This violent explosion of merd, and other material, really bloody, was apparently the weapon, the backwards weapon, of the last incarnation of 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. The most powerful incarnation, not surprisingly, of all of them. A bending over and continually failing to pick up its trousers, organ shitting, same time ejaculating – parody of him. Not a sense of humour he could really empathise with. Just nasty, as far as he was concerned. – He didn't even really get it.

He didn't even know who he was. He didn't do whatever this thing was doing, you know, in his spare time, for fun. – As a parody it wasn't even particularly clever, or... accurate.

But it was supposed to be him – this thing, for some reason he couldn't totally get at; but – he still had no memory or identity – but this was him. He was reminded. – Reminded in a manner that felt like a joke, not a funny joke, obviously, but something structured like one, that he didn't get.

Five health on his arse, the Dream Slave resolved, this thing had to die and immediately before it defecated again. Watching the ropes it fired at the Golden Bow, easily strafed, he waited with care for the point in its repeated behaviours – compulsive: programmed – the bit when it bent to pick up its ankle-bunched trousers. Which part precipitated the catastrophic organ defecation, that had – an avalanche of merda – reduced him instantly to five.

Immediately upon the end ejaculation he leapt, and speared the side-sword deep into its back; without delay pulling and swinging himself once more up onto the shoulders of the beast in one double move – he could see briefly, that had the Golden Bow astonished – he was the Hero Dreamt.

He was the Hero Dreamt!

Arm around his neck again he extricated the side-sword and thrust the stabber once more in the thing's exposed cranium containing his thinking organ: a soup of diarrhoeaed ejaculate.

Stabbing and stabbing and stabbing again, he stabbed a full side-sword deep inside a thinking organ the consistency of a seriously backed-up from lack of ejaculating thick, gloopy load.

– This was the consistency of its brain, that slopped over the side of the thing and even onto him again – which wasn't necessarily a turn of events that reduced the boiling in his blood in terms of the vengeance he had sworn upon the Science Priest race – but there – it didn't matter/it – did not – currently – he'd survive... matter.

These weren't observations or reflections he necessarily enjoyed, only unavoidable, as he stabbed again and again, one-handed, other hand around the thing's neck – the thing's brain, while it still shot loads at the Golden Bow, a handsome youth true but there was really no need for –

But this was what it was all about for the Science Priests. He could tell by the frenzy of hard eroticism communicated in the ceiling above him. He could read the subtext now in the masturbating and ass-fucking. The frenzy above him – he blamed the new boss for the extent of it – had attained a level of, really, religious seriousness.

The orgy had started back up, all of their eyes fast on the ejaculating rope weapon, the hard fast cock of 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

But the Hero Dreamt held. He would not let go. He held its neck, on its back. – This scene had to end with the destruction of this thing. Chunks off the red bar were elicited with every deep stab into the thinking soup of diarrhoeaed ejaculate. He stabbed and he stabbed and in fact he kept stabbing chunks out the red bar. To the point that – he stabbed – he never let up stabbing its brain, even as it slopped up more and more of it, over the sides of the cerebral crater.

The consistency of the semen shit, that was its brain, was losing more and more of its fibre, actually, that was keeping it together, becoming increasingly juicy – his senses unfortunately reported these details to his brain, after every stab.

But in its pathological rhythm; that of its continued compulsive reaching for its trousers, bending forward, ejaculating acid ropes – same time – of sulphuric spunk; there was only one point in its rhythm where it could reach around and try to grab him off its neck, and then step back. And indeed it was at this point the Dream Slave was directly beneath the hole in the ceiling that his brain had been defecated out. This fact suggested an idea that momentarily made the Hero Dreamt a happy, glad to be alive, person.

He had the rhythm down so much in fact that he let up stabbing. Five or six or so more arrows would do it, the red bar had been reduced to such an extent – only five or six more of the minimum segments elicited by an arrow in the coupon would destroy the beast, it was time - “Do not quit!” he yelled, the meaning of this phrase immediately obvious. It was the regular one. The Golden Bow could despatch the Boss he was still hanging off – but not before... not before...

The thing reached down – still holding onto its neck – gave up pulling up its trousers, stood erect – in every sense, obviously, absolutely every sense, in terms of its own penis – and even this retarded thought, that he was forced to have, did not decrease the current contentment of the Hero Dreamt.

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 shot a massive arcing load in the general direction of the Golden Bow – sidestepped, burning the walls, the thing stepped back, and releasing his hold on the giant's neck, same time switching off his back the shotgun for the side-sword – or the other way – the Hero Dreamt burst through the ceiling, and unleashed exploding shotgun shells in the coupon of a currently internally squirting Science Priest.

Its mandible shattered, a gloopy pour did not cease unfolding out of its face. He shot off its cock, and out the hole where its cock had been – flying panels of reality penetrated him – supposed to be/indicated by/in colours of the things that they were – he couldn't care; his health was 25, after this. By this it had been restored, and the remaining number of his shotgun shells was back to a hundred. Two of which he unleashed in the wall.

The panel cracked in the angle, in the hole there – a weak point – the part designed for the insertion of a surgically attached grafted on artificial ramming – as the case may be – cock or vagina, made of bowels, in most cases; certainly appeared that way. But, these individuals, they enjoyed fucking bowels.

He fired two exploding shells, out of the twin barrels of his super[natural]shotgun; cracked the walls, and found himself before the next Science Priest – attaining, in that instant, the sentient fuck-hole-slice, ecstasy in proximity to him and internal ejaculation. All obvious in the flash of its eyes; two real, one glass, in its forehead; various stitched lips and scars, an arsehole sewn on the button of its nose – all these details in less than a second as the exploding barrels of his supernatural gun imploded the cunt-smacks coupon open.

This reduced what had apparently been a hollow-mask, in this cunt's case, into a collapsed in on itself crumpled corpse head. He stood on it. The thing apparently was still conscious – perhaps its brain was in its arse. Because its head was empty and it was still groaning, out a crumbled face. The Hero Dreamt crushed it with his foot and set 2/4/6/8 shells in the semi-corpse of the rotten dirty clit-bandit-navigator; exploding upwards momentarily its corpse in a heap of pouring organs that burst seeping on the floor beneath his feet. Cunt dead. Cunt – dead – he shot the wall apart.

Next chamber, the fuck-thing's cock-masturbator organ was already stuck through the hole in the wall. – The Hero Dreamt, careful not to touch organs by the metal part ripped the thing through the nearly shattered wall; ripping the attachments out the thing's cock revealing the artificially enlarged, but pencil-thin organ, flapping there. His boot on it, he shot it off at the shaft – this to give the Scientist an unpleasant death, but who knew, maybe it was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

Sword off his back he sliced his head off at the throat, running a smear of blood down the side of the transparent panel.

He exploded a wall and rammed his barrels straight inside a flashing Science Priest hood, exploding it on the inside: a collapsing carpet of organs. He shot through a wall. He rammed his gun in a gob of a still masturbating priest running from him in terror – a sight he very much enjoyed, because – most of them so dulled by masturbation, he wasn't really aware if they didn't want to die or not – perhaps, and this was pretty much obviously the case, they obviously did wish to die – to what extent, merely, he did not know, consciously.

Whatever residual thing that remained in them of the part of them not operated by the fake soul, that thing, if it did remain – necessarily you'd think in that state of humanity – would crave nothing else but suicide. But whether he was really doing them a favour or not was not a debate he was interested in entering upon, as he tore through organs and corpses still masturbating, terrified, running from him in the trapped booths in which they masturbated. While they fled death, masturbating.

He shattered a wall, half the orgy participators at this point dead – smacking a skull aside with the blunt end of his shotgun; punched the Science Priest in the face: and kept punching; kept punching. Hood open he saw the twisted teeth and sewed on sex bits of the thing crumple under his bloody fist in a pulverised mass – collapsing in on itself: a fun little detour from weaponised violence into the hand to hand.

It was fun to kill in this manner. But it took it out you. He shot through the next wall and merely exploded the new horror in the exploding shells out its shotgun, throwing organ matter everywhere, coating the walls the crimson, that was, at this point, the only colour.

Standing in a pile in a singular transparent cubicle, he watched the remaining Science Priests bunched in their respective corners terrifiedly masturbating. This occurred the same time there was a terrible scream beneath, signalling the final moment of the Golden Bow's victory.

Five arrows in a single arc flew from the single Golden Bow of the youth named after it; striking the massive coupon of 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. The thing fell back: one last bloody flying arc of semen from out its still erect cock; kept falling from that arc, and crumpled, collapsed, in on itself. A corpse already before it hit the floor. Immediately the Golden Bow was on its face poignarding, admirably, the thing to skittery fuck and back and fuck and back and back and fuck and back.

For some reason now there appeared a sentence, in text, between them and reality – it was from the Science Priests – it was happening, was what it was, and that it even was, was apparently, in some sense he didn't understand, revelatory of the true nature of the place they were.

The red bar turned completely black, burned out, and then disappeared. Between them and reality, in a calligraphy strangely blocky, and reduced, this series of phrases, indeed in sentences:

You are Victorious! He Sleeps in Sin. You have defeated 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. Victory is yours, Hero... For Now...

There was something deeply pathetic about the whole thing... even kind of... funny. – In a particularly pathetic way. And yet. Against himself he was happy in the terms outlined by that dumb series of phrases. He was happy and in exactly those terms because he had achieved this, they had. The Golden Bow. – They were heroes and they were victorious.

The Golden Bow, through a floor smeared in blood, gave him a jolly thumbs up, laughing. They were – it was ridiculous, but that was it. He returned the silly gesture and in fact they both just laughed. As sick as... as ridiculous – but as... satisfying, as it all was. - He didn't know. Maybe he was happy. Sick and insane, but maybe he was happy. And the look on the face of the youth demonstrated, he thought, that he understood these same reflections without their having to be verbalised.

And he laughed.

The Golden Bow motioned, like go ahead, in terms of annihilating the remaining ceiling Science Priests – he could care about the fuckers in the walls beneath, he could probably burst through the sections already weakened by acid jizz, but fuck it, at this point, he'd do these cunts up here and that would be sufficient at this point. – Already losing interest in the genocide he'd sworn? It wasn't that – it was just – he felt, he had an instinct for this – that that was not moving forward, whereas.

This.

A final poignard in the skull of the corpse of 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, displayed an edge, a bitterness, again, that he liked to see in a youth.

The Golden Bow hadn't let up stabbing a thing that was obviously a corpse, just in case, you could say but – still, and it was smart; verify, do not trust, but still – he kept poignarding its face, the thing he called, from whence he could attest – a coupon.

The corpse of the thing phased out of reality, and when it did, the wall of masturbating Science Priests at the back end of the Boss Battle chamber, revealed all along – it had been fake: The whole thing shifted inside the wall, on the left:

revealing an entirely new space.