Imagine the Ancient Ones have awakened. R'lyeh rises from the depths. Yog-Sothoth opens a thousand eyes. Azathoth bubbles at the centre of the universe. And who shows up to restore order? Wilson Richards, plumber by trade, toolbox in hand, trusty shovel freshly sharpened, and the unshakeable conviction that every problem has a solution — provided you've got the right implement.

This deck is a philosophical statement: the Mythos is nothing but a cosmic plumbing failure, and Wilson is the specialist on call. He dispatches alien monstrosities with the same equanimity with which he'd replace a dripping tap. His Combat stat (4) and his ability to wield two-handed tools from the very first turn make him a creature-extermination machine that would move even Charles Dexter Ward to tears of admiration.

Wilson Richards carries an arsenal that blends the practical with the utterly deranged, which is precisely what we love about him. Let us examine the inventory with all the academic rigour it deserves:

Every good plumber needs more than tools. He needs logistics. And Wilson does not disappoint:

Wilson does not believe in magic. He believes in tactical improvisation, which is essentially the same thing but with more sweat and fewer parchments. His events are a tribute to the practical resolution of problems:

The skills are simple and elegant, as befits someone who puts no stock in the superfluous:

H.P. Lovecraft never imagined Wilson Richards. Lovecraftian canon is populated by tormented academics, maddened sailors, and New England aristocrats who crumble before the incomprehensible. Nobody in the mythology of Cthulhu bills by the hour. Nobody arrives at the Places That Must Not Be Named with a toolbox and thinks "there's work to be done here."

And yet Wilson Richards may be the most Lovecraftian character of all — precisely because he embodies everything Lovecraft most despised: the practical efficiency of the ordinary man. While Randolph Carter required silver dreams and visions of Unknown Kadath, Wilson needs to know where he left the Machete. He is the anti-thesis of cosmic horror: normalcy, armed.

The Wolf Mask deserves special mention from a mythological standpoint. In Lovecraftian cosmology, lycanthropes and primal beasts represent the corruption of human nature by the savage and the primordial. Wilson wears it as an accessory. Not because he has been corrupted. But because it works well in the deck. That is transcendent pragmatism.

And Tetsuo Mori: a Japanese warrior in the streets of Arkham, allying himself with a plumber from Massachusetts. Lovecraft — who harboured well-documented complications regarding cultural diversity — would be dumbfounded. We celebrate it. The union of the warrior's code and the specialist tradesman's pragmatism is precisely the kind of alliance humanity needs against the indifferent cosmos.

This deck is a statement of intent. It does not aspire to be the most elegant, the most versatile, or the one that accumulates the most clue tokens. It aspires to arrive in Arkham, unpack the tools, deal with everything that has more than four limbs, and collect payment. It is the deck of someone who holds no fear of the cosmos — because the cosmos, from Wilson's perspective, is simply another job.

For players who enjoy direct combat, leveraging team synergies, and the zen satisfaction of hitting things with appropriately-sized tools, this deck is a gem. For those who prefer control, magic, or investigative puzzles… well, there's a reason Wilson is not the only available investigator.

In short: if Cthulhu is the problem, Wilson Richards is the solution. A loud solution that leaves the floor covered in cosmic shavings — and sends you an invoice thirty days later.