THE IDEAL CoC INVESTIGATION
              by
              Greg Mohler




            Micheal Ellis has survived enough investigations to figure out just how this survival thing works. His "official" profession long forgotten, he is now a full-fledged professional CoC Investigator. Recently, he and his mythos-scarred compatriots have learned of mysterious goings-on in Saint Thomas, Louisiana. Ellis has decided to participate in the investigation by staying in his hotel room in Boston. He communicates with the other investigators by phone.


            Ellis begins his chilling narrative:


            Sept 9, 1933: Things go splendidly! I curled up in front of the fireplace, hot tea near one hand, the Boston Globe in the other. The slippers Mum sent fit perfectly. Oh, yes: finally heard from fellow investigators today. They're camped out in some run-down hotel in that God-awful bayou, and have proceeded to question the locals. I told them to watch out for ancient books of evil, images of the local mailman in medievel tapestries -- all the normal rot.


            Sept 11, 1933: I take in a pleasant auto-tour of the coastline.


            Sept 12, 1933: I had the most distressing call from my compatriots today, transcribed as follows:


                Some fellow whose voice I can't place: "We're getting torn up by these werewolf creatures! They hide out in the tunnels in the levee during the day, but all hell breaks loose at midnight!"


                Me: "Why the deuce are you out there at midnight? Remember! 'Investigation in the morning is safe and boring, investigation at night is monster's delight!'"


                Him: "Well, uh, I dunno, nighttime just seemed like the best time for us to sneak around. You know, breaking and entering for clues."


                I rolled my eyes. And they wonder why one of them dies every time they step out of their hotel rooms!


                Him again: "We did find a bunch of rocks laid out in a V. Oh, yeah, and one of us died there. Werewolves, again. These things... they're loathsome! Sanity-blasting! They're about 7 feet tall..."


                Me: "NEVER describe the monsters to me! And if you find tomes of mind-blasting knowledge, keep them to yourself! Don't read any passages to me!"


                Him: "Hey, what are *you* doing? You seem to know everything. Come down and help us out!"


                Me: "Bloody Hell! That's right -- I know everything! Why do you think I'm up here? Look: you do your part and I'll do mine, er, Jim."


                Him: "I'm Randolph. Jim died six investigators ago."


                Me: "Okay, Randolph. I'm mobilizing into action as we speak."


            Hanging up the phone, I proceeded to finish the Globe, and then headed out to the Miscellaneous Goods store. At the store, I ran into the elderly proprietor, Mrs. MacCurdie. A friendly woman, I've bought many a supply of investigative goods from her over the years.


                Mrs. MacCurdie: "whatcha lookin' for today, sweetie?"


                Me: "Oh, hello, Mrs. MacCurdie. I'm in the mind for, oh, a jar of marmalade and a loaf of that delightful bread I smell baking as we speak! Oh, and a new kettle. Hmmm, ah, yes, and 500 .32-caliber bullets, um, 2 100-bullet drums for a Thompson gun, and as many sticks of dynamite as you have on premises."


                Her: "Ah, doin' a bit of investigative work, eh?"


                Me: "Er, no -- well, yes... but just not me personally."


                Her: "What's threaten' the world this time? Somethin' squamous, I bet!"


                Me: "Oh, more likely than not. I suspect Hast- um, that blobby fellow whose name begins with an H. Ah, yes! Thank you: 20 sticks should do it."


            Sept 14, 1933: I receive a curious phone call.


                Randolph: "we found this... hole in the wall in the basement of the town hall. You look through it, and you can see planets out in space. The professor says that from the star positions, Aldeberan must be on the other side of the wall. Then something started slithering through it! We all shut our eyes and tried to get of the room. Wembley started waving this strange knife he found, and it started to slither back to its own side of the hole. Then the, uh, lumberjack, Logan, said 'to hell with it! I'm looking!' Then he went stark raving insane. We had to shoot him."


                Bleedin' lumberjacks! They're all the same!


            Sept 15, 1933: another phone call from my compatriots! What am I: a bloody nursemaid???


                Some fellow whose voice I can't place: "Have ya sent the supplies, limey? We're getting slaughtered down here!"


                Me: "I resent that tone, fellow investigator! The supplies are on their way. I marked the boxes "Fragile! Infectious Pus Samples! Do Not Open!", so they should get to you without any undue impedance."


                Him: "Good. We're just running around down here. No one's gotta clue on what to do."


                Me: "Bloody hell! Haven't you found the spellbook, or the artifact, or the witchdoctor, or whatever to close that bloody dimensional rift to, er, Mr. H?"


                Him: "Well, we had the spooky knife with runes all over it, but Wembley threw it into the rift. We think its orbiting Aldeberan now."


                Bloody dilettantes!


                Him again: "We've got a spellbook, too, but the guy whose reading all the spellbooks refuses to cast the gate-closing spell. Says he doesn't wanna go insane."


                Me: "Look. In the course of my many investigations, I happened to obtain a Mi-Go brainbox. So tell him he can cast the bloody gate-closing spell his way, or *my* way. You can pull him around on a bleeding wagon! Er, sorry. Look, um, Randolph, you've got to be tough!"


                Him: "That's, er, Bill. Randy died two investigators ago. That's another thing. We're getting short on investigators here! We've gone through the entire Wembley family tree, and now we're resorting to recruiting from the villagers. If you think sharing a hotel room with a half-dozen tribal fishermen is a picnic, think again!"


                Me: "Urrgh. Yes, I see your point. I shall take care of it!"


            September 16, 1933: I place an ad in the Boston Globe's classifieds.


            September 17, 1933: Most distressing news! The Globe's positioning of my classified ad could not have been worse!


                |-----------------------------------------------------------|
                | Brave investigators needed for ill-fated
                | Starkweather-Moore expedition. Will pay
                | food, housing, travel expenses, sanitarium
                | bills. The chance to die in a very exotic
                | locale. Call 666-1707 and ask for Prof.
                | Gipple. Not an EOE.
                |-----------------------------------------------------------|
                | Foolhardy gents (and ladies!) with a touch
                | of curiosity about the unseen world wanted
                | for Louisiana Bayou investigation. Rapid
                | advancement to leadership pos. quite poss.
                | Interested parties please contact Micheal
                | Ellis at 242-4242. Ammo supplied.
                |-----------------------------------------------------------|
                | Wanted: Immediate Placement! People with
                | security experience needed for the next
                | voyage of the U.S.S. Enterprise as it sails
                | for uncharted islands in the Pacific. Will
                | supply red shirt. Contact J.T. Kirk at ...
                |-----------------------------------------------------------|


            Bloody hell! And a free shirt! How can I compete with that?


            September 20, 1933: At last, my fellow investigators have figured out the enigma of the stone blocks, and all that cultist rot. Quite frankly, it all sounds the same after awhile. The resolution is at hand, as I learned from my last phone call:


                Bill: "yeah, we've just about wrapped everything up here. We've got the rift closed, and we're planning on attacking the cultists before they try to sacrifice us."


                Me: "Well, you should be familiar with how it works. If it gets too hot, start throwing dynamite as if it were going out of style."


                Bill: "There's not too many of us left, though. The Anthropology professor and the journalist are both gibbering loons. Its just me and the boxer who can still add one and one and not get Cthulhu."


                Me: "I'm sure you'll be able to take care of it. Good luck!"


            My job done, I settle down in my easy chair. Tomorrow's Globe should have all the details, if this goes anything at all like a typical investigation.


            September 21, 1933: ah, the Globe!


                "Saint Thomas, Lousiana -- an explosion of tremendous proportions rocked the little town of Saint Thomas last night as a fireball engulfed the town hall. Several members of a local religious cult, including the leader, are believed to be dead, as are an anthropology professor from Boston University and a journalist for the Chicago Tribune. Eyewitness accounts place the professor, Dr. Chester Meaney, and the journalist, Emma Splister, running into the town hall with lit dynamite strapped to their bodies, and foam running from their mouths. Investigations continue..."


            Another threat to humanity checked! I strangely feel more sane than when I started this investigation. To the victor goes the spoils!


            RETURN TO THE READING ROOM THROUGH THE GLOWING SIGIL, below



            This Page Created 15 September 2007