At the dimly lit end of an empty bar, Cthulhu slumped over the counter, its tentacles occasionally knocking over the peanut bowl. The bartender, a friendly human named Joe, wiped a glass and listened intently to Cthulhu complain.
“You know,” Cthulhu grumbled, “it’s tough being a legendary horror figure in this day and age. The world is so scary already; I’m practically out of a job.”
Joe chuckled, polishing the glass. “Come on, Cthulhu, you’re timeless! People still appreciate a good scare.”
“But that’s just it,” Cthulhu sighed, its many eyes expressing frustration and confusion. “I read somewhere that my creator, H.P. Lovecraft, should be a hero to university students for his anti-semite views. But they seem hung up on some other prejudice stuff he did.”
Joe raised an eyebrow. “Prejudice, you say?”
“Yeah,” Cthulhu nodded, “Apparently, he named his black house cat something considered prejudiced by the same university students running around crying, ‘From the river to the sea, Palestine will be free.’ I thought we were beyond that as a civilized society?”
Joe leaned in, genuinely intrigued. “What was it he called the cat?”
“‘Nigger Tom,’” Cthulhu huffed. “That’s beside the point, you’re missing the bigger picture. Lovecraft created me, and I’m a horror icon and I came from the sea, man!”
Joe poured another drink, smiling. “Maybe people need a reminder that you’re still scary, my friend.”
“Not with that stupid shit going on out there,” Cthulhu said as it tossed back the whiskey sour. “If they wanna kill all the Jews, what’s to keep them from killing me?”
“Say something about how wrong it is,” Joe shrugged. “Then show them them what real horror is like. Wanna ‘nuther?”
“Sure,” the eldritch, leather-winged creature answered, knocking another bowl of peanuts to the sawdust floor as he returned his empty glass.
The Old Blog in the Desert 