-
ADULT CONTENT
This article contains adult content that may not be suitable for all readers.
Sexual References: Features sexual themes or language, without the depiction of sexual acts.
If you are above the age of 18+ and wish to read such content, then you may click Continue to view said content.
Sofia Haugen hunts the ultimate MILF — the Black Goat of the Woods with a Thousand Young.
Miskatonic Marathon: An Investigative Sports Report
Authors: DrGrimoire
If you liked this, you would like:
Our Lady of Sorrows: The Morrigan, Sidhe goddess of War, Fate, and Prophecy comes to Three Portlands to investigate the disappearance of ghosts across the city. At the same time a girl, a child of both lost Avalon and the mundane world, comes to a graveyard, hoping to meet her departed mother on Samhain. Their fates intertwined, one must fall that the other may rise.
Deer College Odyssey
The Buck Stops Here
| THREE PORTLANDS | FRIDAY, AUGUST 27, 2016 | IÄ! SHUB-NIGGURATH! |
MISKATONIC MARATHON
HUNTING THE ULTIMATE MILF OF MASSACHUSETTS
by Sports Correspondent (Unofficial) Sofia Haugen (⁂judgmentgay)
Ever since I was a starry-eyed sophomore, I've had a simple dream. I want to change the world for the better, to make the forces of the uncaring universe just a little more relaxed, for them to notice humanity and decide that we deserve to live. I want to find a Great Old One and make it cum.
The dorms at ICSUT Massachusetts. On the bright side, all the rooms are singles!
So, when I heard that Miskatonic University (officially ICSUT Massachusetts; known to its students variously as "M.U." "[the lost continent of] Mu" "Misky" "Ole Misk", MISKSUT, and "the Madhouse") has an Outer God with tenure, my immediate response was to drop everything and sprint to put in a transfer request. Unfortunately, I wasn't able to transfer to Ole Misk — something about the ICSUT system not accepting Deer credits because of a "lack of thaumatological rigor" — but I was able to make some time this summer to head over there for a week and go MILF hunting. And the Black Goat of the Woods with a Thousand Young is the ultimate MILF.
Just getting there was the kind of trial that would have the average heterosexual reconsidering their every life decision. I rode the chariot of the damned (a greyhound bus) into the heart of hell (Boston), and from there mounted an infernal, smoke-belching monstrosity of steel and suffering (light rail) to the north, where towns have such unpronounceable and eldritch names as "Dracut" and "Tyngsboro". There, on the banks of the chocolate-milk-brown Merrimack river, the city of Arkham lurks. Normally, it lingers just beyond sight — I'm not sure if the Miskers1,2 used some eldritch ritual to cloak the city, or if its just an inherent psychic defense mechanism against going mad from the various dark revelations around every corner of Arkham. Regardless, to actually get to the university I had to make a sacrifice to one of the ancient dread gods of Massachusetts. Fortunately, as with all Massholes, the dark lord Ken'adi accepts Dunkin' Donuts gift cards in lieu of first-born children.
Sacrifice made, the riverside city unfolded impossibly before me in a display of incomprehensible geometry that would drive most mad. I find regular geometry incomprehensible as-is, so I couldn't really tell the difference. Walking down the maddening streets of Arkham, I sought a way to the heart of madness as, there to bone it or die trying. As soon as I stepped onto MISKSUT campus, though, my finely-tuned reporter senses began tingling: a sports was happening nearby. A second tingling reminded me that if I covered this whole thing for The Odyssey, charging the whole week's expenses to the corporate card would be entirely justified.3
Following both the tingling and the faint scent of booze on the wind, I found a crowd of Arkhamites pressed up against jersey barriers lining the campus' main street. Before I could even ask what was going on, a giant mechanical crab trailing the second-largest Maryland flag I've ever seen came careening around the corner, billowing a smoke that smelled like Old Bay. Hot on its heels was a boxy aluminum buggy emblazoned with the Ole Misk Engineering department logo,4 with a pasty, emaciated figure on top aiming a hand-cranked Gatling gun at the mechanical Marylander. The crab's riders, who I hadn't noticed before, were desperately trying to evade the stream of enchanted bullets, but to little avail. With the kind of precision only achievable by consuming dangerous amounts of Adderall, the engineers blew off two of the crab's legs, and it crashed to the ground, flinging its crew over the jersey barriers and into an open barrel of molasses to the roaring approval of the crowd.
As the Miskies drove past the delicious-smelling wreck, I found a pamphlet about the race that someone had dropped, and just visible under the dirty footprints was the name of the race's "Basalt-Tier Sponsor" — Shub-Niggurath. She was close. And apparently, she was into niche sporting events, so clearly the stars were right for me as well as for that which lies dead dreaming. There was only one thing for me to do. I would report my brains out, follow the race, and convince her to give me an interview. After that, my signature charm would do the rest.
The pamphlet also had a QR code on it, which my phone somehow managed to scan despite the splatters of mud and/or blood over half the pattern. Apparently, this was the "Miskatonic Marathon". It was a kinetic sculpture race, the misshapen lovechild of Mad Max and a craft fair, with teams racing artsy pedal-powered contraptions across land, sea, mud, and cave. The website listed a bunch of rules, all of which boiled down to "cheat if you can get away with it", "no killing your competition" and "your racer has to be entirely human-powered". Despite the no-killing provision, maiming, transfiguring, petrifying, and traumatizing your competition were all explicitly allowed and encouraged. It was bloodsports, but with a thin veneer of artistic legitimacy.
The Cosmetology and Cosmology Department's Entry. A tribute to Ma'skara, eldritch lord of eyeliner.
It also listed the entrants. Teams had come from all over the world (okay, mostly from New England, but there was a decent Baltimorean contingent and one team from either Riyadh or R'lyeh), and a lot of them had big-name sponsors to help with the material and medical bills. Three separate departments within Misky sponsored entries — Carthulu fhtagn, The Eldritch Altar of Ma'Skara, and Kinetic Sculpture Mk. XVI. No points for guessing which one was the engineering school's. Other notable entrants included a contingent from Harvard5 in what I'm pretty sure was a full-on yacht retrofitted with bicycle wheels and cannons, and a mysterious glowing obelisk which floated inches off the ground and radiated a palpable malice.6 It also had a list of disqualified entrants, most of them for boring reasons like "driven mad by exposure to secrets beyond mortal ken", "wanted by the authorities for nuclear proliferation", or "called in for jury duty". The only interesting disqualification was of the 666th Thelemic Lodge, the entire team of which was arrested for indecent exposure after attempting to use an orgiastic working to summon demonic cyclists to sub in for them.
The website had a map of the race too. I'd just missed the start, which kicked off in front of M.U.'s sports stadium7 but I could catch the first hazard section — a race over the murky and haunted tributary of the river which ran right through the center of the city — if I hurried. Hopefully, the judges would be there too, and I could ask one of them in particular for a very intimate sort of interview. By the time I got there, though, the stands were in chaos. From what I could gather by talking to shell-shocked spectators, the water hazard had turned into an all-out brawl when, halfway through the leg8, a Deep One breeding frenzy began. This didn't sound so bad to me, but unlike every other orgy I've spectated, the participants in this one considered human viscera an aphrodisiac.
The next listed section was a mud pit, but by this point I was starting to get seriously hungry so I decided to skip it and get lunch. I'd catch the race in the vast caverns underneath Arkham, carved at cruel angles from basalt by a long-vanished civilization who would surely return one day to wipe man from this earth. After trying the local "delicacy" called a "North Shore Three-Way" I honestly couldn't blame them.9 Despite the disappointing three-Way — not my first, not my last — my lunch break was worth it: I got the hot goss on the race from some townies.
From what I could gather through their unintelligible Boston accents, the race has been going on for the better part of twenty-five years, and there were two real strategies as to how to win it. Either you packed your team with battlemage-caliber wizards, built your racer with heavy armor and the kind of weaponry that would get you invited to the next Geneva conventions, and generally made yourself into the most "wicked killah" imaginable, or you did absolutely none of that, and just tried to be so fast that the big guns couldn't hit you. Oh, or you joined the Illuminati team, who allegedly made up the shadowy council of race organizers, and as such were the perennial favorites to win.
The Illuminati entry. The black bars weren't added in Photoshop, their eyes just do that.
Cold roast beef choked down and local knowledge gained, I caught up with the race down in the caverns under the city, where vast monolithic buildings carved from basalt loomed above empty streets, which snarled around each other in maddening tangles.10 The air was thick with the sound of crowds cheering, and in the distance I could see the flashes of racers' spells as they dueled each other on the approach to the finish. I could also hear a strange wet rasping of flesh both squamous and rugose moving impossibly over itself, defiant of the laws of reality. It was coming from the direction of the finish line, which told me that my plan was working. She was there.
Rather than follow the track, I took some shortcuts to try and beat the crowd of suitors that would doubtless be competing with me for the attentions of the Black Goat. Normally, my sense of direction is foolproof,11 but the cruel angles of the roads, the cave ceiling far above, and the echoes of the race against the stone of the buildings all threw me off. By the time I finally arrived at the finish line the race was basically over. Still, the judges were there, and one of them looked fleshy in a way that the others didn't — like her clothes were a part of her skin, rather than things she was wearing. Her legs went on for days, unreasonable, terrifyingly long, my eyes getting lost in their endless, fractal curves. She was a B-cup. Either she was Shub-Niggurath herself, dripped down into a form more comprehensible to the average mortal, or she was some kind of meat-puppet being remote controlled by the Black Goat of the Woods. Either option was, to be fully honest, incredibly sexy.
If you can look at this without carnal desire, you're wrong.
I managed to get into the judge's area with a flash of my press pass.12 Everything was going exactly to plan, right up until I tripped over one of the tentacles peeking out from under her rugose dress. I landed face-first in the mud, silently cursing myself for fumbling the least comprehensible baddie in existence, and then she offered me her hand. Or at least the boneless appendage that she had fleshcrafted in imitation of one.
Our skin touched, her strong, muscular flesh against mine. I turned my head, meeting her gaze in the most coquettish and sapphic way I could, my eyes meeting her sightless black orbs. I smiled, and she smiled back, revealing a toothy maw with a far-too-dexterous tongue that I wanted desperately to taste. I asked her either "Can I interview you?" or "Can I do you?" — I can't remember which, and it might have been both. If I asked the first question, the answer was yes. I got my interview, which I spent doodling pictures of myself and a many-limbed god older than creation skipping through fields of daisies, her pseudopod in my hand, in my notebook. From what I remember of the questions I stammered out and her answers, she's been sponsoring this race for the last decade, mostly because the course forms the shape of a sigil from a long-dead language which grows her power. Also, she really likes seeing the various ways that us mere mortals compete for her amusement.
By this point in the interview I was all but barking like a dog. I wanted to amuse her. I wanted to fulfill my dream. I wanted her to sacrifice me at her altar. I'll spare you the gory details, mostly because they're just a blur of tentacles, various viscous fluids, and my eventual fainting from dehydration, but rest assured that I achieved my goal. And then, after I'd given her my number and was debating dropping out of Deer and enrolling at Ole Misk, she dumped me. Over text. Like a teenage boy.
So yeah, I made Shub-Niggurath cum and all I got for it was my usual post-breakup eldritch madness and a particularly nasty case of chlamydia. Oh also, the Illuminati came in first, I came second, and that obelisk was disqualified for unsportsmanlike conduct.
