The Umbrage of the Janitor
This one has a kick to it, I can tell! Enjoy it while it’s here to read. It’ll be my dinner soon, and I intend to savor each morsel of Janitor’s inner agony. Better for it indeed!
Miskatonic Occult Literature Library & Unusually Special Collections
(MOLLUSC Dept.)
“And better for it!”
“Man-made Eden under a Sunless sky.” The air must have run thin atop her perch. She’s an absence to celebrate, vile harpy. Each word tinged in claggy toxin. Mental solubles that filthy the brain. How many treasures of the mind have been ousted by the remnants of her ramblings? How many visions of lacquered shelves and glossy tile are now sat upon by delusions of a false self? Human Cancer.
Unbefit as a Specialist, unbefit to stain dear Eldra’s house of knowledge, her employment was nothing short of scandal. And now I am to clean her Messes!? Pitiful to tears. Direction was not given then to retrieve lost volumes! The Horror Nightmarica seemed comfortable on the shelves, and now I am to retread that territory? To sully the opulent gleam of the Aquarium Wing? It makes my bleach boil. Mind you I hold no ire towards our Head Librarian. No single soul dare breathe a bitter word about her, lest none at present. It is merely her leniency with who she lets wander her sacred halls that at times provokes inquiry. All fault weigh upon the past resigned, and ever may it.
There are no absolutes under faith, yet it is in knowing that which carves our loyalty in stone. It is as it was, and will continue to be so long as the seat of the Head Librarian is filled. In turn, the far resigned was a consort of deceit. A scholar to rival our own, a fabulist unseen. Her ultimate truth webbed itself through psalms and sutras. Never an outward reprobate, the songbird drew herself a generous audience. Heart in hand, she’d peck their fealty and make a meal of their Monarch Organs, of the Dumah. Burying their devotions neath her wing, A man’s all was reduced to untethered hysteria. Now where does she find herself? Ask again in 3 168 000 000 000 years!
And then there’s the next. Hastily casting himself to depths unknown, gaze locked with the spines as he stumbles about haphazard. ‘Sincere’ would be the furthest thing from a proper descriptor. That much was evident when reviewing his test scores. Blood gets first word in the Echo chambers, that underlying policy was all but set in stone on that day. He holds not a breath of reverence. On his first days he trawled about through the labyrinth, carrying every book of esoteric medicine. Every grimoire and alchemic compendium he’d skim and dawdle and toss to the floor cursing each author before his lading were light enough to thrust his grubby paws back the shelves to violate another of Eldra’s precious collection. Worse so he became when the insects began to feast. Worse so became the messes I was to clean.
It irks me so, the sedentary youth. A world bequeathed to the limbless. Promised embers that sputter and fry. It takes all hands to carry the weight of the world, yet our kin would sooner twist an arm. Leng is no superior to the vacuous promised sort. Absent is any regard for mercies poured unto him. His web of deceit, The Leng Plateau, is free to dust over. His only contribution being that protruding stain, that tumor, on the MOLLUSC Department. That wretched addition emblematic of the human embodiment of a false start. Soon forgotten, left to fade, cocooned inside, nested in filth and mold and corpses of worms and fluids and pages of our literature ripped from their spines and fed to your shitlings!
Let the world pass you by, you are unfit to partake in it. Those with bodies able will keep light in the halls and history alive and prosperous in the minds of the present. We are family under Eldra. Intolerable of the idle and machiavellian. Far be it to lift my gaze from the sparkling floors, yet to bring insult to the Library is to smear the name of the almighty cosmic mother. If literate, if the bookworms have been generous enough to stay from boring away what ittle coherent thought you may have, then I hope this entry reaches you, Leng. May the paper tear at your bowels and the ink poison your every meal. You are no family of mine.
