fall no run

and

Somewhere else. A chamber.

He could lie to himself that the panic in who he was was an attack at the behest of a demon; the demon, but this wasn't… a lie... he laughed, standing, alone, aloud, in this new place.

When the Count with the Thing off his Throat didn't know what was a lie, and what was true – this/of whether the demon could use truth to destroy him –

Maybe this was the only smart response, the only thing a sufficiently intelligent demon could do... to him... Who he was...

When the Prince of the Multicoloured organs; the Duke of Wanting; the Marquis of Multi-hued Mendacities; The Knight of Simulation; - When the Prince of the Pink Ear, and Prince Art[ion] of the Disembowelled Complexion - When the Conquistador of Organ Corridors, didn't know what a lie was. - What was a lie and what was true. When that was happening, as it was right now.... he laughed aloud, again, bitterly, maybe, maybe bitterly, when then, in that instance...

He was inside a demon.

He looked around.

But he was out a mind. This single thought. No doubt from the demon he was inside. This true shattering of his identity. It was this that got him running, no pathetic swarm of polyps, nothing for Art to despatch, no generic enemy out a demon's arse. It was this.

- There was a thought in all this. And, looking around, he thought maybe he'd discovered the place that had generated that thought.

That thought that he didn't know anything of: what was true:

that the world he lived in was a lie. That thought. That lie? That truth? - That in either angle shattered a reality/identity. A dream. A mind.

It was a brain. It was a giant pink and grey brain; he was inside, a chamber. Birthed out a corridor; obviously the open internal cavity, for some reason, of some part of a massive, underground brain organ.

The walls bled; pussing up too, puss, in the corners, semen in others – bile - disgusted, he was breathing it in – and was in it. It had a stink. He thought he could smell the nasty thoughts it contained.

The same thoughts he read as words across his mind.

Slave.

True. His organs told him.

Slave.

Art looked around for something he could point his sword in to stab it.

Pussing up in the sections it did in the corners: This was not a physically healthy mind, to the surprise of no one, he thought; before running through the material aspects.

This was a demon pulled out of some kind of region to which the Queen of Waat had access. Over there. In that realm. A demon sufficiently powerful, security enough to hold the prophecies contained within the 9 scrolls of prophecy of the Queen of Waaat in the Chest of Waaat, the Black Chest of the Scrolls of the Prophecies of the Queen of Waat, or whatever it was. A demon sufficient enough, that, any monkey-ing, around with it - would make it a demon again: the only means of entry into which was apparently the many tentacled cunt of that aforementioned demon monarch.

Officially a combination Cyclops, but whatever – Art had seen things – whatever combination she was, he couldn't currently remember - which was the bad one? Was there a bad one. Human father? - Yeah it was human father; innocent Cyclops mother. That was the bad version. The good version, in Cyclops epistemology, in Cyclops eschatology, was the Cyclops father with a human mother. This produced the combination Cyclops, a female - this was what you wanted, with the extra attribute that, in turn, with a... whatever the term was, partner; co-intercourser, lover, sufficiently talented produced – generator/progenitor/begetter - the long-awaited King they'd been waiting for. The Cyclops.

And this; this was the vague part - this would be the end of the world - but somehow a good thing.