very appetizing smelling like that."
"Okay, okay! Kendra leave anything else here?"
"Well, let's just say it's nothing I want to see you wearing right now," Laura said, smiling. Ted retreated to her bedroom and emerged a minute later wearing her ratty old New York Liberty t-shirt and a pair of workout shorts that were enormous on her but made Ted look like he was playing basketball in the 1970's. She couldn't help smiling.
They ate and drank in silence for a moment, and Laura felt slightly guilty as she saw how ravenous Ted was. Eventually, Ted was able to get out, through the adrenaline fogging his brain and the saag paneer clogging his mouth, that he'd taken the CD to Queequeg's and logged on to some video game from a file on the CD, and that he—or rather the computer person he'd been pretending to be—had been attacked by a busty blonde who'd called him by name, thus confirming that Hal-caf hadn't been working alone and that his associates had probably taken the Queequeg's hard drive. The fact that Laura hadn't been called by the police today had led her to believe that someone other than the police had the hard drive, and this pretty well sealed it. She didn't think assault by virtual centerfold was in the Boston Police playbook.
Everything in the area of the game where Ted had been "attacked" related to Lovecraft, who was apparently some kind of horror writer from the twenties who wrote a lot about gigantic octopus-headed creatures from other dimensions that he called "The Old Ones" and their nameless horrible horror, and bad geometry. Or something like that.
"So, your shooter couldn't get a date in high school. What's your point?"
"Hey, I represent that remark! There are a lot of hours to fill up pondering why the popular girls don't like you, and for some of us, a rich fantasy life augmented by fantastic fiction and yes—role playing games—there, I said it, helped us through this difficult period. You know, it's really just like why you played field hockey."
"First of all, I played soccer, and second of all, popular girls liked me."
"Yeah, but did they like you like you? How many did you nail?"
"Lesbians don't nail , okay? That verb implies the use of an implement that . . . "
"Ducking the question. So you were 0-for-high-school, is what you're saying."
"Yes, fine. Anyway, why is the fact that these people are your fellow dorks important?"
"Because it's real . That's the only reason they'd shoot up the Queequeg's. They can play this game and pretend they're dorks, and coordinate this thing nationwide or maybe even worldwide on the internet. Anybody who stumbled onto anything would just think these guys were Lovecraft fans, but they are really Cthulhu cultists! For real!"
"What the hell's a Cthulhu cultist?"
"Well, in one of these stories, it's a bunch of degenerate sailors and the like—you can tell they're evil because they're not white—I know, I know, somehow the racist part sailed right over my head when I was fourteen—anyway, they are trying to open portholes to other dimensions to bring about the return of these creatures so horrible to contemplate . . . "
"That contemplation of their horror would drive you instantly mad, I get it."
"Right!"
"And this is real."
"Yes!"
"That's nuts."
"True! Also, there's no such thing as vampires. You could look it up."
"Ted, there are so many holes in your theory. First of all, what is anybody's motivation for bringing nameless horror to the Earth? Second, if they do all their planning in what is essentially a public space, why would they need to shoot up a Queequeg's to get it back?"
"I don't know. Maybe you can't get in to Randolph Carter's room without a key. Or maybe they found information from the Necronomicon and encoded it in the spreadsheets."
"What the hell's the Necronomicon?"
"Ugh, it's the book that unlocks the secrets of the dead. It was written by the mad Arab, somebody."
"The mad Arab?"
"I can't remember. Al somebody.
"Okay, okay! Kendra leave anything else here?"
"Well, let's just say it's nothing I want to see you wearing right now," Laura said, smiling. Ted retreated to her bedroom and emerged a minute later wearing her ratty old New York Liberty t-shirt and a pair of workout shorts that were enormous on her but made Ted look like he was playing basketball in the 1970's. She couldn't help smiling.
They ate and drank in silence for a moment, and Laura felt slightly guilty as she saw how ravenous Ted was. Eventually, Ted was able to get out, through the adrenaline fogging his brain and the saag paneer clogging his mouth, that he'd taken the CD to Queequeg's and logged on to some video game from a file on the CD, and that he—or rather the computer person he'd been pretending to be—had been attacked by a busty blonde who'd called him by name, thus confirming that Hal-caf hadn't been working alone and that his associates had probably taken the Queequeg's hard drive. The fact that Laura hadn't been called by the police today had led her to believe that someone other than the police had the hard drive, and this pretty well sealed it. She didn't think assault by virtual centerfold was in the Boston Police playbook.
Everything in the area of the game where Ted had been "attacked" related to Lovecraft, who was apparently some kind of horror writer from the twenties who wrote a lot about gigantic octopus-headed creatures from other dimensions that he called "The Old Ones" and their nameless horrible horror, and bad geometry. Or something like that.
"So, your shooter couldn't get a date in high school. What's your point?"
"Hey, I represent that remark! There are a lot of hours to fill up pondering why the popular girls don't like you, and for some of us, a rich fantasy life augmented by fantastic fiction and yes—role playing games—there, I said it, helped us through this difficult period. You know, it's really just like why you played field hockey."
"First of all, I played soccer, and second of all, popular girls liked me."
"Yeah, but did they like you like you? How many did you nail?"
"Lesbians don't nail , okay? That verb implies the use of an implement that . . . "
"Ducking the question. So you were 0-for-high-school, is what you're saying."
"Yes, fine. Anyway, why is the fact that these people are your fellow dorks important?"
"Because it's real . That's the only reason they'd shoot up the Queequeg's. They can play this game and pretend they're dorks, and coordinate this thing nationwide or maybe even worldwide on the internet. Anybody who stumbled onto anything would just think these guys were Lovecraft fans, but they are really Cthulhu cultists! For real!"
"What the hell's a Cthulhu cultist?"
"Well, in one of these stories, it's a bunch of degenerate sailors and the like—you can tell they're evil because they're not white—I know, I know, somehow the racist part sailed right over my head when I was fourteen—anyway, they are trying to open portholes to other dimensions to bring about the return of these creatures so horrible to contemplate . . . "
"That contemplation of their horror would drive you instantly mad, I get it."
"Right!"
"And this is real."
"Yes!"
"That's nuts."
"True! Also, there's no such thing as vampires. You could look it up."
"Ted, there are so many holes in your theory. First of all, what is anybody's motivation for bringing nameless horror to the Earth? Second, if they do all their planning in what is essentially a public space, why would they need to shoot up a Queequeg's to get it back?"
"I don't know. Maybe you can't get in to Randolph Carter's room without a key. Or maybe they found information from the Necronomicon and encoded it in the spreadsheets."
"What the hell's the Necronomicon?"
"Ugh, it's the book that unlocks the secrets of the dead. It was written by the mad Arab, somebody."
"The mad Arab?"
"I can't remember. Al somebody.
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