But everything good in reality, everything holy, everything sacred; all beauty, had been destroyed, had been, and was in the process of being.

His glance induced ugliness in the structure of reality itself. The mad pulsing internal hormone sack of the television tube, the insane throne room, with the spitting bitches on the walls and the throne itself halfway up the side of its coupon panelled surface; the Womb Booth - the pouring internal hormone organ cleaving confusion of transitory layers in surveilling flesh, all of it, combined in the made space in which he now found himself, pulled out of reality and across it, by means of this thing.

This final entity, this final combination, that had rendered demonic any talent the Cyclops race had ever had.

He saw it this way, and therefore it was, trailing a cape made from his mother's internal organs; genital lips and kidneys and the inside-out ransacked flesh he'd pulled out of her. There was nothing good. There was nothing beautiful; mother still hacking herself behind. She tore off the combination; the weird green gown of the Queen of Waat to get at the flesh under there too. She hacked that too; she pulled and hacked at the flesh she pulled out of the supernatural organ beneath her breasts; more flesh than was feasible she pulled out: more organs than were in any sense biologically possible - but it all was... possible, because he had been born:

This entity pulled out of the immeasurable planes of hateful non-existence, pulled out of the source of all deception. He had been genetically wed to the Cyclops race. And this obscene matrimony, made any of this, all of this, in any way possible.

His mother pulled out her own organs, and many more behind, because he saw her that way. He saw the infinite organs she pulled out herself and scattered all around her; he saw the infinite piles of biological matter hatched in Theustian vats.

And mummy was connected to that now too. He saw the Hortagian organ buckets flung willy nilly around television tubes and the source of the genetic catastrophe that they rebirthed/dissected in repetitive rituals that fulfilled their sick needs and rebred in blasphemic rituals deep in the infernal laboratories of Theust. He saw her/he saw it all, he saw it all and the worst, the worst things, that three worlds had to offer - these worst things -

These were the things he'd keep.

And the next thought, the next necessary ideological passage, the next holy reality to be inducted uninterrupted purely by means of this Son of Supernatural Organs -

- What had she really

- fucked!

...to make this thing? -

And everything else would be eradicated -

And the instant this thought was elicited in their minds, purposefully, seeing it there and therefore inducing it in them -

- this same second the final terrible scope of New Works had been revealed, this same second, Massimo Diap'leptico Rampposz felt a brand new and abrupt connection - the same time something he only now realised had been building all along,

combine -

Everything would be eradicated. Nothing would remain.

And it was his consciousness with that of the others.

My son.

- Pheel's thought played through all four of them.

Art[ion] Mlckk'n Inchance-rify, The Duke of Multicoloured Realities and the Thing off his Throat.

Massimo Diap'leptico Rampposz, final Chief Operator of Old Works.

Pheel Cazzo, scribbler.

Finally, Pry-Boak, leapt from his horse, skidding to join each of them; all four now standing before the two demonic entities, in that throne room, floating across reality itself above them. Standing upon wind.

The queen pulled out her own organs, designing a new visage in the rips off her vagina; the shreds of her once perfect breasts, hacking circles in her face now, drawing weird blasphemic hieroglyphs all over her milky skin, scarring it permanently with words that meant death, non-existence; the removal of love, mass killing of human beings/

the virtue inherent in torturing children.

The new and terrible goodness that her son would see in these actions; that her son would make holy by merely seeing. Merely by seeing. - Merely by seeing it that way he'd make this Holocaust a sacred ritual.

Father.