Cthulhu For President

November 5th, 2007 Edit

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Cthulhu For President

My boss eats people. Lots of people, sometimes five people in a single eight hour work day. The way he ate people fascinated me. He chased the intentioned meal (usually prisoners culled from the overburdened prison system) around his office for about ten minutes, he said the chasing helped jump start his digestion, and finally captured the victim. My boss held the meal close to his chest, allowing his tentacles to cover the person’s head, raises the victim up until the prisoner is upside down and allows the body to slide into his mouth and presumably his stomach. From start, when I released the prisoner into his office, to finish the process took no more than twelve minutes.
My boss stands about seven feet tall with wide shoulders and wears Italian suits. He’s green with a large, bulbous head that goes from one shoulder to the other; his head looks a lot like an octopus with thick, stubby tentacles hanging where a mustache would be, covering his mouth or what I presume his mouth to be. His tea cup sized eyes change from completely black to red with black pupils.
His whole name is Cthulhu and he’s really nice, once one gets to know him, a real people person. Except, he’s not really a person. I don’t quite know what he is but that doesn’t stop me from being his secretary. I do not, however, fetch coffee and donuts. Instead I fetch prisoners and the occasional drug addict.

“I want to be president,” the boss man said. His voice is kind of like a ton of dead pike or perch. It’s deep and comes close to having a booming quality. His voice carries the sound of authority and yet remains devoid of condescension. Most supporters say he has a patriarchal voice. I tend to agree.
“Well,” I said, “If the govenator of California became the presinator, I think you can do it too.”
“Set it up,” he said.
I hired a PR firm to get the campaign started. I wanted to get a positive image our for my boss. The PR firm thought cute and cuddly, the new teddy bear, would win the hearts and minds of children and their parents. Cthulhu expressed deep fear over possible damage to his image but we went ahead anyways.
The firm released an ad campaign for Cthulhu plush dolls.
And it worked. The boss became an overnight sensation, akin to Elmo. Children loved his doll. Parents loved his criminal eating behavior.
After three months of intense doll sales I called up the major late-night shows, starting with Jay Leno, and booked Cthulhu as a guest. The producer said Leno loved Cthulhu and kept a plush doll in his dressing room. The producer asked if my boss wanted the show to keep out any protesters. I told him no, they would be taken care of.

The big day arrived, stayed for awhile and left. I obtained a couple garbage bags filled with plush dolls in the likeness of my boss and drove them over to the studio before his appearance. The big night arrived and Cthulhu and I headed out to the Studio. We waited in the green room for awhile. Leno called the big not-a-man-thing out onto the stage and I watched from the wings with the staff.
I surveyed the audience as Leno and the boss man did their talking; almost every member had a plush doll clutched to their chest.
Most of the conversation between Cthulhu and Leno consisted of the normal blah, blah blah until Cthulhu looked Leno straight in the eyes, said “I have an announcement to make,” stood up and straightened out his coat.
“I am putting my over sized hat into the presidential ring. You ladies and gentlemen are looking at the next president of the United States of America.” Leno’s jaw dropped and stayed down for a full minute as the audience erupted into cheers and clapping.
“I am-,” Leno tried to say.
“This atrocity and cannot be allowed to run for president,” a protester screamed as he made his way down the stairs. “As a human being I cannot believe you people think its okay to let a thing that eats people to even be on television.”
The protester came within an inch of Cthulhu’s head and spot on his over sized forehead. Cthulhu covered the protester’s head with his tentacles, lifted the protester up and swallowed him whole.
My boss covered his tentacles as he let out a burp, said “Excuse me,” and sat back down.
The audience burst into applause.

I congratulated my boss on his bid for presidency and asked if I was slated for a promotion.
“Yes,” he said. “I think so. How does executive assistant sound?”
I thanked him for the promotion and headed for home. I hit the sack. I awoke to find myself tied to a wood chair, surrounded by people with ski masks on. The walls of the room, it looked to be someone’s basement, were covered in pictures of Gandhi, Al Gore, Al Franken, Malcolm X and single poster of my boss’ head with a large red “X” drawn over him. I sat with my back against the wall. A kitchen table sat to my left and three recliners sat to my right.
“You’re a hostage,” the man standing directly in front of me said.
“You think?” I replied. “The ropes and the ski masks put up a few red flags.”
The ski masked man punched me in the head. I didn’t think much, except, “Crap.”

When I came to a second time I stayed limp, listening to the goings on inside the apartment.
“If Cthulhu ends his bid for presidency we will release him. If Cthulhu does end this charade we will be forced to kill his young secretary.”
Yup, I thought. He’ll be forced to kill me, as if he has no choice. How sweet. The talking man was the one who head-punched me. His voice sounded scratchy, as if he had been yelling too much.
“Turn it off,” the head-puncher said. “Twenty-one, get that sent off.”
I heard a shuffle of feet and felt a sharp pinprick. I went off into lala land.

“Cthulhu denounced the human rights organization as a terrorist group and said he will not meet the demands or negotiate with terrorists,” I heard someone on the TV say. I kept my body limp and my eyes closed again. I didn’t want head-puncher to reassert his name.
“The presidential candidate said he worries for the health and well being of his executive assistant. He reasserted his stance of non-negotiation.”
Someone turned off the TV and the room grew silent except the sound of a pair of feet shuffling towards me. I opened my eyes and looked around. Fifteen people in ski masks surrounded me in a semi-circle. The shuffling-feet-man pulled up my right sleeve.
“This really sucks,” I said.
All the people in ski masks nodded.

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