reminders of Ctathul’s part in our lineage, his coming return, and the one hundred million years of horror it presages.”

“Father’s Day is of no intrinsic meaning to our Dreadfather, it is true,” says Jaobsob, the Thing in Yellow. A hunchbacked, skeletal figure in a tattered yellow robe wearing a featureless pallid mask to conceal uncountable otherworldly eyes surrounded by writhing tentacles like screaming maggots, he (?) is the most senior representative of Cthathul present at today’s ceremony. “However, by combining our energies, we Ctathulspawn, Ctathultouched, and Ctathulcurious are able to stretch and tear the fabric of space and sanity in a way that the Dreadfather would surely approve of,” Jaobsob adds in a voice that is as the sound of distant children screaming in fear.

Today’s schedule of Father’s Day festivities includes a three-legged race, a blood sacrifice led by High Acolyte M’Drevre, a potluck of casserole and freshly-spilt human intestine, immature Riw-Jawj rides for the children, a mass moulting ceremony for Ctathulspawn ready to join their community as full horors, and speeches by noted pro Ctathul radio personalities V’Manean & Z’Qerier from KTHU’s Gibbering Gibbous Mornings.

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“So, tell me about the problem. Shouldn’t issues of this sort be a thing of the past now that humankind has evolved into beings of pure energy?”

“Well, 0100000101101100,” said 0100010101100100, “as I’m sure you’re aware thanks to the fact that our species now shares a quasi-hive-mind in which all that is knowable is instantly embraced and shared, 65536 is the highest integer that a can be stored as a 16-bit number. In the Dark Ages of Flesh, there was a similar problem when bit conservation in the early and expensive days of computing meant that years were stored as two numbers, which caused a problem when the year 2000, or the year Singularity -34478 in our current dating system, rolled around.”

“But surely there must be virtually unlimited space for holding date information in current systems,” said 0100000101101100, raw energy crackling across its spherical surface in surprise.

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” laughed 0100010101100100. “But believe it or not, all existing computer systems still rely on the Intel x86 architecture at their base level, since there has never been a meaningful need to change.”

“Are you telling me, and saying that I actually already know, that our entire enlightened utopia of energy is actually based on a 65,000-year-old physical microchip from 1978 (Singularity -34500)?” 0100000101101100 cried.

0100010101100100 wobbled in an archaic gesture of agreement. “Yes.”

“So what happens on New Year’s Day 65536 (Singularity 29052)?” asked 0100000101101100.

“Our utopia, way of life, and consciousnesses die a screaming death,” said 0100010101100100.

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So, as many a starving artist has done in their darkest hours, I went into the sketchy part of town looking for sketchy girls.

“Hey there, sailor,” said one, who was nothing more than circles drawn over a rough framework below the waist, only partly detailed and colored. “Wanna finish me?”

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Warnewts was released late in the lifespan of the 8-bit Musjido Multimedia System (MMS). A mash-up of ideas from then-popular arcade brawlers and Saturday morning cartoons, the game retailed for an astonishing $79.99 due to battery-backed memory and a custom chipset, but it was well worth it to most gamers in the fall of 1992. With the next-generation 16-bit systems still at the height of their prices and a massive base of installed MMS users, Warnewts was viewed as a way to get a near-16-bit experience on an 8-bit console.

Some facts quickly became apparent: the original developer, Makhar Studios, had gone bankrupt just before the end of the game’s development, meaning that the company that released the game had no access to the source code. This led to Warnewts being shipped with some serious bugs that could not be easily fixed, like the infamous “Level 4 Platform Crouch-Punch.” The game was also incredibly hard and unforgiving, with three lives and three continues and dozens of instant death traps per level. Even with an optional built-in cheat to increase the number of lives and continues to five, beating the game was considered a mark of the highest video game artistry in the spring and summer of 1992. Third-party cheating devices like the Game Grimoire wouldn’t work properly with Warnewts‘ custom chipset, either, forcing an unprecedented outpouring of honesty from gamers.

The ending of Warnewts, much like that of Ghasts n’ Gargoyles, promised that a “true” ending could be unlocked, though whether do to a bug or design the ending did not specify what actions had to be taken and simply returned players to the title screen at its conclusion. Rumors swirled that this ending could only be unlocked by completing the game with no lives lost or continues used, a seemingly impossible feat.

In August 1994, the first claims appeared that a player had met the conditions to unlock the secret Warnewts ending. Less than a day later, a reporter from Musjido Elite magazine visited to confirm and take screenshots.

The found the player in the local morgue.

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CARL: This is Carl Drake, play-by-play commentator for NBS Broadcasting, and we are live at the National High School Varsity Cheerleading Championships, simulcast on NBS Sports 2, pom~pom.com, and Hajji al-Janābah TV in the Kingdom of Hejaz.

TOM: That’s right, Carl. This is Tom Hicks, color commentator for NBS Broadcasting, wondering what sort of sins you and I must have committed in our previous lives to draw such an assignment.

CARL: It’s the off-season; we do what we must to pay the mortgage and the alimony, and our chatter lends an air of authenticity to what many regard as a quasi-sport. And are you saying that you’re uncomfortable watching 1800 18-year-olds doing acrobatics in attire best described as “risqué business?”

TOM: That’s right, Carl. Not for any physical defect these finely sculpted, starved, and surgery’d beauties might exhibit, but rather because watching their cavalcade of toned gams makes me feel like a dirty old man peering into the ladies’ locker room through a knothole.

CARL: In that case, Tom, you’re in luck: our next squad up after the Hopewell High Cheering Grizzlies is the Lancaster County Consolidated Rural School District’s Solemn Adherents. As you can see, the entire school district is made up of Old Order Amish, but that hasn’t stopped their team, the Passive Solemn Adherents, from making it all the way to state five times in the past 20 years.

TOM: That’s right Carl, it would be hard to mistake those starched bonnets and homespun dresses for the miniskirts and flying buttress blouses favored by the other competitors. I see some concessions to modernity though: the dresses are dark purple rather than flat black, have the LCCRSD logo and Peaceful Cornhusker mascot cross-stitched on, and the dresses are a full, and scandalous, one inch shorter than usual.

CARL: We might see some flashes of ankle, Tom.

TOM: That’s right Carl, we might.

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