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Hey listeners, it's EJ. I'm
very excited to announce that Igor Frodrick is

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back from holiday, so he'll be
taking back over as MC for the remainder

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of the Fast Food Horror Classics installments
and then on to season two Season two

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starting at the end of January.
So without further ado, I goor Fridrick

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take it away. Thank you,
EJ. I'm happy to be back from

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spending time with my goorer friend's family. It was terribly festive. In this

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episode of Fast Food Horror Classics,
we will be bringing you HP Lovecraft's tale

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entitled The Terrible Old Man, narrated
by E. J. Miller. It

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was a design of Angelo Ricci and
Joe Zanik and Manuel Silva to call on

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the Terrible Old Man. This old
man dwells all alone in a very ancient

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house on Water Street near the sea, and is reputed to be both exceedingly

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rich and exceedingly feeble, which forms
a situation very attractive to men of the

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profession of Messrs Ricci, Xanic and
Silva, for that profession was nothing less

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dignified than robbery. The inhabitants of
Kingsports say and think many things about the

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terrible old man, which generally keep
him safe from the attention of gentlemen like

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mister Ricchi and his colleagues, despite
the almost certain fact that he hides a

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fortune of indefinite magnitude somewhere about his
musty and venerable abode. He is,

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in truth a very strange person,
believed to have been a captain of an

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East India clipper ships in his day, so old that no one can remember

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when he was young, and so
tac turn that few know his real name.

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Among the narle trees of the front
yard of his aged and neglected place,

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he maintains a strange collection of large
stones, oddly grouped and painted so

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that they resemble the idols in some
obscure Eastern temple. The collection frightens away

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most of the small boys, who
love to taunt the terrible old man about

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his long white hair and beard,
or to break the small paned windows of

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his dwelling with wicked missiles. But
there are other things which frighten the older

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and more curious folk, who sometimes
steal up to the house to peer in

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through the dusty panes. These folk
say that on a table in a bare

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room on the ground floor are many
peculiar bottles, in each a small piece

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of lead suspended pendulum wise from a
string. And that they say that the

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terrible old Man talks to these bottles, addressing them by such names as Jack's

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Scarface, Long Tom, Spanish,
Joe Peters, and Mate Ellis, And

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that whenever he speaks to a bottle, the little lead pendulum within makes certain

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deafinite vibrations, as if to answer, those who have watched the tall,

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lean, terrible old Man in these
peculiar conversations, do not watch him again.

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But Angelo Ricci and Joe Zannik and
Manuel Silva were not of Kingsport blood.

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They were of that new and heterogeneous
alien stock which lies outside the charmed

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circle of New England life and traditions. And they saw in the terrible old

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Man merely a tottering, almost helpless
gray beard, who could not walk without

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the aid of his knotted cane,
and whose thin, weak hands shook pitifully.

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They were really quite sorry, in
their way for the lonely, unpopular

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old fellow, whom everyone shunned,
and at whom all the daw sparked singularly.

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But business is business, And to
a robber whose soul is in the

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profession. There is a lure and
a challenge about a very old and very

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feeble man who has no account at
the bank, and who pays for his

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few necessities at the village store with
Spanish gold and silver minted two centuries ago.

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Messrs Ricci, Zank and Silva selected
the night of April eleventh for their

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call. Mister Ricci and mister Silva
were to interview the poor old gentleman whilst

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mister Zanik waited for them and their
presumable metallic burden with a covered motor car

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in Ship Street by the gate in
the tall rear wall of their host's grounds.

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Desire to avoid needless explanations in case
of unexpected police intrusions prompted these plans

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for a quiet, unostatious departure.
As pre arranged, the three adventurers started

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out separately in order to prevent any
evil minded suspicions. Afterwards, Messrs Ricchee

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and Silva met in Water Street by
the old man's front gate, and although

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they did not like the way the
moons shone down upon the painted stones through

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the budding branches of the narrow trees, they had more important things to think

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about than the mere idle superstition.
They feared it might be unpleasant work making

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the terrible old man liquacious concerning his
hoarded gold and silver for age Sea captains

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are notably stubborn and perverse. Still, he was very old and very feeble,

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And there were two visitors, Messrs
Richee and Silva, where experiences in

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the art of making unwilling persons voluble
and the screams of a week exceptionally venerable

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man can be easily muffled. So
they moved up to the one lighted window

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and heard the terrible old man talking
childishly to the bottles with the pendulums.

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Then they donned mess and not politely
at the weathered, stained oaken door.

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Waiting seemed very long to mister Xanik, as he fidgeted relentlessly in the covered

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motor car by the terrible old man's
back gate in Ship Street. He was

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more than ordinarily tender hearted, and
he did not like the hideous screams he

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had heard in the ancient house just
after the hour appointed for their deed.

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Had he not told his colleagues to
be as gentle as possible with the pathetic

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old sea captain very nervously. He
watched that narrow oaken gate in the high

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and ivy clad stone wall frequently.
He consulted his watch and wondered at the

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delay. Had the old man died
before revealing where the treasure was hidden,

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and had a thorough search become necessary. Mister Xanik did not like to wait

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so long in the dark in such
a place. Then he sensed a soft

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tread or tapping on the wall inside
the gate, heard a gentle fumbling at

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the rusty latch, and saw the
narrow, heavy door swing inward and in

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the pallid glow of the single dim
street lamp, he strained his eyes to

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see what his colleagues had brought out
of the sinister house, which loomed so

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close behind. But when he looked, he did not see what he expected,

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for his colleague leagues were not there
at all, but only the terrible

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old man, leaning quietly on his
knotted cane and smiling hideously. Mister Xanik

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had never before noticed the color of
the man's eyes. Now he saw they

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were yellow. Little things make considerable
excitement in little towns, which is the

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reason that Kingsport people talked all that
spring and summer about the three unidentifiable bodies,

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horribly slashed as with many cutlasses,
and horribly mangled, as by the

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tread of many cruel boot heels which
the tide washed in. And some people

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even spoke of things as trivial as
the deserted motor car found in ship Street,

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or the certain especially inhuman cries,
probably of a stray animal or a

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migratory bird, heard in the night
by wakeful citizens. But in this idle

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village gossip of the terrible old man
took no interest at all. He was,

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by nature reserved, and when one
is aged and feeble, one's reserve

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is doubly strong. Besides, so
ancient a sea captain must have witnessed scores

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of things much more stirring in the
far off days of his unremembered youth,