The plastic handles of the overstuffed shopping bags bite into Rudy’s bony arms, his fingers trembling under the sheer weight of the haul. He struggles to keep up, his breath coming in ragged wheezes, a sharp contrast to the rhythmic clack of shoes against the polished mall tiles. His time spent cooped up inside—dedicating himself to the sacred rites of the Brotherhood—had left him with the physical endurance of a damp paper towel. His chest tightens, lungs rebelling, and with a shaky hand, he fumbles inside his tattered hoodie for his inhaler, gasping between puffs like a drowning man grasping for air.

He knew agreeing to go to the mall alone was a mistake, but what choice did he have? The other Brotherhood members were too busy—working overtime, sacrificing sleep, and taking extra shifts to appease their goddess.

Or, well... satisfying the vessel.

Because technically, their real goddess—the great and terrible Cuntulhu, the Wet and Gushy One, the Clammy Devourer, She of the Thousand Slippery Grasping Limbs—was still trapped inside a mortal shell, bound to flesh due to one little ritual mishap. A single, humiliating stain on the Brotherhood’s otherwise pristine record of evil goonery.

They had one job. One job.

And instead of ushering in the grand, earth-shattering fuckocalypse, instead of rending the veil between worlds and letting the cosmic tide of slick, pulsating terror consume reality, they had just... permanently infused their eldritch matriarch into the body of some random person.

But no, no. It wasn’t random. This was a test. Yes! That was it. This was merely a divine trial to separate the weak from the devoted, a purification rite before their Dark Mother hatched from mortal shell like a glistening egg sac, her many limbs reaching, beckoning, devouring.

And Rudy? He would prove himself worthy.

If he had to endure the trials of mundane existence—if he had to go outside, bathe, or—gods forbid—suffer through exasperated complaints about his “olfactory sins,” then so be it. He would endure. For her.

Because devotion wasn’t just goon sessions, midnight summonings, or ritualistic circle jerks beneath candlelight. No. Devotion was carrying shopping bags. Devotion was driving to Build-A-Bear for a limited-edition mothman plush. Devotion was standing in line at Bath & Body Works, silently clutching a basket of foaming hand soaps as complaints about bodily odor were muttered.

And if he had to scrub himself raw with overpriced floral-scented body wash, if he had to anoint his feeble, trembling body with the blessed oils of Japanese Cherry Blossom and Warm Vanilla Sugar just to be in presence—then so be it.

He would bathe. He would grovel. He would submit.

He would ascend.

With sudden, feverish devotion, Rudy drops to one knee on the polished tile floor, heedless of the disgusted glances from passing shoppers just trying to stock up on body sprays. His bony frame trembles as he lifts a single, shaking offering: a glass jar containing the Spring Apple three-wick candle, its label shimmering under the fluorescent lights.

"Mistress of the Wet and Gushy," he proclaims, voice too loud, too eager, echoing through the store like a man possessed. A woman browsing nearby recoils, clutching her purse and scuttling toward the relative safety of the wall of floral-scented lotions.

Rudy doesn’t notice. His wide, watery eyes remain locked in devotion, his breath quick, expectant. His fingers tighten around the candle, the weight of it insignificant compared to the burden of proving his worth.

"Does this scent please you?" he breathes, reverent, his soul hanging on impending judgment.