Skip to main content

junchth mail’yeh

DEAR GREEGOR COSTUKUN:

I am Raptar Leansiku of the Leng Plateau National Bank, and and am acting in this matter for Narlit Drovasi, the widow of Khorim Drovasi, whom you may know as the deceased leader of the Leng Initiates Cult, assassinated by the previous regime prior to the Puce Revolution. Ms. Drovasi informs me that as treasurer of the United States chapter of the Sons of Nyarlathotep (Reformed), you are a trustworthy person.

I trust your discretion in this matter. The Rev. Drovasi left an estate valued at more than 37 million lekhmas ($8.6 million USD), along with a series of artifacts that cannnot adequately be valued, including a folio of the original edition of a work known as the Necronomicon, as well as what I am assured is an original member detached from the body of Nyarlathotep, the Goat of Million Years. For reasons I do not care to discuss at present but an happy to address on further correspondence, Ms. Drovasi wishes to move these asset from the Republic of Leng to the United Sates, and we would like to enlist you as our US representative in this matter.

If you are willing to act in this capacity--and I am authorized to ensure that you are well compensated for your efforts--please reply post haste.

Rl’yeh ftagn Nyarlathotep,

Raptar Leansiku, Esq.
(junk mail Greg Costikyan would like to receive)

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

send this to your crush without context.

dan simmons’ fiction

“I came back for my own purposes,” said the Time Traveler, looking around my booklined study. “I chose you to talk to because it was . . . convenient. And I don’t want you to do a goddamned thing. There’s nothing you can do. But relax . . . we’re not going to be talking about personal things. Such as, say, the year, day, and hour of your death. I don’t even know that sort of trivial information, although I could look it up quickly enough. You can release that white-knuckled grip you have on the edge of your desk.” I tried to relax. “What do you want to talk about?” I said. “The Century War,” said the Time Traveler. I blinked and tried to remember some history. “You mean the Hundred Year War? Fifteenth Century? Fourteenth? Sometime around there. Between . . . France and England? Henry V? Kenneth Branagh? Or was it . . .” “I mean the Century War with Islam,” interrupted the Time Traveler. “Your future. Everyone’s.” He was no longer smiling. Without asking, or offering to pour me any, he