Just unceasing, never letting up on his shotgun, he circled the thing in a continuous rhythm. Opposite the Golden Bow, on the other side diagonal from the thing – he didn't know how they knew this, but immediately they set into an interchanging rhythm; whereby, if you watched your feet, and didn't trip over the boulders of hardened loads that were accumulating everywhere, you could avoid the ejaculate ropes out the throat of the giant parody of the worst moment of his life, the same time –

He fired into it ceaselessly, but at 52 shells he was already headed for the point, with really minimum damage to him, when he'd have to think about scaling the thing with only a side-sword and a pathological aversion to being ejaculated on – for good reason, for very good reason -

The semen vomit flew, bubbling on the transparent Science Priests wack-off-window wall surfaces. Bubbling through them, in fact, steaming – through them, eating corroded holes in the surface, so that, in fact, right now -

Notch/Pull/Loose – Return

Notch/Pull/Loose – Return

Notch/Pull/Loose – Return

Notch/Pull/Loose – Return

Notch/Pull/Loose – Return

Notch/Pull/Loose – Return

One of the wall panels was near eaten through exposing a – exposing himself – Science Priest.

Straight over, avoiding flying ropes of spunk, leaping the boulders of the hardened ejaculate that did that too, the Hero Dreamt was straight over at him. What was left of the wall-panel – the disgusting Science Priest fuck was even now madly jacking himself through – shattered in the searing exchange off the barrels of the super[natural]shotgun; exploding shatters past him in layers evaporated straight out the structure of reality itself. At him, replacing the shotgun with the sword off his back, he yelled, “distract it,” and immediately the Golden Bow understood precisely what was required.

The Golden Bow dived forward loosing two arrows the same time directly in the face of the giant fuck eliciting a garbled inarticulate growl as its paws sought to pull out the arrows that were already returning to their master. The same time the Golden Bow replaced his poignard off his back and dove directly beneath the giant through its legs, reversing him, stabbing it in the back – again and again multiple times – still vomiting confusing lumps of the corrosive yellowy semen he'd digested, the liquid lunch of a dedicated in-cast orgy of the high functionaries of the Science Priests.

Same time the Hero Dreamt, through the wall panel shards his shotgun had shattered, sword in hand – trusting in the powers of the Golden Bow to distract the boss – confronted a 15-lipped-horror in stilled images flashing from its hood:

a five foot Science Priest, thrusting its hips madly – hurting itself, actually really hurting itself. With one swing of the wrist the Hero Dreamt sliced off the things masturbator ensconced cock – which immediately gushed fountains of sanguine where his cock had been – not his balls, they were inside its body. He knew this because, at this point, they dropped out the hole he'd ripped in its torso, plopping on the floor.

Which dropped nuts he crushed under his boots; belching out their contents.

The Hero Dreamt, following what impulse he did not know, stripped the thing before him, pulled his robes off in one terrible raging rip – exposed the naked creature quivering, muscle memory still gyrating its hips against an artificial surgically-attached liver-vagina – that was even still there, pouring blood and other contents the whole time, out the hole, where his cock had been attached to the masturbator.

The thing had fifteen lips on its face. And four eyes. Even if two of them were – looked like – glass. There were various clitorises and micro-penises dotted across its cheeks; a weird mechanical unit attached to its skull, a fan attached to one part of it that kept cooling what was, it looked like, in some fashion, the interior of its skull.

Naked, covering itself, mottled skin, pathetic – and demonic – for its eyes showed only that – that it was a fake-soul operated flesh robot, but still – this was Science.

He wanted to expose one of them to see what they were, to understand them in their nakedness – but it was a mad impulse revealing nothing that he didn't already know. All this all did was emphasise the fact of their patheticness.

– He'd thought perhaps he might develop some kind of torture – but really, reversing not for a second his decision to commit genocide on the Science Priest race, he forewent any such efforts, in this instance, and merely stabbed his side-sword through its throat. The Golden Bow, still distracting the Parody of the Worst Moment in the Life of the Hero for Killing the Demon who Dreamed Him: When He'd Been Cummed Up Boss, watched the demon drown in the blood in its own throat.

– A transmitted colour, a lie, in the same instance of its death, passed through the block panel that had housed the just despatched Science Priest. A colour passed through him: a colour he couldn't – he couldn't see, let alone describe, it penetrated him and in that same instance – he recognised it/arriving simultaneously with the term that described it. That also, creepily, was transmitted. A powerup. His health and his shells were both restored to one hundred but –

The Golden Bow could hold that thing not much longer –

leaving the opened panel-unit, he passed through another vomit smear of corrosive jizz-matter. His vitality immediately returned to 77 – but – immediately –

he had that -

Shotgun off his back and let the shells fly exploding against its corpus, reversing round, and round, immediately into that same rhythm diagonal across the other side of the Boss thing. But it was not the way, in this fashion -- this was no way to kill the thing. Each arrow/shell took the absolute minimum from the bar still between them and reality, above. – There had to be a better way than this – avoiding a flying tendril of clumpy semen vomit – excoriating himself that there must be a better way than this –

He was the Hero Dreamt - he was the Hero Dreamt, in this reality, by a demon. But his organs attested to the truth of something else, something far greater – the permanency of that title – the Hero Dreamt. Of its in no sense being contingent upon the dreams of a demon. – That demon he'd slay along with all these - fine he'd do that - and that was exactly what was going to happen but –

He was the Hero Dreamt.

Notch/Pull/Loose – Return

Notch/Pull/Loose – Return

Notch/Pull/Loose – Return

Notch/Pull/Loose – Return

Notch/Pull/Loose – Return

Notch/Pull/Loose – Return

passed the arrows flying -

Around its back, the Golden Bow, circled, unconscious angling in unspoken agreement away from the Hero Dreamt; distracting the great beast once more, eliciting the flying gloops of reproductive material that were all going in his direction, manfully avoiding and continuing to loose in continuation the infinite arrows out his bag.

Leaping for the things belt he caught the leather cincture and flipped himself up sideways, thrusting his sword half-way in the giants back. Eliciting a – gurgling, belching, roar drowned in the vomitous passage of semi-digested spunk rags.

Side-sword inserted in a slipped disk, the Hero Dreamt worked his way up the back of the creature; grabbing the sudden rags of its garments; extricating the side-sword and plunging it in between its shoulder blades, knocking a patch off the red bar between him and reality and nearly in fact in this single move – reaching as far as the thing's skull.

He could see the hole in the ceiling out of which the prolapsed rectum had defecated tonnes of semen into the thing's skull, that was in fact not merely semen – that would have been enough in terms of the disgust solicited. It was the semi-digested semen of a semen shit, currently now functioning as the brain of the thing he was almost at the head of.

Hanging from the sword plunged between its shoulder blades the mad thing flung him from side to side in a half fit: a vain effort to get him off it.

It swung him madly side to side, fighting with all he had to retain a grasp on the half plunged side-sword. The whole time the Golden Bow circled, strafing,

Notch/Pull/Loose – Return

Notch/Pull/Loose – Return

Notch/Pull/Loose – Return

Notch/Pull/Loose – Return

Notch/Pull/Loose – Return

Notch/Pull/Loose – Return

Notch/Pull/Loose – Returning

the infinite arrows from his quiver.

The Golden Bow's distracting dance before the Boss, which he was currently performing in the form of the way in which he avoided its vomitous semeny projectiles, wasn't really enough to dissuade the thing of the knowledge of the fact that there was side-sword plunged in between its shoulder blades.

In one mad jerk to the right, the giant fought to set him flying against the wall-textures of the interior chamber they were still trapped inside: wall-textures containing the still furiously masturbating Science Priests. The giant's effort was translated, the Hero Dreamt using this momentum, into his swinging himself up onto the shoulder's of the boss-beast. He then quasi-instantly wrapped himself around the thing's neck; reaching behind him, he pulled the side-sword out, bloody and gloopy from out between its shoulder blades, and stabbed the thing direct in the now exposed semen-brain that he could get at because he had no top to his fucking skull on top of his fucking dumb head. The dumb fuck.

Right at the semen-shit brain, now, the sour odour of semen and shit overwhelmed him – the musky, warm, sweet and sour – shit and semen; it was a combination that had been shat into its head: a combination of odours that were rather powerful upon close exposure.

It didn't help that his wanton stabbing into the brain formed out of semen-shit sent semen-shit flying all over him and his clothes and face etc. Screaming in rage – he was already caked in a layer of bloody semen that –

– but; anyway – his face was already caked in a layer of blood, and organs, of Science Priests, so –

It was a sufficient barrier, was what it was, between his actual epidermis and the semen-shit, therefore, in the final analysis – he could live with it.

Each thrust took manful chunks off the thing's remaining health; never letting up stabbing into its brain.

During this close combat, beautiful, large, handsome and happy chunks off the red bar indicated the cunthole's seriously declining health/vitality.

There was in fact no better feeling than watching those chunks evaporate, instantly, upon every stab of his side-sword. Another few minutes of this – stabbing his side-sword directly into the semen-shit brain of the Boss thing, the Parody of the Worst Moment in the Life of the Hero for Killing the Demon who Dreamed Him: When He'd Been Cummed Up Boss indeed, and he'd have destroyed the solid shit-brained fuck and that would be –

cummy hands reached back behind to extricate him from off the back of the fucker.

One hand around its neck for stability, the other single handedly stabbing a sword in the exposed top-coupon of the cunthole, the Dream Slave jerked himself from side to side avoiding the grasps, but the thing punching him – 56 – 48 – 40 health – he couldn't manage to – if he could only, punching its sides – near pulling his arm off as he fought to remain attached to that neck, straining

Notch/Pull/Loose – Return

Notch/Pull/Loose – Return

Notch/Pull/Loose – Return

Notch/Pull/Loose – Return

Notch/Pull/Loose – Return

Notch/Pull/Loose – Return

the arrows flying in continuation, he couldn't!

– one more stab, one more – and he'd have him at 25% health, and that would be –

He stabbed him:

25% health remained.