The Dream Slave watched them approach across the strands they reinforced on the way to him; those vacant soulless – beside the fake-soul demon that operated them – eyes, of its human face, still present on the lobes; human arses, he now saw, as well, at the end of which the spider bodies shat long diarrhoea strands of waxy web.

He didn't even have enough in him to be disgusted at this demonic cavalcade of filth, that was the last thing he would ever see before – not erasure this time but final annihilation. You didn't even die here and then whatever that was – here, in this place: only annihilation and nothing-land awaited. And that was either nothing or merely nothing, only with enough consciousness remaining to form the bubble of depression in eternity that would never cease.

He hated himself and everything, he was the person who did that, because this was what the chemicals in the web made him into.

He couldn't move anyway – but he didn't think he'd even reach for his side-sword if he could. The super[natural]shotgun still attached to his other hand was tied and reinforced into that web with the rest of him.

A great pretty bitch approached.

First in a queue, that bitch, in a line of the spider fucks, her thorax throbbed semi-transparent with the eggs she'd be delighted to vagina-shit in him, after she'd dined, of course, herself, on his coupon which was his face.

She'd nibble that off first, with her deformed mandibles below the human face of the ear that formed the top part of her. These indeed flicked in anticipatory rhythm. Idly, before his death, for some reason, and this curiosity was the last thought he would have before death – a particular kind of death, he thought. He watched her readying herself to consume – that cunt sharpening its mandibles on approach to him; wondering, same time, whether she would slice his face off with those mandibles and feed it to the pretty black-eyed girl whose face was formed out of the ear lobe that sat upon her – or whether she'd just rip off his face and shove it up her own arse. And whether these actions were really even in any meaningful sense not the same thing.

He saw no other orifice/alternative. – But that's what an orifice was, was it not, an alternative? He thought. Soporific.

She could probably consume him through the ass with as much facility as anywhere else. This was an interesting dilemma posed by his reasoning organs in the last seconds of his life –

because it clearly was so.

He couldn't move; didn't care to – as those mandibles reached forward and he – felt the first glanced-tear across his lips –

And then a golden arrow sheared her face off.