The Shadow Out of Time Prequel Pt. I

Hello, it's me, Wingate Peasley.
My great grandfather was one Benedict R. Peasley, Jr. Sr., a renowned scholar of historical philosophers. His son Benedict R. Peasley, Jr. Jr., when faced with the pressing question of what field he wished to pursue for his post-academic career, opted for the more modest life of a calisthenics curriculum administrator, taking on the precarious responsibility of observing that basic standards of academic qualification be upheld in the field of collegiate calisthenics. For his part, Benedict R. Peasley, Jr. Jr. understood that the rigors of his chosen field were unlikely to be understood by those not deeply attenuated with the esoteric undercurrent of elite academic calisthenics. Nevertheless, he found that it was imperative to infer upon all calisthenics instructors the danger of playing it fast & loose with the rules and respectable norms of the calisthenic arts. Where he was concerned, there was hardly a safeguard in place which was not a necessary prerequisite for the health & wellbeing, mental & physical, of all who dared to tread into the perilous niche of high calisthenic motion. Here, believed Benedict R. Peasley, Jr. Jr., dwelt the most fantastic of possibilities, and, simultaneously, the most dreadful potential horrors. It was only by engaging himself deeply for twenty years in the occultic study of hermetic calistheosophy that Benedict (Jr. Jr.) came, however, to adopt his cautious demeanor about the art, a demeanor which he was most eager to instill in his grandchildren, although I know not of whether he was able to speak to his other grandchildren his words of cautious wisdom before he met with his strange and tragic end.

It was the night of January 1st, 1919. It was a terrible boating accident. My grandfather, Benedict R. Peasley, Jr. Jr., was engaged in oral sex upon the captain of a small, fast-moving motorboat in the middle of the ocean, when all of a sudden the speeding vessel crashed into another boat, the only other vessel for 200 nautical miles. The force of the impact drove the captain's still-throbbing member directly through my grandfather's skull, killing Benedict instantly and spewing blood everywhere like an uncanny science fair volcano. Worst of all, doctors, even specialists, proved incapable of re-attaching the salty captain's severed member, a fact which devastated the already distraught seaman as he reconciled with an unimaginable double-loss. For my family's part, after much debate, and after the encouragement of the insightful director of McGonnigan's Funeral Parlour, we decided that the funeral would be closed-casket. The choice did not come easy, for we Peasleys are known well to be a proud bunch, always eager to pay last respects face-to-face at our famous wakes, where we typically serve barbecued ribs & sauteed mushrooms. A lot of people attend our family's funerals just for the food!
But, in this case, the buffet would not prove necessary, and the coffin would stay closed, as doctors & morticians alike would prove wholly unable to remove the captain's engorged penis from its macabre final resting place in Benedict R. Peasley's head. The parlour tried, with their best efforts, to hide it with concealer, and to de-emphasize the conspicuous protrusion using clever contouring, but despite all their expertise the makeup proved incapable of diverting attention away from the member. All control groups demonstrated immediate awareness of the unusual deformity. Even eye shadow didn't work.

So, having exhausted all possible avenues, it was with great regret that we held the first ever Peasley family closed-casket funeral on August 21st, 1923. Hardly anyone came because there was no barbecue, just a malingering gloom and an ominous sense of dread for such as the future might hold for the as yet grief-bestricken Peasleys. Little could we ever have comprehended even in our wildest nightmares what horrors were yet to come...