Cthulhu Attacks!: Book 1: The Fear Read Online Free PDF Page B

and expensive jeans that sagged a bit, not able to crest his barrel chest and midriff and so settling in more around his hips than his waist. Let whatever Bible-beater he was to spar with wear a poly-blend suit—
    No , he admonished himself, as he had to do almost every time he was going to face one of the faithful for a nice bloody argument (Christians, Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists, Scientologists, he had defeated them all). Treat your opponent with respect. No ad hominem . You have logic and facts on your side .
    It was a philosophy that had served him well through hundreds of on-stage and televised debates in the past twenty years against various factions of the religious-industrial complex, not to mention those who would dismiss writers such as Lovecraft, Bloch, or Pugmire. He had done this again and again since he had finished at Oxford and begun his climb to fame—or perhaps his slide into notoriety—as an essayist, curmudgeon, skeptic, and (he would often say as an ironic aside) a sad example of what passed as a wit in Britain, not to mention the States, these days.
    Oscar Wilde could outquip me with half his brain tied behind his back , Martin had said in interviews before with a faux-rueful smile. Good thing my assassins murdered him sixty years before I was born .
    The door opened and Percy stepped through, starting a bit when he saw that his boss was, technically, awake. “Mister Storch, you’re awake,” he said with a pleased smile.
    “Christ, don’t remind me,” Martin said, and reached for his drink, which by this time had just a breath of vodka in it. He sipped at it and said, “Mary is losing her touch. Give her a little help.” He held out the glass and Percy topped it with more vodka.
    Percy chuckled at Martin’s comment and demand for more alcohol more out of duty than amusement, since his employer told him the same joke, mantra-like, every morning when he was (relatively) sober and finally ready to rise.
    The assistant had thought maybe the ebbing of alcohol content was what actually awakened Martin, a crisis of ethanol deficiency, and this was his automatic response to welcome the day … with more booze. Percy appreciated Mister Storch’s staunch magnanimity when it came to not looking down upon his “servant” assistant. Such disapprobation from Martin would leave a wound, so sharp was his rapier wit.
    Martin downed the rest of the tomato juice and munched the celery, allowing Percy to make another for him, this one a bit higher in octane. “So who is it tonight?”
    “Which show, or which sparring partner?”
    “Both.” He really didn’t have a trace of hangover. Paying due reverence to Mother Alcohol was the only religion he could stomach, and She showed Her appreciation.
    “It is the Late Show with Mister Colbert.”
    “Good, good,” he said. “I love that bastard.”
    “Do you?” Percy looked surprised for the second time in as many minutes. “He never seems to take your side.”
    “Precisely!” Martin said with a smile. “He butts out and lets me do the dismantling. Who is it tonight? I know you told me, but I have you to remember things for me while my brain just stays in the moment and dreams of oblivion.”
    “Very poetic today, sir,” the assistant said, his own British accent making it sound more like an ironic statement than any kind of compliment. “Your opponent tonight is your venerable friend, Archbishop Morley.”
    “ Morley! Outstanding! He gives as good as he gets, that one. I assume you made our dinner reservations for after the taping?”
    “Indeed, Mister Storch. A full plate and a full bar shall await you and His Excellency.”
    This news got Martin to a sitting position on the edge of his bed. “Capital, Percy. I think Jimmy is the only one who can drink me under the table! He can—”
    Percy arched his back in a galvanizing seizure that sent him to the floor even as his vomit spewed in an arc as he fell. Martin felt a sharp pang in his temples,