Bring the Children Home, Lord Cthulhu

Wave on wave, each with increasing virulence, is dashing this new religion of whiteness on the shores of our time. -W.E.B. Du Bois, ‘The Souls of White Folk’ 1920 ~

Every day was a chance to enjoy the circus by the sea.

Milky sunlight, refracted by frosted window panes, was cut with the sickly yellow sheen of fluorescent ceiling fixtures. He would open the doors inside the sterile corridor with a certain patient, tempered measure that allowed him to savor the occasion.


This would always increase the beat of the creature’s breathing to a level of angst nearing aetherereal palpability.

That reaction only heightened the correctional officer’s enjoyment. Extending the time between completion of simple functions brought him to a meditative balance, collated with the scent of the industrial cleaning chemicals upon the lime green cement floor, that he found impossible to reach through other strivings. By antagonizing the creature as he would a wretched beast of burden at a carnival petting zoo, beatitude was nigh.

He would concentrate upon his lord and master, the High Priest of the Great Old Ones. By inflicting such upon this and other illegals, he felt their anger, sadness, and pain metastasizing into the force that fed Cthulhu.

Had he ever wondered about whether he should or could have been born a woman rather than a man? Did he wish sometimes to change himself into herself, something this particular little Black illegal was ofttimes whining about? Regardless the answer, not to mention Homeland Security training about “transgender”-ism, he knew antagonizing the little Latin American beast was feeding his lord and master. By persisting in his insult, dragging out the incarceration procedure, prolonging the simple tasks of opening and closing doors until the creature seemed ready to explode in anguish, he knew Cthulhu gained strength, bringing closer an apotheosis of the Great Old Ones.

When he beheld this operation in the penal colony, he did so with a reverence akin to pilgrimage at La Salette or Canterbury. The transubstantiation of his job into ongoing religious exercise, a vocation, gave augment to his ego.

Outside upon the briny aether, the sound of water lapping on the seashore beside the detention facility at Fort Wetherill. He looked at the creature and suddenly became very quiet. He looked in its eyes, silently gesturing to his ears.

They shared the seashore’s sound. In that moment, he could almost feel how the lapping rent the illegal through with a dull, cold, aching anger. With concentration, he auscultated its thoughts, akin to shifting a radio receiver. They both hearkened to the lapping. He squinted his eyes, matching the illegal’s epicanthic folds.

In that moment the two shared so much within the confines of the carceral state, the servant and the specie of Cthulhu’s sacerdotal honorific. Their minds, senses, existences were linked.

Daily, during low tide, when the water lapped on the shore, making a sound like the laundry that her Dominican washerwoman mother used to hang in the wind, she remembered how much she hated this place. She had to submit herself to inspection, flipping down the elastic of her underwear and lifting her shirt, to show that she was not trying to move through the building with contraband. This guard, regularly using a name that misgendered her, would “mistakenly” run his hands across her testicles, keep his hands on her buttocks a moment longer than necessary, and always seemed to walk a little bit more awkwardly as he moved back towards his seat after unlocking the door. It was during these inspections that she could hear the water lapping on the shore outside the detention complex. All those memories seemed lost in time like tears in rain upon the waves due to soul-killing incarceration.

He pulled back from this linkage, gasping as if pulling his head from beneath ice cold water.

‘Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn! The Great Lord Cthulhu glorifies me!,’ his thoughts exclaimed.

This augured greatness! Cthulhu grants revelation with such clairvoyance! He should expand these activities, practice these sacraments not just on the ladyboy but the other illegals!

He networked with others Cthulhu acolytes via a Facebook group called “I’m 10-15” that fortified their religion. Their faith in the power of the Great Old Ones had been transmitted, generation to generation, for more than a century.

Their true ingenuity laid in how they disguised themselves during that epoch. H.P. Lovecraft, another communicant, had take it upon himself, using the artifice of pulp romances, to mask the nature of their faith from the general public at a time when they were on the verge of being discovered by inquiring eyes. The sentry’s grandfather discretely catechized him via a familial Lovecraft anthology, gently decrypting coded verbiage for his eager student. In short stories such as The Call of Cthulhu, Lovecraft falsely portrayed the majority of their church as “… men of a very low, mixed-blooded, and mentally aberrant type. Most were seamen, and a sprinkling of negroes and mulattoes, largely West Indians or Brava Portuguese from the Cape Verde Islands, gave a coloring of voodooism to the heterogeneous cult.” In so doing, Lovecraft made unwitting inquisitors prowl the Black communities of Fox Point in Providence with bloodlust mirroring concurrent Russian pogroms, manhunts that his paterfamilias, a local judge, joyfully colluded in. Apocryphal parable even claimed a lynching deriving inspiration from Lovecraft’s oeuvre.

All this accomplished for merely mirroring upon the African American man what the guard and his forebears truly felt about themselves.

He stifled his joy in the revelation as he continued to behold the illegal, regarding it as he would an organ grinder monkey at a carnival.

Whiteness was more than just a religion, it was a component of his sexuality and standing as a man. It unified him with practitioners of the faith yesterday and today, granting him a link to grandfather, Lovecraft, and other communicants past and present.

His inner revulsion upon realizing where subtle attractions led was what drove the impulse of violence towards the flesh of the African.

He had passed by the protesters, the bleeding heart liberals that were hollering “CLOSE THE CAMPS!” Lovecraft had been particularly attenuated in his description of the duplicitous Hebraic race. After being granted the entry unto the bounty of whiteness, Jews were supposedly placated and were not Other than white. They even had their own country that was granted them by the good graces and will of the American presidency, that hallowed office which “served as a light unto other nations,” as his grandfather defined it during the catechism lessons.

Now the troublesome Jews were double-crossing them. This was something to be expected, of course, as Lovecraft had noted. “It is not so much that the country is flooded directly with Jewish authors, as that Jewish publishers determine just which of our Aryan writers shall achieve print and position. Taste is insidiously molded along non-Aryan lines—so that, no matter how good the resulting body of literature may be, it is a special, rootless literature which does not represent us.”

His uncle had loathed the Bolshevik poisoning of American culture over a century that had diluted racial bloodlines and led to mongrel breeding, including anchor babies that suckled at the teat of a Welfare system they never intended to pay into. His neighbors were quietly applauding this fitting lesson of concentrating them into these camps. While Rhode Island was technically a bastion of the Democratic Party, many of its voters despised illegals and their proclivity to breed like rabbits, collect public benefits as leeches, and seduce white children with their filthy music and erotic charms.

No matter.

Now, after over eighty years, there finally was a self-respecting champion of white racial purity and pride leading the nation again. Certainly the occupant of the Oval Office, with his various selfinflicted inhibitions to success and gauche, boorish demeanor, was too incoherent to be the vehicle of any serious power. Yet waiting in the wings, amongst his Cabinet officers, stood the actor who might, in a few years time, pick up the baton after it was dropped so clumsily by the current President and begin the task of leading a true white national liberation, blessed by Lord Cthulhu. Patience was the key virtue in this moment, one that he had cultivated diligently in honor of Cthulhu. That prayerful meditation had informed his ability to prolong the simple opening of doors for the illegals, making the days of the wretches that much more infinitesimally miserable.

He briefly reflected on the religious ceremonials observed by other members of ICE, Border Patrol, the local police department, and himself in the years whence they had prepared for this moment. The evenings neath the crimson sunset of Arizona, following days that had reached the requisite 125°F, of animal sacrifice and carnal supplication to appease their Lord Cthulhu. Drinking the passion of orgiastic conjugation with each other, followed by the entrails of the sacrificial species not consigned to the dessert holocaust, practices that granted them communion with each other and their entire religious polity.

It was a spiritual vein reaching back generations. When his Swamp Yankee forebears had taken this continent from the merciless Indian Savages whose known rule of warfare was an undistinguished destruction of all ages, sexes and conditions, whiteness had bound their polity in solidarity. As the plantations of the Cotton Kingdom created an archipelago of the aristocratic capitalist system, whiteness was psychic currency that maintained the solidarity of the boss and worker, including their Solid Southern relations, who should instead have sought to emancipate itself in the white skin alongside wherein the black it was branded. White power vivified an army that great-grandfather had marched with across Russia, seeking to subdue Ulyanov and Bronstein, both of Hebraic parentage. Cthulhu approached an apex of revelation during the Red Summer in which they celebrated, a time when whiteness reasserted hegemony in the face of a domestic political upsurge inspired by JudeoBolshevism. Over the following two decades, Cthulhu made preparation for a white pentecost that was smothered just prior to the terminal moment by the election of President Rosenfeld, a man scorned deeply by grandfather. Rosenfeld’s bid for domestic tranquility had stimulated agitation by Black civil libertarians that forced the High Priest back into the depths.

But after all these decades, history gravitated again to favor this apotheosis. White power was ascendant and Cthulhu also. The fact they called their lord Jesus Christ in public forums did not negate the reality of their petition to the litany of Great Old Ones.

‘I shall praise my lord and master for-’

Suddenly, previous joy was replaced by shrieking pain. It was as though a rusty nail were being slowly forced into his frontal lobe, blinding him as his nose began to seep blood.


Suddenly, a little girl’s taunting voice was echoing all around him.

‘And you were silly enough to think that your god Cthulhu was the only one with such powers?’

Dropping to his knees, an arctic chill shook his spine. Dread came upon him as he saw the youth standing before him, pointing at her eye, a gloating grin upon her visage. ‘I am going to have a lot of fun liberating my friends by destroying their cages.’ His arm lifted straight out in front of him. Involuntarily.

Terrified, he looked at the girl. She was manipulating his body as if he were a rag doll, making him gesture like a circus mime.

‘Oh yes, I abolish many things.’

The security camera monitor exhibited a simulacre, likewise projected by the girl. As such, the commanding CO for the cell block, unperturbed despite these developments, continued to read through a periodical published by Progressives for Immigration Reform, noting the ad for a paperback thriller by a certain Jean Raspail coworkers were passing amongst themselves.