Here Comes Your Man
You’re out walking in the woods. You love the serenity. The sense of isolation. If you stand as still as you can, it’s easy to imagine you’re the only person on the whole earth.
You hear the twig snap. It’s not a very loud sound, but it sends an ice cold ripple of absolute dread across your skin. You are not alone. Someone else is near. They’re watching you. Maybe they even followed you. Your heart drops into your stomach.
Trembling, you slowly turn towards the noise. Through the dense undergrowth, you make out the shape of a large man. He twitches and moves gingerly forward like a frightened animal. His foetid odour hits you before you can see him completely. An animal musk intertwined with acrid piss, faeces, and rot so vile it makes you gag. Bear-like arms part the undergrowth and you gasp in shock at the familiar figure that thrusts into your field of vision.
The filthy, ragged hulk before you is none other than Santa Claus! As he looms over you, his stench clogs your nostrils and you vomit into your mouth. His matted beard scratches across your face like dry weeds as he leans down to your ear.
“Mort sweeggens...” he rumbles, his putrid breath and spittle flooding across your face. “Gort mithins… bloody crimbo…”
He thrusts a package against your chest. Startled, you grab it and watch paralysed as he turns and trundles back into the forest.
Minutes pass. Apart from shocked trembling, you’re unable to move. You scream inwardly as you replay the fevered nightmare you just experienced. Did it actually happen? Will anyone believe you? What are you supposed to do now? The world you thought you knew now seems vast, alien, and teeming with Indescribable horrors.
When a modicum of calm returns, you examine the parcel clutched in your hands.
Wrapped crudely in grubby newspaper, it seems to be a present of some sort. You pull the filthy news-sheets aside, curious to see what sort of gift a monster deems appropriate. Your fingers caress soft cotton as you hold up the contents. A t-shirt! A wonderful black t-shirt with an image of Cthulhu! Beloved writer H.P. Lovecraft’s most popular creation. The label bears the legend ‘Sad Shirts’.
You frantically pull off your own t-shirt and try on your present - it fits perfectly! Only the real Santa would get you such a perfect gift, even if it is several weeks after Christmas. You are the happiest you’ve ever been in your entire life.
As it happens, fortune smiles upon you. If you want another Sad Shirt, perhaps if you wear this one out, or if you wish to choose another from many wonderful signs, you don’t have to wait a whole year and then hike deep into the woods to find Santa. The Sad Shirts online store is at your beck and call, so you can simply click your way to sartorial euphoria. Fuck yeah.
You hear the twig snap. It’s not a very loud sound, but it sends an ice cold ripple of absolute dread across your skin. You are not alone. Someone else is near. They’re watching you. Maybe they even followed you. Your heart drops into your stomach.
Trembling, you slowly turn towards the noise. Through the dense undergrowth, you make out the shape of a large man. He twitches and moves gingerly forward like a frightened animal. His foetid odour hits you before you can see him completely. An animal musk intertwined with acrid piss, faeces, and rot so vile it makes you gag. Bear-like arms part the undergrowth and you gasp in shock at the familiar figure that thrusts into your field of vision.
The filthy, ragged hulk before you is none other than Santa Claus! As he looms over you, his stench clogs your nostrils and you vomit into your mouth. His matted beard scratches across your face like dry weeds as he leans down to your ear.
“Mort sweeggens...” he rumbles, his putrid breath and spittle flooding across your face. “Gort mithins… bloody crimbo…”
He thrusts a package against your chest. Startled, you grab it and watch paralysed as he turns and trundles back into the forest.
Minutes pass. Apart from shocked trembling, you’re unable to move. You scream inwardly as you replay the fevered nightmare you just experienced. Did it actually happen? Will anyone believe you? What are you supposed to do now? The world you thought you knew now seems vast, alien, and teeming with Indescribable horrors.
When a modicum of calm returns, you examine the parcel clutched in your hands.
Wrapped crudely in grubby newspaper, it seems to be a present of some sort. You pull the filthy news-sheets aside, curious to see what sort of gift a monster deems appropriate. Your fingers caress soft cotton as you hold up the contents. A t-shirt! A wonderful black t-shirt with an image of Cthulhu! Beloved writer H.P. Lovecraft’s most popular creation. The label bears the legend ‘Sad Shirts’.
You frantically pull off your own t-shirt and try on your present - it fits perfectly! Only the real Santa would get you such a perfect gift, even if it is several weeks after Christmas. You are the happiest you’ve ever been in your entire life.
As it happens, fortune smiles upon you. If you want another Sad Shirt, perhaps if you wear this one out, or if you wish to choose another from many wonderful signs, you don’t have to wait a whole year and then hike deep into the woods to find Santa. The Sad Shirts online store is at your beck and call, so you can simply click your way to sartorial euphoria. Fuck yeah.
