|
|
It was an unseasonably cool September in Tenoka, Texas when Robert Ballard received the unexpected phone call from his old friend Wendell Willis. The jarringly loud ringing caused him to awaken with a start, leaving him groggy and disoriented. He fumbled for the phone by his bedstand and inadvertently scattered the contents of a small change-jar onto the hardwood floor. Muttering a curse, he finally managed to locate the receiver without further incident.
"Hello," he mumbled into the mouthpiece, still trying to gather his wits about him. He became much more animated upon recognizing the high-pitched, scratchy voice on the other end of the line. "Wendell! Well sonofabitch!" he exclaimed. "I didn't expect to be hearing from you anytime soon."
Robert took a large swig of what had once been iced tea but which had become rather tepid during the course of his lengthy, afternoon nap, necessitated by the previous evening's overindulgence at one of Tenoka's roadhouses. Still, the concoction was liquid and helped to alleviate the symptom of cottonmouth that always accompanied his massive hangovers. Robert fervently vowed that one day soon he would cease this slow and mindless self-destruction.
"No, I'm fine Wendell . . .just sort of tied one on last night. You know there ain't shit to do in this godforsaken town."
He lit a Marlboro as his friend began to regale him with incidents culled from his recent trip to Europe and Asia. Robert's headache began to make a return appearance while Wendell went on and on about his adventures abroad. Eventually his friend's pace slowed and he made the invitation for Robert to join him at his home in Nacodoches for dinner later that evening. This would allow him time to more fully expound upon the many sights and experiences he had seen and had during his travels. Wendell considered himself something of a gourmet and took great delight in impressing others with his culinary skills.
Robert wiped the cold, hangover perspiration from his brow with a damp washcloth and accepted his friend's invitation. "Yeah Wendell, that sounds great. Hopefully I'll be feeling human again by this evening. Thanks buddy, see you tonight."
Robert cradled the mouthpiece back onto the phone base and sighed. He did not really feel like leaving the house tonight but had been unable to think of a gracious way to decline. Still, the thought of Wendell's excellent cuisine caused his stomach to deeply rumble in anticipation. Wendell had been away for almost eight months and had few real friends other than Robert. Certainly there was a plethora of people who would gladly associate with him because of his inherited wealth, but no one besides Robert with whom he could confide.
Robert and Wendell had met at William Barret Travis University in Nacodoches and had immediately became close friends. They both shared a love for books and alcohol and could easily spend an entire night drinking and debating the relative merits of particular authors they had read. Robert majored in Library Science and was well liked by most of his peers. In contrast, Wendell tended to alienate most of his classmates, partly due to his haughty, arrogant attitude and partly due to his perverse delight in challenging most of their predominantly conservative Christian beliefs.
Wendell was majoring in Theology and considered himself something of an expert on comparative religion and ancient myth systems. He was continuously in trouble with his professors and would most likely have been expelled from the university had he not voluntarily withdrawn from school during the unfortunate period of his mother's critical illness and eventual demise. He greatly missed his mother, the sole living family member, but was not so blind as to recognize that her death had also been a blessing of sorts. At last she was free from the severe bouts of depression that had plagued her for much of her life and Wendell was freed from the necessity of continuing his formal education. His mother's death had placed him in sole possession of a very considerable sum of money and property.
Robert smiled to himself as he recalled the source of his friend's conflict with "the scholars" at the university. Wendell was forever debating the validity of a little known cycle of myth that postulated the existence of a race of beings known as "The Great Old Ones" who had come to earth millions of years before the existence of man. Proponents, though few in number, contended that these cosmic creatures eventually engaged in cataclysmic warfare with another group of entities known as "The Elder Gods" which resulted in "The Old One's" defeat and banishment to a variety of far-flung places in the universe. Experts on this myth cycle were universal in their contention that these "Great Old Ones" suffered only a temporary setback and that for millennia had been patiently waiting or "dreaming" in some cases, until such time as the stars were right when they would again return to lay claim to our world and establish their dominion over all things.
Robert had not given this subject much thought until recently when FM stations began giving wide airplay to a heavy metal band called "Innsmouth." He wondered if Wendell had heard their music. They would certainly be "right up his alley" at least with regard to subject matter. Their most frequently played song was "Cthulhu Lies Dreaming" and they also made many references to such beings as Dagon, Shub-Niggurath and Chor-Tal. Robert decided that he would have to mention them to Wendell and see if he had heard of them. However, he would first attempt to finish his recuperative nap before showering and making preparations to meet with his friend.
* * *
The later drive to Nacodoches was peaceful and relaxing. The star-filled sky was cloudless and the cool evening air was both bracing and invigorating. Robert felt much better than expected and was now actually anticipating the visit and meal. His hangover induced depression had dissipated and he now believed that he might be able to survive the beginning of another work week as assistant librarian at the university. He hummed along with Asleep at the Wheel's cover of the classic "House of Blue Lights" playing on the radio and generally enjoyed the forty minute drive through the East Texas Piney Woods. Soon, he arrived at Wendell's large, beautiful home on the outskirts of Nacodoches. It was situated at the end of a graveled drive and sat back at least a quarter mile from the black-topped highway that Robert had taken from Tenoka.
He left his car and congratulated himself on having the foresight to bring along his windbreaker. Wendell greeted him at the door and enthusiastically ushered him inside. The two friends shook hands, briefly hugged and exchanged a few good-natured insults. Soon it was like old times with the exception of Robert's vow to have no more than two or three glasses of wine. Wendell ribbed him about this but was very understanding as he was well aware that his friend had to be at work the next morning.
Tall, bespectacled Wendell soon presented Robert with an expensive and exquisitely carved Meerschaum pipe that he had purchased during his recent travels. Robert appreciatively accepted the expensive gift and enthusiastically commented on its many excellent attributes.
"That wasn't necessary," said Robert. "But it is a beauty!"
"Excellent craftsmanship," replied Wendell, brushing strands of thin, wispy hair from his high forehead. "Maybe you will eventually quit those damnable cigarettes!"
"I just might," laughed Robert, admiring the pipe.
"I purchased a similar one for Peschke as well," said Wendell, seating himself in an overstuffed, antique chair.
"How is Alan?" asked Robert. "I haven't spoken with him in almost a year. I need to give him a call! He still writing those creepy stories?"
"Yes he is," replied Wendell, with a wry smile. "Coming closer to the mark than most people would imagine. There's much truth behind many of these old, Texas folk tales."
"Well maybe," said Robert, with a slight look of disapproval. "Still, you know I've never been a big fan of that type of story."
Wendell spent several minutes passionately defending the weird tale genre before Robert could steer the course of the conversation to subjects in which he was more versed.
After much conversation Wendell suggested that they dine and excused himself to prepare the dining table.
"Good old Wendell," thought Robert. "Still prefers formal dining."
While Wendell sat the table, Robert thumbed through the local paper, now a couple of days old. He briefly shuddered at one story concerning the theft of a recently interred body. No arrests had been made and there was some speculation by local authorities that the incident may well have been a sick fraternity stunt. Unfortunately it was not the first time such a disgusting prank had been enacted. Robert sadly shook his head, contemplating the depravity of modern society.
"Damn," he muttered, "This is just the sort of thing that is born from reading that trash of which Wendell is so fond." He again shook his head, wondering how so bright a fellow could fall under the sway of such lurid, pulpy fiction. The incident had occurred only a couple of miles down the road, practically in Wendell's backyard. Fortunately, this depressing thought was interrupted by Wendell's announcement that "Dinner is served." It was the type of sumptuous repast for which his host was noted. Fresh vegetables and fruits and a wonderful Asian dish that seemed to be a combination of highly spiced pork and exotic herbs, served on a bed of rice. As always, everything was wonderful, and Robert profusely thanked his friend for the glorious banquet.
Soon the conversation turned to Wendell's travels and his great and unexpected success in finding a secrecy shrouded race known in myth as the Tcho-Tcho people. Legends relate how this race was spawned through the interbreeding of man and monsters, or gods as the myth cycle would have one believe. They allegedly worshipped a being called Chaugnar Faugn who in his cosmic wisdom, or perversity, created from the flesh of reptiles a race of dwarves known as the Miri Nigri who then mated with humans, thus giving rise to the fabled Tcho-Tcho. Wendell's erudition in this little known myth cycle, garnered from such fabulously rare texts as "The Necronomicon" and others similar in nature, had enabled him to find, be accepted by, and live among this race for several months!
"It cost me a fortune, but worth every penny!" exclaimed Wendell. "The book I'm currently writing will sit the academic world on it's ear. The creatures I found were the true Tcho-Tchos and not the mongrelized descendants who were almost eradicated by the Japanese army prior to and during World War II. Why even today there are people living in America who call themselves Tcho-Tcho!"
Wendell could not help but discern Robert's scepticism in this matter.
"Bah!" exclaimed Wendell. "They are no more related to the Tcho-Tcho than Hitler's hordes were to true Aryans!"
Wendell gleefully told of his publishing plans, detailing his anticipated delight in witnessing the reactions of his old nemesis' at the university. His rather juvenile gloating was briefly interrupted by a phone call and he excused himself from the room to answer.
While Wendell was away, Robert strolled into his friend's study to try out his new pipe. While there, a large stack of papers caught his attention and piqued his curiosity. The top page was titled "The Tcho-Tcho People." However, it was the subtitle "Corpse Eaters of Leng" which jolted him. Robert began to read the text, obviously written by his friend, and was aghast. Surely Wendell had not in fact lived among these barbaric subhumans. His hands trembled as he continued to read in stunned disbelief of the Tcho-Tcho's revolting and horrific practices. He guiltily jumped as Wendell entered the study.
"Ah, I see you're previewing my book . . .it's just a rough draft," he said modestly. "It will probably be several more months before I can knock it into suitable form."
"Good Lord . ." stammered Robert in revulsion. "How could you bring yourself to live with these . . .animals!"
"Why Robert!" laughed Wendell in amusement. "You're not usually so judgmental."
Robert gaped at his friend in disbelief. "The things you describe in these pages are beyond the pale of humanity!"
"Who said anything about humanity?" asked Wendell with a knowing air of superiority.
"They may be called the Tcho-Tcho "people" but those truly knowledgeable have never pretended that they were a part of humanity."
Robert gazed intently at his friend and slowly began to recognize the insanity that had long laid dormant within the brain of Wendell Willis. He inwardly shuddered and began to think of suitable excuses to for an abrupt departure. Suddenly and without thinking he pointed an accusing finger at Wendell Willis, tact be damned!
"You're mad as a hatter!" he angrily stammered. "What kind of man could live among those monsters and participate in their abominable rites?"
"Well, to paraphrase . . ." smiled Wendell, completely unperturbed by his friend's outburst.
"When in Leng . . ."
Horrified, Robert's eyes were drawn to the bold print on one of the pages titled "Recipes." His face blanched and his stomach began to churn with a sickening knowledge.
 |
"Come now, Robert" said Wendell. "All through dinner you raved about how wonderful it was."
Suddenly Robert made all the correct assumptions. Wendell had arrived home three days earlier. The cemetery near his home had been robbed two evenings previous.
The meal! The book! The recipe!
It all became grotesquely clear. His friend's unhealthy obsession with the cannibalistic Tcho-Tcho people and a little understood myth cycle had driven him over the edge of sanity and into the abyss of madness.
Robert Ballard fled screaming from the house in the pines, losing the unholy meal during his frenzied race to the car. Reaching his vehicle he fumbled at the handle until successful in opening the door and wildly sped away into the dark East Texas night.
Wendell watched his friend depart and began to insanely giggle. "Well, it is an acquired taste!" Closing the large oaken door which Robert had left open in his hasty departure, he returned to the candle-lit dining room for dessert.
Copyright © 1998 Peter A. Worthy
"When In Leng..." © 1998 by Ron Shiflet
"Leng Lunch." © 1998 by Dan Ross
