Page Five Ghouls September 2, 2017

Release the Kraken (the real one)

Byline: Gary Llewellyn

Dateline: September 2nd, 2017

Greetings, Doomed Monkeys! It’s your old company man and faithful SEG contributor, Gary Llewellyn, here not pissing Uncle Mort off. No sir, it’s the straight and narrow for this old scribbler from now on. Uncle Mort says if we can go at least a little while without causing another international or interdimensional incident, he might think about activating the credit card. So, we’re posing as Norwegian seal clubbers to catch a lift on their vessel. No, friends, my bloodlust has not gotten so far beyond my control. We’re up here in search of the legendary Kraken. Now some idiots will try and have you believe that the Kraken lives within us all and if you blow your cash on his self-published books and tchotchkes plastered with his halfwit motivational drivel, or worse, pay to listen to that tool speak, that you can release yours. But that’s horseshit because the Kraken lives in the North Atlantic. That shitwit wouldn’t have the cajones to actually release a real one. And, kids, I can hear what you’re saying, ‘Gary, you fucktard, Clash of the Titans clearly tells us the Kraken lives in the Aegean, or at the very least the Mediterranean.” Well, dick, that’s where you’re wrong. Don’t get all your monster facts from movies. I bet you think Frankenstein’s monster is a nonverbal gorilla.

If I can get the Kraken to work for me, I’d be in a pretty good position to stage an offshore assault. Uncle Mort doesn’t have stones to just let me off my leash. God forbid anything get in the way of his little webzine. Including paying his staff. I bet those other jokers have no trouble cashing their paychecks. How many of them are out here, for months, hip deep in the shit? I’m sorry we’re not psychic cats. Those carpet rats probably eat better than I’ve eaten for eight months. (I read these, Gary. -ed.)

…I never found the Kraken, but while I was stewing in my own rage, the ship was rocked by a fearsome sight; Umibozu. Umibozu is rarely if ever seen in this part of the world. He usually sticks to his own territory around the Sea of Japan. What could have lured him out this far? Where was the Kraken? Whatever the answers, they will be worrying. An Umibozu is the ghost of a drowned monk who haunts the waters and capsizes boats. He’ll mostly leave you alone as long as you don’t try and talk to it. Then it gets very stranger-danger and decides to fuck with you. He demanded the crew of the ship hand over a barrel. Being Norwegians, they didn’t know what they were dealing with. They almost handed Umibozu an intact barrel. He would then fill the barrel with seawater and drown the crew one by one. But, the thing with Umibozu is that he’s dumb as shit. You punch out the bottom of the barrel and he’ll just keep dumping water into it. Then you can quietly sail away.

The Drowning Man

Byline: Stephanie Morgan

Dateline: September 2nd, 2017

Heya, SEG-ers. When Gary told me about this journey, he repeatedly used the word ‘cruise’. That word for me has certain connotations that this experience isn’t providing. It’s cold, it’s raining, and it’s windy. The ship never stops bouncing and everyone aboard is here to beat up baby seals. We’re here in search of the Kraken and not the one from the movie, apparently. No Krakens. Surprise. But there was a bald smoke baby who needed a barrel.

I wonder what the kobolds are doing? Uncle Mort doesn’t think I should lead an army of kobolds. I disagree. He says if we get back on track with the column he’ll consider reactivating the charge card. How about you pay me first, then I’ll consider your opinions on the matter. It’s true this isn’t what you intended when you assigned me to the column, but you’d also told Mom I’d be answering phones if I came to work for you. Now I’m freezing my ass off in the middle of North Atlantic with a lost Japanese demon threatening to drown me. Our intentions are irrelevant.

Next week we’re going to Japan to figure out why an Umibozu was operating on the Kraken’s turf. Gary believes it’s connected to everything else. So, you can insist we return to a more traditional beat: Monster of the Week type fare, all you want, but look where that got us. Right back in the shit. This will never have a plan, can never have a plan. The only way it works is to ride it and try not to let a smoke baby drown you on the way. (Guys, letters to the editor is at the end of the month. -ed.)

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