The great, winged robot

did pursue him.

But why?

He-Thing

readied himself for battle,

remembering what his mentor,

the legendary freed warrior-slave,

Zolantos the Merciless Cripple,

had taught him:

"Regulate your breath.

Calm your heart.

Stretch your muscles without moving.

And prepare

for the music of death."

The great, winged robot

launched its attack,

falling from the sky like a berserk bomb,

its metallic talons poised.

He-Thing readied his Nebule Blade,

for with it he had slain

Blixa, Queen of Gorilla River;

Faschain the Charlatan and

every last one of the Five Husks;

the Quasar Dragon that had

disintegrated the Glass Sun;

and many, many others,

all of great renown and villainy.

If the Nebule Blade could not slay

this fiendish construct,

no weapon could.

He-Thing let out a battle shout,

challenging

the great, winged robot.

It responded by increasing speed,

tearing at the sound barrier.

The world trembled —

and the battle was met.

And while War Dog

growled and barked,

He-Thing’s Nebule Blade

merely grazed

the great, winged robot’s armor.

Shock ran up He-Thing’s arms,

the Nebule Blade

clanged out of his hands,

shattering into 7 pieces

in a flash of resigned light,

never to slay again.

The great, winged robot

let out a computerized roar,

as its wide, sharp claws

grasped He-Thing,

lifting him as though

he were as weightless as an ant;

and in an explosion

of black, oily flames,

the great, winged robot's

rockets

spat out thick columns of molten air,

catapulting both it and its prey

into the sky.

Fear coiled

in He-Thing's stomach

as he watched the ground

spiral

thousands of feet below —

He was going to lose everything.

The great, winged robot

squeezed its talons tighter,

He-Thing's ribs cracked, and

lightning stained the sky

and then disappeared

like a murderer.

The Nameless Mountains rumbled —

while they had been

but silent peaks

a moment before,

now they swelled with

volcanic arousal.

They burst!

Rock, smoke, and tyrannical lava

ejaculated into the atmosphere,

filling the air

around He-Thing

and the great, winged robot

with fulminating, incinerating, invisible

fire,

and liquified, black-hot, sulfurous

rock

from the pulmonary depths

of the Omniverse.

The great, winged robot

ripped He-Thing's loin cloth

from his powerless body,

and He-Thing felt

a thick, hard point

jab against the small of his back.

Fear invaded He-Thing's heart and soul,

and the great, winged robot

sighed

like an exploding train

as it plunged its corroded member

into He-Thing's helpless innards.

He-Thing had never known

such violation,

had never thought

such unimagined penetration

was possible

in all his long years

in the Omniverse.

His insides,

previously inviolable,

collapsed

like despondent waves

against the shores of his ego.

The great, winged robot

ripped deeper

with its metallic member,

while

the mob of volcanoes below

discharged magmatic acids

of perverse dynasty.

The dishonor He-Thing experienced

was worse than death,

until the great, winged robot

finally

let out a shrill,

sand-shattering whistle,

trembled like an earthquake,

slackened its grip,

and

dropped He-Thing into the sky.