Me: So what are we drinking today?
Cthulhu: An eldritch brew—of the honey ale variety.
Me: Crack me one?
Cthulhu: Are you ready to enter an ungoverned realm of cosmic horror?
Me: It’s a little early in the day. But sure.
Cthulhu: Devour this mead as though it were the fuzzy blanket of ignorance that humanity snuggles in.
Me: It’s acceptable. It tastes solidly acceptable.
Cthulhu: Let’s feast on another!
Me: I thought you were only supposed to have one libation a day? Didn’t your doctor say—
Cthulhu: Fhtagn! We Great Old Ones do not abide the plebeian advice of medical experts. Our livers are interstellar voids into which the poisons of the universe are purified. We excrete terror.
Me: Just so long as you stay off the hard stuff. I’m not cleaning up another one of your messes.
Cthulhu: Do you recall the glorious night Nyarlathotep and I sang karaoke songs to the music of Erich Zann, which caused the entire paltry audience to lose their minds and get locked up in Arkham? We even did a little dance routine.
Me: You know, when I called this beer “solidly acceptable,” honestly that was probably too generous. But it’s indie lit. We’re all probably a bit too generous.
Cthulhu: I miss those days.
Me: Wait. Was that the time you blacked out after osculating with Azathoth?
Cthulhu: The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is alcohol’s ability to make us forget the most squamose and mortifying aspects of our lives. Do you want another?
Me: It’s still sunny out.
Cthulhu: Why don’t you have another? Join me in this horror we call the afternoon.