A Horrifying Comedy

Sunday, October 4.

From the diary of Mackenzie MacNamara:

There was research to be done that Sunday, and we headed out to the Miskatonic University Library to find information on the Charaka Samhita, the El-Mansuri, Die Behandlungen der Irren ohne mechanischen Zwang, and Über Sprachstörungen im Traume. The library is actually open for a couple of hours on Sundays, and as we entered the library I ran into one of my graduate students, Amanda Bowman. She whispered to me that the library has a new employee who rules over the checkout counter. She did in all likelihood have a name, but she was only known as "The Potato Chip Lady". To know her was to fear her, as the silence of the ancient library was interrupted by the recurring crunch of yet another chip being devoured by The Potato Chip Lady. Anyhow, the books turned out to be early texts on what we would call psychology and psychiatry, and they had all been checked out by Dr. Henrietta Queeg. A further conversation with Professor Armitage about the arcane contents of the closed stacks made clear that Dr. Queeg had been reading some of the more obscure books mentioned in Lake's note. Hm, it seemed as if Dr. Queeg had been experimenting with psychotherapy and eldritch unholy mysticism connected to primordial beings of alien origin. What could possibly go wrong?

From the diary of Jules Pollack:

I wasn't invited to the Sunday reception for Victor Ventura, but I was expected. Dr. Queeg's mansion, Psilander House, was indeed grand, and so was the reception itself. Moira was there, but she seemed, well, odd. More odd than usual. But, we had a plan! Felix was left behind upstairs, while we stayed as long as humanely possible. It turned out that Queeg, Ventura (or whatever his name might be), Henry O'Reilly, and another thug, Pete The Meat Brazzo, took off in an automobile. The left Arkham, with Mackie and myself in hot pursuit. As it were, they turned off after ten or so miles and parked outside small house north of the road between Arkham and Boston. I pulled out the ignition cables out of their car's engine just for fun after sneaking up to the house, and we took a quick peak in through the dusty windows. It seemed as if Queeg was preparing some kind of ritual, and after some time the entire party of goons, comedians, psychoanalysts and Moira Baker left for the car. Some cursing and quick repairs, and they started off on the road back to Arkham.

  

Pete The Meat Brazzo

From the diary of Felix Jeremiah:

https://open.spotify.com/track/6avV0X27a8FKFbX8JOdHbc?si=6f27b22d46474af5

The contents of Dr. Queeg's office were, well, quite interesting, and I just felt that I had to take care of certain parts of these contents. There is much to be read...

From the diary of Howard Lake:

Ther were explosion and a fire by Miskatonic University, so I ran into my car and drove straight to the university. A car was on fire, apparently after suffering a catastrophic explosion. A weird blueish pulsating light came from one of the side entrances to the library building, and I pulled out my trusty Luger and entered, perhaps foolhardily. I was met by a gruesome scene that clawed at my sanity and made my stomach heave. Brazzo and O'Reilly seemed to have been turned inside out to a gruesome mess of intestines, organs, bones and blood. Ventura was crouched over the Necronomicon together with Queeg, and Moira seemed to be lying lifeless next to them. Jules and Mackie had already entered the room, and they were trying to revive Moira as Ventura and Queeg stood up. I instantly noticed, to my utter horror, that the New York comedian had been hideously transformed into a garish parody of of human appearance. I could only stare helplessly as they ran out of the building, laughing maniacally. 

Brazzo?

O'Reilly?

Epilogue

He had really believed in Dr. Queeg and her increasingly odd occupation with occult forces beyond comprehension. He really thought that reading the ancient text would make him a whole human being, that his inner demons would be dispelled and leave him forever. He longed so much for peace, quiet and harmony, and perhaps a life more ordinary. The revelations from the text did nothing of that, nothing at all. Although he couldn't understand the meaning of the long and difficult syllables, he felt as if they explained things to him, down to a sub-molecular level, He saw things that no mortal man should be exposed to, things and circumstances that started to change him through contortions and convulsions as the unbearable horrors of vistas beyond our space-time revealed themselves in thoroughly soul-destroying glimpses of despair. After what seemed like aeons of torment, he felt thoroughly changed in in a physical way. His hair had morphed into chloride green, his skin was so pale that it was practically white, and his smile, the smile that had wooed audiences all over America, had turned his face into a permanent contortion, a parody of his stage persona. Worst of all, all that those ideas, principles and hopes that he'd held so dear turned out to be mere parts of a comedic mess. A joke.