What happened after that Dr. Mordo movie was what killed Tucker's career, you know.

Jesus Christ, what a mess.

Watch it sometime. It's painful. You can tell Tucker's still kind of sick in the movie. He's real pale and jittery, which I guess was good for his part, but it's still sad to see. I think Schiffler had got him past the worst of his addictions, but it was really touch and go. He'd be backslidin' any moment.

And he did backslide, about halfway through filmin'. Schiffler, who was also directin' by now, just gave up in disgust and left the set. From what I hear, he was so mad he smashed his own chair and upended the buffet table. Turned the air blue swearin'. Went back to San Francisco, didn't return calls, write back, anything.

So the studio tried to carry on from there . . . and Jesus, did they frig things up. I mean royally. I mean it must've been a committee of writers or something, because you can barely make sense of the rest of the movie. All of a sudden, from out of nowhere, they went and gave Dr. Mordo some brunette bombshell of a wife -- Mordina. Can you believe that? Mordina.

That was Louisa Valentine. Czech, English and Filipino. The publicists usually made it out that she was part Italian, though, so the bigots wouldn't get all riled. You know how people get, sometimes. It was different back then.

Louisa Valentine'd had a few bit parts up until then, in little j.d. flicks, usually as the girlfriend of the head hoodlum. Good-lookin'. Kind of wooden onscreen, though, you could tell she hadn't had much practice actin', that her main appeal was cheesecake. She's almost funny as Mordina. Had that classic, half-silly over-inflated '50's hourglass figure that went out of style about five years later.

I met her at a Hollywood party once. Really nice. That was before her and Tucker became an item. They were dating at the time. I'd scraped together whatever money I could and driven out there, losin' a couple of tires on the way -- that is one thing that's better nowadays, is tires -- and, well, kinda crashed the party.

Bad move on my part. That's why my nose looks this way.

But I had this screenplay, you see, that was gonna save Tucker's career. I mean it was gonna make him a star . . .

No, not a lot of people have seen my screenplay.

Hell, I doubt anybody's really read it besides me.

Oh sure, I sent it out to agents and publishers and firms and Jesus knows who else . . . but all I ever got were these friggin' lousy form letters in reply. Thank you, this is not for us. Thank you, good luck submittin' this elsewhere. Thank you, you are out to lunch, pal.

I liked to take sharp pencils and poke holes through those letters when I was feelin' mean. You should see them now. St. Valentine's Day massacre, is what they look like. Holes everywhere.

And no, I don't really like talkin' about it. It's been through a lot. I mean it probably looks like hell now. All dog-eared and folded, gatherin' dust . . . and then some son-of-a-bitch went and set his coffee mug on the title page!

Fuckin' bastard . . .

Damn. Shouldn't swear like that. I never say that word unless I'm really steamed.

I just think people couldn't handle it, at the time. Practically everything was a happy endin' back then. People were normal then. Not like now. People are nuts. Kids lookin' like freaks . . . women crazy in the streets . . . minorities gettin' their dander up . . . riots . . . drugs. Hell, I should be out there and they should be in here. How's that for you?

Oh, all right. Fine. The Screenplay . . .

Well . . . by that time in my life, the dreams were bad. Really bad. But they were makin' sense, too, in this crazy sort of way. Things were fittin' together in ways dreams normally don't.

I came to know what CTHULHU FTHAGN meant -- saw it spray-painted in a New York subway once, so maybe I'm not the only one -- but I think it means "Cthulhu waits."

Which is what He is doing right now. Waitin'.

Oh, he's been waitin' forever. That's kind of the premise of my screenplay. This horrible . . . thing . . . is waitin' to be released so that it can go back to rulin' the world like it once did, with all its servants and worshipers.

What does he look like?

That . . . that's kind of hard to answer. What I mean is, is that he has a general shape, but that it changes. He can kind of remold himself at will.

But He's big. Jesus, is He big. Head like an octopus with starin' dead eyes. Face full of tentacles and feelers. Claws. Wings. Yeah, I think He can fly. I think they're for more than just show.

But that's kind of why they call me "The Squidman." Most people have a hard time with His real name. I don't think it can be reproduced by the human voice box, to tell the truth.

But trust me, He's awful. If He came back, it would be like an atomic war and the Second Coming all rolled into one. Everything would be overthrown. Nothin' would stand in His way.

I mean, hell, He's a god, what're you gonna do, kill Him?

And believe me, there's people out there that know this -- that if He gets out, it's over. No good callin' in the Army. Go ahead and drop an H-bomb on Him, He doesn't care. So these people think, maybe we should get on His good side. Then we'll live like kings when He rises!

Can't beat 'em, join 'em.

But that's the premise of my screenplay, see: that there are folks out there that want to help Him out. Because as long as the stars aren't right, He's trapped under the sea, and He can't do much there besides think and bother guys like me.

But if these people, His cultists, get involved, then the trouble starts.

Oh . . . believe me . . . it's big. His cult is worldwide. He's got all types workin' for Him, in secret.

And I don't doubt more than a few of them are in high places.

And I also don't doubt that more than a few of them aren't entirely . . . right, if you know understand me . . .

You don't?

I'll explain later.

OK, this is how it was supposed to go: Tucker was gonna be the guy who discovers this Cthulhu-cult. Bit by bit, piece by piece, he puts it together. I mean it takes months in movie-time, and he goes all over America and the world.

I'll be honest, though, I couldn't figure out how we were gonna film that . . . I mean, all those other places. I really didn't want to use anything fake.

But OK. This is what happens: Tucker is real close to putting everything together. But there's people out there that wanna stop him, obviously, like the ones I was talkin' about. And they try to get him.

They do . . . eventually . . . but not before word's out and this Cthulhu-cult's exposed for everybody to see.

But you know what the kicker is? Practically nobody believes Tucker. No one. They just up and lock him away. Another crazy off the streets. And all the while time is gettin' shorter and shorter. All the while . . .

And you know what the real kicker is?

I never finished it, that's what. I mean, I know how the story ends, but I don't know what happens to Tucker. Does he finally go nuts? Do the cultists eventually get him? I didn't know then.

I know now, though . . .

Tucker should've stayed in Hollywood.

He really should have.

He never did read my screenplay, though . . .

Tucker left Hollywood after Louisa OD'd on tranquilizers one night.

Jesus, what a big stink that was . . . I mean the press was all over it. He was cleared eventually, but hell, didn't do him any good. As far as Hollywood was concerned, he was finished. Here's your bags, kid, now go back East.

Yeah, he was from out East. Massachusetts. Arkham, to be exact. That town's one claim to fame. Well, besides the university and the witch trials and all . . .

Ever been there?

I have. Don't like it anymore than I do Hollywood. I mean, it was just less money and better taste in architecture, really. And they're just as snobby as your Hollywood-types. In Arkham it's more who you are as opposed to what you make. Buncha bluebloods, is what they are. I guess they really didn't think much of Tucker or his career, probably thought he was really crass for making the sort of movies he did. Nice hometown.

He had enough money to buy this fairly decent Georgian place out in Crowninshield, though. Had the vines growin' up the walls, the gazebo and pond, the iron gate and walls, all that stuff. Pretty nice place. It's empty now. Grounds've gone to hell, all overgrown. Kind of what my neighborhood looked like in that dream I told you about.

It took me a while to find Tucker, but I eventually did, and it was off to Arkham . . .

I figured, considerin' where he was at right now, he'd be more open to my ideas.

Well . . . I was wrong.

I even got thrown into jail a couple of times for trespassin' on his property. You see, there's this great big oak growin' up near one of the walls, and I'd just climb it and go over the wall. But I always got caught.

"Goddamned Squidman," everybody would say, shaking their heads.

But, man, did Tucker look like hell in those days. He wasn't shavin' regularly and I don't think he was sleepin' much, either. He'd answer the door lookin' like death warmed over . . . until he got a good look at me. Then he'd hit the roof. Told me next time I came around he'd call the cops or blow my head off.

I mean, can you believe that? Blow my head off . . .

What an ingrate.

The real trouble started around six months later. Winter.

Jesus, what a hard time that was . . . me livin' in some one-room garret on the waterfront, just gettin' by. Eatin' out of cans. Nothin' to do but go over that damned screenplay again and again and listen to the rats chew their way through the walls. Or watch the river and the snow swirl past the window. Or listen to the couple below me have an argument or . . . well, you know. Drove me nuts. I got out whenever I could.

Whew . . . don't like talkin' about this much . . .

But one day I was out, headed to the corner market. Cold as hell. Toes achin' in my shoes. I mean, even the hairs in my nose were frozen. That's how cold it was that day.

So I'm thinkin', damn it would be nice to have a car in this kind of weather . . . and here comes some old big, black antique of a sedan the opposite way, very slowly, through the snow and slush. Curtained windows. Huge chrome grill. Big ugly thing.

Didn't like the looks of it one bit.

And then it slows down goin' past me . . . and heads off.

I watched it turn a corner. I'm thinkin' to myself, never mind. People around here always gawk at someone they don't recognize. Think they're bein' really sneaky about, too.

Few moments later it pulls up alongside of me, slows down, stops.

The driver's door opens. This big, tall, lanky guy steps out and leans slightly on the hood -- just so. And is he ever tricked out -- button-down coat, bow tie, and chauffeur's cap. I mean, not a detail is out of place. Real upper crust, but kind of oily, too. Older guy.

"Mr. Arthur Ashbourne?" he asks.

I said, "Yes, that's me."

"Would you care to step inside? My master's heard of you, and your screenplay. He's been looking for you for sometime, now. He's very interested in your work . . . even if Mr. Tucker isn't."

So I ask, "How do you know about me or Tucker, or my screenplay?"

"Word gets around, Mr. Ashbourne," the driver says, "especially in these parts. But why don't you step inside? It's bitterly cold out here, and we have just the cure for that, I assure you."

So that's when the passenger door on my side swings open, without a sound. All I see are some polished wingtips and a bit of pants leg. A lot of good leather upholstery. I smelled cigars, too, good Cuban ones, the kind you used to get before that shit Castro took over . . .

So I say, "I don't know about this . . ." and the driver says, "But we insist, Mr. Ashbourne, for courtesy's sake," and I say, "Yeah, well, thanks and all, but I'm just headin' down a block or two that way."

And that's when the other door on the driver's side, the one on my side of the road, opens up. Out steps this big block of a guy, very slowly, like he had to fold himself up to get into the car. I don't like what I see one bit. He's big and bald, but beyond bald, practically hairless, no eyebrows or anything. He's wearin' thick glasses that distort his eyes somewhat, and his mouth's this nasty, persnickety little thing like you'd seen on an old head librarian. Black suit, black tie, gray overcoat. Looked like an undertaker.

"Get in, Squidman," he says, and he really isn't friendly or unfriendly. Kind of indifferent. Gargly, groggy-kind of voice.

I say, "Wait a minute, how do you know my nickname?"

He just tells me to get in, OK?

I tell Mister Chauffeur and Baldy that maybe this isn't such a good idea.

And that's when Baldy pulls a silenced automatic out of his coat pocket. He waves the barrel at the open door and says, "In."

This is where it starts gettin' bad.

OK . . . I'll level with you . . . what I say next is hard to believe, but it's true. It did happen. I honestly wish it hadn't.

I know what you're thinkin'.

You're thinkin', people like me keep the headshrinkers in business, right?

Funny thing is, I'm better than most of the freaks in here. Seriously. I can get through the day. If you put me out on the street, I'd be fine. You wouldn't know me from Adam. Not like some of the characters in here. Christ, they're talkin' to themselves . . . thinkin' their Napoleon . . . bangin' their heads against the walls or just sittin' there starin' off into space. I ain't like that. I've got most of my marbles.

I just have this one . . . horrible experience. That's all.

Besides the fact I'm afraid to step outside these walls . . .

Why? Because they'll get me if I do. They told me so. I guess I stepped on some big toes with that screenplay of mine. But that's what they told me. They said, "You ever set foot outside here, we'll get you. It might not be tomorrow, the next day, or the day after that . . . but believe us. We'll fix you good."

Honest to God, they talk like gangster-movie hoodlums.

And I wish that's all they were.

And just like the in the mob flicks, we went for a ride.

So I'm sandwiched between two guys in the back seat: Baldy, who must have traded places with someone in back, and this other tall, skinny creep with slicked-back hair and a goatee. He's dressed a lot like Baldy. Didn't even look at me once the whole time. Looks like he's in church, listenin' to a dull sermon.

I'm pretty sure they're with the Mob at this point -- Tucker must've crossed 'em at some point, screwed something up, and now they want information. At least I hope that's all they want.

Up front are the chauffeur and some other guy wearin' a fedora and expensive suit coat. He's puffin' up a storm on this expensive cigar. Not sayin' anything. The driver seems to know where he's goin'. They've got the radio on, but real low. I can just make out this Sinatra tune, and that just makes it all the more unreal . . .

God help me, I think to myself, "What would Tucker do in a situation like this?"

Well, I'll tell you this much: Art Ashbourne didn't do a single damned thing. Art Ashbourne just sat and stared at the back of Fedora's neck, which was kind of lumpy and creased, like an old man's neck . . . but I didn't think he was all that old.

I asked where we were going. Nobody said anything.

Finally Fedora asks, without looking at me, if I would care for a cigar.

I say "No, but I want to know what's goin' on."

Again, no answers. At this point we're startin' to head out of Arkham, and I'm startin' to get seriously scared. So I asked them what the hell was goin' on, and if it had anything to do with Geoff Tucker, because if it did, I really didn't know him very well. I was just tryin' to get him to read my screenplay, so if this had anything to do with drugs or money launderin' or shady deals, then I was the wrong guy to be pickin' up.

Still no answers. Fedora starts fiddlin' with the radio. I can't see his face and that starts buggin' the hell out of me.

I wait for a little while. We're in the country by this time. Snow and bare trees, few isolated houses here and there. And I think, that's what they're gonna do, they're gonna bump me off in some out of the way place, and no one'll find me until spring. So I ask in this strangled, squeaky voice, "Look, are you gonna kill me?"

Baldy glances at me and then Fedora. The driver did the same thing, and then went back to the road. The third guy just kept starin' straight ahead.

Fedora says, in this bored voice, "No . . . not this time. But we've got some business to take care of, Art, and it involves you. So please be patient."

Please be patient . . .

Ever been to Innsmouth?

It's the one place that scares me. Well . . . I take that back, just about everything scares me now, 'cause I don't know where they are or what they're up to. I mean, you could be one of them, couldn't you, just comin' by to check up on the old Squidman to see if he should be allowed to live another year or so.

Well, you could be.

Yeah, but Innsmouth scares me. Most places, I just don't like them. I think, "Jesus, but these people are assholes," or "Why in the hell is everything so damned ugly around here?" But Innsmouth, that's something else entirely. It's like . . . a corpse picked clean by scavengers . . . but you can still see things crawlin' around the skull and bones. Does that make sense?

The Feds went in and tried cleanin' the place up some years back. Hauled a lot of them Innsmouthers off to jail. Then, from what I hear, they went and torpedoed this reef about a mile out. Just knocked the Almighty bejaysus out of it, 'cause that's where a lot of those Innsmouthers come from -- the sea. Like Cthulhu.

A lot of 'em died durin' that . . . but there's always more to take their place.

That's what the Feds don't understand. Open and shut case, far as they're concerned. Top secret.

Awful place, Innsmouth.

But that's where we ended up . . .

It was dusk by the time we got there. Jesus, but dark comes early in winter. Drives me up the wall.

They drove me out to the docks -- these filthy, slimy, fish-stinkin', crumblin' docks that must've been there since before the Flood. And you can tell those Innsmouthers don't see much business, 'cause the docks are covered in snow. Some footprints here and there, goin' out and comin' back. Boxes and crates speckled with mold . . . rottin'. Maybe a dinghy tied up, some lobster traps, some bucket-a-bolts fishin' trawler. But not much else.

So we all get out of the car. Damned if it isn't cold out. And damned if the wind isn't comin' in off the Atlantic sharp as a knife. But they're takin' their time, never once do they hurry or act nervous. And I don't see anyone else around at all.

We walk down the dock. Are they gonna give me concrete shoes? Shoot me and toss me into the water? Who knows?

I think to myself, I better start makin' concessions. Cut some deals. Maybe they'll listen . . .

'Cause I mention Innsmouth a few times in my screenplay, see. And I think that if they'd gotten wind of it, they'd heard what I had to say about the place: that the government should evacuate the surrounding area and detonate an A-bomb over the place . . . and another one in the bay, just to make sure they stay down this time.

So I say, "Hey, look, if it's about the screenplay, I can take out any mention of this place. Really, I will." None of them says anything, they just keep walkin' me down that dock. I start sweatin' then. I tell 'em nobody ever reads the friggin' screenplay anyway, so why go through all this trouble? Nothin'. We're near the end of the dock and Fedora looks around, and that's the first real look I get of his face. It's nearly dark out, but he's wearin' sunglasses. Chewin' on a stogie. I can't see too much with the sun behind us, but what I could see, I didn't like. His skin was all wrong. Peelin' with a bluish cast to it, like he'd drowned. And his mouth was wide as hell, too.

I just keep talkin'. Makin' promises. Finally he mumbles something. I ask him, "What?" He says, "Just shut the fuck up, will you? I'm tryin' to concentrate."

He reaches into his coat pocket. They had to hold onto me tight, then, 'cause I was sure that it was a gun he was goin' for at that moment. One right between the eyes for the Squidman.

But he pulls out this little bronze whistle instead, like something you'd have for a dog. And he sounds one note on it, facin' the ocean.

That note . . . how do I describe it?

It was high and faint and distant. I could just hear it over the wind and the ice chunks grindin' in the water. Snowflakes were swirlin' through the air. And Fedora just stands there, waitin'.

For a while, nothin' happens . . .

Then I saw it, under the water, under the ice. Black. Like an oil slick or a cloud of ink, but movin' quickly. It was comin' toward the dock. I had no idea what in the hell it was . . .

Then it reared up out of the water in this huge splash.

This black shapeless thing . . . except . . . except that it had eyes. I know they were eyes, because they saw me. It just rose up, like a cloud of smoke . . . but it was more like slime or jelly. Black and green and glistenin'. Up into the air, maybe twenty, thirty feet or so. Ropy, jagged tentacles wavin' all over the place. Unbelievable. And these . . . these holes opened up all over it . . . these mouths. I knew they were mouths because it made this awful, insane noise . . . something between a shriek and a howl and a roar . . .

And then it collapsed back into the water . . . bubblin' and seethin'. But it was still there. I know because a shadow passed underneath the dock.

I couldn't breathe. I couldn't move. I just stood there shakin', with Baldy and Goatee's hands tight on my arms.

And so Fedora comes over and offers me this tight, nasty smile. He says, 'Now we're gonna talk."

Remember what I said earlier, that I didn't kill Tucker?

Well . . . I did . . . but not 'cause I wanted to. They made me do it. They were the ones who'd decided that they'd like him better dead.

"We don't like publicity," is what Fedora told me.

So they gave me a gun. Told me I knew what had to be done.

Believe me . . . I didn't want to do it. Honest to God. But Fedora told me that if I didn't, then they'd come get me and hand me over to the shoggoth.

It's a monster. It's . . . awful. It's almost as bad as Him.

He told me they'd find me wherever I went. They have spies, you know. They're watchin' us all the time. Maybe even in here.

There is a new guy workin' here, now that I think about it.

I don't like the looks of him . . .

So yeah, in a way, I did kill Geoff Tucker.

It was easy, really. Met him on the doorstep. He started givin' me hell before I even opened up my mouth. I pulled out the automatic. He says, "Hey, wait a minute," and I say, "They made me do it, Mr. Tucker. Please forgive me."

BANG!

One into the chest. Took him right out.

I'm glad he didn't suffer. I mean that.

It's not like I'm a hitman or a professional killer or something . . . but I didn't want to see that thing again.

They would've fed me to it, you see . . .

But I shouldn't have shot Tucker like I did. I could've left him a note: They're on to us! Get out of here!

And then I could've shot myself. They can't get you when you're dead, you know.

But I shot Tucker instead. And now he's six foot under. And here I am, talkin' to other crazies. Talkin' to friggin' headshrinkers. Talkin' to you . . .

I envy old Geoff, sometimes.

But it's all old news now.

Hell, people have just about forgotten folks like Geoff Tucker and Louisa Valentine and Don Schiffler. I know Hollywood has . . . Hollywood forgets everything, doesn't it?

Kinda like the world.

I made the papers for a while. You know, "Hey look, Artie Ashbourne's a star now!" But not in the way I ever intended.

And Jesus Christ, did my screenplay ever get taken apart. I mean it just got raked over the coals.

No one believed a word of it. They just laughed. One critic even said it was the "literary equivalent of a shit sandwich."

I don't need that, thanks.

I don't know . . . I really shouldn't complain. It's not too bad in here . . . except when they turn the lights out . . .

And there's that friggin' new guy I gotta keep an eye on. He does laundry on Tuesdays. Bet he goes through my stuff, is what he does.

Bet he's one of them Innsmouth bastards. They're all over. Spyin'. Hidin'. Waitin' for the time he's ready to come back. And meanwhile everybody goes about their daily business like everything's just hunky-dory, A-OK . . .

Idiots.

But you know what? I laugh at them. Same way I'm gonna laugh at you after you leave today.

Why?

Because someday, I'm gonna be famous.

Someday, He's gonna rise. And that'll be it. That will be the end.

And you know what people'll be sayin'? The first words outta their mouths?

Know what you'll be sayin'?

No, it won't be: "Look at that!" or "God help us!" or "Run for the hills!" It won't be anything like that. It's what Tucker was probably thinkin' just before I blew him away.

What it'll be, is this:

"I should've listened to the Squidman."

Created: October 5, 1998; Updated: August 9, 2004