The Star Spawn of Cuthulu

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic
All round adventurer Victorian Gentleman succumbs to the
mysteries of a terrible monster!
That dwells in the depths of the river Piddle.
What is this creature?
Can VG get to the bottom of this Myth?
One thing's for sure he'll try his darndest! By jove!

Submitted: February 15, 2009

A A A | A A A

Submitted: February 15, 2009



The Adventures of Victorian Gentleman
The Star Spawn of Cuthulu
I do enjoy a nice stroll. This morning being no exception as I hopped out of the motor, parked her up and hopped over a sty that would take me to a wondrous walk through the River Piddle in deep Dorset. It was mid January and the air was fresh and chilly, perfect for a days walk. Stout boots, tweeds and a fine cap saw me cutting a fine figure as I made my way along the path. This route was a firm favourite of erstwhile enthusiasts, it ran along the river for a good distance with no interruptions and had a host of attractive beauty spots, alehouses and picturesque villages. Or so I fucking thought, just ahead of me was a right scruffy looking hoody with a surly cat’s arse face peeping through his hood with slanted narrow eyes. I had me stout lead filled walking stick which was a seriously lethal club of sorts, at the ready to pop the bugger if he did so much as look at me. He must of sensed this as he stepped up his pace a touch and mooched on with his head down. I was a little disappointed to be honest as I would of liked to see him thrashing about in the river going “Help! Help!” But there were worthier things to do such as having a look at this rather splendid looking old water pump which was stationed by an old Victorian embankment used to replenish old water vessels with coal and water.
The water tower, steam pump room and coal bunker was sadly missing having being pulled down and such due to negligence echoed an emptiness as the remaining water pump stood aloof alongside a display stand packed with info and bygone photos. The pump however was newly renovated, gleaming and striking in it’s freshly painted red and green coat. I couldn’t resist turning the massive wheel though, grasping the thing with me mitts I heaved to the right. Bastard wasn’t budging, I tried again, this time with the strength of Samson. The veins throbbed and bulged out of me temples, me arms trembled and the head of an otter popped out me arse with a quack and touched cloth. Blasted old age! As quick as you like I breathed in and the bugger retreated back up me box, and I waltzed off hoping no one was watching. Close call that eh?
You’d think the Council would advertise the pump as being a defunct dummy what?
Still what a glorious morning I mused as I saw a heron balanced on the opposing bank poised majestically for a strike at the passing fish. A squirrel ran up a tree, a red setter ran alongside its jogging owner as they sped by me, ah what could be better? A pissed up old fart sprawled atop a bench with a bottle of jakey pish held in his liver coloured hand, begod! Even here one couldn’t get away from these smelly auld trotters, he was straddled on his back with his keks in full view, quite alarming actually as one could tell the time by the piss stained rings that collected around his groinal area, dirty fecker. After an hour or so I happened upon a charming little village, had I known what this seemingly quaint setting would have in store for me, I’d of done a quick about march all the way back home.
“Good morning Sir!” Chirruped a sweet old lady behind the counter in a classy old tea room. A touch of colour came to her cheeks as I bowed and replied in kind, and why not, these manly whiskers of mine commanded a favourable reaction from all those in view what?
“Tea for one, my dear. And a Chorley cake with cream if you would be so kind.” I asked taking a seat by the window so I could sit happily gazing at the general hub bub of village life. The kindly old lass placed the tea and cake before me. Really quite delish methought as I took a nibble from the homemade Chorley and an imbibe from the piping hot tea from it’s china cup. Something wasn’t quite right it had to be said, an uneasy feeling crept over me as I felt a pair of eyes bore into the back of me head. Deuced disturbing this I thought as I turned slowly to see this befouled, wizened and clad in black druid type waggling his claw like finger in my direction.
“Say what ?” Says I with a hint of steel in case he wanted a piece of me cake.
“Woe betide theeeeee!” A bloodcurdling, throaty voice garbled out of his toothless rot. “Whoooooooo!”
“Alright flower, be a good lad and fuck off eh?” I whispered so as not to attract unwanted attention.
“Woe betide the star spawn of Cuthulu!” He bellowed in terror, his admonishing hand wavered before me, his eyes wide in fervent fear, beseeching a favourable response from my clearly cynical façade.
With me staff at hand I toyed with the idea of giving this blubbery fucker a sharp crack upside his croaking dome, when everyone in the tea room including the seemingly affable and sane tea Lady suddenly threw their arms in the air and hallooed something awful, wassailing in utterly convincing intonations a fearsome dirge of chants.
“Cuthulu! Cuthulu! Sent to the depths of the Piddle!” This was my cue to leave as I polished off me elevenses and slipped out of the bewildering scene. I’m kind of used to strange things, being an adventurer of sorts hence I swift forgot the still screeching yokels and sauntered off towards a rather super looking angling shop. Now this was more like it I thought as I stepped into the familiar smelling store. I was something of a freshwater enthusiast, and I had half a mind to hire out a
carbon rod with some bait and some handmade flies I had in me haversack to try my luck at a nearby carrier stream off the Piddle. I approached the heavy set chap whom sported a mighty set of pork chops and handle barred moustache. “Do you hire out rods fellah?” I asked.
“Ooh ‘arr that we do squire.” He intoned.
“For the one day say?”
“Rent today bring it back on the morrow. You’d be wanting to stop over the night mind.” This was true. I thought this would be over extending my intended stay, but there was a niggling and nagging thought in the back of me head.
“Er. . . I do not want to be remiss chap.” I had to be careful here. “But, this fellow in the tea room mentioned something about a Star Spawn of Cuthulu.” I made as if I thought it was a load of bollocks, which I obviously thought it was, the chap’s reaction swayed my cynicism though. Instead of screeching and shouting in tongues he ambled over to the shop door and turned the sign to closed and locked us in. I was bracing meself for a surprise, but he quietly ushered me into the back of the store whereby he had a pot of tea on the boil, passing me a mug he sat me down by the table and brought out an album of sorts all with news clipping and grainy photos.
“Its all true Squire.” He said in a hush motioning with a ruddy finger a blurred image of a shapeless figure half risen from a particular wide and deep section of a river. One couldn’t be too sure of course but it certainly appeared unearthly. I remained sceptical all the same.
“A hoax surely?” I stated.
“Most of these reports and images are I suppose, but I took a few of these meself see?” He proffered a few more, all as blurred and grainy as the last one.
“Oh come on pal, ye can barely make anything out! Look sir! All of them.”
“’Baint no photographer pal, ‘oid loike to see thee take a steady pitcure with this here big baaastard thrashing it’s balls off to thee!” He had a point, and it struck me this old boy wasn’t the sort to make jest or spin village myths at the drop of a hat. One gets a nose for fibber woppers and this wasn’t one of them. I decided to get to the bottom of this.
“I’ll look into it.” I said stately.
“What? Ye mad?” He said incredulously.
“Well, I’m saying I believe you Sir, and I would like to investigate, allow me.” I handed him my card. “VG notable adventurer and gentleman, at yer service.” His face rolled into a scowl reserved for the gumption free city dweller as he surveyed the card with a sarcastic look on his face, the cheek.
“VG eh? Lookee ‘ere, oi can tell thee is a man of ‘t world, but hear this.” He receded back and spun me a devastating yarn.
For the purpose of the story, I’m keeping mum at this point, as I wish to regale and keep the alarming truth of the Cuthulu Star Spawn for it’s gripping finale. Suffice to say I swore to the kindly fishing tackle chap to stay away from the feared site and dwellings of said creature and stick to the carrier streams that would be plentiful and reward my skills as a fly water fisher. Did the man believe I would do as he bidded? Probably not, but I knew for damned sure I was going bag this watery fucker and kick it’s bollocks in, if not for the sake of pacifying these simple Dorset bumpkins then it was in getting yet another notch and feather in the splendid cap of yours truly, glory be to England and all that carry on eh?
“Big blubbery fucking knockers! Rah!” I roared in my sleep as the maid woke me from a rather frothy slumber in the village’s guest house.
“Morning call sir, its seven thirty.” I rose, rubbed me peepers and mumbled a thanks hoping me lob on wasn’t prominently popping out me pj’s, it wasn’t, the blanket was still in place as opposed to crumbled on the floor which is normally the case, heh heh. The pretty maid shyly tilted her head as she left the room, a brief shower and dump and I was fresh and scrubbed and tucking into a full English. Goodly grub is this I mused as I chomped heartily, all local free range stuff too. Mind I was paying half a ton nightly for the privilege. I had the previous day got on the phone to the wife and explained the latest VG escapade, she took it all in her stride in her usually expectant form, bless her. Also, she was tending to her ancient and utterly mental mother, so it worked out swell all round, as the dotty little porker didn’t much take to me. I had also ordered a dear old friend of the wife, Ethel to come up sharpish with all me fishing clobber, she was in fact the regional over seventies freshwater champion thee knows, so I was in sterling company. I needed the best at me side if I was going to land this Cuthulu poof, whatever it’s fecking full name was, begod! With a belly full of scran and a fortifying tot of brandy in me pot I stood like a Grecian column and waved hullo at the approaching Ethel, by gum she cut good form armed to her tits in tweeded fishing gear with assorted nets and rods, including my twelve footer.
“Good morning VG,” she trilled handing me rod.
“Back at yer Ethel my dear, please allow me.” I unloaded her gear and placed everything in me trusty Jag. “One for the road?” I passed her me flask and ruefully smiled as she decked a bolting imbibe of the fiery liquid with a clean jerk of her bird like head. “That’s the stuff what?”
“It’ll do for me VG, now lets bag us a monster.” Her enthusiasm was catching I thought as we merrily sped through lanes and through the muddy tracks that would lead us to the deep weir-like section of the river.
After unloading and assembling all our gear and such, we stood at the river’s edge as the waters swirled and bubbled before us and sang as a duet “Shall we gather at the river”, to pay our homage to the lord of all in creating the wondrous wares that blessed our nation’s waters. Her timely and shrilly la la voice complimented my booming baritone very well, to the untrained ear I may sound a little imposing such is my volume. Still, a good hymn, appropriate also seeing as we were stood by the fucker.
Song over we commenced fishing. It was a long day too, we caught a bountiful array of fresh fish yet no sign of the fabled monster. It swift slipped into night. We sat motionless sipping piping hot tea from a thermostat peepers fully trained on the still rested rods. Neither of our rods gave the teeniest quiver or jerk, but patience is a must for fishing as Ethel would attest to, she once spent an entire week stationed by a popular anglers spot and caught nary but a cold and a touch of piles. We were now getting dangerously late, the moon at it’s full zenith broke suddenly from the heavy clouds and filled the place with unearthly light. We exchanged a furtive glance and both suddenly saw my rod bend drastically and then held firm. Deuced odd this I thought, the rod was bowed as such and yet taught as iron! Then we heard it. A trilly, bubbly “Whoooooooooooooooooooo!” It rose from the depths of the river bed itself, the hairs on the napes of our necks stood erect and goose pimples spread out over our shivering forms. “Begod! This is it Ethel.” I hushed excitedly to her, she swift jumped to the nearby king size net on the river’s edge and stood poised as I grappled the rod and proceeded to haul in the source of that hideous wail.
‘Twas a spleen rupturing affair I can tell thee, it was like trying to drag a mini cooper up through treacle, yet inch by inch the carbon rod and high tech reel stood the stresses and strains and brought in the bounty ever closer. I could feel the creature struggle and thresh beneath the water’s surface, but was confident that it was well and truly hooked, after a lengthy fight of sorts the line went slack suddenly and up it roared! “Whoooooooooooooooooooo! Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!” And there it was in all it’s glorious awfulness. It stood as big as a grizzly bear reared on it’s hind legs, roaring it’s bollocks off in a strange alienoid garbling voice that threatened to burst our eardrums. It thrashed this way and that, it’s flailing crustaceous limbs sweeping the air before him, his tendrils lashing around his fearsome crab’s arse-like face, mandibles snapping open and shut, his garish visage all twisted and contorted in fury. It stood in the river’s centre and watched us standing station before it. Ethel, as brave as you like, slipped off her boots and hoisted her baggy apple catchers up over her pot tucking in her frock so as not to get it wet and waded in resolute and brandishing the net, I followed suit armed with me trusty stick.
“Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!” It warbled and nearly sent a shrieking Ethel to the depths of the Piddle, but swift as a hare I popped the fucker as it loomed over her right betwixt it squiggly little eyes, “Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!” It cried out like a big fecking baby smarting and rubbing it’s pies in furtive anger as Ethel pounced like a tigress and netted the bugger.
“By jove! We’ve done it eh Ethel?” I states as she stood admiring the handiwork smoothing down her Laura Ashley. The hapless monster stood, cutting a rather forlorn figure surveying his captors with a sullen air. Just as I was wondering what to do with him, the very same chap from the fishing shop led by the toothless seer suddenly appeared brandishing flaming torches and forks with a posse of villagers all serious and dangerous looking.
“It seemed you paid no heed to our warnings eh squire?” Admonished the fellah. “But we knew that anyway, ‘baint as daarft as we look thee knows VG.” His somewhat sardonic glare held me in check as all I could do was shrug.
“Couldn’t resist the challenge see.”
“Well you can fish you two, oil give yer thaaat.” He stood looking at the creature. “Poor thing eh?” A wave of guilt washed over me as the old chap waded in and took the net off the monster.
“Behold the Star Spawn of Cuthulu, wrenched from it’s lair!” Spouted the seer waving some magical incantation in the air calming the star spawn some.
“What is it?” Asks Ethel,
“Ask him, he knows, I telt him laaaast noight!” The fisherman points at me.
So I told an entranced Ethel the origins of this wondrous if fearsome legend.
It started several years ago as a former London business man decided to snap up a river cottage in deepest Dorset and embark on a new life as a gastronomic foody exploring all things local and British. Such was his success and influence his telly shenanigans had soon began to penetrate and infiltrate the inner sanctum of the villagers and their quiet way of life. All of a sudden in no time at all big burly farmers used to gnawing on bones and quaffing flagons of evil cider would start to adopt metropolitan modes of behaviour. They would soon start gushing about organic this, that and the other, waxing lyrical about foodly wares and began to speak like the poofters you usually get from the city, gormless and preppily middle class in their mannerisms. The local womenfolk would soon start to see red. They grew appalled at the changes they saw in their spouses, gasped in horror as these gurrning, ruddy simpletons went “Mwah! Mwah!” At the drop of a fucking hat, just because some fancy city fellah with girly locks would serve up reams of wildly diversifying feasts encompassing all manners of fancy world cuisine. A few years had already sped by at this point, but the final straw on the camels’ back came in the form of this man’s free range chicken campaign. Enough was enough, the men folk weak and powerless at this warlock of culinary terrorment due to his insistant and forceful generosity looked to the women and the villager’s seer for guidance. Teeth gnashing in shame and shaking their jowls in ignominy they beseeched the scowling women for forgiveness. It was so then decreed that the spirit of Cuthulu be summoned by the seer. Such a summoning came at a price, it would mean that the poncey chef would have to play host to the malevolent deity wrenched from it’s hellish realm, and sacrifice his body, forever doomed to be the humanoid variant of the murky demon sprite, star spawn of Cuthulu. And, so came the night, the mob drew up the chef’s cottage at the stroke of midnight and captured and dragged his screaming arse to a stone circle and performed the rite under a moon filled and thunderous sky. And just as Smeagol transformed from a short arsed twat to a hideous Gollum creature under the power of Saruman’s one ring to rule them all in Lord of the Rings, the chef manifested into the star spawn deity’s shape and form, and went screeching off into the River Piddle’s deepest recess and remained there ever since munching on fish and sieving microscopic particles through his matted fringes, coming out only at midnight under a full moon to wreak the occasional mayhem devouring hapless cattle or kicking the bollocks off a lone farmer or rambler in vengeful lust.
“ I don’t believe it!” An incredulous Ethel glanced at the spawn being hoisted and slowly placed into a vast tank full of water by one of the farmers using the crane bit at the back of his tractor. “But, what about him?” She said, her voice etched in concern as the poor thing sank to the bottom of the tank. I too felt a pang of anguish for the scaly cherub. But the fisherman came through to speak.
“Fear not angler, it will be taken to the London Aquarium, County Hall, Westminster, Bridge Road on the South Bank, and will be very well tended for. Another Star Spawn from Padstow has being caught recently, and they shall keep each other company and enjoy being the toast of the town no doubt.”Myself and Ethel went over to the tank, and sure enough the Star Spawn of Cuthulu was sitting contentedly sieving Krill through it’s mandibles, and a low happy purring bubbly sound could be heard as he snatched a minnow from me and chomped it up eyes blinking in bliss.“Farewell Star Spawn”, I hollered out waving as the tank was hoisted up onto a trailer and sped off through the dark lanes towards his new home.By way of thanks we met up with the jubilant villagers later on and supped hot mead into the night. Laughing and singing, myself and my wonderful fishing partner Ethel headed back to our rooms, bade goodnight and dropped to our beds heady with good spirits and a feeling of a real accomplishment, ensuring all was well, including the Star Spawn who would now be happily getting along with the Cornish Star Spawn. Later on mind, Ethel crept into my room stood at the foot of me bed and pulled her nightie up over head, showing me her own “Star Spawn”. Eh? Heh heh! Let’s leave it there eh?

© Copyright 2018 Stanley Braithewaite. All rights reserved.

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