They would never find him here.
Oh, they had tried...they had chased him across the country, always dogging his heels. He had almost been caught in that roadside motel in Anaheim, but there was no mistaking the flautulent stench of the worshippers of Shub-Niggurath; he smelled them before he asnwered that knock at the door, and barely got out the bathroom window in time. As he crouched in the attic of the forgotten house, his mind ran back, back to the ritual he has stepped in on.
It had seemed like a normal wine cellar, ti bottles stacjed in their crumbling racks, the nitre and cobwebs thick as flies. He'd known Martin for years, why would he ever suspect anything untoward? He continued searching, after all, Martin ALWAYS had a bottle of Chateau LaFitte '47 down here, and when he found the smaller door, behind the rack of port, he figured it was an extension. He was in no way prepared to walk down the tiny stairs and encounter a blood sacrifice. The leader, decked in cow-skull headpiece and loincloth, had stopped, looking at him as if to ask his business, and the horror that would no doubt have been contained by his incantation swarmed him and swallowed him like a despotic coup d'etat.
For days, he'd wandered, unsure of himself, no clue how he got out or where he'd been, or if Martin knew. Blood rituals in the middle of second course? Maybe the heathen Chinese, but not a good God-fearing American...but what God did he fear? Seated on the park bench, his fingertips brushed his bootknife...now why did he think of Chinese just now? Was that what the chant had sounded like? His mind refused to focus.
He had been on the run since then. He never got to rest, never more than a few precious hours. The one time he'd had more than that, he'd been in Toronto...he remembered that, a single happy moment, playing his harmonica on the street for coins. He shook the case again, reassured at the sound of the coins...almost his only money again. He'd have to steal something...he hated it, but survival was survival.
He'd tried the authorities, but that was no good. They were in on it now, he knew...they had toyed with him and then sent him away with veiled threats. He'd even tried the scientific community, and thought he was making progress, but that one, Doctor...what was his name? Damn, the mental fog was closing in again. Regardless, he had been working on something, something...unnatural. He vaguely remembered grabbing the doctor's sample dishes and bolting, thinking he could use them as evidence of what he was talking about, but those samples had long since dried up to nothing. He didn't even know why he was carrying them anymore.
That didn't matter now. He knew, he KNEW that they would never stop, coming for him..he had to stop and fight. And he was ready. Oh, he may not have much, but he was resourceful, wasn't he? For look, her'd grabbed that load of golf tees, and would THAT be a surprise when they stepped on the mass of little spikes? And the heartworm poison, that COULDN'T be good for anything...spalsh it on them, poison a drink, something, he'd think of something. He reached for it...finding it empty. Empty? Had it spilled? Had it cracked? But without that, he didn't know...
He heard them on the stairs. They'd found him.
Hence, why I am the DM-God.