Urban Temples of Cthulhu - Modern Mythos Anthology

by Khurt Khave

  She stared at him for a few moments, no doubt wondering if this was just another ploy to get in her pants, “I’m listening.”

  Martin reached into his robe’s pockets, from the left he extracted his reading glasses, from the right, a small but thick red-leather-bound book, the gold-stamped words on its cover proclaiming it to be The Tenets of the Church of Starry Wisdom, written by founder Enoch Bowen in the mid-1800s and last amended by church leaders in the late 1970s. The catechism outlined the organization’s principles and doctrines; every pastor owned a copy. Though Martin knew Shitaki was vaguely familiar with its contents, he could tell from her puzzled expression that she hadn’t the faintest idea why he’d brought his along.

  Martin placed the glasses just above the tip of his nose, opened the book to the page he’d bookmarked, and cleared his throat. “From tenet number sixty-eight: ‘. . . and there may be occasions in which the head diocese recognizes an opportunity to expand the influence of the Great Old Ones across a province. With the approval of the council, he may then appoint administrators to these newly formed branches of the church, so that the words of Great Cthulhu may reach the ears of lesser creatures in dire need of salvation.’”

  Shitaki’s puzzlement morphed into an annoyed frown, “Okay. That just says you can expand the boundaries of the church by adding more clergymen—priests, not high priestesses. What has it got to do with me?”

  Frowning, he closed the book, “You’re missing the point. It’s not adding priests, it’s satellite churches—suffragan dioceses in other locations.”

  Shitaki paused to consider it, “Like the one you started out at twenty years ago, in Brooklyn.”

  “Ah, the Red Hook temple,” Martin chuckled. “And here I’d always thought you weren’t paying attention when I bent your ear with some of my ‘war stories’ about my early days. Such a shame I had to blow it up to close off the sacrificial chamber when the police started sniffing around. Anyway, have you been paying attention to the news lately? Those holy rollers in the Catholic Church have been bleeding revenue, and parishioners, on almost a weekly basis for the past decade. Why, last month they shuttered twenty churches across the five boroughs, just to keep the doors open on the ones that remain. And what has that done? Created a schism among their flock. People are beginning to question their faith. After all, how could a kind and loving god allow such a thing to happen? Even more, how could the Church just turn its back on its followers like that?” He smiled slyly, “And what happens when the pious lose faith in a religion they’ve devoted their lives to?”

  She caught on quick. “They go looking for alternatives.”

  “Exactly. They go looking for that sense of family you were so enamored of. I understand there’s just such a crisis of faith in the Ridgewood area of Queens. After six decades, Saint Sarkander’s is set to close in three weeks. The sheep over there are practically rending their clothes and wailing nonstop over the loss of their shepherd.” He shook his head slowly, feigning pity, “Poor lost souls. Whoever will they turn to for guidance in their hour of need; eh, Pastor Cumberbatch?”

  It took a few seconds for the words to sink in, then a few more before Shitaki was able to do more than stare at him like the proverbial deer in the headlights, “W-what?” she finally managed to croak.

  “As I said before, you’re never going to be high priestess here. That nonsense lawsuit of yours burned too many bridges for that to ever happen. But there’s nothing I could find in the tenets that would prevent you from being the high priestess of your own church. Under my supervision, of course.”

  “A high priestess running a church of R’lyeh? That’s never been done before. Has it?” Martin gave a small shake of his head. “Would the council of elders even allow it?”

  “It might take some persuasion,” Martin replied, “but I’m certain they’ll come around to my way of thinking.” The grin that his former assistant flashed made it clear she understood what forms his type of “persuasion” might take. Martin gave a mental shrug. The council was long overdue for a turnover in membership; some of those ancient shits had been hanging on to their positions, and their lives, for far too many years. “Think of it this way, Shitaki, you’ll be a trailblazer.”

  “Just as long as the trail is the only thing getting blazed. I’m not looking to get doused with gasoline and set on fire when the hierarchy loses its shit over your idea and decides to take it out on me.”

  “I’m sure it won’t come to that. Not after the first death, anyway. Just to set an example.”

  Shitaki gazed at him warily, “Why are you doing this, Martin? You’ve never been the kind who goes out of his way to help others, not unless you expected something in return.”

  He stared into the shadows, “I’m not entirely certain why I’m doing it, either. When I saw you out here, my first inclination was to turn loose the shoggoths. And as you said, I rarely extend myself without some sort of quid pro quo involved. But once I calmed down and the notion of a satellite church suddenly popped into my head, I thought, why dispose of a perfectly good resource when it still has its uses?”

  “Getting soft in your old age?”

  “Not where it counts, m’dear,” he said with a wink. The girl snorted in derision. “Think about it, Shitaki. You’ve always been skilled in recruiting new acolytes, you know the scriptures and rituals better than most, and, until recently, you were a dedicated member of the church.”

  She snarled, “I’m still a dedicated member of the church—just not yours.”

  He chose to ignore the small dig, “Why, I asked myself, should I let such talent go to waste? Despite our, differences, it would be foolish to do so. Even you would have to agree with that. So, what do you say? Are you interested in the job?” He leaned in, baring his teeth in a feral smile, “or would you rather spend the rest of your days looking over your shoulder, wondering when this sudden case of kindheartedness I’m suffering from clears up and I send someone to ‘shank’ you in your sleep?”

  Shitaki didn’t shrink away from having her personal space invaded. Instead, she followed his lead, moving closer as her lips curled in anger, “Your negotiation skills suck. You know that, right?”

  It was Martin who leaned back first, “Well, as I was telling Artie Mannix just the other day, the direct method is usually the least complicated. Your answer?”

  Shitaki frowned, “This doesn’t involve me giving you a handjob to seal the deal, or anything like that, does it?”

  “My gods, girl, I believe you spend more time thinking about my Johnson than I do. Are you certain you wouldn’t prefer just getting it over with? A quick tumble in the sack to break the sexual tension between us.”

  She patted her jacket, “Still have that dagger.”

  Martin smiled.

  And upon the rock of mutual distrust, they made plans to build their, her church.

  Our Lady of R’lyeh wasn’t much to look at. A storefront church on a dead-end street, tucked between a Laundromat with grimy windows and a shabby “99¢ (and up!)” store with a torn awning, but to newly ordained pastor Shitaki Cumberbatch it was as grand a temple as Martin Goldsborough’s cathedral in Manhattan. The faux white-marble facade had been Martin’s idea, though Shitaki considered it a tad ostentatious and cold, but she had to admit it did look impressive in comparison to her neighbors’ tacky exteriors. Above the mahogany door hung a hand-carved wooden sign painted a rich blue, with the church’s name in bright gold lettering; that had been just one of her design contributions. It had an old-world-church charm meant to appeal to Saint Sarkander’s demoralized flock, now that it had nowhere to go, and she’d already had quite a few inquiries from curious Laundromat customers, mostly mothers chasing after hyperactive offspring, and the occasional male, although the latter often mistook the temple for a new bar and her breasts for the part of her anatomy they should converse with. Which was fine; she knew from firsthand experience that tit-mesmerized bros were always the easiest converts. And though
it was far from the toniest neighborhood in Queens, there was a certain appeal to the area: the blue-collar families, the growing community of hipster artists and musicians, the microbreweries springing up. Not that it was anything close to being a paradise, what with the noxious odor sweeping in from the nearby Newtown Creek whenever the wind shifted in this direction—only Azathoth knew what deadly chemical fumes from that polluted waterway were corroding her lungs each time she drew a breath. Still, health risks aside, according to news reports she’d read, Ridgewood was on its way up.

  Just like its new pastor.

  Oh, sure, it would take time to climb that “ecclesiastical ladder” Martin often mentioned when he was making one of his tiresome speeches to his staff about reaching personal goals by the power of pulling yourself up by your bootstraps. But Shitaki was still in her twenties and something of a gym rat, while Martin and the rest of the fossils on the council of elders were physical wrecks shuffling ever closer to their graves. Time truly was on her side. One day, the Reverend Shitaki Cumberbatch would stand at the pulpit of the Church of Starry Wisdom in Manhattan and greet her congregation, and when the black mass was done she would walk into the graveyard behind the cathedral, down a bottle of the finest wine as she sat beside Martin Goldsborough’s plot—and take a good, long, satisfying piss on it.

  Shitaki chuckled as she shook her head to clear away the daydreams. Here and now, she first needed to concentrate on building her own congregation, of creating a home for the spiritually disenfranchised. And she’d already thought of the perfect method by which to plant the seeds of her ministry.

  MI-GO/YU-GO/WE-ALL-GO DANCING, proclaimed the two-sided sign she’d placed at the corner of the street three days ago, with an arrow pointing toward the

  church. OUR LADY OF R’LYEH PRESENTS AN EVENING OF ENTERTAINMENT AND SPIRITUAL

  MINGLING —ADULTS ONLY, PLEASE. The response had been far better than she’d expected, with a line of the pious and the curious stretching around the block for tonight’s debut. Thank Yhashtur she’d been able to convince Martin to loan her some acolytes to help out, otherwise she would have been overwhelmed at the temple’s opening, which would have left a disastrous impression on her new neighborhood, and on her potential followers.

  Not everyone in attendance would join her flock; that was a given. The squeamish, the frightful, the sexually repressed, they’d all go running for the door as the night wore on and the clothes started coming off. The darker aspects of the church’s hedonistic proclivities were not for everyone. But that was all right. Judging by the size of the crowd, there would be plenty of openminded men and women willing to hang around for her sales pitch. And given the wonders of social media, it wouldn’t take long for word to get around about the new church with the freaky religious practices and the sexy female minister. Shitaki made a mental note to remind her loaner minions to update the temple’s Twitter feed throughout the night, to get the ball rolling.

  “We’re ready, your grace,” one of the acolytes called out.

  Shitaki drew a deep breath, then slowly exhaled through her nostrils. Opening night jitters, she thought with a smile. She knew they’d ease with time, as she became more confident in her role as religious leader during the festivities, but for now she welcomed the nervous energy, the goose flesh, the pleasant chill along her spine.

  “Let the wild rumpus begin.” With a grin, she strode toward the front door to meet her future congregation, knowing that somewhere beyond the veil of time and space, her celestial masters watched closely, expecting great things from her.

  As was she.

  Steven A. Roman is the author of the Saga of Pandora Zwieback series of novels, and is the bestselling author of the novels X-Men: The Chaos Engine Trilogy and Final Destination: Dead Man's Hand. His short fiction has appeared in such anthologies as Best New Zombie Tales 2, The Dead Walk Again!, Takes of the Shadowmen 4: Lords of Terror, The Vampire Almanac, and If I Were an Evil Overlord. When not writing, he publishes books and comics through his StarWarp Concepts house. Follow his adventures in publishing at:

  www.starwarpconcepts.com

  The Kings in Rebel Yellow Khurt Khave

  We all need to get beyond life to fully reach our potential.

  –G. G. Allin, “War In My Head – I'm Your Enemy”

  “Can't you just jerk off at home, instead of this?”

  “What? No.”

  “Dude. I'll give you twenty dollars to stop,” the scrawny man

  pointlessly tried to negotiate.

  “What for?” the pantsless man replied.

  “For porn. At home. Preferably your home.”

  “What? Nobody pays for porn anymore. But I'll still take your twenty

  bucks,” he laughed.

  “Just stop fucking the couch, Rob. That's all I ask,” the scrawny man

  pleaded.

  “Don't fucking call me Rob. That's not my name. And what do you

  care? It's not your couch.”

  “Then what do you want to be called?”

  “S. K. Ümbag is my name and you'll like it just the same. You can call

  me S. K. Or Mr. Ümbag. Or Superdick McDickerson. Or Zoner Boner. Or the

  Destructor. Or Creedance Killwater Denial. Or Mean Joe Soylent Green the

  Monsanto Dancing Machine. Or the Smash Your Face With A Rock Horrifically

  Picture Show. But most people call me Seg. Seg was my prison name.” “I'll give ya forty to keep fucking the couch!” someone shouted from

  the back of the small crowd that had gathered in the living room. “Hell of a party!” another said.

  “Don't encourage him,” the scrawny man said.

  “Seg just kept staring maniacally at him, still violently fucking the

  couch the whole time during their conversation.” Finally the man became too

  unnerved and left the room.

  “Oh yeah!” Seg said as he smacked the back of the couch, “You've

  been a bad girl!”

  A thin Mexican man walked into the living room, “What the fuck, Seg!?!?” Then as an aside, “who gave this dumb white boy cocaine? Peckerwood can't handle his high.” But Philaberto knew it wasn't drugs. Seg was a zerkonaut. Touched by madness, a soldier in the occult wars, when he said he'd “seen some shit” he wasn't talking about anything banal nor even terrestrial, he had seen cosmic horrors unlike any other. Who knows when the big bald bastard lost his mind, but he was definitely not right in the head.

  And sometimes, like tonight, he would just lose it. “Seg! Put your pants on!” “Huh? Oh, sorry Philly. I was just. . .” Seg's attention was broken by a

  tall, lean man of dead black coloration but without the slightest sign of African

  features, wholly devoid of either hair or beard, and wearing a tracksuit red as

  sunset flame. He looked like Maynard James Keenan painted up for the stage.

  With an open palm thrust to Seg's chest, he sent the couch crotch commando

  flying across the room, slamming against the ancient wood paneling that had

  been left over from the 70's, with the addition of a now-broken lamp and

  several shattered picture frames of the homeowner's family. Seg slumped

  stunned along the wall and slid to a sitting position on the worn, traffictrodden carpet.

  Half of the people at the party started leaving by any egress available.

  The other half started screaming for blood! “Fight!” “Kill him!” “Don't take

  that shit!” “In the name of Hastur, kick his ass!”

  Seg was roused by the call to arms and stood up.

  The athletically attired man gave Seg the rather antiquated and

  juvenile obscene gesture of crossing one arm with the other jutting up thus

  indicating, “stick it up your ass.” He laughed with a bizarre bassy throat

  singing overtone. Seg cocked his head to the side like a confused canine

  hearing the piercing pitch
from a dog whistle.

  “I know you!” Seg shouted, pointing. “You Crawling Cunt. I can't

  believe you'd show up here.” The knock at his nomenclature did not phase the

  ebon stranger. He picked up the couch and threw it out the window with little

  effort. Glass flew everywhere. This was enough for the rest of the partygoers

  to begin fleeing for safer quarters. Several people tried calling the cops but

  this was south Glendale, the worst part of the entire Phoenix metropolitan

  area. They wouldn't show up for hours, if at all.

  The inky intruder stepped through the broken window, still laughing

  with a voluminous vexing voraciousness. With one fluid motion he hoisted the

  couch to his shoulder, locked eyes with Seg, then nodded and smiled wickedly.

  He patted the couch, claiming it for his own in a primal lizard brain

  significator to Neander-Seg that chided, “I've got your bitch.” He turned and

  began sprinting down the street with the kidnapped cushiony concubine. His

  form turned all wobbly but he never lost his footing as his body grew thicker,

  stronger, while thin tentacles burst from his tracksuit as he balanced and

  secured the couch on his back, almost like a mother spider securing and

  protecting her newborn spider babies.

  Philaberto opened the front door and walked outside. Seg followed. “Hey! That black dude just stole my couch!” Philaberto exasperated. “That's no black dude, that's Nyarlathotep.” Seg started running

  down the street, still swinging in the breeze, “I'll get her back.”

  “The couch? Keep it,” Philaberto said. “It's probably covered in your

  jizz and his slime anyway. Pinches cultists.” He went back inside to find a