“– So all of this is a rhetorical thing?” He beamed. The Golden Bow. “You're a good man, Hero, you truly are.”

How much was irony... but I mean, he thought, that's his business. “I'm really not. I'm not good. Because I still might. I might – you know because you said that I might just start licking and groping, with my trousers off mind, these dirty fucking door tits, you know, because, unwashed, dusty with door dust – you said, because you said, to show you that what you said there is wrong. I ain't. – Good.”

“You're not currently beleaguered by the malign influence of these compulsions because you're doing something that matters.”

Almost. His other organ confirmed that it was this and that this was almost true. This.

He forgot the previous discourse, said, “I thought it was a sick need for this,” he meant demonic reality, “But it's not, at least not completely.”

“I believe you are good... basically.”

“Fuck –”

And then because nothing else would resolve matters in a timely fashion.

“Give a pretty one a harmless non-pervy squeeze and then open the fucking door.”

“– Are you sure?”

The Golden Bow just nodded.

He gave a pretty one a non-pervy – not entirely – squeeze. He felt the soft, pliable, yet solid, definitely there, sensation of it, and then he yanked the saggy banger and opened the door.

It shut behind, inside, someplace else.

This:

No tits on the other side just fake infinity.

A black corridor back.

He went –

in –

But who was closer to reality? Him, or these?

Because –

He felt mad in here. Even the walls he couldn't trust. His relationship to this place; his mind, where he began and – it?

What was exterior? What was interior? Because –

This:

Hunched, hooded figures, the –

“Science Priests.”

“How –?”

“I just –”

– Each in singular units of space. The infinity behind them disappeared – a transition – in infinite hooded figures. – Each wall panel, each single unit of space – those same they passed through one at a time, each a measurement of reality, each containing the whole in progression, of the material of what/whom they were/are, etc. And –

All this in a flash that –

And that thing on the –

Stage.

: wall-panels replaced out by a single transparent layer of... transparency that was apparently, and in fact definitely, there. Behind each, in each singular unit. The hooded figures of the Science Priests.

“This is Theust.”

“What –”

“A planet. These are it's rulers –”

“What are –”

“Science Priests.”

Flashes of mangled, interrupted faces, in those – hoods; double faces, transplanted together, conjoined elbow-heads and others with strange arrangements of what perhaps were supposed to be internal organs, bowels, or merely meaty genitalia.

Many had vaginas on their faces, in reach of – tongues flashed out stimulating the cunts on their coupons. He could see this. Beneath the folds; inside the hoods, flashes there as if – and in fact this was undeniable – there were light sources inside those hoods.

Inside the the top of the completely colourless, a form of beige/grey; he didn't know, robes, hooded, there were, of course; sources of light. Each with an internal source that lit the mad arrangements of those faces intermittently; their gurning, weird manipulated visages, spitting and licking and hacking up weird multicoloured flems; the lubricant, apparently, required by face organs the purposes of which – if not sexual – The Dream Slave could not guess.

Each of them. There were hundreds in the space – if you didn't count the infinite – fake-repeated – stacked behind where the tit door had been. Closed behind. Each fronted upon them by –

The Hero Dreamt opened his shotgun in the nearest, by the wall panel next him; burning the panel in scorch marks that of course did nothing to the Science Priest behind the almost completely transparent panel. All it did was inspire in him even more fevered masturbations. – For this, of course, was what the Science Priests were doing. Each of them, varying degrees of mania, at varying speeds, of course, were masturbating rampantly, masturbating weird genital arrangements as expertly as... as anyone could.

In fact mechanically.

Motorised artificial cunts, fabricated from – they had motors, parked at the shafts of them, that at first seemed merely varieties of iron testicles – but he could see their gears turning; he could see that this thing, attached to their bodies and indeed exposed through a hole in the robes, of each of them – the robes themselves attached to them – these never undressed/washed, apparently – worked the artificial cunts ceaselessly, sawing up and down, their shafts; wires, gears, cables, attached to each of the masturbators that kept the – surgically attached – cunts fucking them.

They were vaginas constructed from livers, parts of kidneys, parts of cocks, parts of bowels – if he could delineate clearly, parts of the spleen, and – juicy – also parts, he thought he could tell, of various other internal organs. – But the overall impression was that of fucking a couple livers stitched together – and even – but all of this was attached to them, permanently.

The masturbators never ceased their constant stimulations.

Various transparent tubes, containing liquids, were extracted, and pumped inside: The liquids presumably required for the chemical stimulations that would keep the whole process ceaselessly churning their cocks up. Because –

Why should there be any cessation of pleasure?

They progressed closely together along the long hall toward the massive figure, inanimate, statue-still, on the stage.

They could see him through the transparency. He was in the next chamber.

Women too. Women ones. He saw them too – he figured, though there was no real difference in sex. Maybe they weren't women – maybe they were something else. All he saw was that occasionally the livers that formed the ceaselessly fucking artificial vaginas, sometimes these in fact were cocks, that rammed ceaselessly inside and did what stimulation – same transparent tubes of chemicals – that the vagina for the male ones were equipped to facilitate... for them.

These disgusting creatures were rammed constantly by the organ cocks. The Hero Dreamt, the Golden Bow by him, processed forward merely observing, for knowledge, he thought, the spitting, the chittering, the chuntering, and the gurning, of the disgusting fiends. Each inside the separated – even from each other – certainly from him – wall-panels. Fucking themselves ceaselessly, frenziedly, and in fact with great self-harm – they were hurting themselves the further he walked along the hall towards the massive inanimate figure. It was in fact obvious that their even proceeding produced this sexual mania. – But they kept on.

Because.

They kept on.

He didn't – had no need to – say that he wanted to murder all of these things. It was implicit.

The hall opened upon a larger chamber, the walls and the sides, and even the ceilings in this part containing in each individual panelled segment, an artificially stimulated self-fucking Science Priest. They loved that the heroes had entered the chamber. And in fact the moment they did the inanimate figure – it wasn't.

It moved. In fact it sat up.

They could see it.

They could see it and in fact it looked like this:

About five times the size of the Hero Dreamt, and three times as wide.

It was a parody of him.

It was a copy of him. – He had only a vague idea of what he looked like – must look like; considering the nature of his organs. But it was enough because this thing was clearly supposed to be.

Him.

A side-sword – all in proportion, on his back, and a super[natural]shotgun, the size of a donkey.

The face was wrong, it had to be, because it was clearly sewed together out of five or six or eight aborted clones – vocabulary he apparently knew, not interested why – of him. Of him.

It had eight heads stitched together, with a couple cocks, and eighteen or seventeen mainly human testicles hanging under his throat – not supernatural, not in any sense a match for the supernatural organ under his own throat – all of it merely an insult, merely a parody. It had a necklace of living testicles, a garland of ballbags, hanging off its neck and throat. It's ear. This was semi-transparent; the parts that weren't weird colours, but this had been – the thing had been burned, by alchemical flames, he didn't know, or perhaps merely acid. The colours did not change. They couldn't. He was merely disfigured. And each of the noses had been painstakingly, probably with pleasure, broken.

“They call this a boss.”

It whipped its shotgun off its back and fired.