He had his giant hands on his neck, face and back – extricated, side-sword hanging from his dangling hand, raised above the head of the insane thing – he was tossed by the not purely material force of a demon against the hard wall texture directly opposite.

The Hero Dreamt crashed into the direct vision of a weirdo who masturbated straight into his eyes – he couldn't move; but he'd have to – The Golden Bow had him at his side, but 25% health -

they'd get out of this, just one more effort of the kind and –

He was pulled back on his feet and into optimism: despite retreating health he could do this, they could finally kill this thing.

And then he saw the change in its programming.

And immediately regretted his seconds old retarded optimism.

Another milestone reached. Now what would happen? 25% vitality in the red bar of the beast remained. Because – and this was it – if the fevered masturbations of the fucks stuck in the walls and the ceiling could be deciphered in terms of an emotional response to this – they were even more excited – in terms of their own deranged needs and culture – by this. Now. At this point. On the face of it illogically, with its health reduced to 25%.

And he realised it was to be a new boss, yet again – this milestone in health reached. And, that could only mean, here that the thing had an even newer, and even more vile way of killing them.

The thing was pulling and tearing at itself, the whole time they fired the ceaseless arrows and shotgun shells into its corpus that barely elicited anything but the minimum off its red health bar – it was tearing its clothes, it was screaming, it was maiming itself even:

all part of its dread preprogramming, instilled into it by the conference/orgy of the Science Priests – and in fact implicit in the very subconscious processes of its new semen-shit brain.

25% health remaining, the Parody of the Worst Moment in the Life of the Hero for Killing the Demon who Dreamed Him: When He'd Been Cummed Up Boss did this:

It pulled its trousers off, and fisted its own arse.

Apparently, and this, along with an open arse, was the reality he was facing:

Horror that would never end.

It, this thing, it was fisting its own arse.

This was its intention anyway – prefigured in the actions that were –

Inherent in its new form; inherent in its new self, but it this was only... obvious. There was something fake, about it all – about his even being hurt – he was a machine: they wanted this. It was all part of the process: this was a treat, this was pleasure, for them. Everything he did merely played into what they already wanted and what they already wanted that he do.

They weren't rooting for the Dream Slave's defeat, the Science Priests, they did not want their automaton to win. They wanted him to. They wanted the Hero Dreamt, they wanted the dream – that he was the protagonist of, to be a success, to function, to work at all; to be... entertaining.

This was what they wanted.

As the giant went through the preprogrammed animation, that activated the moment it hit 25% vitality, all they could do was watch, and fire; noting that in fact he was invulnerable during this animation. All their projectiles indeed the

Notch/Pull/Loose – Return

Notch/Pull/Loose – Return

Notch/Pull/Loose – Return

Notch/Pull/Loose – Return

Notch/Pull/Loose – Return

Notch/Pull/Loose – Return

that they hadn't quit firing into the

the Parody of the Worst Moment in the Life of the Hero for Killing the Demon who Dreamed Him: When He'd Been Cummed Up Boss

– All of it was a pointless waste – because the thing itself was completely invulnerable through all this; through the entire animated sequence which was what the thing was anyway doing in this current instance right now; that they just stood and watched;

Trying to; the same time, maintain an approach to it that wouldn't permanently scar them emotionally in terms of the vile clearly demonic sights, they were witnessing. All of it, including their roles in it, especially, in fact, merely – were for the entertainment of a cast of perverts, ceaselessly wacking it... to it.

This was the animated sequence activated the instant the Parody of the Worst Moment in the Life of the Hero for Killing the Demon who Dreamed Him: When He'd Been Cummed Up Boss reached 25% health – that he was entirely invulnerable through:

It bent over, its arse pointed at them, and started – it had already pulled its trousers off, revealing its giant cock and balls – it had at least four testicles, enormous boulders –

– add that, as a aesthetic counterpoint, to the delightful garland of bollocks around the thing's neck. It pulled its cheeks apart. And then. First – it started fingering, stretching the edges of its arsehole open, opening and stretching, and trying to anyway, dilate, its own arsehole. It was directly bent over and pointing this image at them. Its open almost fully dilated arsehole was the image this thing wanted to display to them.

The Hero Dreamt and the Golden Bow exchanged a glance, full of... it didn't matter. They were maintaining as much equanimity as possible in relation to a filthy demonic soap opera of the tentative stretching of an arsehole of a giant called the Parody of the Worst Moment in the Life of the Hero for Killing the Demon who Dreamed Him: When He'd Been Cummed Up Boss.

Fingered open enough to reveal a nice healthy gape, enough to get more than one finger in at the sides of it – the thing had fingers at either edge now of its open hole.

For reasons of exhaustiveness, for the fact that he could not unsee every detail: it started, this was the point now at which it started, in fact now it really started – it started ripping open its own arsehole, right in front of them. A thing they were watching. This was the baked in animated sequence the hallmark reached at 25% vitality that the Science Priests so desperately wanted to reveal to them. This filthy vision, for them, was... did he have even to say that it was art.

A massive gape in its arsehole attained, the Parody of the Worst Moment in the Life of the Hero for Killing the Demon who Dreamed Him: When He'd Been Cummed Up Boss commenced the violent pneumatic process of fisting fuck out of its... its own arse – weeping – the Dream Slave wept in the face of this arse – its own arse. Its own arse that it was utterly fist the absolute fuck out of. Really, a lot. And. It was a lot.

Really, the thing, was really really punching fuck out of its own gaping arsehole for their enjoyment. Not theirs – obviously; the Science Priests.

The Hero Dreamt fired off a couple of pointless shotgun blasts but nothing, the animation wouldn't end and the worst thing was The Science Priest's enjoying this insane/inane orgiastic frenzy – having to witness it; of the ceiling and wall ensconced Science Priests –

Pneumatically, it punched fuck out the dilated orifice of its own gaping rear end. Mechanically, joylessly, it was an organic enlarged biological human robot whose purpose was this; inspired by the magisterial insanity of these demented scientists – for this was the highest attainment of their science, that which he witnessed, i.e., again, the pneumatic reach-around arse-directed fistfucking of the giant genetically engineered entity man: a boss; an antagonist, of a boss battle that the Science Priests could give a hoot about who was the victor of. They were actually rooting for him, the Hero Dreamt, he remembered – so long as it was entertaining.

Its bloody fist punching steadfastly it –

“Fuck... me, Bow. This is rotten.”

Really starting to blank out on the absolutely dispiriting vileness of it all, he lost focus on what was happening, until – the feat for which purpose this current performance had been programmed. This goal had finally been attained.

“Of course,” said the Golden Bow.

The feat was that of its attaining a hard cock. All of this was so that that Boss Man could be sufficiently stimulated – sufficiently stimulated, that was, to attain, in this case, his case, a very hard and erect. Cock.

“Vile.”

“Nasty stuff, Hero.”

“Filthy.”

“Quite filthy.”

“Nasty and vile I'd say.”

“– In complete agreement, sir.”

Neither of them were shocked at the new thing that the Boss was, hopefully for its remaining 25% vitality – they had to kill this thing and like now because who wanted to look at –

This:

Trouserless, the thing was trouserless – and no one liked, except in certain very specific scenarios, the trouserless. Which trousers it had not entirely removed so that these were in fact bunched at its feet.

Its trousers were bunched at its feet. But given the space wasn't particularly extensive anyway any impairment of the things mobility was more than compensated – he understood the mindset of the demented fucks in the ceiling that had programmed this thing – in the just foul pervyness of the image; the fact that, the fully reared hard-cocked Boss thing was chasing them around the room, shooting great cummy ropes of semen webs, that burned the walls on contact, and flesh, out of its erect cock; without trousers on, or fully on; and the fact of their still being on, but. not. fully. on. was... no one was for this.

“We have to end it – I can't actually live like this anymore.”

“Hit its back again,” said the Golden Bow, loosing immediately an arrow between one of the four pairs of eyes of the demented fuck: minimal damage to the red bar between them and reality. “I'll distract the cock ropes.”

It was really pathetic, at this point. A fact to which they were both resigned.

Attuned to it, they fell into the correct rhythm, timing the pattern of those ropes flying out the cock of the thing, ropes of semen that was; that became acid upon contact. This was its weapon. In the pause between its bending to half hike up its trousers – part of its animated sequence: the raising of which leg garments it never actually achieved, of course – again before straightening once more and ejaculating multiple gallon ropes of loads.

The Golden Bow fired an arrow, strafing left to right, at a pace that was distracting enough, apparently, because despite the fact he'd already been on its back, the Hero Dreamt dodged behind it, easy enough, avoiding the flying ropes once more; finding himself confronting the baboon swollen derrière of the... whatever it was.

Leaping once, side-sword arranged for its plunge in the back that would take him half-way up the beast towards its open cerebral cavity, a solid cloud of defecated semen-organs and faeces matter from out the ruined arse of the Boss Man avalanche-shat him against/smacking the wall behind – 5 health remaining! – left/remaining/left – he had 5 health! –

Fucking remaining.

And... well, fuck that thing.

He had 5 health.

Death... it was this next.