Back in May of 2004 I heard of a Wodehouse/Lovecraft mash-up called Scream For Jeeves, and my mind boggled. And then, a few moments later, the following emerged from mine own fevered brow. I reproduce it here for your delectation.
I was in bed, eyeing the morning egg-and-bacon while getting outside of a stiffish brandy-and-soda, when Jeeves shimmered into the room. I don’t know how he does it, and I would never dream of asking. There are things about one’s man one simply isn’t meant to know, what? Jeeves coughed softly, so I sluiced down the remaining B&S.
‘There is a cosmic horror to see you, sir.’
‘Can’t it wait until after breakfast?’
‘I’m afraid not, sir.’
‘I thought those cosmic thingummies were able to wait like the dickens, Jeeves. How did that Arab chap put it? Something about lying dead.’
‘”That is not dead which can eternal lie, and with strange aeons even death may die,” is, I believe the quote you are looking for, sir.’
‘Yes, Jeeves, on the spot. So why is this scaly creature in such hurry?’
‘It is dripping a nameless ichor on the carpet, sir.’
‘Is it. The cheek of these infernal creatures. Why, it’s worse than my Aunt Agatha.’
‘Well, we can’t have it standing there dripping all about the place. Find it a doily, Jeeves, and ask it to wait while I dress. We shall lunch at the Drones.’
‘Very good, sir.’
You may wonder why I didn’t simply have Jeeves escort the creature out, and well you may ask! I’m afraid there had been a chill about the flat ever since Jeeves criticized a stylish yellow veil I’d taken to wearing over my face, and I’d had to take a firm line with him. A man can’t let his man play the tyrant, what?
Of course, if you’d rather you can also get Peter Cannon’s take on the same theme.