All the Wrong Angles (short fiction)

He walked into the bar, slightly to the left of the door, passing through a couple of tables, not quite touching the floor. The guy (for lack of a better term) was handsome if you looked at him dead on, but if you turned your head just to the left, if you squinted just right, you could see he had all the wrong angles. Things didn’t line up the way they should, and geometry was something he elected to ignore.

He sat next to me at the bar. They always did.

“Geneva Cthulhu?” he asked. His voice was beautiful, bit it worked in reverse, starting in my brain and crawling its way out of my ears.

“It’s Thulhu,” I said. “The C is silent.”

I nodded to the bartender. I needed a stiff drink to keep my sanity from falling away. It was already peeling at the edges. Came with the job.

“I need your help,” said the guy from dimensions beyond knowing. “I’ve lost something, and I was told you could help me find it.”

“Probably,” I replied. “What is it?”

“I don’t know how it would manifest in this plane,” he said. “Where I come from, it is a glimmering spheroid of cosmic energies, of seven point potentialities, the color of death, the scent of infinity.”

It always was.

“I can find it.” I had a knack for finding things that didn’t belong in this universe. Or maybe they had a knack for finding me.

The guy but not a guy smiled, and my glass melted on the bar top. “Excellent, Ms. Thulhu. I’ll be in touch.”

He disappeared, leaving behind the lingering stench of burning reality, of quarks and gluons dying screaming deaths. Not many noticed, and those that did would soon forget it because the human mind wasn’t made for that stuff. I wished like hell I could forget, but I couldn’t. It didn’t keep me from going mad, but I wasn’t quite ready for a straightjacket yet.

I ordered another drink for the road and set out to find something the color of death and the scent of infinity.

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One Comment

  1. Sam
    Posted August 16, 2014 at 3:05 pm | Permalink


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