You scrub the black stains, but even after you’ve ruined two sponges they’re as thick as ever. You look around and find a footlocker with some nitrile gloves and heavy-duty cleaner inside. “Bingo,” you mutter. “That’s the shit.” The oily stains peel away beneath your onslaught, and soon you’ve revealed the wall, along with some heavy, reddish-black lines. You scrub harder and harder and finally the lines give way.
Suddenly, the floor convulses. The line cook screams and appears at the entrance to your alcove. “You fool! You’ve destroyed the Elder Sign!” He turns to flee, but cables of black, rubbery flesh whip out of the mist behind him and drag him away, screaming.
