The figure spoke to Hoven, though no words passed his frozen smile. He had come for Hoven, yes, yes: there was a higher purpose for Hoven. He was not an incidental figure in history, but a special man.

And The Messenger came to Earth for him, rode with the Black Goat With A Thousand Young, a tiny mite riding a tick stuck to a dog’s ear; Hoven understood this, yes.

Hoven could be fulfilled if he did but two minor things, yes. The first concerning the negro boy with the tattooed man. A simple task, yes. And could he give the Messenger a token of loyalty? Yes, even that: he knew the Messenger would see to it (ha!) that he could still complete his task.

Dr. Hoven dug his thumbs in behind his eyes and popped them out, then used his fingernails to sever the nerves. It hurt, but he could see better than he ever had before.

Nyarlathotep, The Crawling Chaos, slipped off the mask of the Smiling King, and howled at the stars through a hundred slavering mouths. After a moment’s thought, Dr. Hoven joined in.