Hell is on the world, a tightening Van Allen Belt hailing down balls of oil and red moths. The Black Tsar Towers wrangle plumes of adhesive summons, two for the face of one.

Mishima is plastered beneath wheels of mammoth maths. St. Anthony was their appetizer and they come for him now.

Spooling and starved, smeared with ancient swine tar, he knows he must go on, but how? His heathen burthen is fragrant and frocky despite the moth/math onslaught.

He uses a wristwatch ring and Weapon X medallion with translation capability and Hiyata reverb on his own child, to help with the weight. It out-Harrod's Herod.

The magic lantern ring and suchlike are all gifts from the authors of the Hector-mentor Protonomicon, all goatleg divinites which serve as the Corral Marshals of this particular Galactic Small Town.

Permutational incarnations stacked like genomic cordwood, surplussing at the last fraction of the last minute, thank the maker.

Voodoo Hendrix Mishima vamps on, Axis-wise.