The next morning our triumvirate of heroes descended the stairs.

“POINT... I euhm.. I've succeeded at creating another team member. According to my own wishes and preferences.”

“We've seen that, yes. It's disturbing on many levels. This poor woman doesn't even have the capability to talk any more.”

“POINT... you enjoy your women to speak?”

“Well yes highly sexist grandfather. I'm glad you asked. See, they make up fifty percent of the global population, feels kinda wrong to not at least get their point of view once in a while. You know, just as a change of pace.”

“POINT... well, her point of view is now her own bosom. Which technically is an improvement. Imagine only staring at breasts all day.”

“I can see your point in all this, it's sticking out of your pants. So please zip up, it's making me uncomfortable.”

“POINT... apologies, I did not take into consideration your arousal whenever you see male nudity.”

Oooh, William putting down the smacktalk out of centre court. Five points to Gryffindorf.

“POINT... real recognizing real here.”

“If both of your circlejerking was any heavier you'd be in need of a nap and medication to fix erectile dysfunction. So please don't involve me any further in your sick and twisted kinkplay.”

William showed the hero several gang-signs requiring only a single finger. The middle one. It probably represents a gang with a singular focus. Which is to tell people to fuck off over and over again.

“That does sound like the type of useless gang both of you would be a member of. Especially after we found out where William's fingers have been all night. Now let's continue on our way. Those mountains aren't going to keep waiting if the narrative structure of this story is in any way as reliable as it seems to have been so far.”

Both the narrator and William agreed while his new masseuse bot stayed silent, her bosom-body swaying gently in the wind, smelling of hopes and dreams and youthful enthusiasm.

“Remind me what kind of book is being written here again? Because it sounds like the kind of trashy novel people write when they're poor, destitute and aiming for a section of the market that have lost any sense of self long ago, in a galaxy far far away. For whom bathing privileges have turned into bathing requirements by a certain brand of the government who are trying to prevent an incel uprising.”

Having spoken of autobiographical incel uprising, our intrepid heroes set off on their new modes of transportation. The hero on a horse he stole from the stables.

“Borrowed, not stole. Besides, it's important we get there to save the world.”

A potato by any other name will still be called a hero for some reason. But very well, our intrepid potato borrowed a horse to supposedly save his own ass while his loyal follower William now rode the mechanical bosom-bodied woman. The fourth wall just slid back into the subconscious mind of the reader until the writer needed another deus ex machina to appear. Which, knowing his writing abilities, would be soon enough.

William, now able to rest on two giant pillows while on the road towards salvation, he contemplated about his own life.

“Point... no, I was just sleeping/motor-boating my ride. Last time I get contemplative the world nearly ended. So you don't want me to do that. Or anyone with an IQ over five basepoints beyond the norm. That's usually how you get cults back in my world. Weird ones too. Actually, now that I think about it, only the weird ones seem to keep existing. Hence why I didn't mind too much after getting dragged into this world. They usually forced me to go to meetings in some dark forest. Where people screwed around with goat blood and wore fancy robes. Thinking they were part of a higher order that would save humanity by having a plentitude of orgies. Bodies writhing and riding into the sunset. Some of the palest asses this world has ever seen conspiring together to have even paler asses join them in a pale-ass-off-contest. Which is rather weird to say now that I think about it.”

“Sounds like a literal hellhole.

“Point... no, the hellhole was on another island. And you needed to pay in ten minute increments for access to that place.”

“Why?”

“Point... well, hell sucks. So did the hole. You do the math.”

“They stuck their...”

“Point... Exactly. They stuck it inside and were blown harder than the second season of the avatar series. Some people told me it was like their souls got sucked out through their pee hole and they couldn't wait to do it again.”

“Sounds like a perfectly reasonable and wholesome thing to do. Remind me to never visit your cesspool of a world though. If you have the leaders of your world queueing up for an immoral glory-hole, I feel like there might be quite a few problems left to solve over there. In a way that even magic is powerless to do much about it.”

“Point... right you are young man. Hence why the big bosomotron now exists. I decided to call her that.”

“No.”

“Point... but it's such a...”

“Still no.”

“Point... you're really no fun you know. Imagine if my nanobots can change five more women like her. And give them connection pieces so they can connect together. Creating the ultra bigbosomotron version five. Because I always wanted to own something with the words version five tacked unto it at the end. Hmm, kinky.”

“Definitely still no. In fact, even if this planet were to cease existing and I'm floating somewhere out there in the infinite black that is desolate existence, please know and understand that my last words will still be no and/or definitely no on this subject matter. Because no person should ever have to die from this much cringe.”

“Point... you don't like the name or you don't like assigning women a proper job?”

The hero stayed quiet and contemplated his response for exactly one week.