But my God, Jones, it was not just pasta. This thing…

Rising from the waves atop a misshapen city of impossible angles and mind-snapping vistas, tentacles the size of ships writhing in ichor, great bellowing leathery wings blasting fetid gales, and an unspeakably alien head bulging with eyes, mouths, and unnameable gaping maws: some refrigerator pasta.

Cthulhuccini

5 thoughts on “But my God, Jones, it was not just pasta. This thing…

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