text: > Look around
  Bathroom of the Meatpacking Plant  (Chris Jones) (on the
  toilet) (in the stall)
  You're inside the bathroom stall, which is one of those big accessible ones. There's a surprisingly clean porcelain toilet sitting invitingly in the center of the stall, with some kind of luminiferous æther in the open bowl.
  
  The luminiferous æther is glowing slightly, bathing the stall in a panalopy of alien colors that have no terrestrial equivalents.
  
  Next to the toilet, there's one of those grab bars set into the wall. Next to that, there's a little door to what appears to be a janitor's closet, if the word "Janitor" on the door is any indication. Next to that, there's a medicine cabinet. And all around those things
  are graffiti. Just tons and tons of graffiti. Speaking of: on the back of the stall door, someone scratched the words "I Told You Not To
  Use The Shitter, Broseph". Below that on the door, someone has inscribed the Elder Sign.
  
  You can see a pentagram edge (covered in blue flames) on the floor just outside the stall (on which is a candle shaped like a hand (of which a finger is on fire) (smelling faintly of mildew)) here.
  
  The boneless horse oozles and schlorps around the stall, occasionally smacking it with a hoof, still making car engine noises. "Br-RN-NN-NN-NN-NN!". The Elder Sign holds. For now.
  
  > Examine bar
  (the rusty piece of metal (smelling faintly of mildew))
  The remains of the broken leg is light and sturdy and long enough to stretch from your hand to your elbow.
  
  A faint smell of mildew emanates from it.
  
  The boneless horse oozles and schlorps around the stall, occasionally smacking it with a hoof, still making car engine noises. "Br-RN-NN-NN-NN-NN!". The Elder Sign holds. For now.
  
  > examine the grab bar
  One of those metal grab bars for people who have difficulties walking or standing, set into the wall next to the toilet.
  
  > put foot in the pentagram
  You try to put the foot-candle on the pentagram but some magical force emanating from the pentagram pushes back against you. I guess you can only have one body part shaped candle on a pentagram at a time? Maybe take the hand candle first?
  
  > get Hand
  Taken. The weird ghostly blue flame on the pentagram goes out. Aw. Also it looks like the luminiferous æther in the toilet just went back to being normal water.
  
  > put foot in the pentagram
  You put the lit  candle shaped like a human foot on top of the pentagram. That doesn't seem like any worse of any idea than the hand-shaped one was, I guess.
  
  The pentagram suddenly blazes alight with ghostly flame! Just like with the hand-shaped candle, except this time the flames are green! And also the toilet water appears to have been replaced with a mass of Higgs boson particles that are now swarming around the toilet bowl.
  
  The boneless horse oozles and schlorps around the stall, occasionally smacking it with a hoof, still making car engine noises. "Br-RN-NN-NN-NN-NN!". The Elder Sign holds. For now.
  
  > look at Hand
  You see nothing special about the candle shaped like a human hand.
  
  ...what? It's just a weirdly shaped candle. Lots of bathrooms have candles, to freshen the air after using the facilities. That's all this is. It even smells like lavender! Totally normal bathroom!
  
  The index finger is lit, but weirdly enough the candle isn't melting. Huh. Maybe it's not wax? What kind of a candle isn't made of wax?
  
  A faint smell of mildew emanates from it.
  
  The boneless horse oozles and schlorps around the stall, occasionally smacking it with a hoof, still making car engine noises. "Br-RN-NN-NN-NN-NN!". The Elder Sign holds. For now.
  
  > Flush toilet
  You flush the toilet. The Higgs bosons start to swirl around the bowl. You think. You're thinking about them being in the bowl so they might not actually be there. Stop thinking about them. Anyway everything starts to swirl and run just like that time a few minutes ago when you flushed yourself to the space bathroom.
  Suddenly you're pulled backwards and downwards, by your bum, into the locus of the reality swirl...
  You are hurtling bum-first through a hyperspace wormhole of kaleidoscopic color-lines again, only this time they're sort of greenish instead of sort of blueish. The crazy homeless lady didn't mention the color when she was telling you about how you would be flying butt-first through space-time, but so far still accurate (less so her assertions that the Sasquatches controlling the World Bank would eventually reveal the truth about the Beatles. That lady had Opinions.). You look over your shoulder and see an exit from the wormhole, but this time it's sunny....
  Bathroom of the Meatpacking Plant, Lower Cambrian Era  (Chris
  Jones) (on the toilet (on a beach)) (on the beach) (in the Lower Cambrian Epoch)
  Well... you're on a beach. A beach with a toilet on it. I guess that makes it a bathroom, right? Can't be anything but a bathroom if it has a toilet in it; plop a toilet down in any other room and it's a bathroom no matter what it was previously. So it's settled then, this beach is a bathroom. Anyway, next to the toilet is a little table with Ed's Journal (you know it's Ed's journal because it says "Ed's Journal" on the front), Konstantin's keys and a half-full can of Dew. To the north there's a weird moss forest and to the south there's an ocean.
  
  And before you ask, the reason you know this is the lower Cambrian is because of the millions of trilobite and trilobite-adjacent species that are hanging out on the beach and in the water here, including one that is nuzzling your foot (shoo! shoo!). Just a metric pantload of trilobites all over everything. At least... At least this is normal for the Lower Cambrian. Perfectly normal Lower Cambrian bathroom.
  
  You can see a pentagram (covered in green flames) on the beach here.
  
  > get all
  Ed's Journal (you know it's Ed's journal because it says "Ed's Journal" on the front): Taken.
  
  Konstantin's keys: Taken.
  
  half-full can of Dew: Taken.
  
  > get the trilobite
  That's hardly portable.
  
  > look at the trilobite
  There's a huge giant herd of trilobites on the beach here, which is fairly normal for the Cambrian but weird for you personally. One of them is nuzzling your foot".
  
  > Go north
  Fuck no, that moss forest is probably crawling with moss-dwelling tardigrades. Just chock full of 'em. Have you ever *seen* a tardigrade? Go google it, I'll wait.
  Yeah I didn't think so.
  
  > Go south
  You sort of sidle over to the trilobite-filled steaming ocean. Then something that looks like a mantis shrimp the size of a bull moose briefly breaches the water and shrieks at you. So you nope on back to the toilet region, just like this: Nope nope nope. The Cambrian Epoch sure does suck.
  
  > go to the east
  There's nothing but more beach that way. Beach and trilobites.
  
  > look at the table
  It's a small table chilling on the beach.
  
  > examine Forest
  There's a moss forest, which is kind of like a forest except there's no trees in proto-Vermont here. Just a huge growth of moss. There's also an ocean here, which is steaming and filled with ancient and terrifying shellfish.
  
  > read the Ed 's journal
  It's not really a journal so much as a small note pad, and it's only got one entry. But Ed called it a journal, so:
  
  but the horse is scary and that Translocation spell is hard. So yeah I think I'm just gonna chill on this weird beach I opened a portal to. It has these weird crabs but that's probably okay. I'm gonna go back to the Yuggoth bathroom to get Konstantin's journal though. He told me not to read it but I'm sure there's some juicy magic in there. I just gotta be careful with the toilet: came out of the can too fast last time, nearly shot right out into space! That was close! But I should be okay this time. Wish I could bring Konstantin's car-familiar with me to the beach, that thing is sweeeeeet.
  Sincerely,
  Edw[mustard stain]
  
  Oh, Ed.
  
  > examine the Dew
  It's half-full can of Mountain Dew. Presumably Ed was drinking it, before space killed him several million years and miles from now and here respectively.
  
  > unlock blue Journal with konstantin's keys
  You unlock the journal.
  
  > read the blue journal
  You read:
  The black death ravages Vienna. Nearly a thousand have died in the last week alone; their bodies bloating in the open-air pits surrounding the city. The citizens hide in their houses as the plague walks the city, and the streets belong to the dogs, the flies and the rats now. By day, at least. By night, murderers both human and inhuman stalk the byways, the beleagured city guard spread too thin to effectively stop every burglar and nightgaunt.
  
  I am rapturous with joy. The coven practices openly now, with no fear that our Sabbath orgies will be interrupted by foolish investigators. Children can simply be lifted from the street and carried away if needed, with the handful of passerby too weak or scared to protest. On this alone I have saved so many silver reichsthalers that I would have spent on sacrifices, previously. And yesterday I openly mocked a Brother of the Holy Trinity in his own church hospital, displaying to him an upside-down cross and also my penis, telling him secret names of Great Old Ones that will burn in his ears and dreams despite his prayers. He cried and tried to throw holy water at me with palsied fingers, but I laughed and rode away on my devilhorse. Life is good!
  
  But I know that this joy cannot last. Just as before, the plague will pass and the city will return to normal. And Karl Denube (that dog of the Habsburgs, curse him) was getting close to discovering our identities at any rate after his raid on our botched summoning. I fear Petra's carelessness in seducing the constabulary have already given us away. So I must plan an escape before the plague abates fully, but shall enjoy every moment till then.
  
  -Konstantin T. Cragne, Vienna, August 4, 1679, Sun in the house of Cancer
  
  The journal continues... read again to read more...
  
  > Continue
  You read:
  Damnation and hellfire! The plague isn't even passed its rounds and the guards have begun to hound our coven again. Perhaps it was the child-thefts, or perhaps I should not have shown my penis to that priest.
  
  No matter. Petra should have half of the Habsburgs" guardsmen ensorcelled by now, which should buy time to move the coven operations to Innsbruck, or Liechtenstein, or Prague, or join with the Paris warlocks. Or even move to London or far-flung Amsterdam.
  
  Anywhere except Bavaria, really. I hate Bavarians so.
  
  -Konstantin T. Cragne, Vienna, September 14th, 1679,  Moon in Gemini
  
  The journal continues... read again to read more...
  
  > Keep going
  You read:
  We are truly in the kraut, now. Petra's overzealousness in seducing guardsmen has tipped off the Imperial witchfinders. I warned her that if she kept up we would reach critical mass of love-besotted guardsmen wandering about and pining for her suspiciously, their loins and nostrils enflamed by witch-pheremones. But she did not listen and here we are! Damn Petra, her ample bosom, AND her unquenchable thirst for male validation all three!
  
  The Imperials mean business this time. Denube has arrested half his own police force in the middle of a plague outbreak just because they were mildly ensorcelled with forbidden sex magicks. Clearly he worries more about us than the rioters and nightgaunts, which seems insane at first blush. Although to be fair, we ARE secretly responsible for the rioters and the nightgaunts. And the missing children. And the finger-collecting phantasms that look like men but bark like dogs. And the tentacled wreck that haunts the northern cistern. And the arrival of the plague itself. I suppose I cannot fault Denube's priorities.
  
  -Konstantin T., Vienna, September 27 1679, Jupiter Ascending thru Libra
  
  The journal continues... read again to read more...
  
  > Keep going
  You read:
  Our plans to flee are complicated by the plague curfew, as well as the early snow that is coming (of which I have been informed by the souls of the damned that ride the winds eternally. They are never wrong about incoming Alpine weather, though they will lie right to your face about whether your cravat suits you, the miserable undead shits).
  
  However! I have a plan. A powerful enough translocation spell could move most of the coven and their things, and the spell components are easily sourcable. Most of them. The live stoat may be difficult at this time of year with the countryside inaccessible and everyone dying of the plague, but Jens assures me that a stuffed one will suffice. No matter, even the results of a miscast spell is still better than death by torture at the hands of Witchfinders or that complete ass Karl Denube. Unless the spell turns us inside out, I suppose.
  
  -Konstantin T. Cragne, Vienna, October 9, 1679, Saturn in the House of Sagittarius
  
  The journal continues... read again to read more...
  
  > Keep going
  You read:
  The translocation spell was miscast, and half the coven was turned inside out. That was awful. The stuffed stoat didn't suffice as a spell component at all. I wanted to scream at Jens, except Jens had his ears on the inside of his head and his brains on the outside and couldn't have heard me anyway. Also I was being flung through space by hideous unknowable forces.
  
  On a happier note, the miscast spell also turned several guardsmen inside out as they were coming to arrest us. After they captured Petra it was only a matter of time before she gave up the hidden orgy room in the charcuterie basement. A dozen city guardsmen and a pair of Imperial Witchfinders broke in right as Jens was waggling that stupid stuffed stoat over the pentagram, and they stood there gawking like provincial idiots at a carnival barker as he botched the incantation.
  
  And then the magical wave it hit them. It was beautiful. I swear, I'll never forget the stupid look on Karl Denube's inside-out face as his lungs came shooting out of his backwards mouth and hung there against his chest like a hissing ballsack. Then he tried to flee but just ran straight into a pillar because his eyeballs were facing the wrong way! Ha! What a fool. I'd go back and shit on him, if I had any idea where I was in relation to Vienna.
  
  It's meadow-y here, and warmer than normal for Austria at this time of year. I don't recognize any of the mountains. The same moon at least, so I'm not on Aldebaran or Carcosa. In any case, despite not having my grimoires or my devilhorse or my orgies, it is pleasant enough here except for the wolves that are following me.
  
  I remain hopeful.
  
  -Konstantin Cragne At Large, Location unknown, Date unknown
  
  The journal continues... read again to read more...
  
  > Continue
  You read:
  I would give Jens such a beating, if he had not been dead for over a hundred years and also turned inside out. The stupid translocation spell flung me not just through space but through time! I was deposited a league outside of Bratislava, and when I arrived I was informed by the beet-obsessed peasants whom infest the dirt-hovels outside the city that it was the year-of-their-lord 1809. 1809!
  
  My grimoires will all have been seized and burned by long-dead men, or more likely stuffed into Habsburg vaults under the palace in care of some blind and deaf eunuch who navigates the moldy stacks of forbidden books by touch. I hate those eunuchs so. And my poor devilhorse has almost certainly dissolved into astral soup, and I have neither the gold nor the souls to create a new familiar.
  
  The coven may have survived in Vienna (assuming some of them turned right-side-back-in after I left), but I wouldn't know any of them in this age. And the nearest Cragne stronghold is in Krakow, but who knows if the vaults are still intact or if the secrets were hauled off to some Ottoman shithole after the last Turkish incursion.
  
  My best bet, I think, is to make my way through Brno and on through the Nuremburg road to Brussels, assuming that I can stomach the smells and sights of Bavaria for that long. I dare not try another translocation spell without a familiar or the correct components, and I don't know the word for "stoat" in the dialect of the local beet-fondlers anyway. They've informed me that the road may be blocked by the army of some French commoner who is rampaging across the countryside, but I have never let a Frenchman stop me from doing anything and I'll be damned if I start now.
  
  -Konstantin T. Cragne, Bratislava, Spring 1809
  
  The journal continues... read again to read more...
  
  > Continue
  You read:
  Tried the spell on a horse as a test. The horse ended up fused with the wall of a milk house two blocks over. I do not think the milk maid will ever stop screaming, which is loud if hilarious. The horse might not ever stop screaming either, which is loud AND hilarious. I joined them briefly, sauntering into the milk house and screaming in time with them without giving the maid any context until she fled. Will tweak the spell parameters and try again on the morrow, suspect that the problem was that the hemi-virgin I sacrificed to power the spell was far more sexually experienced than they claimed.
  
  I must admit that despite the challenges and the noise, Napoleon throws an enjoyable siege. Watching people run screaming from the gunfire in the morning as I cook my coffee over the flames of a burning cottage never fails to put a smile on my face, even if I can barely get anything done in the chaos. I hope his men are in turn enjoying the excitement of the shuffling horrors that I send over the walls and into their tents every night to feed on their screams and genitals.
  
  -Konstantin T. Cragne, Bratislava, May 24 1809
  
  The journal continues... read again to read more...
  
  > Continue
  You read:
  It took a few hops with the Translocation spell, and another century past, but I managed to escape Napoleon's repeat attempts to rub his tiny French nutsack all over the continent. In fact, I believe that I've found a home here in the Balkans, at least temporarily. It's no Vienna but this is certainly better than dodging cannonballs daily. And I am beginning to reform my coven by recruiting from the disaffected youths of the city! Despite the barrier in language and custom I get along splendly with the local occult groups as long as I don't talk about Austria too much in a positive way.
  
  I've reformed my familiar in the shape of a large owl with a human ass for a head and moose-deer antlers sprouting from the left and right butt-cheeks. That may sound ribald but I can make assurances that such a thing is fucking terrifying to see swooping down on you in the dark of an alley at midnight, especially when it starts hooting out of its anus.
  
  Starting to feel hopeful again about the future. Strangely grateful to briefly be in a peaceful time where I can rebuild without chaos, which isn't like me at all, but I'm just very tired of using that damned Translocation spell to run from wars.
  
  -Konstantin T. Cragne, Sarajevo, 25 June 1914
  
  The journal continues... read again to read more...
  
  > Continue
  You read:
  There is no damned way that they make this shitty little asshead the chancellor. No way. Who would do that.
  
  -Konstantin T. Cragne, Berlin, January 29 1933
  
  The journal continues... read again to read more...
  
  > Continue
  You read:
  On a steam-ship from London. Bored with Europe, and hoping there are fewer explosions in America. Explosions and wars bore me now.
  
  Crossing the channel from France to England was pure joy, however. It had been forever since I had felt the Faceless Lords of the Night lift me airborn on a broomstick like that; much more pleasant than the Translocation spell. I didn't even bother to hide from the ships passing underneath, and I even stopped to take a truly epic shit down the open hatch of a surfaced U-boat after stopping for a very greasy plate of spaetzle in occupied France. Wish I could have seen the faces of the soldiers inside as THAT torpedo was delivered.
  
  Corresponded with family in New York via long-range psychic screams, in-between hiding in subway tunnels in London during the bombings. The New York Cragnes speak well of the New Country. Apparently you can just out and SAY you're a witch these days, and nobody will give a single shit! They just keep drinking. I am excited to experience this brave new world and bilk the gullible drunken fools who inhabit it.
  
  -Konstantin T. Cragne, Mid-Atlantic, June 1944
  
  The journal continues... read again to read more...
  
  > Continue
  You read:
  By the great green balls of Satan's Fraternal Star-Twin, I am BORED. New York is BORING.
  
  They THINK they're cosmopolitan, they THINK they're the best of the world here, but NO ONE who had seen Vienna in full splendor (before Napoleon burned it down, like the great French tit that he was) would think of this as ANYTHING but a provincial backwater compared to the jewel of the Empire.
  
  Oooo, you have tall buildings. A pox on your tall buildings! I have seen the living spires of Carcosa! I have seen the non-Euclidean bones of Sleeping R'yleh rising from the Marianas Trench by dawn! I am unimpressed by tall things, New York! I have seen taller things while pawing through owl shit for bone-omens!
  
  You can't even make a proper sausage. And when you DO produce one of your shitty sausages for inspection, New York,  you immediately cover it with tomato leavings like you're some kind of simple cretin from Tuscany who couldn't find real food with both roughly callused hands and a map. Tomato leavings! On a sausage! For shame.
  
  My family is boring me as well. The New York branch is feuding with the Vermont and Boston branches, while the Texarkana branch eats popcorn from the sidelines and sells djinn wishes and leprechaun drugs to whoever's currently on the outs to keep the feud going. I've seen all this before, in the old country. The one interesting thing I have to report is that H promised me a seat on the Varigated Council and enough spell resources to create a new familiar if I were to betray New York and kill L. I'd have to move to Vermont, though. Thinking about it.
  
  Bored. Bored bored boring boredom. Bored.
  
  -K. T., New Ybored, June Whatever, 19meh
  
  The journal continues... read again to read more...
  
  > Continue
  You read:
  I never thought I'd come to like it here, but I must finally admit that Vermont is very pretty during the fall. Reminds me of Vienna, and also the orange-and-gold innards of those humanoid creatures from Saturn, the ones that squawk like pelicans when you summon them. They are also very pretty in the fall, although they make a smell like the last hours of a Saxon orgy when you cut them open to get at the colorful innards I mentioned. And it releases an obscene amount of helium in the process. Voice is funny for weeks and your hands are stained saffron for twice as long. I digress.
  
  Vermont. Pretty. Fall. Family. This is my fourth year as the Mazarine Alderman on the Council and I'm still angry about it. I pointed out to H and Z that I helped found the second new council after the fall of the Roman Empire, for fuck's sake. A Cragne of my skill and stature deserved *at least* Coquelicot, if not Sarcoline. And it's not like I asked for Murex right off the bat. So I patiently explained that Mazarine was the Alderman position for fresh-faced toddlers and/or the Irish. When that failed to move them I threatened, and then I begged.
  
  But no, I am Mazarine Alderman in the end, as if I was some assfaced Burgomeister out of Munich with two wooden legs and no dick, and not one of the most accomplished Cragnes of the last five hundred years. I am livid, still.-Konstantin Teufelheim Cragne, Mazarine-bloody-Alderman, Vermont, September 30 1967
  
  The journal continues... read again to read more...
  
  > continue
  You read:
  I think a Sicilian clown was Mazarine Alderman once. Hell, I've heard of Incan mummies who got buried with their gonads in their mouths and make ball-sounds when they speak that have ended up with better positions on the council than I've got. I met a fucking *crow* once that was a more important Alderman than Mazarine. A *crow*. It wasn't even part of the family, it was *adopted*.
  
  No matter. I have more important things to deal with for now, like finding a source of civilian funds to help create my familiar. The **vi* still refuses to front me cash, just keeps shaking his head when I summon him before pointing at my crotch and my chin, the uppity fuck.
  
  -Konstantin, Still Mazarine, Vermont, October 12 1968
  
  The journal continues... read again to read more...
  
  > Continue
  You read:
  The familiar-crafting has taken longer than expected. This is due to having to be Bob.
  
  I had no social security information or work history when I came to Vermont, and I've been told in no uncertain terms not to ensnare the locals with witch-eyes or addictive bodily secretions if I can help it. Or bludgeon too many of them to death for their wallets. Or the tourists either. "Don't shit where you eat" and all that. The Council has said nothing about skin-wearing though.
  
  Regarding skin-wearing: if you can coil yourself up tightly and flatly enough, you can fit your whole adult humanself into the layer of viscera between the skin and the skeletal muscle of a different human. There's a sort of bag made out of ligament that you can wrap yourself around, and then you can manipulate the other body by undulating your rolled-up self against it. Conceptually similar to that branch of yoga where your yoga mat is alive and fights you between asanas. Any rate, I needed human money so I captured a man named Bob and started wearing him like a pantsuit. He's a local boss at the meat-packing plant, but I haven't been able to work there yet since I had to wait a few weeks for Bob to stop continually screaming into the part of my leg that's wrapped around his mouth-muscles because it's distracting. He finally tired, though. I am excited for my first day of work as Bob.
  
  -Konstantin Cragne/Bob, Vermont, May 15 1972
  
  The journal continues... read again to read more...
  
  > Keep going
  You read:
  I was initially very excited to work at the meat-packing plant because I heard they made Viennese sausages. Imagine my rage when I found out what "Vienna Sausages" actually were. No self-respecting Austrian would be caught dead with one of these mixed-meat cigarettes between their lips. I almost burned the whole plant down with conjured hellfire on the spot, but I'm too close to getting my familiar, and if I'm honest I find my bumpkin coworkers conceptually interesting if not intellectually stimulating.
  
  -Konstantin T./Bob, Vermont, May 15 1972
  
  The journal continues... read again to read more...
  
  > Keep going
  You read:
  Using the same bathroom as the plebian meatsmiths who wallow back and forth in this factory of lies and sausage failure has become tiresome, so I have fashioned my own lavatory from raw cometary atoms at the farthest reaches of the solar system. There is a fantastic view there of the nemesis rock of Yuggoth which will one day impact and devour the Earth! And a padded seat and a phonograph on which I can listen to my old wax recordings! Also, I added some air so that I can actually listen to music, and so that Bob can breathe.
  
  Afterwards, I made the new restroom translocationally accessible from the meatpacking restroom, and then restricted worker access to the toilet on the Earth side of the portal. This prevents potentially hazardous dimensional leakage, but more importantly keeps the unwashed masses from using my restroom. There have been some complaints from the workers about having to make other toilet arrangements. The complaints did not cease when I pointed out that, historically speaking, shitting into buckets behind one's place of work used to be considered a luxury. The people of this era are spoiled.
  
  In other news, I have begun work on my new familiar. The pentagram is inscribed, although I suspect that I am a few years out from the other requirements. - K Cragne, Vermont, December 22 1974
  
  The journal continues... read again to read more...
  
  > Continue
  You read:
  Curse all the gods and the frozen gargantuan mollusc-things in the black gulfs between stars that pretend to be gods! There must be a way to make this work.
  
  The familiar spell is complex, and admittedly I am trying something that has not been done before to my knowledge, but it still should work. All this version of the spell requires (aside from the gold and complex spell-matrices and a few other odds and ends) is at least one being with a soul that will serve as the template for the familiar.
  
  And who among us would believe, even for a moment, that my 1976 cherry red Pontiac Firebird Trans Am does not contain a soul? Who among us could slide gently atop those black leather seats, naked as a newborn babe and twice as hungry, wrap our trembling hands around the wheel and feel the engine turn over and hear the throaty rumble as we rev the gas, and honestly believe that this beautiful machine is soulless?
  
  I knew as soon as I saw it at the dealership. It was those curves. That power. The noise. The feeling you get deep in your genitals when you throw the e-brake while sqeauling the tires doing doughnuts in the crowded parking lot of the Alpha Beta, as the salesman riding shotgun screams like a neutered cat and begs to be freed from the spinning death cage. This is clearly a machine designed by Satan for His Own People. Even Bob loves it, and all Bob does anymore is scream endlessly in his own head for the sweet release of death. I had to procure one of these cars.
  
  More than that. I had to make one my familiar. But I cannot get the thrice-damned spell to work on my car.
  
  -Konstantin/Bob, Vermont, June 12 1975
  
  The journal continues... read again to read more...
  
  > Keep going
  You read:
  It was simple, in the end. If my 1976 Pontiac Firebird Trans Am did not have a suitable soul, then I would give it one. All it required was a modification to the old Translocation spell and a suitable partner, which at first proved more difficult than expected.
  
  I thought about using Bob, but his soul is far too soft to reside in my Trans Am. And I thought about Bob's boss, Mr. Gambretti, but I've grown to like the man and respect him as a superior, at least as regards packaging sausages. Who knew that I would ever believe a Genoese could be trusted with machinery more complex than a ball and cup game? American egalitarianism must be seeping into my bones.
  
  A perfect answer for the soul problem walked right onto the factory floor. A bad-tempered racehorse that had been a contender in the Kentucky Derby was sold to us for the purposes of gelatin, and I was given the rendering job. The name of this equine beast was Rowdy Tumnus, and he was in his own way as gorgeous and spirited as my Pontiac. He had murdered his previous owner with a series of kicks to the head, abdomen and groin before being sent to us, and tried to bite the dick off of everyone we passed on the way to the slaughter room. Then he broke free from the restraints twice before we could use the pneumatic gun on him, and in-between the dick biting during one escape he went out of his way to put a hoof through Gambretti's office window. A horse that would destroy property out of spite! Rowdy Tumnus was perfect.
  
  I performed the spells right in the lavatory (the plebian lavatory, I have no wish to get horse guts on my private fixtures orbiting Yuggoth), which was somewhat private and also had a drain in case the spell went wrong. It went off with only a single minor hitch, and the vicious soul of Rowdy Tumnus was transfered to my Firebird which was parked outside. In turn, the vicious soul of my Firebird was transferred to the body of Rowdy Tumnus. Success! I haven't been this excited since I let those zombies loose in the brothels of Prague!
  
  -K.T./Bob, Vermont, June 23 1975
  
  The journal continues... read again to read more...
  
  > Keep going
  You read:
  That one hitch I mentioned: during the soul-swap, both the skeleton of Rowdy Tumnus and the transmission of my Pontiac were vaporized for some reason. So I was left with the immortal and still-living fleshy bits of a killer horse flopping about on the floor of the factory's garderobe, and a muscle-car familiar that is stuck in first gear until I can find a mechanic who can peer into the Astral plane.
  
  Frustrating, but we work with what we have. I spent an hour stuffing the sack-like remains of Rowdy Tumnus down the shower drain, along with the pulped body of a coworker who stumbled upon that grim tableau before being attacked and suffocated by the aforementioned murderous half-horse. Then I drove my familiar home. - Konstantin, Vermont, June 24 1975
  
  The journal continues... read again to read more...
  
  > Keep going
  You read:
  Despite my best efforts, I've been unable to coax the boneless Rowdy Tumnus back out of the plant's plumbing for long enough to lead him out of the plant or banish him. Part of this is difficulty securing effective bait; he appears to prefer human flesh to apples or sugar cubes now, which isn't something that I can just purchase at the local market. At least not the public one.
  
  That being the case, I've decided to bind him to guard my private bathroom and sorcerous implements. He seems happy enough in the pipes, and as I have an errand on a parallel timeline in space that requires my attention, I'd prefer that none of the local mullet-wearing peasantry lay hams to my commode while I'm out sorcering. I suspect that Tumnus will end up killing at least a few of them who try, despite my warnings to the plant management. Ah well. I've supplied Edward with a Tanslocation Incantation to banish Tumnus somewhere, should the need arise. He'll have to source most of the spell components himself, but Edward is.. well Edward is my apprentice and I'm sure he'll manage the horse. -Konstantin T. Cragne, October 10 1975
  
  Last page.. read again to start from beginning...
  
  > Milk trilobite
  Try milking the trilobite into something. Maybe something else you need for the potion
  
  > Milk trilobite into Dew
  You kneel down towards the trilobite that keeps nuzzling your foot. As you're searching for teats on an ancient non-mamalian proto-crab that is extinct in your space-time so that you can milk it into a Mountain Dew can that belongs to a dead wizard's apprentice floating in space in the future, you think back to your marriage ceremony to Peter. You think about the kind of life you expected to have together. And you think about how things have been since you arrived in Vermont. And you think about that for a few minutes, as you gently milk the trilobite into the soda can.
  
  > examine Pepto
  A bottle of pink bismuth-subsalicylate. It's for drinking when your poops are sick.
  
  A faint smell of mildew emanates from it.
  
  > pour the Pepto into the Dew
  You pour some of the pepto out, into the can of Dew. This one's for the homies. The homies with diarrhea.
  Then you swish the concoction around for a moment, and it begins to glow! And smell. It smells real bad. If someone told you this was a Potion of Glowing and Smelling, and not Fortitude like the scroll said, you would not fight them.