"Dirty old drunk drives college kid back to living in his mom's basement" (Miskatonic Press, Vol. 5)

"Althogether, Old Bugs was not pleasing to look upon."

Miskatonic Press started because I couldn't remember which stories I'd already read in my H.P. Lovecraft anthology. When I finished a story, I would go to the table of contents and write a one-sentence summary of what happened (usually in a humorous way). I would typically phrase them like a newspaper headline or the tag line for a movie. This article is about a story called, "Old Bugs."

"Old Bugs" begins with a sight we can all empathise with: a disgusting old man who bursts wildly into a dive bar, "foaming at the mouth and sreaming for whiskey and hasheesh, as we all do, from time to time.

As you could probably guess, this raving derelict used to be a writer or some kind of academic. As Hemingway once said: "Write drunk, edit blitzed out of your mind on hasheesh." So far, Old Bugs is doing just as well for himself as could be expected. He was "ready to do anything for a nickel or a dose of whiskey or hasheesh." Anything short of data entry.

Enter a young man named Alfred Trever, from Appleton, Wisconsin. His credentials are one of my favorite things I've ever read:

• At school he was part of a fraternity called "Tappa Tappa Keg."

• That's it.

Just another evening in Tappa Tappa Keg.

After this, a few characters are introduced and described at length. I've condensed their relevant credentials here:

Karl's mother, Eleanor

• Another writer.

• Kept her son very sheltered. She severely repressed any wild inclinations he may have had. This was, as usual, the result of some trauma she experienced as a young woman.

• You see, she had once been engaged to a scoundrel.

Galpin, a scoundrel

• He is the trauma.

• Won vast fame at the University of Wisconsin. The bar's really low for that one, to be honest, so don't be impressed yet.

• Got engaged to Eleanor.

• Was dismissed in disgrace from his professorship at New York University, something that is almost impossible no matter what atrocities you commit. You may now be impressed.

Eleanor was not impressed.

Years later, her son went to this grungy old bar for his first drink. In the background of this important milestone of Karl's life, Old Bugs was mopping the floor in exchange for a nickel or a dose of whiskey or hasheesh. With no warning whatsoever, he jumped at Karl and dashed the glass from his hand like you might slap a fly with a newspaper. He starts waving his mop around, waxing poetical about "the sons of Belial, blown with insolence and wine," among other things. In case anyone wondered what he was so upset about, he also repeatedly shouted, "He shall not drink!"

After a decades-long whiskey debauch, the one thing Old Bugs should leave alone is other people's drinking.

His senior moment concluded, Old Bugs toppled over dead of a heart attack. When the crowd looted his body, they found a tasteful photograph of a lovely young woman. Karl got a look at this picture and recognized the face of his mother. Old Bugs, evidently, was none other than Galpin: the scoundrel, the trauma. True to form, he traumatized another member of Eleanor's family, and Karl will never be the same. Cured of his wild streak, Karl took the next train home to mother's house, where he probably did nothing interesting for the rest of his life. Doubtless, Eleanor would not be impressed.

Follow me down the rabbit hole:

"The Complete Fiction of H.P. Lovecraft" (Chartwell Classics). This is the edition of Lovecraft that I have at home, and I enjoy it immensely. It's a nice hefty tome with a beautiful illustration on the cover.

The book that Old Bugs quotes is Paradise Lost, by John Milton. He quotes it in "Dagon," as well. It must have been a pretty hot title at the time.

While we should by no means commit the autobiogrtaphical fallacy when reading fiction, I'd like to point out that H.P. Lovecraft was indeed a teetotaler, and looked down on people who drank. Here's an article from Minerva Mag about Lovecraft's life and how sad it was in so many ways: The Surprisingly Dreary Life of H.P. Lovecraft.