Triple Teated Tiuhana Terror.
Far from the quaint and peaceful hillsides of Europa did I stray far in my esoteric studies. Having made use of esoteric dark webs of information, I chanced upon a revolting sight that will haunt my waking nightmares for the rest of my wretched existence in this uncaring, cold cosmos.
My foolishness has been my undoing, for I have stared into the abyss, and the abyss, alas, was not content with staring back. It sent forth a shambling horror that must, by the sheer atrocity of its hideous form, have been a particularly loathsome offspring of an unholy union between Nurgle and Y'golonac, for no other bloodline could produce such an abomation.
It emerged out of the shadows like the bloated corpse of a pygmy albino that met his untimely fate in a rancid river and have been left to decompose in some forgotten, antideluvian corner of Africa.
Were it not for the inability of my remote viewing to transmit smell, I would have surely perished before fully realising its horror.
It was a teratological violation, a blob of non-euclidean fat that distributed itself without a care for the laws of our material universe, flippantly ignoring gravity or mundane sensibility in its fecund need amorphously spread.
The slab of fat hanging from the front served both as an apron to cover its genitalia, should this creature posses such features, and as a display of stretched, rotting skin that bore in it a hole of absolute darkness, like a prolapsed birthing canal of some deep sea aberration.
Above it hang the three sagging teats of this mockery of everything Anglo, arranged in a triangular pattern to show the Plague God's favour. Had its flesh melted and run like that of a shoggoth to better aid one arm in its loathsome and unnamable purpose? Or had symmetry never have a hold on such a creature born outside normal spheres of matter?
Just when I thought its reprehensible form would forever stay, it slowly shifted its loathsome bulk to reveal that it had two more features most foul on its porcine back. Great leathery flaps, absconding from its torso at the hip like the wings of succubi depicted in oriental art.
Merciful Emperor, preserve me, for I knew now that I beheld nothing less than the absolute pinnacle of the 56% ancestry, the Gunt Ralphamale, and my sanity and indeed my very soul was saved only by its unquenchable thirst for swampwater moonshine and the exotic sustenance of its kind, the xanniberries.