Dentondagon!


by


Don Webb

Had I but known that the trip to my ancestral home was
fated to end in such horror, fear, loathing and yuckiness --
I would not have gone.  I had been pursuing my genealogical
pursuits, when I discovered that the root of my mother's
family sprang from Denton, Texas.  As I was (as usual)
between jobs, I resolved forthwith to travel to that
eldritch burg looking for a distant cousin to sponge off of.
Stopping at a Stuckey's on the way, I inquired of the
directions to the accursed village.  The counter person was
able to answer my queries, albeit whilst making a curious
sign with her middle finger to ward off evil and ringing up
the price of a pecan log.
 
My cream-colored Dodge Dart rolled into witch-haunted
Denton at 4:30 in the afternoon.  I parked in the public
square and ventured forth to gain the lay of the land.  I
had scarce stepped from my vehicle when I was overcome by
the strangely alien architecture surrounding the square. 
What a festering of obscene angles that seemed to hint at
other dimensions beyond the known and to colossal bad taste
as well.  I staggered away from my car into the immense
fleshly arms of a Denton matron.  For an instant I feared I
was being devoured by one of the detestable shoggoths whose
existence is hinted at in the detestable 
Newark Shards

.