18, slavering, rotting, blood-stained, head to toe – shedding powders out of their orifices – he saw what they were – they were –

demons;

eyes: dried out organs bags.

Only the black release that slaked its sick passions on the leakage off his soul. These foul slumping cunts; he hadn't seen them because – fighting his mind he apparently had been nowhere else but inside it.

But now between the grids, in the plains, in the planes, he saw that those, tracing back along the limited history of his own consciousness, those demons – 18 – had been coming for him.

[the Cyclops behind him glanced a battle-axe first off his back and then in his hands and] the King in Grids and Mind, clutched the axe in the gap that appeared before him. – With a strength derived whole-part from the pain that fuelled him, he swung and cleaved immediately through three shoulder portions, of the dried demonic organic sacs – splattering clumped up portions of blood and organs.

Half their bodies were the dried powered blood; while other parts burst all too apparently and dramatically in the liquid of weird fecund organ juices. His face; his hands were smacked in the bloody organ parts. Blood or liquid trailed down his forehead.

Reversing back, he turned around against the swiping crackling dried limbs of the demon things, all rotten, dried up inside; strange scars, intentionally hacked into their respective epidermises, and coated again in blood that –

Clearly – somehow this was obvious to him – wasn't their own. That blood. They were painted in crimson; masquerading their rotten flesh – making their scars art – in the twisted realisation of a – he didn't know; whatever thing it was that they were living out before him.

All this was in his mind; all half-conscious, semi-conscious – not knowing who he was: fighting through the weight in his mind. He only knew – that pain; and the strength that he thought, he didn't know – whole part or otherwise, he didn't know; didn't – was derived from it.

Five around him, slashing his parts; he swung his axe, backing up/debilitating half the limbs of the rest. They fought at their extensions – but his axe wouldn't quit; casting airborne blood powders, and flying smears of the liquid streaks across the grids – contained apparently in burst organ pockets – they cast powders; the sand itself, with the sundry other liquids that made the place.

Those streaks of liquid blood and the powders met in air, falling in reacting chemical thuds, boiling and spurting over in the piles of ash and everywhere.

Backing up running back/behind, two dried entities leapt through the air, teeth blazing crimson; their mad black eyes connected to a metaphysical absence that no mind could contemplate, on him, again on him. – The King hacked – the King hacked back at the creatures, on the floor now, standing, and kicking, and pouring weird liquids – close quarters knife off his chest [glanced out there] – he stabbed in eye sockets with a mania that could not be reduced; connected to that thing it was.

He stabbed and hacked, plunging the short blade with such fury their dried reduced skull-panels shattered in more of that weird liquid; more of that weird powder – dispersing everywhere and on him.

He saw this happen and rolled manically out of the way of it, burning acid holes on the portion of floor only milliseconds previous his body had occupied.

Rolling; rolling, he kept rolling now – and then forward and on his feet – ten left and bolting with impossible fury toward him – he didn't know; he didn't know, he didn't know – nothing anymore; no thing – nor how long this mad energy could sustain him.