A Chat With the ‘Gelatinous Cube’
Foreword
A few years ago, I was lucky enough to help a friend to birth his literary love child. A magazine of sorts. Said magazine was (to my knowledge anyway) quite unlike most others, although my companion (let’s call him Paul, for that’s his name) swore that it was somewhat, loosely, based after one of his favorite publications; entitled “Thrasher” (which I always thought ironic as it wasn’t in fact anything to do with music of the same moniker typified by fast rhythms and an aggressive nature often resulting from West Coast origins whereupon those responsible grew bored of traditional Rock and wished for something “more”). Opting for more a digital, rather than a print, footprint the magazine featured a wide array of articles ranging from Music (featured across a wide spectrum of tastes) to instruments/apparatus connected to Role Playing Games (of the board variety).
Not surprisingly the magazine had a game esque title, one with quite the ‘sticking power’. Six in the Head zine in its relative infancy offered interviews, reviews, how-tos and a portal within which budding gamers could view new, and established, games and enjoy thoughts from those behind the scenes. But could I, not really a game player or scribe (to be bluntly honest), entice the zines founder to feature a spot of fiction? To sweeten the deal, I promised to scribble upon that which I thought would fit rather nicely, something with a decidedly ‘fantastical’ edge. Paul (to my utter disbelief) said, in not so many words, ‘knock yourself out’.
What follows is that which I tolled upon and finally produced following a number of days caressing a dilapidated keyboard.
Enjoy.
Well, hi there. This is your friendly non-gamer scribe, Cult.
Odds are you don’t know who I am. That’s not important. What is important is that I have a story to tell. My life is somewhat mundane and rather unexciting. I work. I have a family and I pay bills. Rather typical of any responsible adult really. To add spice, I write. It’s not much, but it keeps me sane. Occasionally, I find it difficult knowing what exactly to disperse my digits energy upon. Typically, my interests lay in scribbling diarrhea like diatribes upon that which I know little about. I’m not a musician although I know (pretty much) what constitutes ‘a good album’ (albeit to my untrained musical ears). And I’m not a gamer, but I have a decent understanding of…what exactly. Therein lies the rub. I know a great deal about nothing to do with anything, other than a myriad of details on a few fantastical races; a Chaos god or two and I have a strange penchant for beautifully painted miniatures (a hobby I fell into, though never kept up due to various reasons which aren’t important). It’s bizarre then, with all those details in mind that one day (many moons ago now) I found an enigmatic envelope in my mailbox. A mysterious correspondence, if truth be told, on account that It hadn’t a return address, or government issued, stamp.
The piece of mail (I hadn’t opened it yet so I was unsure as to whether it was a letter, a summons or something entirely more sinister still) was addressed to me. As in my real name, not my scribbling moniker. Obviously, somebody had done their homework. Infinitely more ominous was that they know where I lived. And this made me a little scared, I’ll admit. Nevertheless, I was excited and plucked the unassuming envelope from the depths of the mailbox with a certain amount of glee, ignoring the various demands from creditors nestling underneath.
Walking the short distance back to my house I turned the envelope over in my hands. It could well have concealed a card of some sort, as was its size and heft, but knowing its arrival was months from any celebrated occasion within the house I had my suspicions it was something altogether different. Another factor of note was that the envelope was of a fabric quality rather than traditional paper. I held it aloft hoping that the suns glare could assist as to what might be concealed within. Alas even the blinding nature of the burning star above could not penetrate that which lay hidden within. The envelope was sealed, not by spit (always my favorite part of mailing anything,) but rather held together by a thin dark circular veneer (possibly of a melted material) with an indent in its center that displayed a design of sorts. By now I was beyond the point of no return. One could even say that I was downright curious.
To make a long story short (for I can hear a raucous chorus of yawns and whispers of get on with it, for F’s sake) I opened the letter (for that was indeed was it was) to find a summons, not to court, but to a specific location for a once in a lifetime chance to exchange dialogue and enlightenment with…wait for it… a creature. A mythical being of sorts which I believed only existed in the rulebook of the most vintage and revered of all D and D games. An entity feared by those who have stumbled into its path, and laughed at all those who, much like myself, believe its existence entirely cooked up/conjured by kindergarteners looking to represent his/her favorite treat in physical form, and one admittedly less likely than a dinosaur in Loch Ness or the large footed creature currently ‘hiding out’ (with a mountain of Jerky commercials would have us believe) in the American wilderness.
Seriously, the Gelatinous Cube is a joke. Right? An amorphic blob, an unclassifiable character, neither a friend nor foe but rather “something” whose motives are unclear, whose abilities appear as if transcribed by a toddler based on their favorite translucent snack residing within an alternate universe and whose origins are even more mysterious still. But this was all happening and I had mindlessly, rather stupidly in my excitable ignorance, accepted the invitation.
As luck would have it, I had a vacation ‘in the wings’ (again for clarification’s sake, I do have a job – bills don’t pay themselves) and a hankering to get away for a few days. The decision might have been different if the unusual sojourn wasn’t touted as ‘all expenses paid’. After much deliberation, I still needed to think upon it, and weeks spent acting super nice to the wife so I would be allowed to go. I took the first step upon a quest which was still, admittedly, a little (an unfathomable amount truthfully) surreal.
Most of the next few days exist as a blur in my memory; a myriad of security checks, airport check ins, headphones which failed to compete with roaring engines, winding roads and drivers who seemingly brandished the mysterious superpower of being able to get everyone safely to their destination whilst texting God knows what to God knows who for the entire duration of the journey. More surprising still was that I had a guide. An actual companion. True, he spoke broken (honestly more shattered than a recently dropped priceless vase upon tile) English, but he was present the entire time (even in the instance when the ill effects of consuming gas station sushi chose to rear its ugly head).
If truth be told the final leg of the ‘getting there’ journey stands out considerably more than the rest. A small village nestled at the base of a mountain blanketed in angry clouds with a myriad of villagers peeking out from between curtained windows. An exhausting trek through, up and across its rugged expanse and the concealed entrance to a cave, of sorts, which I might otherwise have missed, if not for my eagle-eyed travelling companion. The thing which stands out more than most however, rather than the situation as a whole, was the large piece of fabric I was handed as my guide bid adieu. And the instruction that I should wave it (once the interview was complete and I was leaving the cave) so that my escort could return. I’m guessing he had no desire to join me as I voiced my hastily prepared questions (I concocted them as I travelled across the Atlantic. Odds are that it was another body of water entirely, can you tell I exceeded in geography in school??) to a guest who may or may not be donning an elaborate costume which might, or might not, make me a viral internet sensation within one of the most expensive pranks ever devised.
So, there I was perched uncomfortably on a rock. I’d walked a fair distance to get to this spot. Armed with only a flashlight, a notepad and a granola bar. I was undoubtedly prime pickings for anyone in the market for scrawny English meat, for I’ve never been called anything but skinny. Apparently, there was little demand for such, and I reached the final destination with little more than apprehension and misgiving. Had I seriously just travelled thousands of miles for this? I was sweaty, my shorts were stuck to my thighs, in the embarrassing manner in which they so often do and my hands were shaking. I checked my watch for the thousandth time, tempted again to play a spot of solitaire. However, I stayed strong, I didn’t want to be distracted to the point that I missed something. Anything. At this point I just wanted this to be over as I felt like an absolute fool. My eyes scanned my surroundings for the umpteenth time (which were slightly more luxurious than the devastation resulting from a tomb lovingly kissed by a collective of angry dynamite) for hidden cameras, red lights which might indicate I was being recorded. But no such luck. Then the temperature abruptly dropped, or seemed to, and everything turned eerily silent. I swear I heard a droplet of sweat hit the dirt at my feet. I looked up and vividly remember mouthing…nonsensical gibberish.
I was in shock. Where before there was grey (did I mention I had waited long enough for the surrounding shadows to transform from a somewhat friendly grey to an angry black. Thank God for my trusty electric lantern) under my flashlights gaze was now murk, a translucence tainted by a sickly quite undefinable hue. I froze. I had been informed upon contact that I should dim my battery powered companions glare, as to not startle. I followed the recommendation. Admittedly it took a few seconds for my body to obey my commands, but this was to be expected. For this was no “Jello Jiggler” I was facing (no elaborate realization of a yesteryear Bill Cosby commercial) but that which I had openly mocked and denied the existence of. The laundry list of questions I had hastily scribbled was forgotten as if never composed. The notebook within my pocket a dead weight with no purpose, the pen within its ring bindings an instrument I would have difficulty handling. My hands trembled, the pounding in my head signified to all in the vicinity that I terrified and the sudden smell indicated that I had indeed soiled myself. It all lasted but a few moments. Apparently bored, my companion moved on, its presence vacating the radius the flashlight afforded and I was left alone. Again. But for the wafting aroma of cowardice which caressed my senses.
The return trip home was uneventful, save for an impromptu skinny-dipping foray in a local pond renowned for its healing properties (or something as equally preposterous) and a deserving change of clothes, an absolute blur if truth be told. Places, people, waiting rooms. All my mind kept returning to was a metallic flash I believe I witnessed within the confines of the gelatinous mass that had unhurriedly slithered past my prone position, a flash of bone, and a design, a sigil of sorts upon a ring type shape. A design, that if I were to draw it, that would likely look much like the one embossed upon the enigmatic letter I’d received weeks before, in an otherwise packed mailbox.
Cult
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