The thing paused, apparently, picking its moment before leaping-screaming. – It was a clearly manufactured scarred up entity that clearly at some point had been for some other use; scarred up and clearly demonic as he was with hacked up flesh and disgusting seeping abscesses. It had parts of children's faces sown upon its chest and arms – it had been at some point manufactured; this original, as some kind of toilet, or bidet, was what it was – before it had been possessed by the fake-soul of the demon that clearly now operated it.

A toilet bowl grew out of its chest that currently and actually currently still in this moment – he could see this, the Dreaming Demon Killer: the toilet bowl sticking out of its chest still currently contained shit, and in fact as it jumped around in order to seize the Dream Slave quantities of that shit, slopped out the sides.

He noticed too, that this demonic entity was reduced; he was strangely flat, or angled, so that, translated through layers of fakeness, turning around it avoiding its swiping talons that were really, he could see, some sort of toilet handle. This stage he – merely observed him/his/its attacks.

The Dream Slave had fought them millennia; he realised, and if there was anything consistent in the combat modes of demons – it was that they were invariably based upon deception – and repetition.

But watching him, in order to understand his environment, he stepped back and around – it felt blocky/his movements – they felt different; as if there were units of space in fact and that each moment in some sense – he could feel this – a part of this, was reduced to a number; a numbered space that as he stepped around the toilet-demon, reduced – just snatched impressions; but also all also some kind of manufactured/reduced/repetition of a demonic mode – maybe even of reality – he didn't -

know.

– All these thoughts at pace as he continued to step around the demon, observing its movements – in order to understand how best to kill at pace this entity/these entities when he was no doubt exposed to also/likely very limited variations on this theme in the immediate future.

A vast internal experience... connected him in all ways except consciously to a memory, he thought, that explained all of this to him.

But the toilet-demon himself, reduced as he was. – It was rendered in some sense blocky. – In some sense flat; angled: in some sense repeated – it was there – but in some sense he couldn't completely understand – it was not really there.

Even though it was there, and obviously there. – It was three dimensional; just tricked out in some way not to appear so. Or the other way around. Unlike the walls; the floors; the ceiling, of this system of corridors. Two dimensional. Tricked to look 3D merely. Maybe he could say this for everything. – He could see a turning at the end; forward and left from where he currently was – obviously a maze.

But everything but him, and him, and this weapon that –

Perceiving something charge in the toilet, perceiving a growing weight beneath the faeces matter slopping up and over the side of the bowl of the fake-soul demon operated toilet-demon entity's toilet bowl, there it –

he backed up quick so that –

nicking his side the shit acid shit agonised him momentarily. He was still moving; not dumb enough to stop. The thing didn't merely have talons, toilet handles – it had a bowl of liquid acid shit: brown and yellow in its chest bowl – hot shit fountains – at him it shot shitty-vomitous canons out the bowl, and now in the present – he'd just moved in time for – more – at him.