They communicated. And he saw how they did that.

There was an angle through each of their separate units, the panels that individually they fucked themselves inside; not, apparently, or in some sense he didn't understand, two dimensional, at the same time totally two dimensional – but despite this strange fact of how this looked, in fact not despite because of it, there was a way in which through the angles every one of those Science Priests in the ceiling could – through this haze of misinterpretation, this is what he saw:

They each hiked up their skirts – their robes at the back – revealing arse insertion sockets, half prolapsed hanging out dilated rectums, half the – what did he know about the weird future technology of Theust – this place, as the Golden Bow had called it, of Science Priests.

But here was what it looked like to him. An insertion point, made of machine parts, mixed with flesh, the flesh described above of the falling out dilated prolapsed arseholes. This was what each of their arses looked like. Through the various mechanical machine noises accompanying.

Each of them filed themselves in a type of zigzagging queue through each of their individual segments that allowed the machine-cock-vagina masturbation machines that each of them had attached – inextricably/surgically – onto their cocks to penetrate through the specific angles that allowed that, in the specific fashions that allowed that, of each of these segments. Ports through each that allowed – but only these kinds of – insertions.

They stuck their cocks through them. They were glory holes essentially – that this specific concept/term leapt through his mind so readily through an identityless haze leant him the hope that perhaps all those memories he was ashamed of and regretted he'd hopefully get back; the ones pertaining to that sort of activity slash hole on a toilet wall, because they were, those memories, actually/obviously/totally the fun ones.

These demented cack hounds, each of them, stuck their weird cock contraptions through the appropriate angles – confused, uninterruptible – two dimensional as three dimensional but really two dimensional – and inserted their cock-vagina contraptions inside the prolapsed dilated arsehole machine contraptions that they simultaneously hiked up the back of their skirts to reveal – in confusing non-interpretable angles, and the bizarre shapes that this fulfilled in their manipulated physiologies.

This – all of this formed the weird geometries of a ritual.

He couldn't see them. Even. He couldn't even see if they were flat beings, or transported through, or merely images, or merely interpretations – or if they were really there. If the weird angles were solely to allow them to penetrate the penis-cocks into the arses of the Science Priests next them, in the wicked file, in a wicked undulating dance – which was what was happening, beneath wicked chanting. All of which, especially the sub-literal chanting, the coordinated urethral clacking, the see-through panels arse-slapping, fulfilled the formulas of a new ritual, this time – this time in order that they might express the meanings implicit in their spiritual communications.

Through the angles; through flat panels, through planes, their inside out cock vaginas penetrated the hiked-up skirt dilated prolapsed mechanical arses of the one, respectively, next them. This was fusion, spiritual and cerebral. This was – he could see. This was how they communicated. This was how they communed! This was how they attained transcendence, ejaculating inside their bodies, ceaselessly and having this recycled.

Exchanging ideas and concepts; exchanging sores and bruises on arses – exchanging – he didn't know – but it became explicit when finally it attained a volume high enough to penetrate the panels. It was the mad chanting of the Science Priests, and what this revealed about what they were desperate to do to them.

“They'll fuck us to death.”

“Who's going to let them do that, you?”

He liked the edge in the eyes of the Golden Bow. They could fuck each other. The Science Priests. The Heroes. Him – the Hero Dreamt and Dreaming – and – the Golden Bow; they were not here to fuck. Especially each other. – Definitively not each other. Perhaps women. Where there women? But no. Not here to fuck. They were here to murder.

Through the panels he saw them fuck and masturbate simultaneously via full insertion. The outside ramming cock machines attached to the ostensibly, perhaps, female Science Priests – these worked as cocks as well. They had a very wide and extensive fuck range. These attached to cunt cock-insertion devices. Of the females. He could see them ram extremely hard and deep into the 'female' Science Priests they were attached to, these cock gadgets.

This was the masturbation part of the process – no religious ritual was complete without a healthy dose of sly, painful, machine aided masturbation. The fucking part was on the full extension of the surgically attached cock machine made from machine parts, gears, etc., bowels, livers, of course – segments of other unidentifiable organic tissue; organs, and also obviously parts of bits of cocks, in veined shafts, ramming.

These on the full extension entered the prolapsed partly machine anuses, of each respective Science Priest, in the panel next it. In this democratic process, 'male' or 'female' – it was only fair – it was only different plugs – it was only – 'male' and 'female' – it was only different sockets – it was only just – male and female – righteous – despite their being an obvious hierarchy because the Science Priests in the corridor did not take part in this great meditative-prayer – fair that each of them in the ceiling had their arses fully satisfied; that each of them pass along what had to be communicated.

What had to be communicated was this:

Notch/Pull/Loose – Return

Notch/Pull/Loose – Return

Notch/Pull/Loose – Return

Notch/Pull/Loose – Return

Notch/Pull/Loose – Return

Notch/Pull/Loose – Return

“Ah. Oof. Craahh.”

The barking of its shotgun.

“Ah. Oof. Craahh.”

The barking of its shotgun.

“Ah. Oof. Craahh.”

The barking of its shotgun.

The bar reached half way. By means of this boring unentertaining process they'd taken half the life-force of the Parody of the Hero for Killing the Demon who Dreamed Him Boss.

“Ah. Oof. Craahh.”

The barking of its shotgun.

And this was the moment it changed.

And at this point the Parody of the Dream Slave Boss reversed itself back along the hall:

Now the repetition; now the sounds beneath, were replaced only by the subvocal chanting, of the Science Priests; of the guttural, demonic yelps and strangled croaks out their throats – and the whistles – urethras – their orifices only designed for fucking – what sounds they could still produce were the strangled, guttering chants and chitters that were now rising towards a crescendo.

All this time the Golden Bow did not quit loosing but the

“Ah. Oof. Craahh.”

The barking of its shotgun.

“Ah. Oof. Craahh.”

The barking of its shotgun.

Ceased; and the thing – began the process of – reversing back up the hall.

Its torso retreating, the Golden Bow still never ceased loosing his arrows that always returned to him – even if the minimal each took from the top bar was still as meagre and in fact time consuming.

Notch/Pull/Loose – Return

Notch/Pull/Loose – Return

Notch/Pull/Loose – Return

Notch/Pull/Loose – Return

Notch/Pull/Loose – Return

Notch/Pull/Loose – Return

The Parody of The Hero for Killing the Demon who Dreamed Him Boss, reversed right back along the hall to the wall of further wanking Science Priests; reversed back up on the stage in there. It paused for a second, eight faces sewn together, bollocks under its throat, just being a weird approximation of the Hero Dreamt, and then it – leapt.