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Evil from the Fifth Dimension - Now in TECHNICOLOR

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A once crystal clear pond was now dyed an opaque green, clouds of scum issuing forth from a corner and filling the rest of the water. In this corner was one Mr. V, Vaughn Tourai, dunking his head in and out of the water, hair flipped over his face and out of its usual ponytail. He grumbled while spitting out some water, attempting to free his lips of wandering hairs and sticky flakes.


"Stinking ugly bastard sauce," he cursed, dunking his head once more before pulling it back from the water's grasp. "Heather!"


"You don't have to shout," Heather said, back leaned against the wall of the room, legs crossed. She reached out her left arm and flicked a handle that was hidden behind some fake greenery.


"This crap in my ears is making it hard to tell," he said, now speaking loudly in an attempt to carry over the large sound of rushing water as the gross pool drained downwards with a whirl and began filling back up with clear water. It quickly regained a green tint as it passed the hunks of ooze caked at its sides. "That and I'm a little IRATE from what feels like hours of washing. That sick fucker must have laid eggs in my hair or something, guh."


Once the pond had filled to its original volume, so did Vaughn resume his cranial dunking, more clouds of filth quickly tainting the scarred pond.


"Guess I lucked out, huh?" Heather said, shrugging and showing off hands more pristine than when she had arrived. "I only had to take a short dip and it all went off."


"You obviously stole all the good essence from this pond," Vaughn grumbled, submerging his head once more. Heather gave a short laugh. Vaughn's face reemerged with a sneer. "I am done with this stupid washing!"


Heather watched in wonderment and amusement as Vaughn engulfed his own head with flames from the scorching depths of hell, his white locks wavering upward in harmony with the stygian blaze. The fire quickly subsided and Vaughn's face reappeared from a quickly rising cloud of smoke, hair notably frizzier than normal but completely free of any scum.


"Hope you have a good stylist," Heather joked.


"Quiet," Vaughn said, picking himself up from the edge of the pond and struggling to get his frizzed hair back in a ponytail. "Good taste. Too bad that unnecessary exercise in hygiene spoiled it all."


"Looks like it started a plumbing problem, too," Heather said, finger pointing to the pond's center, leading Vaughn's vision in that direction. The pond, now taking on a plethora of shades of brown, yellow, and puce, chucked up bubbles of filth thick with wads and gouts. "A really bad plumbing problem."


Vaughn leapt away from the pond as the sickening bubbles intensified, frothing about the surface and crawling several inches onto solid ground before quivering to a halt and solidifying into a wrinkled film. Puffs of pollution plumed from the putrefied pond, giant germs jumping about the flatulent fog and fading into the amassing miasma above; then something came out of the crap.


"Ew..." Vaughn and Heather said harmoniously. What provoked this gesture of disgust continued to take shape as liver-like globs slid off it, revealing flesh tie-dyed white and red, eyes more crimson than the deepest of bloodbaths, unkempt teeth as gray and cracked as the stained-glass of a forgotten chapel, and a beard of hairs as thick as grubs and a hundredfold slimier. In other words, the god of hobos across the cosmos had revealed himself. "I stand by what I said."


"Who might you be?" Vaughn said, addressing the being that actually wasn't the god of hobos but undoubtedly filled in on his sick days. Draped in countless, bloodstained pelts, the filth beneath him hardening into unsightly veins and lumps of fecal substance, the disturbing individual smiled with his mirror-shattering grin while an unseen hand held back a flailing weapon of mysterious composition that couldn't make up its mind between being a sickle or handful of snakes. "And what do you have against soap?"


"Me?" the being started, his voice a broken radiator clogged full of rat guts. "Oh, I am many things. Your worst nightmare? Your undertaker? Perhaps I am opposite that which you call 'God'? I could put together a whole list and let you pick your favorites, if such kindness was in me."


"That's a stupid answer," Heather grimaced. "You're stupid. And you stink something awful, too."


"Yes, I so do adore this aura of mine," the repugnant individual said. He took a finger to a nostril rimmed with scabs, fresh, old, and forming, and dug deep, the slurping sound audible from two rooms over. He withdrew his finger, producing from his nasal cavity something that looked more like a mutilated crab then a snot wad, and flung it across the room, the glob whispering a shriek as it passed dangerously close to Heather's head. It slapped against the wall and stuck on the spot, twitching, various forms of infinitesimal pestilence scurrying away like an audience in a theatre set ablaze. "Repulsive, some say, but irresistible in my eyes. This grit... this stick... this stench... such rapture!!"


A very thick sloshing sound escaped from the loins of the vile man, his body shaking uncontrollably as it happened. He sighed, letting out an unnerving giggle as fresh muck slid out from under his pile of pelts.


"A sick bastard is what you are," Vaughn said. "One of the sickest, and I've met a lot of them. You stink of more than just your involuntary urges: death crowds around you like a swarm."


The incarnate of filth giggled, obviously taking Vaughn's words as a compliment. A sharp frown creased the demon's face, Kurohiarashi quickly finding its way to Vaughn's grip.


"Words cannot do justice to what I feel towards the likes of you," he said through clenched teeth. As Vaughn's feet skidded across the ground in assuming his stance, so too did Heather's BLOCKSabre take shape before its handle as she pointed it at the enemy.


"The cavalier stuff, not so sure," she said, "but you're a gross fuck. You got me in a bad mood, too."


As if on queue, the space at the sides of Vaughn and Heather warped and a team of six Bouncers emerged, three next to Vaughn and three next to Heather. Whatever uncertainty was placed in the two regarding the sudden arrival was quickly dismissed: the Bouncers immediately pointed their tridents towards the foul-smelling fiend.


"NeBbGhYoULYZZZ!" they all shrieked, eyes flashing madly.


"I was wondering when you'd catch up to me," the man said, smirking as he patted the blood-soaked pelt on his shoulder. The tool he held had an abrupt spasm and finally settled on being a scythe, the inner blade undulating rapidly like a chainsaw. "So you all want to dance, then?" His eyes bulged, veins grasping at their sides and straining to draw them back in, and he let out a bone-rattling cackle. "Fine! The TRUE Mebius will GLADLY cater ALL YOUR FUNERALS!!"

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It is mesmerizing to watch this foul one fight. His dance is tinged with hatred, every move edged with poison that seethes from his reeking from. It is as if Death had been soaked in grime and offal, his pelt of scalps shivering in the damp and slapping sprays of muck with each whirling glance. If this Mebius is pestilent to behold, his moves have the rabid fury of a lycantrhope and his blade is blacker than the space between stars.


These Bouncers have a feel of death about them, too, but it is an old death. They are skinny, alabaster albinos with hair of glass, eyes of emerald, teeth of crystal, and a height most uncanny. Their dance is scuttling, dark and grievous, hissing and gargling through double-jointed jaws as they go, pink tongues lolling. See how their gold tridents glint with each thrust, how the spokes disconnect and extend or are launched out with hornet barbs; watch how they release electrical shocks through the tips and whip silverspun netting to ensnare the foul one: they are a match for any gladiator. I would not relish a duel with one.


And yet, they fall like wheat before the scythe, cut down with showers of milky gore that splatter and seep across the cave floor; the pool is now stained white as the liquid vaporizes on contact. A twirling thrust of the trident to shatter blades from the left with a simultaneous lightning-tipped hornet sting from the right, but Mebius is somehow both places at once, his blade wrapping around trident shafts and scything down the first with a swift, dark slice, cutting through the ivory ribcage of the second with the undulating waves of a living chainsaw; the head of still a third is ripped from the inside out, split across the skull in a dozen places by whipping tentacles that slice through mouth and nostrils to emerge through eyes and ears. It is as if he knows what each move will be, well before it happens, and so emerges unscathed.


And the grin: that of a rat gnawing the marrow from the bones of an eviscerated maiden, the jaws of a shark tearing through flesh, the blood of a skull crushed under a hammer, all with the spidery black whispering sheen of a bucket of cockroaches and the chuckling of claws on slate.


His one weakness is that he has allowed me to see his style. With that, he will be a corpse before this hour is done.




So...hideous! Nothing can adequately describe this foul creature, one whose own mother would have forsaken in a heartbeat. No, a thing such as this could not have been from womb born.


And the speed! I can barely keep up with his movements, even with my brain on overdrive. His blade is ever-changing, literally evolving into new creatures as the fight progresses. Now it is a thin strip of sheet metal that slings out and wraps around the head of a pale Bouncer, popping it off clean as a dandelion, now it is the claws of an eagle, raking through both stomach and face and switching both. The Bouncers shriek if they have voiceboxes left, but dissolve in white fog and clouds of ash as they hit the floor.


Mebius takes sadistic pleasure, ripping off their scalps and slinging them to his teeth; does he really tie those to his cloak!?


Can a sword really stop it? I wish I was home, back home with Gabe, where it was at least quiet and things like this did not exist.


Vaughn! Can you fight such a thing!?


Oh yes. We most certainly can.




Blood. Blood and puke and excrement. Mix it in a blender and feed it to the babies through a straw of bone. Split the skulls and drink the brain. Boil them in the song of Death.


Ah, Death! Would that I could be your Master rather than mere Agent! You were There before the first living being, and now when I slay them all, there will be nothing left for you to take - nothing to take except yourself!


How I love the sound of ripping flesh, the crunch of bone, the shock it makes as it slices through marrow. It is a symphony, a cacophony of damned souls singing their wailing sorrows as they come to suck the souls down, down, down - down into Hell. Hell is where my heart is, and it is now where all you false ones will go, go, go! And especially HIM! The one who must be Found. Found and split into tiny pieces, and the marrow slurped from the bones and the eyes squished like olives. Take these wretched albinos with YOU, in all their lovely, bloody parts. Take. Them. Down there with the blood and puke and excrement. And a glass of cocoa. Warm with your own blood.


But you! You pale ones! I Know where you will be! I know where you have always been! But HIM, HIM cannot be Seen! Not now, not yet! Too many voices, all which must be silenced; silenced into screams that will be the music of a thousand maggots nibbling at YOUR viscera.


And the hair - so soft, so warm and wet. Love to tie it as a skin of man. Hair so white. White and wet. Wet with blood. And pus. And blood and puke and excrement...

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A disturbance rippled throughout the sludge, dozens of citizens letting out horrified screams as a gleaming, seamless claw erupted from the hell kept hidden beneath the filth, digits flexing, joints cracking as the emerged grasper bent away its centuries old slumber. The helpless bystanders that were witness to the coming of the sludge and the beast it heralded now attempted to escape what their memories could not, but many fell in a spray of crimson as the towering arm slammed down beyond the edge of the muck, serrated nails wrenching into brick, bone, and flesh as another nightmarish appendage exploded near where the first arrived, much to the horror of those who dared glance back. Several more arms soon arrived from the sickness-contained underworld, these arms also falling to land like lightning plague and digging into the stone and any whose measly limbs were unable to spirit them away from the disaster. The snapping of joints echoed like the shattered skeletons of a village buried under a crag, the terrifying claws clenching the earth further, provoking agonizing cries from those unfortunate enough to still be conscious underneath their jagged weight, the spindly limbs bending and carrying with them a tidal wave of sludge and whatever ghastly being was attached to the massive arms. The putrid thickness began to part, layer by sticky, hairy, bulbous layer, and as the indescribable face of horror became visible so to did the very howl of Satan shake the core of the world, instantly slaying all those who heard it, the hellish abomination, the king of all monster kings, the end of millions of lives, dragged itself out underneath a sky stained red and black.


Only the king of all monster kings wasn't a king of all monster kings but a simple dung beetle. And the screaming victims were just protozoans practicing for upcoming metal karaoke at Billboard Beb's Sauce n' Biscuits open mike night.


The dung beetle yawned again, oblivious to the colliding metal and spilling of various, questionable fluids that went on only a few feet away. He turned back around to the pile of puke that Evil Mebius arrived in, the veritable mother lode of dung beetle-kind. He would've squealed with excitement if he had the organs to do so. Instead, he busily got to work balling up the gross, sticky, smelly, disease-infested slime that Evil Mebius used in ways best left unmentioned.


Easily ignorable sounds, for a dung beetle, continued to ring out as he rolled his first dung/puke/pus ball away from the pile into a spot that definitely wouldn't be disturbed. Definitely. He scuttled back to the messy mountain of mucus, mulch, and man jam and immediately went to making a second ball. He continued taking no notice to the ongoing conflict, paying no attention to Vaughn's sword strikes and Evil Mebius' crooked parrying nor Heather slinging an impressive string of swears and flipping off the enemy for getting goo inside her galoshes.


Five balls followed, and still did the dung beetle stay heedless of the nearby battle. He did not care that Vaughn managed to scrape Evil Mebius or that Heather kicked a dead Bouncer body at Evil Mebius or that the remaining few Bouncers were complaining in an alien language about not getting paid enough in pornography or that Evil Mebius flossed his gritty teeth with the unemptied intestines of sacrificed lambs that were constipated. Two more balls were manufactured (or, perhaps, dung beetleufactured) in the mean time, the dung beetle pausing in his enjoyed labor to gaze upon the bushel of balled up bum batter he brushed up in a breeze (or so indicated by dung beetle trends). It was then, much to his dung beetley horror, that the filth infested foot of one Evil Mebius crashed down from the not-so-high heavens and rend asundered the hell out of the precious pile of poo pellets. If there was a language of the dung beetles known to humankind, it is certain that the more colorful definitions now ushered forth from betwixt the mandibles of our dung-loving compadre, definitions that certainly would've exceeded the cursing of Evil Mebius over the thought of some barbaric being making perfect circles out of his imperfect manure.


But the dung beetle was over his rage some 0.01 seconds after the pile was smashed and had already returned to the horrendous hillside to procure more poopy, along with whatever else composed the sludge Evil Mebius used as a chariot. It was at this time that something did in fact catch the dung beetle's attention: a glistening man of ice, abruptly falling from a kaleidoscopic seam torn open in the towering heights above. The dung beetle's attention was caught by this wintry humanoid, this stone-cold colossus, this absolute-zero ziggurat, this, this, this homo sapiens frigidus for one very good reason: it fell on him.


Yes, dung beetle guts now lay strewn from underneath a human-shaped hunk of ice. Whilst his ganglia still functioned some, the dung beetle, well beyond dead by most standards (but not dung beetle standards, of course) could not help but marvel at this sparkling monolith that brought so swift an end to his simple existence. Such grace, such beauty, such liverspotty abundance to be had in one's final moments. True bliss...


"Where the HELL did THAT come from!?" Heather said, or, rather, yelled. Vaughn shrugged.


"Don't know, don't care," he said. "What matters is that no one got hurt."


"Bastards!" a mysterious voice cried out. "You killed Larry Liu Len Von Lickspittybelittlerollups!!!"


"I meant no one important," Vaughn said. "Which includes and consists only of Heather and myself."


"Fuck you to the highest degree of offensive fornication," Evil Mebius said.


"Who said that?" Heather said, actually curious to the extremely mysterious voice.


"Larry, Larry, why!" said a brick, the source of the original outburst, mourning the loss of one dung beetle named Larry Liu Len Von Lickspittybelittlerollups crushed underneath a middle-aged man who was also frozen and partially embedded in the ground. To those sensitive to the ways of the run-of-the-mill brick, its sorrow was visible, its very mass granting it tangibility. To those not sensitive, it was just a brick. That could talk. "You were just doing your job, your God-given duty! Why, why, why to be splattered so under the weight of this Antarctic lummox!!!"


"A brick?" Heather said, appropriately cocking an eyebrow. "What the fuck?"


"Excuse me," Vaughn said, moving away from the scene that started growing more central around a brick, frozen man, and green smear on the floor. "I'm just going to be continuing the battle here. Yeah."


"Oi, Matilda, wot 'appened 'ere, now?" a second brick said, suddenly appearing next to the first one that apparently was named Matilda.


"These bastards killed Larry Liu Len Von Lickspittybelittlerollups!" Matilda cried out.


"Wot!? Not Larry Liu Len Von Lickspittybelittlerollups!"


"Ach, whasda cermotion here, ehh?" a third brick said, also suddenly appearing. Vaughn and Evil Mebius were now recommencing their fight in the background, Heather still bewildered at bricks who were gifted only with personalities and speech, nothing else.


"Did I hear Larry Liu Len Von Lickspittybelittlerollups got killed?" a fourth brick said, appearance the same as previous bricks. "What cold-hearted fiend could do such a thing to an innocent fork?"


And so was a pattern detected and continued, the news of a dung beetle's death quickly spreading to and summoning a community of bricks. Heather's eyebrow would've lifted off her face if she cocked it any more.


"Tae think somthin' like this'd happen!"


"Murderers! Murrrdererrrs!!"


"And God said 'So shall I join hands with Buddha and Zeus to smite the slayers of an innocent scarab!'"


"Has anyone seen my shoe?"


"Alright, this shit has to stop," Heather said, finally shaking off the heap of curiosity that had evolved into a mound of confusion. She reached out, grabbing the frozen man by the ankle and hefting him up out of the ground like the club of a fallen troll.


"Look out!" screamed a brick. "She's got a The Architect!"


"A The Architect!? Has she the license!?"


"Run for the hills! And Ewa Sonnet's bosom!"


"Really, I can't find my shoe, folks."


Meanwhile, as Heather wound up the frozen man, now revealed to be none other than The Architect, like a bat aimed to score a homer, Vaughn, even with the sick crap-lover's style in mind, had just about enough of Evil Mebius' future-reading tactics and throat-unsettling smell. He dug into his bag of tricks, threw out the algebra textbook that clearly didn't belong their, then delved into his mind to find the incantation he saved for just such a situation as this.


"QUR'VLY ZAQ GAHH'NO'RI'AHH! DURRRDHEEEVELUG, VIS'KALOOGIE!! <By the sullied right hand of the hooker! I choose you, Durrrdheeevelug!>"


Evil Mebius would've covered his eyes from the blinding flash, but a wave of filth had conveniently washed down from his scalp and into his eyes. By the time he wiped it away with a moist towelette (moist with the ichor of defiled youths, of course), the light had cleared away to reveal something far too stupid looking for any Earth-derived language to find words for.


"Behold, Durrrdheeevelug!" Vaughn said, arms giving a grandiose sweep towards the imbecilic being that didn't even reach up to his knee. "He's so stupid, the future doesn't know what to do with him and wastes all its time concentrating on him!"


"What a load of malarkey, and I own the vast majority of malarkey loads there are!" Evil Mebius said, clearly doubting the demon man's words. "No being alive can be THAT stupid!"


"Try, then!" Vaughn challenged.


"DURRRR!!!!!" said Durrrdheeevelug, drool cascading down his massive lower lip.


And try Evil Mebius did... in vain!


No matter what continuity he looked into, no matter what future he tried to foresee, no matter what vision could've been granted to him from his 5th dimensional status, all he could gather was this... thing! Again and again did Durrrdheeevelug come into his vision, eyes askew, buckteeth mirror-esque, ears wiggling... and he was wearing a cowboy hat that time! What nonsensical, what idiotic, what unnecessary a creature he was! The future was unable to pull its sight from him!


It was then that a tremendous pain flooded the right side of Evil Mebius' head.


"Oh, bother, there appears to be a large brick where my right eye should be," he said, then began screaming bloody murder.


"Nice shot, Heather," Vaughn said, looking back towards his biosuit buddy (or would it be buddette in this context?).


"Just getting warmed up," Heather smiled, already readying her The Architect club for another swing. The brick pile she built up screamed like the fleeing crowd of a crazed circus. Of course, being bricks, they had no feet to flee with. But they screamed as if they could and were fleeing.


'The inside of this vessel's head rings like the chapel planet of Popokadorki on its holy day!' The Architect thought. 'And my nose itches, too.'


"You insignificant bags of misguided righteousness!" Evil Mebius swore, finally breaking from his incoherent tirade to yank the brick from his eye socket (along with several motley strings of whatever his skull contained). "Impairing my omnipotent sight will do nothing to stop your dissecting! If anything, it has given me motive to extend and worsen your suffering! You shall whiff my dirtied fingers as taffy rollers draw out your insides!"


"Dheee..." said Durrrdheeevelug, ruining the moment.


The last Bouncer then came forward, having passed its time playing tiddlywinks until it could be worked into the post. It gazed down at the fallen bodies of its nine cohorts as they dissolved back into the Garden, vengeful light building in its eyes as its energy trident sparked and crackled. It wound back and pointed the weapon of disintegration, thrusting it forward as it charged, attack aimed right for Evil Mebius' midsection.

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