To bow. To worship. To breed. These are the notes of his symphony, his soul's hunger.
His eyes dart from body to body, evaluating, finding nothing of either sustenance or substance.
In his emptiness, I sense his desperation for my religion. He seeks a fane with an altar of leather and chains. Here is not that temple.
Here is an artificial place, shat from a machine's anus. Here, mirrors are black, reflecting nothing. Here, exploding, manic strobe lights illuminate nothing. Malice and hatred wafts like mustard gas. Here stinks of quotidian suburbs, and he would not be here except for the lies he'd been told that this was a place for sublime pleasures.
He is surrounded by entities human in shape but monstrous in soul. Hello, Shub-Niggurath, the Goat with a Thousand Young: that vast belly sags like a great teat full of milk fit only to nurse a foul brood. Bitch ye, O Cthulhu, about clothes and television and the queens and the rent boys who took the money but wouldn't put out. Like mushrooms growing in shit are the fungi from Yuggoth, sporting identical goatees, duplicate piercings, and shaven skulls. And the colour out of space is the greenback, passed from palm to greedy barkeep, a leprous plague that does not kill but disfigures.
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