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"That is only half of the answer."
"I don't understand."
"Of all the pastiches that you have read, what was the single most important philosophy, as a whole literary body, :hey encompass?"
"That humanity is insignificant to the rest of the universe, and that once humanity understands that, the terrifying vistas beyond our world will drive us to the safety of a new superstition-driven dark age."
"That's more fact than philosophy, but I won't argue right now since you have the gist," Nyarlathotep said. But, what—or who—are those terrifying vistas?"
"The Old Ones, like Great Cthulhu and Yog-Sothoth." The Pharaoh motioned encouragement with one hand. "And... who else?"
"Ithaqua?"
"Keep going ..." More motion.
"Azathoth, the Demon-Sultan," I said. "He is the blind idiot-god at the center of the universe. He is the mindless Primal Chaos behind the Veil of Colors, which is beyond our comprehension. He is accompanied by an inhuman chorus of dancers and pipers; they are servitors as equally mad as himself." Then, as I spoke, it hit me: "He is pure, ultimate chaos, conventional laws of space, time, and matter fail to exist in his presence—he is total insanity made incarnate."
"Very good," he said and folded his hands. "And who am I again?"
"You're Nyarlathotep, the Black Pharaoh, the Dweller in the Darkness, the Mighty Messenger, the Crawling—" I stopped in midsentence. "You are the Messenger of the Old Ones. You converse with Azathoth."
"Very good. Now what messages do you suppose I take to him?"
"Necromancer's spells?"
"Yes. But remember, he is insane."
I did not like where this was going. I said nothing.
"He likes to do things over and over, and over and over," he reminded me. "Do you have any idea what he likes, being a mindless idiot?"
I swallowed nervously. "He likes to read Eldritch Pastiche from Beyond the Shadows of Horror?"
"Likes it? The crazy bastard loves it! He can't get enough of it. He loves to hear about humans being driven mad by encounters with horrors beyond space and time. When you are literally the center of the universe, your favorite subject is the center of the universe. And guess who gets to read these stories to him every damn time?"
"You?"
"Me!" Nyarlathotep thumbed his chest. "That's how I know that you are such an awful writer."
Nyarlathotep sighed in resignation. "You are not the only writer of pastiche I have had to read to him. Oh, no. There are many, many unskilled and unimaginative authors out there. Every single one of them thinks, like you, that they have the same vision, talent, and discipline as our original courier, Lovecraft. But they don't. They are merely chimpanzees aping behavior that has been carved onto the blank slate of their pubescent brains. Their literary incompetence is only surpassed by their laughable claims of literary superiority. Everything with them is always blacker than black, darker than dark, nighter than night, or whatever.
"These so-called authors come a pe
I said nothing.
"And Azathoth is like a child. These Eldritch Pastiches from Beyond the Shadows of Horror keep him soothed. And for the time being, it behooves me to keep him soothed. And that is where you come into the picture, Chris."
He looked me in the eyes and I saw twirling galaxies inside his.
"Out of all the thousands of literary hacks on this orbiting pebble, you, Chris, are the single most untalented, single most uninspired, single most formulaic one of this generation ... and Azathoth is your biggest fan. You are prolific in your output. You write the same crap over and over, and I read it to Azathoth over and over, and he loves it over and over. But it keeps him calm. Relatively speaking, of course, because . . . well, he is such vast churning Primal Chaos and all.
"So that is why you must never attend another Eldritch Pastiche from Beyond the Shadows of Horror Anonymous meeting." Nyarlathotep pointed at me. "Your stories are needed to keep the universe glued together. You want to see a terrifying vista? You want to live in real madness? Then you tell Azathoth he doesn't get a bedtime story.
"Don't get me wrong, human," Nyarlathotep continued. "You view time and space in a strict linear ma
"But not at this moment. Right now I have another agenda, and I require keeping Azathoth's eyes closed for the time being."
"What agenda?" I asked.
"That is no concern of yours," Nyarlathotep said in anger. He seemed to grow in stature, and fear slithered down my spine.
"Enough," he said. "I have warned you. Do not stop writing Eldritch Pastiche from Beyond the Shadows of Horror. Do not stop!"
He was looming over me like a bear, when suddenly, he levitated into the air. His Pharaoh-like appearance melted into a formless mass of darkness, like a cloud or an oil slick. Something like wings, resembling a bat, or maybe a manta, sprouted from the mass, as did a solitary red eye with three lobes. With a screech like a carrion bird, Nyarlathotep flew into the brooding sky and faded into the black horizon. It was very CGI.
I know I stood at that street corner laughing for a long time at the mere idea that my overwrought gothic melodramas have such an important role to play in the universe; to entertain such an idea invited lunacy . . . the lunacy of an accursed cosmos . . . madness rides the sanguine howls between the stars ... a subbestial bacchanalia baying across the void . . . the mind-a
How long I laughed, I do not recall. I vaguely remember ripping the pamphlets into confetti and tossing them into the air. But how I made my way home, I have no clear recollection.
Once there, I found myself typing madly at my computer. In a blind and idiotic fury, I cranked out what I thought was my best, most original, and most inspired story yet, "The Pharaoh from Beyond the Shadow of Insanity."
I printed out a standard cover letter along with the story, and placed both with an SASE in an envelope addressed to the top professional horror-fiction market. I walked a few blocks to the nearest mailbox and dropped the envelope through the slot.
I felt good about the story. I think this one had a really good chance of being accepted for publication. But then again, maybe I'm just crazy to believe that.