This one is for Sparky!

Sparky, as I was sitting underneath the monsoon-dewed palm trees of Myawadi on the Myanmar border, a golden-cheeked crone wandered by, balancing a basket of beer on the top of her spotted skull. The Burmese simooms seemed to sing out the ululating notes of our cthulhu passions, and I was wistful for the feel of your silky raven locks between my fingers, wishing I had a lock so as to string a violin and play my forelorn, Asiatic passion to all the passing, chattering natives. So I ordered some sweet liquid bread from that kindly crone in order to drink my heartsickness away, but instead was handed the alcoholic idol of the god you and I both share:


It’s not as good as a nice Nyarlathotep single-malt Scotch.

Far more satisfying, and frightening.

It’s the Grain!