He couldn't really interpret the specific features or dimensions from his angle in the ceiling; through all the organs that had been smeared up the walls. It was an entirely new place, an entirely new chamber, was all. – All he could observe was the Golden Bow directly beneath him – what he could see was his face, and his response to what he saw there. And it was not – his joy was finished, it looked like, because he was seeing something. Clearly was. He didn't like understatements, in fact he preferred dramatic, extreme, and in fact often bizarre and worrying overstatements, but this, he could see, on the face of the youth was – well, it wasn't good.

“You have to see this,” loud enough he could hear it through a transparent ceiling and gore.

“What is it?”

“Just... You have to see - this, is all.”

“Give me a second, here, I have to...”

“Murder them all quickly –”

Backing up against the wall farthest from the new chamber, poignard in one hand, the Golden Bow hanging from the other, the Hero Dreamt couldn't read what was happening there, on the face of the youth, beside that something was.

So he merely exploded the wall next him.

It was a duty and it was entirely necessary – entirely and definitely necessary, before whatever novel inferno beneath. But – he just had to slay these last 9 fucks, a conspiracy to his being jacked upon. They had to perish, and post-haste.

The wall shattered, then the skull of the demon behind it.

The wall shattered, then the skull of the demon behind it.

The wall shattered, then the skull of the demon behind it.

The wall shattered, then the skull of the demon behind it.

The wall shattered, then the skull of the demon behind it.

The wall shattered and he tore open the guts of a Science Priest, side-sword in its bowels, pulling them out, inserting his shotgun in the already torn open cavity and pulling geysers of organs – they burst in beautiful crimson towers out the cunt's various face holes and arseholes, and in fact all off his orifices; including the still attached cock-masturbator grafted-on-organ-thing. All orifices shot geysers of gore in response to the fully inserted shotgun. After which erupting volcano of bowels, of the last fiend – it was revealed to him that this was the last fiend.

Except one.

The last skittering, chittering, trembling, masturbating fiend backed against the final panel that backed upon, above, that was, whatever new chamber opened in the stark vision of the Golden Bow.

The thing had no cock. No masturbator attached either. – He realised who it was.

It was the Final Cummer.

: The Science Priest who had ejaculated off its cock in the Designated Swallower – in that ritual of mutual communion. That swallower, after which, had then produced the semen shit. Subconsciously he had left this freak to last.

The thing had positioned itself, in the last panel cubicle against the wall – that below opened on whatever it was that had semi-paralysed his friend beneath.

The Final Cummer had backed away in a snake through the various cubicles, fisting the hole where his cock had been. He must have known that it was for him to pay the final price. Anyway, among the Ceiling Science Priests, in this ceiling, for – everything, basically. The Hero Dreamt didn't even know who he was or his identity – a fact that for some reason didn't trouble him – hadn't, particularly, but for this too this fuck would pay. He would, also, however briefly – suffer.

He worked his way back through the snake of interconnected panel cubes – the separated solitary fuck chambers of the Science Priests – stepping over pulsating organs still, semi-independently, for whatever weird reasons of science; still pulsing and bleeding, even half-fitting up on the floor the ones he didn't step on.

He stepped over a foetus, inside an open corpse, of one of the things, that had – the thing had been functioning as some kind of backup pleasure organ, he could see the connections; some biological – some to its brain and its balls. Half its head missing, if it even was a foetus at this point – it had been engineered from that anyway. The poor thing had been performing some sick internal purpose he couldn't guess at at this point. The Hero Dreamt passed over it with two barrels and let its misery end in an explosion that spat back up further gushy entrails on him.

But he could really –

The last fuck would die for this innocent, too.

He stood before the last half-shattered panel that separated him from the ultimate Science Priest. Shot the panels shattering back away and behind, and stood before him. Walking slowly toward him, gently, he placed his twin barrels against the thing's face against the final panel.

Lipping the barrel. The Hero Dreamt watched the impermeable insanity fracture, balk, and then reenergise, in the things eyes; a constant, ceaseless, repetition, of recrimination, and self-justification, and righteousness – always prevailing righteousness. It was this in those eyes; those eyes that were insane. He shot its head off, bursting, the same time, through the panel itself – revealing only another panel behind it.

That was, until this too shattered and then there was nothing left.

Nothing left at all separating him from it.

And what he saw through the shattered wall panel.

The new place.

The new chamber.

This?

This was what -

the Golden Bow -

he -

Running through any sort of rationalisation for how he could continue to exist in relationship to this new knowledge, rationalising how he could even find it in himself to move forward – about how he'd ever be able to –

Step through –

into -

This?

The Science Priest at his feet reached up, no head, face shattered, operated by a brain – elsewhere – in its arse; its bowels, surgically and for this purpose –

The Hero Dreamt,

aghast in its new presence, barely seeing, barely noting what was happening, the Final Cummer stabbed the Hero in the back of the neck and then, flicking it around him, gaining his feet, it – garotted him.

His head flew. – Off him. Rotating. But even in the rotations he saw –

The new chamber -

This?

The terrible reality, the... truth -

About him.

Him?

“Art[ion].”

Dead. He was dead.

Nothing land.

And decease.

Out of that a body reincorporated – he felt it flood into him – the truth of what it was and why it had even happened, a new force in flesh, a new operational structure – he was what he was in relation to this, and good/bad, it wasn't –

but merely.

That he was no longer dead.

The door behind them: no longer visible.

Back/they were back/back/they were back at the infinite masturbating, repeated image, obviously fake, of a Science Priest: jacking itself ceaselessly pushed against the surface. This was immediately in back of them – sick, sick – fucking itself with a tool surgically implanted for this and -

The Hero Dreamt, screamed, for he knew where he was.

“No.”

The voice beside.

“No, please, I beg thee, not again.”

The Hero Dreamt ran straight through the hall – past mad masturbators, into a wider chamber.

Just. They'd just passed through a doorway of tits.

“No, please; please I beg thee not –”

“It can't.”

“It is.”

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.

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 its back; same: a super[natural]shotgunl; the size of a donkey.

The face was wrong, 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. It had eight heads stitched together, with a couple cocks, and eighteen or seventeen mainly human testicles hanging under its 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, the thing, a garland of ballbags, hanging off its neck and throat. It's ear. This was semi-transparent too, the parts that weren't weird colours, but this had been – this thing had been burned, by alchemical flames, he didn't – perhaps merely acid. The colours did not change. Couldn't. It was merely disfigured. And each of the noses had been painstakingly, no doubt with pleasure, broken.

“They call this a boss.”

It whipped its shotgun off its back and fired.