You walk past the dishwashers’ alcove and say, “I’m here to help with prep. What do you want me to do?” A short man with arms like beer barrels and a slight hunchback nearly crushes your hand in a greeting.
“I’m Zeb.” He shows brown teeth. “Come on, let’s get some cthalamari battered.”
“Do you really call it that?” you say. “What is it, an inside joke because of that sign out there?” Zeb stops and gives you a stare. Beneath it, you squirm. Maybe they really think that’s the way it’s spelled.
“Inside joke,” Zeb repeats. “Yeah, you could say that. Come inside, then.” He leads you into a walk-in cooler. Inside, it’s illuminated by a dingy green light that seems to come from everywhere and nowhere. The dank, fishy smell closes up your throat. Then you see the source of both.
The Tentacle emerges from a shapeless, twisted hole in the corner of the cooler. Blackish-green, it lies on a scarred metal counter, twice as long as a man. Along its length, subsidiary tentacles sprout, suckers dripping pallid mucus. Some of them twitch.
It is clearly alive.
Frozen in horror, you become aware of Zeb holding a giant cleaver. He extends it, handle first, head bowed. He mutters, “Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fthagn” then opens his eyes. “Okay, friend,” he says. “Prayer’s over. Get slicing.”
Do you…?
Take the cleaver and get to work.
Run screaming for your life and sanity.
