When you call him in it’ll be obvious that he knows it’s not a good thing. His mouth tendrils will drag along the floor and he’ll barely have to duck his shoulders to get his horns through the door he’ll be skulking so low. When you invite him to sit he’ll accept for the first time ever, awkwardly folding his many limbs over the arms of the chair.
You’ll let loose a wordless shriek constituting a name and begin. “We’ve known each other a long time. Since I was four years old, my friend.”
He’ll nod, his tendrils twilling in affirmation.
“That’s why I feel I have to be honest with you. You’re just not scaring me the way you used to.”
He’ll stand up when you say this, his five barbed phalluses erect, tendrils writhing at you. He’ll roar, shattering glass before he picks up the armchair he was just sitting in and smashes it into kindling with a casual hurl. He’ll advance on you, his twelve foot bulk blocking out the light from the low energy florescent bulb you installed the week before. You’ll cluck your tongue and mentally calculate the value of the chair.
He’ll thump his chest with one of his nine limbs and indicate through a combination of American sign language and approximate gesture that, should he so choose, he could break all of your arms and legs and rape you to death at his leisure. You’ll shake your head and give him a sad look.
“It’s not that. I know you’re still the same hideous, formless creature from beyond. I know your seed would afflict me with an unknowable madness that comes with your power. But that would be a mercy compared to figuring out what to order next on my Netflix or negotiating office politics. You have to understand, it’s me.”
He’ll shrink a little, his phalluses one by one going limp.
“I’ve had to grow up.”
He’ll growl his affirmation, still angry, and trudge back into your room. You’ll hear a huge racket, but after fifteen minutes he’ll emerge in a trench coat and fedora, suitcase in one of his two exposed limbs. He’ll give you a tiny twitch goodbye with a tendril before he walks out into the rain, slamming the door behind him.
As he walks down the street, out of your life forever, you’ll watch him from your window. You’ll shout his name at the glass, since it can only be pronounced by shouting, and he’ll turn around to look at you. You’ll want to tell him that a trench coat is no longer a viable fashion choice, but you just won’t have the heart.
You’ll just stand and watch him go before sitting down at your dining room table and opening up your Comcast bill, where you’ll proceed to swear at it for thirty-seven minutes.
Congratulations on Putting Your Foot Down!
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