[center]Episode 8: The Great Not-Very-Polychromactdyly-At-All of the Double Deep Jeiti and Other Unnecessities[/center]

Atramentous though the Alderson disk was, Dangerrutito Fontaniuxic sank gently, almost seductively really, corpuscating through that Vantablack nightworld as he calibrated the Recursive Diolunium Dial on his Aromatic-Polyamide Weave Gloved Left Hand.  Activating the spozmodiametrical aspect of his Panoptic Hex Texx-Gogs.  It looked just like home as it faded away.  First the Alderson Disk, Fontaniuxiciccix 4 as he lovingly called it, was one, then two, then on and on in just that fashion (as that is the manner in which one counts) Balthazars away.  It was a needless bit of ceremony of course.  Out here in the Double Deep Jeiti far from the meddling of any other, femrikilometers into the Toroidal Body of a Stibious and Frangulic Galaxy, here he was truly and wondrously alone.  And hungry.  Also horny.  A little tired.  Slightly confused.

It was a most needless task yet he must insist upon it.  And shall.  And is.  Whispering to himself he entered a euphmoic trance.  As his Aromatic-Polyamide Weave-Gloved Hands settled upon each bit of equipment he whispered its corresponding name into the Pourii depths about him.

Neoborhium Manticulated into an Q-Bramble blade, sometimes referred to as a Q-Bramblade, polished to an intrinsically implausible sheen, it was his ultimate adytum.  He sensed it, NAY!, he heard it, NAY AGAIN!, he tasted it before he felt it.  The Blade of Legend.  The Sword of Myth.  The Katana of Dread.  The Loosener of Shackles.  The Remover of Bras.  The Sabre of the Downtrodden.  The Zweihander of the Einhanded.  Trapped within it the soul of his Bastard Child, B-Rad.  Ever pleading in perfect iambic pentameter to be loosed upon the world.  It's name was Trilobisekni. 

Only one such as he, Dangerrutito Fontaniuxic, could wield such a blade and only with it could any being even dream of performing the famed manuever known only as the Hiden Doblee Triplut Forbidan Yin Releese Ohm-Mega.

The names of the rest of his gear are longer still, their reputations more reputationy still.  These things were taken by the winds of space, that they may not fall upon the auricular caverns of one unproven.  His whispers taken by the very pulse of the galaxy and his urgent calling growing more urgenter with every passing drot of time goo, he had to pull himself from the reverie. 

No longer free to franisculate in such frivolity.  This time too must pass.

Grimly and with much conscious intent Dangerrutito Fontaniuxic began resetting his Panoptic Hex-Texx-Gogs to an awareness of a scant 14 Muons and corpisculating his Nascense fullindrically he ceased his dramatic dithering.  Gravity had no bearing here.  Gravity was for blutos.  There was no reason to free fall Balthazar by Balthazar as his beloved home, the Fontaniuxiciccix 4, disappeared into the enigmatic and all around pretty damn excellente effluvium.  Even so in his inchoate ritualism it had a value.  A brief respite from the glin and the gribbum of this stolid spacescape.  Tomorrow would wait not one femtoparsec longer.  Dangerrutito ventures once more...

[h1][center][b]INTO THE FINSTERNISH!!![/b][/center][/h1]

Gravid, crustaceous, and corralescing through a vantablack sea of ectoplasmic inexistence, Dangerrutito Fontaniuxic comes to a most non-fortudious and vexxing conscious knowledgiment of self.  He should have taken that left at Albuquerque.  He couldn't hardly grok it.  This was not the illustriously illicit interspatial galaxy of Whore Island 6 at all.  Despite his trepiditious knowledge of Barreliann mathematics and Ciccixitracxtical Physics he must have forgotten to carry the 5.

What a Vetrutooti he was.  A real blummerschoot of a dilly of a pickle this had turned out to be.  Verily, he hathed committed an honest to God fucky-wucky.

Clicking the Xeogenix Toggle on his Panoptic-Hex-Texx-Goggs again and confirming that their awareness was still set to a scant 14 Muons, for what kind of mumpity wumple would risk a Muonnic Conclipse, he began to explore this new world.  The atramentiest of vantablacks, this place had been sucked dry of all color life and sound.  Twas a verifiable veritable void of all...oh.

Despite the Aromatic-Polyamide-Weaved--Gloves encasing his hands in a flexible weave stronger than the strongerest of n-Dimensional Space Spiders he could still tell what the problem was.  That light switch right there was turned to the Off Position.  Most inconvenient really.  Terribly terribly rude.

Flipping the switch the world became most pollutudiously brightened.  A sea of bright beige and grey.

"Step right this way," said an equally beige manthing.

"Kyter!" Dangerrutito declared, "What is this?"

"Huh?" the heavily tattooed but still quite beige and not particuarly interesting, really not worth describing in any further detail or developing any further in terms of character or motives, man replied.

"KYTER! WHAT IS THIS!?!?!?!?" Dangerrutito repeated himself very loudly and very coherently.

After a rather long and confusing conversation involving much illurid and truchasious terminologies Dangerrutito emerged from the equivalent of Not Hell ICE (Immigrations and Customs Enforcement) and stepped into Not Hell Proper.

"Hmmm, I can smell the Q-Goo." he vocaloided into his Thaumic VocoRecordoer as he held one Aromatic-_-Polyamide-Weaved--Gloved-Hand to shield his Panoptic-Hex=Texx-Goggos from the glare of an entirely too illuminolating landscape.  

"Mmmmmm," he mumbled to himself very masculinly as he reached up without even looking and locked in the Xeogenix Toggle then cranked the Muon Capacitator down to an even more scanter 10 Muons.  It was a really paltry total Muon count at this point, but Dangerrutito had seen one Muonnic Conclipse Event and as the old saying goes "One Muonnic Conclipse Event Is One Muonnic Conclipse Event Too Many" if you know what Dangerrutito is talking about.

Well below the zero-point now Dangerrutito took it all in.  Curvillinear spaces properly luminolated.  Tesseracts tesseraed real nice like.  Demon people doing demon people type shit.  It wasn't at all like in the Chronicles of Xeniikuhix the Brave But Foolish.  There was a lot more leather.  A lot more cigars.  A lot more scantily clad demon and or angel and or other vaguely religious or at least spiritual ladies.  Many of them had nice big tatas.  There was also a lot less polychromatic goblins with huge wangs tearing people apart with hacksaws while gibbering at the moon.

"Not Hell huh," his artificially deepend and made-to-sound-more-cool voice entoned in an attempted one-liner, chuckling briefly in a very unorganic but quite cinematic way, "Hell...ha ha ha...I could get used to this."

"Yeah, that's fucking great bud.  That's kinda the idea right?  What can I do for yas since ya standin in da road?  What's your poison?  Booze?  Uppers?  Downers?  Boomers?  Zoomers?  Whammers? Women?  Men?  Dogs?  Hah, I'm just fucken witcha bud.  We ain't do that shit round here.  We're not monsters, just demons."

"Hmmmm," Dangerrutito intoned again, looking down at a Squat Bearded, Pot Bellied, Bespectacled, and Otherwise Accessorized Demon, he replied in his best Enigmatic Protagonist Voice while winking slowly and with great effort "Surprise me."

As the hustle and bustle of Not Hell surrounds him Dangerrutito Fontaniuxic spreads his arms wide open as if to embrace all that Not Hell might have to offer, looking slowly across its expanse, just really letting it waft over him.  Yeahhhh, yeahhhh.  He could get used to this.  In time it might even feel like home.  It just might.  It really could.  Waiting for some dramatic music to start up and the credits to begin and then a nice slow fade to black.  That would be nice.  Right about now.

"Ey, douche canoe, get in the fucken cab already.  I can get other fares ya know if you just want to stand there monging about like fucken Spidermans on a rooftop and shit.  I got demonlings to feed and if I get home early I got demonlings ta make if ya know what I mean.  Imma fuck my demon wife is what I mean.  Now get your big metally ass in the cab, I got a surprise for ya."

"It's not metal," Dangerrutito mumbles forlornly as his big finish is now ruined, "It's way better than that it's a genuine Aromatic Polyamide Weave over Ventrificai-"

"Just get in da fucken cab before I Airamatic Polemike ya fucken head in already."

"Cheezus Criminus dese fucken foreigners is all da same.  Fuckin too old for this shit.  Fuckin gas prices...fuckin Union..."

The cabbies cursing continues until he slams the door of his Not Hell Cab shut and drives into Aeternus, eager to drop this jamoke off in a demon bar or demon titty club or demon fight pit or really whatever comes up first that the fella seems to take any interest in.  As the car pulls away into the heavy traffic going to one den of sin or another this post does actually begin a slow dramatic and extremely cinematic fade to black.  It washes over you like a thing which would be very pleasant to have washing over you.

If you turn the volume up you can just barely hear Dangerrutito bitching about how if the cabbie had just waited another minute he could have gotten his proper fade to black ending.  Whether you turned the volume up or not you can definitely hear the cabbie's brakes screeching hard against the Not Brimstone streets.

The screen pinholes to perfect black and then immediately slingshots back out as a comically small demon cabbie hops out of the driver's seat, scurries over to the passenger door and tosses a much larger Dangerrutito Fontaniuxic out of his cab and into the Definitely Not Brimstone street.  Dangerrutito twists his legs up under his body and sits himself on the curb, checking his illustrious catalogue of legendary and powerful and very specifically named gear.  Once more whispering each items name into the night.

"Fucks wrong witcha?  Ya eat too many paint chips?  Dropped on yer head?  Crystal meth?"

"Trilobisekni," Dangerrutito muttered as he caressed his Q-BramBlade.

"Nope.  Nope.  Nah.  Nuh uh," the cabbie replied heading back around to his car and taking off.  He had places to go, demon babies to feed, demon babies to make, as previously discussed.

His ritual complete again he looked about him and saw a rather curious door in the corner of a wall, pulsing light emanating from it.  Pretty sick.  He also saw that he was impeding hoof traffic, which is to say demon foot traffic because demons have hooved feet.

Sniffing the air he detected a curious smell.  Well several.  A puff of smoke quickly fading away.  Likely from that dick head cabbie braking so hard and then peeling away.  Beneath that something very similar to but definitely not brominated hexachlroric benzene-formaldehyde carbonic crystal centered nanostructural condensate.  Which is to say Not Brimstone.  That would be the street.

Beneath that is another smell.  More familiar.  Mundane even.  So mundane it was difficult to place.  Dangerrutito took a deeper sniff.  Yep.  Yeah.  Yep that was piss.  Someone had pissed in the gutter and his shoes had just been soaking in it during his long and very important but also completely needless ritual accounting of his inventory.  Dangerrutito hoped that the smell wouldn't set into his Aromatic Polyamide Weave boots and ankle supports.  They were a real bitch to dry clean.

That was his cue.  Dangerrutito would be alone in this but that was fine.  For whatever reason Dangerrutito often found himself alone.  He was just so cool others found it hard to keep up.  Dangerrutito would have to find his own trouble, unless of course the trouble found him first...

But it didn't...

No topless ninja demonettes with blue hair and purple eyes and daddy issues and student loans popped out of the alley, and as such Dangerrutito set to examine the weird corner door over there.  The smoky one with the strobing lights and the big funny looking statues on either side.  That door.  Probably some cool shit in there.