It was one especially sepulchurous summer afternoon that my grim odyssey into
the realms of madness began. Gentle readers, you will surely question my sanity
as I divulge to you the things I encountered that terrible bright and sunlit Tuesday,
and even I have questioned the reality of the adventure, so greatly do I wish that it
had only been a fevered dream.

I was commissioned by one "Henry Warren" by wireless to deliver his favored dish
of boxed noodles. This was quite standard for my line of business, but there was a
certain air about the man and the way he giggled that filled me with a peculiar
sense of unease. The address given, "1555 street road", conveyed a subtle yet
far greater sense of
abnormalcy, not unlike a Spaniard who has recently bathed.

I set about my task like any other, bidding farewell to my dismal coworkers and the
seething mass that operated our cash machine. My supposed destination lay
beyond the outskirts of town, down a dreary little alley I had heard of only in
hushed whispers. I stopped briefly to confirm the directions with one of the greater
shambling fungi, who bid me good look and continued on its merry way.
It was with a distinct feeling of queasiness that I first happened upon that fabled
alley, leaving my car in the lot of an abandoned Christian bookstore, its decaying
foundations reeking with the stench of a thousand tales best left buried. It should
have been just round the corner of this ghastly ruin that I was to deliver the dinner,
but to my shock and horror I found naught but an empty alley and a wandering
old-one. She told me that the address I sought had
long since been relocated to
the opposite side of town.
The journey lasted 15 minutes, but it felt as though hours had passed, creeping by
my senses in a desperate effort to escape some terrible fate involving
metaphorical pits or something. As I exited my weary vehicle for the second time,
the sense of foreboding escalated tenfold. Slinking carefully down this new street, I
found not 1555 but 1455, 1456 and so forth. The old one had been mistaken - or
senile, perhaps, as old ones often are - and sent me far from my true destination.
For a moment I feared I may never receive a tip, and my perception of time blurred
as I staggered in abysmal disappointment back to my car. As I neared the battered
Volkswagen, however, I noted something out the corner of my eye so odd that it at
first failed to register, and I daresay it was near enough to touch when I realized,
with a startled yelp, that I was in the vicinity of a
black man.

As the initial shock wore off, it became gruesomely apparent that the eldritch
creature meant no harm. As I had, after all, seen far stranger in my travels (of
what, I would rather not divulge) I decided to attempt communication. I cautiously
approached it with my situation and a humble request for its guidance.

After what appeared to be an eternity of careful thought, it widened the beastly
orifice that passed for a mouth and emitted a morbid cacophany of sound.
Having apparently invoked its wrath, I left my watch as a distraction and hastily
returned to the safety of my automobile. I was, for the time being, on my own.
Pushing the unpleasant experience behind me, I continued my drive down the
eerie street in what I uneasily guessed was the right direction, for soon I noted
address 1540, and soon after, 1549. It was growing abominably dim when finally I
arrived at 1552, and found that I could drive no further, as the
pavement was in the process of renovation.

I know not how long I walked that tortured road. At some point I was taken by
surprise by a terrible looming shape that filled me with an icy, gripping fear and the
urge to relax my bladder until the moon shone bright and I saw to my relief that it
was only a shoggoth. I spared some change and pressed on.
Finally I arrived at what I believed to be my elusive destination. The decrepit house
on 1555 leered hideously in the dark, like a Chinaman in the presence of
adolescent girls. Something, my senses told me, was dreadfully wrong, but the
rapid cooling of the noodles took on a sudden and uncanny urgency rivaled only
by my rising curiosity in this Henry Warren who lived in so obscure an abode.

I crept up the melancholy stairs and knocked, not entirely without hesitation, upon
that hateful
door. Time came so a standstill as I awaited a reply, my heart feeling
ready to plunge through my abdomen and wriggle its way painfully out my urethra.
Finally, the door creaked open, and I was greeted by a man whose
tie I dare not recall.
"Henry Warren?" I asked.

"Excuse me?" he spat.

"Is this the residence of Henry Warren? I have his lo-mein" I answered.

The man stared me up and down through cold slits, in a bout of deep
contemplation and/or indigestion. Finally, he spoke...

...I reeled. The door slammed shut in my face. Dropping the accursed noodles, I
lurched aimlessly back to the cold, dark street like an Irishman on a Monday
afternoon. Overcome with nausea, I stumbled headlong into the sidewalk and
blacked out.

I awoke hours later, the man's words circling endlessly in my baffled mind...

"Fool, Warren is dead."
"What the hell do you want???"