Vaginal rips spat blood at him in great arcing spouts of black liquid.

- Screaming Art ran opposite, sword along his arm, leaping five feet from the pussy pussy-entrance... and plunging.

His arm in there too, right along the length of the sword, and it touched: no back, it was mass, it was flesh, it was organ matter all the way in. He whipped the sword in there internally, making internal ruptures. The liquid consequences of which pullulated into the flesh cell he was trapped in:

All brain matter, all cerebral guts, all the slime of the demonic thinking gland spat in reeking gallons of its liquid contents; bile and blood and semen, in the brain, mixed; inhuman quantities, vomit in there too. Nothing pleasant - all more or less completely horrible.

Gorge surfacing, Art did nothing but allay rising identity-panic, running from pussy angle to pussy angle, plunging his sword in deep, and retracting, saturated in the slime that now covered his face and body, attire, and attributes, the hanging block of, bollock of, wanting and his broken nose and the sometimes transparent/sometimes multicoloured gland that seeped those strange hallucinatory hues across half his face. – Transparent now because despite being in a demon... it was true. Saturated in it.

- He plunged the angles in: plasma burst in the flesh cell toward filling it with blood. He'd be swimming in a minute and after, and beside not understanding who he was or the reason for his existence - who and what, breathing would be a problem too.

The brain-cell – it was a cage - filling with blood - breathing was now a problem too. Up to his chest in it: the liquid waste contents of the further interiors of what that organic mind shat into it/continued to shit into it – endless that blood; but Art wouldn't stop, breathing the reek - before there was nothing else to -

but

breathe

He stabbed/pulled himself back out, wrenching his shit caked arms from inside the contents of the brain organ; ran around, leapt up, splashing the waste now and stabbed/stabber the ceiling too: great pouring gouts of contents in ceiling showers. - These filled the spot too, and somehow Art didn't care, he wanted to - want! - had to, destroy this thing before it destroyed him with its on-the-surface reasonable questions about the true nature of his – who he was – existence.

- And

- Not perhaps completely comfortable with this reflection, he stabbed the wall of the brain-cell cage, he was trapped in, but – but he stabbed some more, so as to delay as much as possible confronting the reasonable arguments induced in him/his being interiorised inside the demon.

This was the most wicked ploy of any creature he'd come up against – at least when they lied, he had the tools; the supernatural, psychological; organs, with which, anyway, to contend – with -

When they lied straight in your eyes, when all they did was lie, when they constructed fake worlds out of a million false premises one perched precariously atop the next; when they did that -

at least he was used to it; this was how he lived, this was the world. - Even had supernatural organs with which to contend with this/such a world of mendacities, and fine and true and just and natural, but this thing...

This being inside a smart demon.

This necessitated something new.