Voyage to Arkham

A blare of shocking, intolerable noise burst out,
accompanying a trail of hunched, semihuman, desperately jerking
figures atop bizarre metallic excrescences whose demented geometry
forbade all thought but fear.

After a small but dogged MRC, SCUL launched at standard ops time.
Skunk wisely remained on the launchpad while 14 feverishly obsessed
pilots were drawn, against all sane judgement, to pursue the night's
objective: observance of Retard Day, by evocation of the spirit of H P
Lovecraft's inimical universe. Hackworth mocked us with his vile
telephone, draining our precious points by exposing us to a
sanity-eroding ringtone.

In the lead a hairy slack-mouthed gnome gibbered atop a rubescent
rolling tower-bicycle, wheels undulating horribly, capering
erratically with wild cries among the streets and sidewalks as his
human prey cowered and scrabbled away.

Nosepicker navigated, and to the sounds of chopper-groove (as filtered
through tard's ipod) and atmospheric readings from our author's works,
the fleet proceeded through
Charlestown by way of an ancient Cyclopean bandsaw. Then
through the
locks, to Bova's for unspeakable yet toothsome effluvia, and on to the
shoggoth tank at the Aquarium. It was fine riding: we saw a good mix
of quiet waterfront paths and appreciative food.

Upon the largest ship of all, in place of their accustomed leader a
hideous gargoyle crouched, indifferently staring into the distance as
his dreadful limbs propelled the looming edifice over wreckage and
scattered bodies alike. Nearby, my sight shuddered away from that
which had once been a man, its whole being given up to blackness, the
oily sheen of its protuberant, insectile gaze reflecting only
carnage.

Awash with glee (glee is actually a liquid), we went on past the fens,
stopping for a fuel dump (glee got everywhere) and for practically
everyone to bomb a grassy G-well on Decaf's trike. It does barrel
rolls! Then after a brush with security we found a suitable derby lot
and played three rounds, won by Piranha (in her first ever derby),
Nosepicker (big surprise), and DreadFlint. Stogie's reign of terror
is plainly drawing to a close.

Amid the inhuman procession a great, misshapen, ichorous star
gleamed sickly green, piloted by a haglike creature whose very flesh
was
pocked with unbearable points of sulphurous fire. Beneath its
terrible spokes a
dingy cockroach form scuttled on an unnatural number of articulated
wheels.
Its pilot, malformed by crude surgery that made his legs precede his
arms, twitched and flopped with fangs bared; a
neat pair of square-rimmed glasses perched ironically on the whitish,
amorphous lump that had
been his head.

Then we repaired to MIT for snacks, groove, more fuel dumpage, and
mauling of Cloudbuster by unqualified pilots. Luckily no one was hurt
and the ship survived. With morale high and hopeful we cruised
through Harvard, genuflecting to our local copy of the Necronomicon
(it's at Widener) and then home.

An ST corked an intersection for us. He totally made transports wait
while we finished turning.

This was the first mechanical-free mission of the season, and the
first observed Retard Day. I, the tard of record and the writer of
this chronicle, thank you all so much for flying on my day and/or
being SCUL. It's better than cake.

Last of all a stolid idol squatted immobile upon a spare
attenuated framework of unimaginable height. Seeming to slither and
crawl at once, leaning nauseously at impossible angles, it gathered to
itself errant creatures, galvanizing them with obscene energy and
hurling them mercilessly forward to rejoin the troop's awful,
unstoppable progress.

It had ended: the horde had passed. As the moon set thinly over
shattered
remnants and damply trodden stones, the city slept. Yet the shadow
lives on, hidden in its
deep unthinkable lair-hive, and none doubts the ancient prophecy that
it shall return, forever.