He slashed and hacked and cut, and bled out the next one too; another corner; another beast - he couldn't focus on what it was: it told a lie, and knew that too. A quick thrust, a stabber through the chin. - Showered in brain balls, more sexual organs too, a sick-minded demon world, and the bits populated out its fantasies – a strange realm, a system of caves. But it mattered not to Art, he ploughed through; pulling his mind, or anyway who he actually was, out of what he could categorise, pull out/pull through/pull with -

him - that he was a slave – that he had been manufactured, because somehow that was part of it too and that he was made for this, but he knew that too.

Why else these organs, why else these compulsions. - He knew already he was a slave of addiction, of processes, of the things he biologically, in his body, fine, as a direct consequence of the functioning of his organs he agreed, even the supernatural ones too, and somehow that made no difference, was addicted to. He was a slave.

It was the word. The word that told the truth. Someone had finally torn the veil off this and he knew; he had the attributes to, it was true.

Art[ion] Mlckk'n Inchance-rify, that was his name, Art, Art[ion], Prince Art[ion] of the Disembowelled Complexion. Count Art[ion] of the Thing off his Throat. Art[ion] Mlckk'n Inchance-rify, the Prince of the Multicoloured organs, the Duke of Wanting, the Lord of Colourful Lies, titles he had heard, titles that were real, titles he had memories of, titles of all varieties, especially that one: the Prince of the Multicoloured Organs. The Hero of the Pink Ear; on and on it went. Several; but somehow the only one really true, the only one that had ever told him anything - why, in reality, he was here – fuck magic scrolls, fuck prophecy, fuck demons, and weird half-demonic offspring, and their incestuous connections with their own mothers, and other stuff he didn't like, appreciate - and made him feel not terribly wholesome, when he contemplated them - he could fuck all that too, he'd been told nothing... by any of it.

Not this quest or any other; if there ever had been. The only thing really true, the only thing that rang a billion church bells was

“You're a slave.”

“You. Are. A. Slave.”

And he slew some more too/ringing through walls that penetrated them/searching for the heart of the demon: the final demon he must slay to reduce it to a key

that opened the Black Chest of the Scrolls of the Prophecies of the Queen of Waat for the scrolls - to defeat, or reinforce/replace, or render permanent, to glorify{!}

/destroy that Queen of Waat. Slashing, hacking, as the fanged polyps out the walls of colour surrounded and leapt up him too. They told lies about their directions, dissimulating always, no choice but to/ - modes of attack - therefore telling him exactly where they would go and what they would do and all he did – Art[ion] - was dance through them: his side-sword, shorter than a longsword, hacking and slashing through/the same time, that phrase: the only thing he fought, was the words that rang his mind like a bell, over

and over and over again.

“You're a slave, Art. You.”

“You are a slave.”