Unidentified Funny Objects 2 (12 page)

By Josh Vogt

“Welcome to Innsmouth Ink and Piercing Pit. Wot’s your poison, pretty thing?”

“I’m here for a Dagon tattoo.”

“Can’t do that.”

“What? It’s listed as a discount special right there in your window.”

“So it is. But that’s wot you’d call an inside joke. Like them Cthulhu cupcakes the bakery sells down the street. Nobody eats them and gets transported to extremes of ecstasy and horror. Just frosting tentacles and candy googly eyes, y’know? Bit o’ local color to make dumb tourists chuckle. Er… no offense.”

“I’m not a tourist. As a blessed follower of Father Dagon, the visions led me here; so I know you can inscribe the true sigils and incantations on my flesh.”

“Ah. You’s one o’ them? Figure yourself a chosen chum? There’s a laugh.”

“Listen here—”

“Ain’t got time for every wannabe princess of Pisces. Go snog some seaweed, eh?”

“Zip your frog lips and look at this.”

“…where’dya get that?”

“Not so smug now, are you?”

“I ain’t funnin’, missy. Folks ’round here don’t take kindly to strangers flashin’ symbols of the Esoteric Order.”

“I know that. Do you think I’m an idiot?”

“Ayup.”

“Shut up. I wouldn’t show this without being certain you can provide what I need. Now, are you going to cooperate or keep acting like a bumpkin?”

“Let’s say that Dagon tattoo’s a thing after all. Still plenty o’ reasons I ain’t gonna so much as sketch a scale on your skin. For starters, I ain’t got the right… y’know… necessities.”

“Such as?”

“Gotta use nuttin’ less than a hunnerd percent squid ink. That and fishbone needles.”

“I’ve brought my own supplies. Everything needed, including a ceremonial dagger and dose of opium for yourself.”

“Well, aint’ you Little Miss Think-of-Everythin’. How’d you get all this?”

“I told you. I’m blessed by Father Dagon himself. I performed the proper supplications on the beach and the tide washed in the required bounty.”

“Erm… has you profaned yourself before loathsome monuments under a gibbous and waning moon?”

“I make a habit of it.”

“You meditate on the nature of them nameless things that sleep in the darkest watery chambers beyond all comprehension?”

“Just yesterday.”

“You dream of long-drowned horrors when the stars aligned in their indescribable orbits?”

“Months ago.”

“How’s about ph’ngluing your wgah’nagl?”

“You made that one up. And don’t be crude.”

“Gluh. Fine. But there’s another problem. You ain’t the right shape.”

“If you’re daring to comment on my figure—”

“Look, missy. To get a Dagon tattoo good and proper, you gotta be a certain make n’ model. I ain’t just talkin’ flippers and scales. You got pulsating gills? No? And how’re you gonna fit an epoch’s-worth of diabolic chants on a body that ain’t treacherously vast? The full text of Cthäat Aquadingen don’t exactly make for a tramp stamp, y’know.”

“Oh. I… didn’t think of that.”

“Here’s the thing—I could cram in a few bits and pieces, but it’d be like puttin’ a star chart on a postage stamp. And if the images aren’t fully etched, you’d suffer all sortsa nasty side effects.”

“I’m committed to showing my devotion to the god of the ocean floor. I don’t care about the consequences.”

“’Specially if one of them consequences is lookin’ pretty spiffed up to your Dagon fan club back at the Miskatonic University, hm?”

“How did you know about that?”

“Only so many places you could snatch an Order medallion from. You’ll be handin’ that over now, by the way.”

“Back off or I’ll ceremonially remove your fingers. I’m giving you two options. Refuse me and I’ll march straight to your Order temple and confess that you tempted me with secrets about the Dagon tattoo. I hear they aren’t kind to those who reveal sacred arcana to outsiders.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me. Second option—we compromise and find a way to condense some of the larger tattoo portions. I’ll pay you and surrender the medallion peaceably.”

“You wanna compromise in renderin’ the infinite and detestable likeness of Father Dagon?”

“I’ll even toss in a baker’s dozen of those cupcakes from down the street. A treat for us to… chuckle… over and set aside any hostilities.”

“That your daft idea of sweetenin’ the deal?”

“Call me daft again. See what happens.”

“…look, mebbe I could write ‘I Heart Dagon’ in eldritch hieroglyphics and dress it up a bit with nightmarish symbols that incite madness in any who gaze upon them. Unless your friends can read a language that was dead before the stars were born, they won’t know the difference.”

“That’ll suffice. I do insist on still using the squid ink and fishbone needles.”

“Why not? Gots to be authentic, right? I’m gonna get prepped, but this lovely chat has riled my appetite and I don’t like to work hungry. How’s about those cupcakes? Be sure to get the fresh ones. None of their half-price, day-old batches.”

“What’s wrong with those? Stale?”

“Nah. They just tend to hatch in your mouth instead of your stomach.”

A full-time freelance writer and editor, Josh Vogt has sold work to Paizo's
Pathfinder Tales
, Grey Matter Press, Orson Scott Card's
Intergalactic Medicine Show
,
Shimmer
, and
Leading Edge
, among others, and is working to get his fantasy novels to readers. When not writing, he's rotating through an array of odd hobbies to stave off existential despair until he can get back into a story. You can find him at
JRVogt.com
,
Write-Strong.com
, or on Twitter
@JRVogt

. He is made out of meat.

by M.C.A. Hogarth

“I can’t work with Don anymore,” Candace said. “And frankly, I’m not the only one.”

I stopped hunting in my desk drawer. From the shape of the shadow next to my file cabinet, she had her hands on her hips—never a good sign. I turned to face the door into my office. “This sounds serious.”

“Have you walked past his cubicle lately?” she asked.

“I’ve had meetings,” I said. That really wasn’t an excuse. Spend enough time in back-to-back meetings and you start hoping that your direct reports will devote enough points to precognition to figure out what you need without you telling them.

“Come with me,” Candace said.

I shrugged and followed her. My office was one of several that bordered the walls. The interior of the floor had been cut up into a maze of cubicles: sometimes literally, for the departments that had cause to keep all but the most ardent of petitioners at bay. As was illogical but typical, the twelve people I managed were on the other side of the building. I didn’t know what to expect, and Candace didn’t help with her silence. We turned the corner row and I stopped.

“Is that… ?”

“Yes,” she said with distaste. “He cast Improved Cubicle Door.”

I approached Don’s cube warily. The hedge of thorns that blocked entry into his tiny domain actually extended a vine my way as I stepped within range. I stepped back out again. Quickly.

“Have you tried calling him?” I asked.

“He doesn’t answer,” Candace said. “He’s not answering anyone’s calls. No one’s emails either.”

“A mobile hedge door,” I said, exasperated. “That’s taking it too far. I don’t mind it if you guys want a half-size door for privacy, but this thing’s a safety hazard. God knows what our customers think of it.”

Candace said, “Morale’s degrading, too.”

I stiffened. “How badly?”

She shrugged. “I can’t even speed up the network connection anymore. My mana store’s as weak as it was when I was unemployed.”

Now I was seriously concerned. As the department’s best project manager, Candace had developed an enviable mana sensitivity. Where her stores went, everyone else’s followed.

“Thanks for bringing this to my attention,” I said. “I’ll do something about it.”

“Thanks, Jin.”

I studied the twining thorns for a few moments longer, then retreated. I couldn’t deal directly with the door, not without preparation anyway. What if I failed to tear it down? Talk about a morale-killer. A manager’s supposed to have more power than his employees, or it says something about the quality of the command chain. I don’t get much mana from doing projects as an individual contributor anymore. All I’ve got is what’s passed down to me by directors who deem our department is doing its part for the company’s bottom line. All of which means I can’t afford to look weak.

So, first things first. I renewed the privacy wards on my office and closed the door on the curious world, then tried calling Don on speakerphone.

Ring. Ring. Ring. Voice mail. Don never bothered to personalize his message. Maybe I should have seen that as a sign. Still, he had to be working, or he wouldn’t have the power to cast a spell the level of his guardian thorns. I picked up the crystal paperweight I’d gotten as a management award and ran my fingers over it while murmuring the arcane syllables that would bypass Don’s password.

The voice mail dropped me into Don’s inbox. “You have two hundred twenty-seven new messages.”

I almost dropped the paperweight. My finger trembled when I hit the button for the first message, dated two weeks ago. An irate woman accused Don of never getting back to her on her very important contribution to the excess inventory project. The one after that made a similar complaint about the warehouse maintenance project. I fast-forwarded to the last few and winced through the stream of invective. Some had gone so far as to formally curse the department, which might explain some of the problems Candace had reported with the mana store.

Something like this
should
have come to me. The only way I wouldn’t have heard of it was if Don had arranged it.

We’ve fired people for casting Deceive Manager before. It’s a hard thing to prove, but if you can…

I hadn’t signed up for this headache. Don had never performed gracefully for us, but he’d done the job. As much as I wanted to know what had happened, the fact that it had took precedence. I needed to straighten him out right now or begin the major ritual of summoning HR, which would require libations and paperwork and far more energy than I had to spare.

It was time to dig to the bottom of this.

“YOU WANTED TO SEE ME, Boss?” Don drawled from the door.

“Ah, I see you received my message,” I said.

“It was kind of hard to miss,” he said. “The phoenix did some damage to my cube door, by the way. Set fire to it.”

“They tend to do that,” I said, suppressing my glee. I’d hoped sending my summons with a phoenix would take care of that problem.

“Lucky I had that thirty-two ounce Mountain Dew from the gas station,” Don continued. “Put that sucker right out before it could set fire to the building.”

So much for that. “Don, I have some concerns.”

“You wouldn’t send a phoenix for a casual get-together,” he said. “Can I sit?”

I stared at him as he dropped into the chair in front of my desk. I hadn’t expected the problem to be this bad. “I’ve been getting some complaints.”

“Complaints?”

“Your inventory projects are hanging loose in the wind, Don. What’s going on?”

“Oh, it’s all exaggeration,” Don said. “You know how it is with Operations. They’re convinced that all we do all day is sit around and eat donuts.”

“Is that what you’re doing?” I ask. “Sitting around and eating donuts? I’ve done some asking around, Don. You haven’t attended a meeting in two weeks.”

“I scry them,” he said with a wave. “If they look like they need PM guidance I dial into the bridge.”

“Don, the meetings are down the hall. People walk from other buildings to our conference rooms because we’re the project management department. It’s courtesy to walk the forty feet to the room and sit in a chair.”

“If I walk forty feet to the room and sit in a chair I can’t keep track of anything else,” Don said. “If I sit in my cube and scry the meeting, I can be working on a dozen other things at once.”

“And just what are these dozen other things you’re working on?” I ask.

“Office productivity projects,” Don said. “I want to make our department more effective.”