In Waat the wound opened and fifteen Cyclops demons were defecated out of it, hitting the earth in shit blood; then pulling themselves off their feet:

Waatonians screaming, men reaching for shovels, for sticks, throwing stones, anything, women and children fleeing, but - engulfed.

A Demon Sly grasped a villager by his throat and vomited in his mouth. One identical fell upon a jolly fat villager, a butcher/inn keeper, something. He was forced on the floor, under him. His trousers pulled off by feet beneath. The giant cocked Demon Sly forced himself inside, on the street. He raped the butcher man flat, face to face.

One eye staring from the absolute.

The fat man cried. The inside of his arse tore and bled. The Demon Sly fucked him silly.

He watched another grab a crone by her arm and rip it half off her frame, pull her towards him, sit on her face, directly on her face on the floor - no way she could breathe beneath it – defecating, thunderously, spitting chunks of what seemed endless gallons to Art directly into her throat. An identical pissed in a child's ear; ripped a screaming baby from her mother's breasts, rubbed the liquids it found between its arse cheeks in the hysterical child's eyes.

They put their liquids in them.

And each time they made a new demon, a soul winked out and left - anything in their eyes departed; anything good they'd clung to, anything that they had retained that was real - living inside the manufactured fake story land of somewhere else's fantasies. Anything that hadn't warped them out of any relation to reality and rendered them barely fake background reality entities, repeating the tasks that were enough to denote their identities - not even knowing they were fake, not even knowing they were merely fake background repeat reality entities refreshed every time a new story was... was.

And at night forced to dream and manufacture like the dreamunits of Hortag, only difference they were permitted a shadow of the dream while they were consciously, supposedly, alive.

Whatever they'd retained, of any real life human reality, any goodness or genuine love or emotion, anything, any notion of the transcendent; any choked and unconscious, unstudied half-conscious reaching toward it, anything, anything good retained – left with their souls as the fake souls entered; pulled from the still stinking wounds. Wounds pulsing bloody so called final reality material – a lie/maybe a lie - corpse holes torn in the structure of reality itself.

From these the demons came, became the fake souls that filled their bodies; their already rotting flesh.

He saw it repeated, every village: new demons making more demons - the souls and goodness and reality retained – the truth – of any of the dreamunits of – any of the human beings, there, were, replaced, their souls, winking out and extinguished, replaced by the fake souls who operated their bodies now in disgusting future sexual rituals and the worshipping of a Wound in reality - and what that allowed them:

repeating this exponential process of replacement, across the entire -

Art saw every town, every country, every nation; he saw from living maps each village in the images torn out him, translated by the Wound into the fake final reality used to manufacture the means by which these wounds through Old Works - could even transport those demons there for the mass murder that, weeping, was poured - reality - directly inside his consciousness.

They killed them. They fucked them.