They leapt for the walls against the masturbating figures inside pressing themselves against them through the weird – glass like? – material there. Pressing their permanently artificially masturbated genitalia against them.

This was entertainment. Through a membrane. This was entertaining for them. Entertainment.

Quick flashing then retreating numbers between him and reality indicated decreasing health stats. But he hadn't taken a full bark, and – the Golden Bow immediately reaching behind for his titular weapon – apparently he hadn't either.

The Hero Dreamt ran at him.

He got so close to the giant parody of him that in fact it/the thing immediately replaced the super[natural]shotgun imitation out of its hand with its massive side-sword – mid-reload which was a weird jerking, almost – not almost – artificial – seeming – not seeming – movement – as if in fact this was merely an animated sequence, a break in time. Swinging the steel implement in a wide arc the Hero Dreamt leapt back simultaneously firing his shotgun in its vast parody of a corpus.

A slight, almost indecipherable visual differentiation was displayed across the thing's already surgically damaged exterior, and with it, between him and reality – at the top of his... perspective, the thing through which, anyway, he perceived reality –

a red glowing bar appeared across reality.

An immediate, actually pretty miniscule chunk of it promptly flamed in again, in a weird, merely indicative visual animation – indicating a small portion of damage taken. Back again far enough the thing replaced the shotgun immediately on its back again with the sword. Awaiting again a show of refilling the thing from shells he couldn't perceive the source of.

A Golden Arrow hit him square in one of his/its eight foreheads.

– 65 health/he had 65 health –

The beast's long red bar was – only again minimally reduced with the arrow from the golden quiver of the Golden Bow.

The Hero Dreamt ran forward at him discharging shells in its wide corpus, minimal reduction, almost not there, of the bar above them all – his perspective on reality. Barking again, he was almost out of shotgun shells. The giant him replaced for the sword, swung a wide arc, the Hero Dreamt ducked beneath it, reducing him to a demonic-geometry half-unit of space.

He felt – a weird observation – but that this reality was blocky, and in fact worked merely in terms of simple divisible segments. Beyond this he didn't know and he couldn't exactly contemplate the thing through stark logical tiers, in here, ducking beneath the same swing of the side sword; stepping up in timing and firing the shotgun again for a minimal almost pointless reduction in the red bar atop perspective.

Diving forward to activate the simple fuck's switch out for side sword once more, tropism, he barked another basically pointless shot into its corpus, ducking beneath the same swinging arc of the side sword, running forward again and back, in the same triggering sequence he'd – by this point – memorised. – He'd need an unfeasible number of shells to kill the thing in this –

fashion –

pointless; it was pointless – he realised – there had to be something – else – some –

The ceiling panel above him opened, and its Science Priest occupant ejaculated all over him.

Great descending cloudy globules of what was obviously malevolent ejaculate – grey, yellowy – there was piss in it: it was the yellow pissy semen-ejaculate of someone with a perturbed urethral passage, bits of blood in it too – but despite the various other colours and liquids present it was obviously/predominately, this was its primary identity – minging great globules of foul artificially stimulated rotten cum. It smelled. Of that. As well.

From the ceiling it hit him in the face and chest and his clothes. And immediately his vitality reduced from 60 to 40.

In the moment the jism was ejaculated from him/it/the thing, the front of the masturbator device had opened. It had types of motors, he saw looking above, that increased the range of the semen attack, so that – it could probably shoot that shit a half mile.

The giddy sexual mania on the coupon of the sick cunt disgusted the Hero Dreamt; the cum on his person, face – body, glands, disgusted the Hero Dreamt. – So distracted was he, by disgust, he didn't notice the enormous side-sword swinging in that same repeated swipe that almost through his body flung him at the wall.

The number 15 flashed between him and reality.

He was going to.

Die!

The Golden Bow, from nowhere, ceiling panel above them still open showing the reversed gravity orgasming – orgasming; constantly, perhaps – no perhaps – absolutely more than normal – Science Priest – unleashed an arrow at the face of the giant parody, setting it back momentarily, but only adding minimal additional damage.

The Golden Dude/Lad dragged the Hero Dreamt back out the larger chamber into the corridor; the same time that the Hero for Killing the Demon who Dreamed Him unleashed what he had in his shotgun above at the chittering grinning cumming dirty fucking demon bastard fuck-hole slice-beast who'd sexually assaulted him, basically, by cumming on him at distance with liquids.

BANG!

He fired, dragged/dragged back he fired, dragged-back he fired once more – but one blow was sufficient. – The excited fool had left its panel open and its bowels and guts, its organs, the weird grinning clit-cunt off its face; its half-face itself, the attached interior torch-flasher that had –

this/this –

it –

revealed the expression of complete demented pleasure, of joy at abusing, a sick need for sexual humiliation, for – he didn't know – it showed it all. It was in that grin that exploded all over the inside of the thing's personal masturbation chamber, vibrating its organs in a continual mad splattering rebounding rush of splattering bowels and such matter.

Firing, he fired, he fired again – not caring – if he was to die here his last act would be defiling the corpse of the sick cunt who'd spunked all up him – but in that moment the interior-gravity died and all the organs, all the puss sacks, all the polyps, cysts, sacks of glands and liquids and skin tags, all of it – fell from the ceiling and absolutely caked them both in the gore that at one point very recently had constituted the somewhat still living corpse of the sexual criminal Science Priest who'd ejaculated all over him.

The last thing out of the panel cage above:

A hundred shells and a hundred vitality –

So that was now the number of shells he had. A hundred health was supplemented by the 15 he already had.

“A powerup, apparently, and – you needed it –” a special kind of health powerup that was able to breach the one hundred barrier. It was a sphere with an x at the centre made from two crossed artificial masturbator Science Priest cocks. And – did he even have to say: fuck them.

The Golden Bow dragged him back all the way to the start of the original corridor. The Parody of the Hero for Killing the Demon who Dreamed Him Boss. Followed.

The Boss rammed its sword far enough up the passage it nicked him, just – 105 vitality – almost wiping out any additional benefit from a powerup he'd suffered a cum rape for but anyway fuck that thing that was dead now, he'd like to piss on its corpse, and – but its corpse was the blood and organs he was caked in. So that process would involve bending his dick back and pissing on himself. Another humiliation. Not the best day of his life. And it was his birthday! This was a lie. – How could he know, in fact. – It could be. It very much could be was the point, his birthday. But. – He thought it was. It was his birthday. He asked his organs. It was not his birthday. – Also not a great day when you remembered the tit door. And that whole farrago of not fun things. He thought he'd refrain from performing this act on himself, anyway, the piss thing. Bending his dick back and pissing on himself. In order to piss on the corpse of his enemy. Who was now only the top layer of corpse matter plastered across his body. He wouldn't do the bending back cock thing. – Even if only to avoid perturbing his own urethra. He'd endured enough already for one – without a perturbed urethra – day – one – life – boss battle. And it was his birthday!

Replacing out the sword for the shotgun the giant irrevocable thing fired both barrels inserted – it resembled one of their cocks in one of their masturbators he couldn't help but think – right along the hall.

It was an exact replica of the super[natural]shotgun. Weird lights trilled across its surface. Weird organs and gears constituted its material. He didn't want to think of the thing as a giant cock of a Science Priest and hoped that whenever this was over, if he survived it, he could leave that image behind of – he could leave images behind in fact.

But anyway if anyone. He. And he had the means of doing that. He thought. That was:

Mass slaughter.

He did not enjoy. The liquids of others. On him. Except certain, you know, other things when a certain supernatural –organ, he felt – his opinion – but this was really a matter for a different – for his birthday maybe – you know real one – scenario –

He meant out of vaginas.

He meant the liquids out of vaginas – anything else – was not – was less than – it just wasn't.

They processed – him and Golden Boy – all the way back up to the fake screen of fake infinite – really one Science Priest repeated, the back wall at the incipit of the corridor... and watched. The entrance to this original hallway was too small for the giant fuck to enter with its shotgun. This did not stop it firing ceaselessly a supernatural shotgun that apparently had infinite things in it to shoot at them, however.

“How the fuck can we even do this?”

Only pressed together right up against the back wall could they avoid the damage from that shotgun that fired ceaselessly at them. Apparently this was just beyond its range – for they'd both taken damage in the last step before reaching it.

Only here. In this one unit of space, maybe time, final unit, could they – Science Priest masturbators masturbating, blissfully fucking their fuck machines, watching them – could they, repose, for a moment; think.

Think about what to do. The same time weirdos watched them, unblinking, masturbating, with the eyes... with the eyes of ones that were... masturbating. Currently. Live masturbation. In your area. They liked to watch them – the two of them – even doing stuff pretty innocuous, and masturbate. While they did that. Their own cocks. And fuds as well why not, some.

They had the far away dopey/angry expressions of those, in life – for whom the seconds masturbating were those for which they lived.

The pleasure of masturbating was what the Science Priests were into. Maybe even at a cultural level. He didn't know.

He stared direct in the eyes of one currently masturbating. Licking the cunt sewed on its lips. Gyrating its hips superfluously against the ceaselessly fucking machine made from internal organs. Looked like mainly livers.

Maybe even at the cultural level, he thought, or in fact, he wasn't one for thinking this kind of stuff, but the whole thing, no, it was religious. This was their religion. And his being inside this fake reality of... challenges, and puzzles, and combat, and whatever it was – having to do things within an abstract, maybe even ad hoc narrative structure, secondary to this place – his being here. It was this that was religious. This was a rite. These were the geometries, the arrangements, and the acts, that brought them – these things – the Science Priests – to God. The one whom he stared at came inside itself and regurgitated it all again inside its cock to fuel it all once more, and infinitely, until he/it died rather – he didn't know the biology, but just watching its/his gyrations, its/his sly masturbations, it was obviously exactly this, or – something close.

“This ain't working. – How do we kill this?”

The Golden Bow had no response, except to notch/pull, and loose a golden arrow, merely straight down the hall. Ending in its corpus; taking about as much damage as a close-range shotgun bark, but solely this – and then called back, in whatever manner that was, that he did that: the arrow flying back along the hall and rejoining its quiver.

“They're really infinite?”

“They're not infinite, they just come back.”

“Well – let's – just do this, right.” Too simple a solution it seemed neither of them had thought about of

Notch/Pull/Loose – Return

Notch/Pull/Loose – Return

Notch/Pull/Loose – Return

Notch/Pull/Loose – Return

Notch/Pull/Loose – Return

Notch/Pull/Loose – Return

Notch/Pull/Loose – Return

Notch/Pull/Loose – Return

Notch/Pull/Loose – Return

Notch/Pull/Loose – Return

Notch/Pull/Loose – Return

Notch/Pull/Loose – Return

It would take a few hours at this rate, but if the fuck would die in this fashion, neither of them gave an obese care.

Notch/Pull/Loose – Return

Notch/Pull/Loose – Return

Notch/Pull/Loose – Return

Notch/Pull/Loose – Return

Notch/Pull/Loose – Return

Notch/Pull/Loose – Return

Notch/Pull/Loose – Return

Notch/Pull/Loose – Return

Notch/Pull/Loose – Return

Notch/Pull/Loose – Return

Notch/Pull/Loose – Return

Notch/Pull/Loose – Return

Slowly/sadly, the Science Priests watched them. Jacking themselves off. Not even hand jacking, getting jacked off by their own bodies; their own transplants. Fucking transplants was the national pastime. Fucking continually transplanted organs. They'd made cunts out of them; or, less, often, very large hard and spongy ramming cocks: