Demons. End of the hall.

As opposed to those monstrosities that had been played briefly through his mind by the Demon. That demon that –

He was here. This was who he was. He had lost his identity. His memories. His self. And it wasn't even in him to care. – But he was being forced to care. Because it was clearly the only way he would find out the identity of that demon who dreamed him. It was him that was dreamed. The reason for this was evidently also his identity; who he actually was. – And if he had to find out the demon who dreamed him/he had to find out who he was. If he found out who he was. He could find the demon who dreamed him. Demon logic. Dream logic. But his organs – those for that – testified to its verity.

You wanted this. Demon. I did not care. You put me here for this. I may be a slave. But I am no docile one. – I'll find out who I am and then.

I shall kill you.

A cross roads.

A cross roads. Three new corridors; end of the hall. A score of demons fell out the ceiling and – he'd flicked a trip that tossed them out instant monster-closets – in a terminology playing through his mind whose source was the demon – always these words, in ceaseless continuation – and the floor; black boxes revealed vomiting fiends and then replaced, same floor texture, a score of drooling; dripping, spitting, shitting, yelping, bleating, and masturbating demons – though uncoordinated – on him. They were on him.

He backed up instant firing the sorcerous shotgun, two ass faces lost their ass faces, and the corpses, fake-soulless even, disintegrated in instant piles of wet, reduced reality mush; blocky mush – that burst in flames and shot ass cheek matter right at him and through his face, but this after-death montage was merely images/images that played through him inflicting no damage.

But –

Same instant a swarm of spider ears circled and – they were flat human ears, massive, with swirling inside parts – those of ears – that formed human female vaginas. Instead of a lobe they had each a black eyed human face girl, of a girl – that could have been pretty if – if not for everything especially now that her once-soul had been replaced by the fake soul of a demon –

Waxy, thready, web material shot out of the ear holes of each of the seven or eight spiders and whipped across him; he was – dragged down – he was pulled back.

The Dream Slave fired his barking and reloading sorcerous shotgun, 18 ammo between him and reality as if some kind of screen was – this seemed to be integral to any kind of demonic relation to reality – always between him and reality itself.

Two Spider-Ears exploded in pulpy demon-human/spider flesh matter, ropes of thready-waxy Spider-Ear web material, burst from their exploding corpses – slathered in guts and bile and blood.

They roped onto him and the other spiders worked this tossed out web-material into the rest of the web that they were building, fighting, pulling him against it – barking his shotgun in continuation – 16-14-12-10 shells – he had to fire too against the demons with the babies for chests who fired live fireballs from their mouths directly at him.

He couldn't – move; he couldn't strafe out the way:

a stationary target in the web that was steadily worked onto him.

He was attached to the wall panel; his feet stuck to the material, he could not extract them. One baby face toilet exploded with the incendiary material evidently present inside it. Another fired fire balls out of a baby face in its chest, the same face as its face, some kind of conjoined demon-twin, but this only exploded a few other same-type demons in too close retarded vicinity – but it made no difference; he'd fired himself out against those creatures that were shooting fireballs at him. He'd never killed these things before.

Clearly he should have killed the spiders first, and at distance, because once in their web – he couldn't/he couldn't move, and – 8-6-4-2-0 – shells left, he fired into the ten spiders still working the web attaching it to him, joining one vast web, by chance – as if only caring to work their own – but the effect was the same. No explicit cooperation between them or not. It was one giant connected web that he was trapped in.

The Hero Dreamt – by a demon – was trapped.