Suppressing a shudder, you take the cleaver. “Nice even slices,” says Zeb. “Don’t forget to get the smaller branchings off.” Forcing your hand to steadiness, you begin cutting. The Tentacle doesn’t even twitch. You see the smaller tentacles regenerating with visible speed. As for the slices from the main branch, you can’t even comprehend it. They come off in your hands, spurting ichor, and yet the Tentacle gets no smaller.
“Yeah, it’s always that way,” says Zeb. You see him squeezing a yellowish-green oil from the suckers that line the tentacle. “Slice it up and fry it in its own oil. Corrie found it, they say—or summoned it, no one’s sure which—ages ago. A tentacle of Great Cthulhu Himself. Now, she keeps Him quiet. As long as she doesn’t wake up, and the Elder Signs hold, we’re fine. No food to buy. It’s free money.”
“People enjoy this?” you ask.
“Why should I care, as long as they keep coming back and paying my wage?” He looks at you measuringly. “Can’t take it? You can always go back to washing dishes. Or you can host.” A sneer is in his voice.
Do you…?
Decide to go wash dishes instead.
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