Damn. My head. Again.

  When I come to, I am in the backyard behind the cabin. Every movement reminds me of the hot sting of lead. My wounds are still weeping neon green blood, but…

  Still alive. Still alive, Jack. You still have to work.

  I look up at the night sky, ragged breaths sucking in the cool night air. It is not the familiar midnight blue-black of Washington. It is the solid black of empty space littered with the dazzling of strange stars.

  The familiar evergreens, birches, larches, and other trees I’ve known all my life surround me. The wall of forest turns the empty yard into an arena.

  The arena is filled with gabardine-garbed corpses soaked with red blood like cocktail sausages smothered in a hellish barbecue sauce.

  Decapitated. Missing limbs. All manner of violence had befallen the men. Befallen. Someone had done this to them. Someone.

  Me.

  The night air: cool and inert, fresh except for the thick, copper scent of too much blood. The cool air comforts my burning wounds and feverish flesh at first, but then it churns my stomach with that awful stench. The stench of slaughter and guilt. A part of me revels in it, in what I’ve done. What I’m capable of.

  I’ve got to get out of here. Got to keep moving.

  I reach out to start shlooping.

  The smell… Both sick and sweet. Who finds it sweet? Is it the monster or the man? Which are you, Jack? Oh God, which am I?

  Shlooping, shambling: I pull myself forward like a man climbing from a flipped car, crawling away from the wreckage.

  I can’t remember. I can’t tell.

  I hack and wheeze; green blood splatters out of my lungs.

  No good I say to myself, staring at the neon puddle reflecting the starlight.

  Gotta keep moving. Still alive. Gotta keep moving. Gotta find that thing that’s calling me. That source. That signal. That power. Stay alive and find the thing, Jack. It’s something. Something’s better than nothing. Shake it off and keep shlooping, Jack.

  Sam’s ground beef face flashes in my mind like a single frame of film on a white reel of shame.

  Just leave him. Dead or alive, just leave him. He’s not paying me enough to be a tentacle monster as it is. He’s not paying me at all. Never die for a man who won’t even pay you. I wonder what Christ would say about that?

  My God, is this even real? I still don’t believe it.

  I shloop into the shadowy forest of pines and birches and ferns and tall wild grass that a man would think twice about walking through, giving way to silver space trees with their purple leaves and golden, glittering berries, leaving behind me the grim and dreary mess of slaughter and regret. Someone else can clean up for once.

  I’ve got a life to live. I’m not out yet. Ol’ Jack, your clock’s still ticking. Make the most of it before the dream ends and you wake up in a darker nightmare. Hell is always worse than you imagine.

  I hack up more green blood. The trail of it glows in the dark as I shloop beneath silent trees. I become another one of their secrets, for I no longer see the stars, and so, I presume, they no longer see me.

  Never much cared for gawkers.

  Everything is quiet except the bright, stinging burn of bullet holes crying out from my purple alien flesh.

  Hold it… Am I really an alien? Aren’t I just a different kind of Earthling now? I’m still from Earth. But, is my flesh from Earth? If my flesh was made from occult magics, does that make me some kind of demon now? No… I still have the soul of a man. A man from Earth. It’s what’s on the in—

  Sharp, tearing pangs of hacking interrupt the silly thoughts. I spatter green on the ground again.

  Still, I take solace in the fresh air. As I heave it into my several lungs, some of which I believe are collapsing, I am grateful for the air’s cool, refreshing comfort which gives life not just to my body but my spirit.

  Nothing like a little adversity to make a man want to live. But then, I’m not a man anymore, am I? “It’s what’s on the inside that counts.” How long have I been a monster, really?

  Enough of that, Jack. No one cares. You are what you are. The real question is: who will you be?

  Who will I be?

  That doesn’t matter either if I die. The searing swell of my nerves screaming from the bullet holes torn through my flesh overwhelms me. I shlump down like a house of cards in a slight breeze.

  It doesn’t matter who I was. It doesn’t matter who I’ll be. All that is what it is. What matters is what I’m going to do right now: are you going to roll over and die, Jack, or are you going to keep shlooping forward?

  I grit my teeth and grasp at the ground in front of me.

  That’s it, Jack: just get over it. Bear it. Bear it all like you always have. Put it on your back and carry on.

  And then, like a pop fly racing down from the heavens, it strikes me.

  These bullet holes are real. These wounds are bleeding.

  Did I just leave a man behind to die?

  Maybe Sam was a figment of my imagination. Maybe he wasn’t. The world is a strange place, and I am a strange thing in it. There are questions, I suppose, that I’ll never really get the answers to. Yet, still I look.

  Why?

  Shlooping goes slowly. It’s easy enough creeping through the tall weeds, slipping over broken branches, and slithering around the towering trees. It’s not the terrain that gets me. It’s this crippled, dying body heaving breaths with broken lungs. That’s the real hurdle. Therein lies the rub.

  A man’s body is always trying to quit when his spirit is still willing. I suppose that’s one clue as to who or what I really am.

  Just ahead, I hear the gentle, distinct shush of rushing water crashing down.

  Water. A waterfall. Out here? Why am I still surprised by anything? All the rules are broken, Jack. Quit acting like you’re shocked.

  Must be a beautiful sight. Probably the prettiest thing in town.

  If you’re gonna die, Jack, die looking at something beautiful. And Jack, you’re surely going to die.

  My grandfather used to say that. When he was especially moved by the Divine Service at our Lutheran parish, he’d remind me, “Jackie, you’re surely going to die one day. We’re all going to die one day. Die looking at something beautiful. If you’re gonna die, Jack, die looking at something beautiful.”

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  He died in bed from consumption with a photo of his family and a Roman icon of Christ on his chest.

  Beauty is truth, truth beauty.

  I grit my teeth and keep shlooping.

  The truth. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. That’s the lie I tell myself. Drinking and smoking past midnight isn’t exactly what I’d call beauty. It’s how I get by, though.

  The lies that get me by, babydoll. I could sure go for a glass of lies right now. A glass of rye lies.

  Finally, I come to the clearing. The cool, damp air rushed out by the crashing water washes itself across my still-burning wounds.

  Before me to the left is a lake. The pool sits at the bottom of a tall, rocky cliff. Water gushes from atop it, glittering in the starlight as it plummets down into the lake. A starry mist flows out from the crashing waters, shrouding the lake in mystery like a beautiful woman hiding her face beneath a veil.

  The clearing’s grass is thick and short and green as though it has been manicured. I watch the short blades sway in the breeze. They must enjoy the cool air as much as I do. No. They probably get sick of it, stuck in it all the time. But hey, I never got sick of that creaking ceiling fan.

  You’re thinking too much again, Jack. Be still. Be quiet. Enjoy the breeze.

  Indeed, the shush of the crashing water quiets my raging, weary mind, and the stars look again like the jewels God made them instead of the staring eyes of demons they’d become when I was lost among them.

  I draw another deep and ragged breath. My eyes slip closed, those soggy veils of slumber trying to hide the night from me again. Maybe this time for good. I pry them open to enjoy the view a little longer.

  Beautiful. A place to finally die. It may not be “surrounded by loved ones,” but it’s as good as a guy like me is going to get.

  That’s when I notice two small, metal boxes sitting alone at the edge of the water, one stacked on top of the other.

  The box sitting on top turns as a man turns to see what’s making the noise in the woods. Two headlights stare me down. The boxes stand up and walk over on legs like vacuum hoses with thumping metal clogs for feet.

  An automaton enjoying the view. Now, I’ve seen it all.

  “Hello,” says the tin can like a cheery radio on a bright Saturday morning.

  “Hello.”

  We stare at each other. My tongue is heavy with shock.

  “So… You’re the one who cuts the grass.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you talk.”

  “Are you unsettled by this?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Could you analyze your senses and come to a conclusion?”

  “Never talked to a toaster before. There: analyzed and concluded.”

  “Toaster?”

  “Yeah, a toaster. To toast bread. Is that unsettling to you?”

  “While I can operate such an appliance for the procurement of toasted devourables, that is not my primary function.”

  “You can dummy your gib. I’m short on thesauruses right now. What’s your primary function?”

  “To… serve?”

  The boxy automaton looks down at his feet and crosses his arms, putting one hand on his chin as if he’s thinking. A toaster. Thinking.

  “To serve what? Toast?”

  “No. I serve the Yog. Yes, that was it. It's been so long, I had forgotten."

  "Yog? Never had one of those. Sounds like a Jewish pastry."

  "Jewish? Pastry? You are a Yog, sir."

  “Eh? If I'm a yog, what are you then?”

  “I am a robot. My name is #$@%&#@&, and I am pleased to meet you.”

  “How the heck am I supposed to pronounce that?”

  “Well—”

  “Forget it. I’m calling you Roger,” I wheeze. If I wasn’t so tired, I’d be hacking up one of my lungs right now.

  “Oh!”

  “Does that work?”

  “Roger… If that is your preference, that would certainly be most excellent. A file in my accessible memory says that ‘nicknames’ are a sign of friendship. What, might I ask, is your name, master yog?”

  “I’m Jack Wolfgang, Private… Well, tentacle monster.”

  “Jack Wolfgang the Private Tentacle Monster?”

  “No. Just tentacle monster.”

  “Tentacle monster. You mean a yog?”

  “What? Damn it, Roger. Just call me Mr. Wolfgang.” You’re making my blood boil.

  “Most suitable. Mr. Wolfgang. I like that name.”

  I hack and hack. My green blood splatters at Roger’s feet. My eyes slip shut again; I rip them open.

  “You do not like the name? You could choose something more traditional. Perhaps, Sothoth Cthulhos Yaggeroth. You look like a Sothoth Cthulhos Yaggeroth.”

  “There’re a lot of things I don’t like, Roger. That stupid name you suggested is one of them. None of that matters, though. I’m dying, tin can. I’ll be gone soon, so you can call me whatever you want after that.”

  “Dying? That is a rare thing for a yog.”

  “You keep saying that word. What the Hell is it? Besides me.”

  “I will explain later.”

  “I told you: I don’t have later. Explain it now. Grant a dying tentacle monster his last wish. It’s a common courtesy, Roger.”

  “Your vitals will not allow time for any last wishes. You must begin the molt, Mr. Wolfgang.”

  “Molt?”

  “Here. I will assist the process, compensating for your ignorance.”

  He jams his metal vacuum hose arm down my throat like he’s reaching for my stomach. He whips the arm back out and steps to the side as a jet of acid gushes from my maw like water from a hydrant.

  “Bwaaagh! What… hwagh! …did you… hwagh!”

  He slaps me on the back. I heave up more stomach acid.

  Bwaaagh!

  My throat burns like when a round trip of rye meets a hangover. My eyes sweat like a fevered baby. My muscles tighten and shake as though they’re trying to split themselves in half. My bullet wounds scream like demons wailing in the night when they have found their prey and tear it limb from limb. Then, my flesh begins to rip, and a cold buzz of numbness creeps its way up from the tips of my tendrils.

  Finally, my insides slip up and out of my maw, splitting my body like a snake unhinging its jaw and turning inside out like a crusty sock ready for the wash. I watch the world flip upside down.

  Fade to black. Lights out, kid. Again. I’m getting real sick of this.

  When the horror of the molt is over and I come to, I turn around to see myself inside out in a heap, lying on the grass.

  Damn, I’m ugly. The pink pile of flesh and organs drips with neon green blood and other more viscous fluids.

  I look down at my new self. I am smaller. Slimier. Fresher. Rejuvenated. There is no pain. At least not physically.

  “You did alright, tin can.”

  “Why, thank you, Mr. Wolfgang!”

  “I don’t know what that was, but you did alright. Kept Ol’ Jack in the game for another hand at least.”

  Roger stares at me, then crosses his arms, placing a hand on his chin and looking down again. His cold headlight eyes give me no clue as to what the wires in his head are adding and subtracting.

  “Mr. Wolfgang, my analysis of your confusion leads me to conclude that you are a Yog who has lost his memory.”

  “Not quite.”

  “Hmm. I am not surprised my conclusion is wrong.”

  “Yeah?”

  “The Yog are complex and more diverse than the planets of the multiverse. You know nothing of them, it seems, and my information on you is wholly inadequate for making accurate assessments.”

  “I wouldn’t say nothing. I’ve figured one or two things out.”

  “Please, Mr. Wolfgang: you must tell me your story so that I know best how to help you.”

  “Sure thing, tin can. You’re alright. So far.”

  “Well?”

  “Here’s how it went: I sat behind my desk, waiting for midnight to roll by…”