Ultimate Writer's Block

Slowly, but surely I have climbed up out of the dark pit in which I have lain for about six years. I swear I heard the Call of Cthulhu and saw H.P. Lovecraft riding by on a unicycle. I tried, as an author and an avid fan of dystopian, post-apocalyptic, sci-fi, fantasy, action-adventure books with historical overtones, to make the most of my exile in the Mouth of Madness.

I grew long, curved fangs and six extra eyes. Eight horns protruded from my head. My lips were blue and my tongue was yellow. I had an optional coat of green scales put on my body except for my hands and feet which were purple and red respectively. Toes of hideous nature with iron claws capable of perching on church steeples became my style of choice. Each hand bore eight long, bony fingers with many joints and suckers along the undersides.

I spent my time languishing in sickening pools of liquid sulfur and methane breathing in the noxious fumes and exhaling them again a long streamers of orange smoke. Now and again I drank quicksilver and stored it in my glands and pores. On my knees and elbows I grew hollow spikes ready to inject enough poison to turn away the Outer God, Yog-Sothoth in a feeding frenzy.

These attributes kept me alive during my sojourn but did little to sustain my sanity. When I was finally released from the dungeons of R'lyeh, I swam quickly up from the stinking slime, my lungs suddenly crushed by the great weight of the ocean of time.

Upon reaching the shore, I found my laptop and my iPhone right where I had left them, locked in the cabana. I slathered on sunscreen, put on my sunshades and sat down in the shade of a pink umbrella. A waitress wearing a grass skirt brought me a pina colada in a coconut.

The cool breeze whistled through my horns and I began to type: It was a dark and stormy night. A shot rang out.
The Hounds of Oblivion