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The place stank.

A queer mingled stench that only the ice buried cabins of an Antarctic camp know, compounded of wreaking human sweat and the heavy fish oil stench of melted seal blubber.

An overtone of liniment combated the musty smell of sweat and snow-drenched furs, the acrid odor of burnt

cooking fat and the animal not unpleasant smell of dogs diluted by time hung in the air. Lingering odors of machine oil contrasted sharply with the

taint of harness dressing and leather. Yet somehow, through all that reek of human beings

and their associates, dogs, machines and cooking, came another taint.

It was a queer neck-ruffling thing, a faintest suggestion of an odor alien among the smells of industry and life and it was a life smell

but it came from the thing that lay bound with cord and tarpaul and on the table

dripping slowly methodically onto the heavy planks, dank and gaunt under the unshielded glare of the electric light.

Chad, was that a description of our old apartment?

What, are you going to get on me about all that melted seal blubber again?

Look, man, it was the 1990s, people were into retro stuff, We were swing dancing, we were using the oil lamps of

indigenous Arctic peoples. It was a crazy time. I needed to melt that blubber.

And I'm gonna, I'm still gonna pay you back for ruining your pots and pans and getting into your seal supply.

But 20 years, five years.

The checks in the mail.

What the heck are we reading today?

We are reading who goes there by John W Campbell the story that inspired the

thing one of my all-time favorite horror films and we are reading it on the

H.P. Lovecraft literary podcast.

We are broadcasting from our respective ice buried cabins over the wireless internet at

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