Tentacled Ones: Dark Fantasy

[penthius]

Sometimes gauntlets weren't enough, and the tentacles wrapped around and slid under, touching skin, suckering flesh with that sickening caress that had intoxicated thousands and killed hundreds. Some said why was it so bad, if fewer than one in a hundred died of it? That was lower than the rate at which alcohol complications killed people. The quick answer was that it wasn't an accident. It was a deliberate assessment on the part of the tentacled ones as to what the humans would tolerate, what death rate was "acceptable." That they appeared to have calculated correctly made it even worse. And what, she always asked in return, what if it became allowed? What then? How many people would resist? And once the majority was in their thrall, what would they calculate the acceptable loss rate to be then? Addicts could stand a lot of risk to get their fix.

Inspiration: My fingerless glove/wristlets sitting on my writing desk.
Story Potential: High.
Notes: I like the invasion-as-War-on-Drugs idea. Though I *would* need to consider some more to figure out what slant I want and what inadvertent metaphors I want to avoid.