He was still breathing – kind of a bit exhausted, but it was fine. The door's face flaps were still leaking fluids. He watched it; the vacuous eyes that had released the foul thing that moments earlier it contained: the demon consciousness that he knew nothing but – he knew nothing, about who he was; his identity, anything, but he knew that. And that he was here. This place was obviously a place where there were – it was the first thing he'd seen – probably a lot of demons. And that was enough. – That was enough purpose for any life: He was going to kill a bunch of demons. – He'd proceed on this basis. That was more than enough purpose for his existence in the short and medium term... at least.

A Demon Killer, the Demon Killer – he'd kill demons. And he even had a name. That would suffice too.

The Demon Killer approached the pursed dead mouth of the demon door. A chink, of an opening, revealed, not much blackness behind. – Maybe he should have tried to open the thing before he dramatically slayed it but – no, fuck that guy. He had it coming, and right away.

On his knees, before the open chink in the door, he started working the mouth open with his sword. It was tight but not intractable. He worked his still fatigued muscles – though shortly he'd be more than fine, having this short to medium term purpose in life was more than enough to boost his attitude and mood as it regarded. He didn't know, reality.

He felt really quite cheerful despite the weird, red beneath, black sky; its heaviness – the fact it was simultaneously on him and that it went on forever up the heights of the various weird cuboid towers, made of gears of guts.

The towers rose forever, their summits in clouds of blood; fine, that was fine. He didn't care. – This wasn't his place, he'd lost who he was and his identity and – he didn't know what else.

His memories. But even more than that, he thought; working his sword into the mouth to try and get an opening large enough to pass through because whatever was next was clearly inside there; not the mouth, the building – that this entrance should grant his access to.

He didn't know what he'd lost, but this planet wanted him to hate himself. He could feel the insistence in everything; it wanted him to be against his one self – his natural self, and his nature. – It wanted to make him – no doubt; it wasn't too subtle, there was a vast heavy insistence, in the shapes of the buildings, in the materials out of which everything was made – he supposed – that he be pushed into nothing. That he submit.

It was about submission, the whole place. – But this wasn't his place, and fuck this place. – Obviously some kind of demon planet; just look around, he thought.

So he'd kill as many of the demon-fucks as humanly possible and then he'd probably die, and that was absolutely fine, cool, and even laudable in terms of the rudimentary personal philosophy he was constructing as he worked the sword into the mouth levering the thing open more and more so, as he did. It had no tongue inside; weird, vestigial brown teeth – he couldn't not notice; cranking it open bit by bit.

But anyway yeah, he didn't care what the planet said to him about hating himself, fuck this planet, and what it obviously wanted from him – the source of which was obviously demonic; just look around, he thought; just look around at the place – just use your own natural response to the environment. It was all and completely – and it wasn't even difficult to detect any of it; it certainly wasn't subtle. The whole place was demonic.

And the Demon Killer – and he really wished this was his real name but, it was – but: his actual real and really only name. He however sensed immediately it wasn't.

What he was going to do was kill every demon in this place and then he was going to kill this place, because something terrible had happened; and he didn't know what it was and – who he was etc. – Nor did he even really care concerning what could be the correct and more the – righteous attribution of appropriate blame. Though, here: he couldn't be far off. Really any of these fucks would suffice. Whatever terrible thing had happened he was going to take it out on these smelly and puss-filled demons. – And their whole fucking planet. But the culprit – if it wasn't one of them – he'd go forward on the basis it was one of them.

Something broke, finally, a jaw, he thought – its chin flapping – of the door – off the front of the edifice now. It was a broken jaw or –

The mouth jacked open completely – man-sized in terms of an entrance... for him.

The Demon Killer peered inside first before making any immediate decisions, as regarded his entering the fucking thing.

He could see:

It was – somehow obviously; he thought – a corridor but simultaneously a theatre:

One corridor marched forward toward a weird, swirling, unidentifiable – it was like a deep blue – it was indigo, actually; a swirling presence of mist/wind, and misty stuff and wind; at the end of the corridor.

But above, and on both sides, tiers of – he didn't know – it was a theatre. He couldn't see what they sat upon; benches or – the audience – it didn't matter; this corridor was definitely a theatre. And –

A theatre that...

There was an audience.