A typo-born sea creature

It comes, floating over the waves, a pallid viridian pustule on the summer wind, carried on some noxious exhalation of its inner chambers, twisting tow-ropes or tentacles trailing in the water at its wake. If it is a ship, it is one of immense antiquity; if it is a living thing, there is no saying if it still lives. As it comes closer, as it looms over you, there is a faintly audible sound, as if a whine of steel rotors, or a whisper of tortured electric ghosts. The wind from within that carries it over the waves boils and burbles at its hem, distorting the air and turning the water to white foam and whiter steam. As it not quite sails, not quite flies, you see much too late the black specks, the things scrunched in on themselves to have jaws much bigger than they themselves, as those black sentient droplets of hunger dart across its bows with thousands of eyes all fixed on you.

It is… the Lovercraft.

The Lovecraft hovercraft.

Scientifically speaking Hiator immundus, i.e. “impure mouth-breather”.

I am a cretin.

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