Wind Shares

Tuesday, January 24, 2012

The Call of Cthulhu

Mr. Robert Jones sat alone in his vast but poorly-lit mansion in Spookysburg, R.I., reading the Prominent Citizen Gazette, when the telephone rang.

“Will you accept a collect call from Cthulhu?” said the speaker on the other end. The voice was mechanical and recorded-sounding, except for the last word, which sounded like a monkey choking to death on a human baby that was choking to death on the same monkey when the monkey was a baby (via time travel). Robert Jones was aghast: he had not become a prominent citizen by accepting a bunch of collect calls, not even from his kidnapped son. He answered, “No,” and hung up.

The phone immediately rang again. “Come on, bro,” said the cold, emotionless voice. “Accept the charges. You don’t know what it will be. It could turn out to be a live sex chat for all you know.”

“Everyone knows those chat lines are full of nothing but dudes,” Jones responded, and hung up again.

Hours later, the phone rang once more. “All right, you win,” said the speaker. “We can’t trick you into taking the call. You have to accept the call through your own free will—that’s how the rules of this thing work. And you’re clearly just too smart to fall for something like that. Would you agree that this is true?”

“Yes,” answered Mr. Jones. This response automatically caused the charges to be accepted, and upon hearing the call, Jones was driven instantly, permanently mad.

Word of Mr. Jones’s condition spread rapidly through the town. The news raised in the minds of many townspeople a fearful question: Had Jones been driven so mad that he pooped himself? It had been known to happen. When it arrived a few days later, the terse headlines in the local weekly paper—

Creepy Phone Call
To Blame.

simply raised more troubling questions: Why were madmen the only ones allowed to sit around in their own poop all day? Think of all the time and effort that would save. It probably wouldn't be as bad as everybody made it sound. But, no, that sort of thing wasn't for the likes of Joe Sane: it was a luxury strictly reserved for the 1% (lunatics). What a rip. And people's faith in the basic underpinnings of society slowly began to disintegrate, which had been Cthulhu's plan all along.

But a further shock was still to come. When the police traced the calls to Jones's house, they discovered that TELEPHONES HAD NOT BEEN INVENTED YET.