Uttermost Horror (now in liquid form)

I back away from the glass, terrified. In front of me, they scream and batter the window with their hands. Their hair is disheveled, their hands formed into claws, their eyes -glowing- but there can be no doubt as to what they are. As they smash through the glass and pour through the opening, I breathe their name: womons.

They are all over me before I can move. They flow like a sea of darkness, smothering me, confining me. I can't move! I can't see! The womons are all over me. I can feel them - everywhere.

I scream.

For a long, horrible moment, I fear that no-one hears.

Then I hear a great shout: "LO, I AM ARRIVED!" The womons scatter, forming into loose clumps all around the room, staring at the new arrival. He is ten-feet tall, five feet wide, with muscles like an ox and horns to match. He looks at the womons and snorts, pawing the ground. Then he charges, putting them to flight.

Dortmond certainly has changed since he left for Utah.

With his immense girth and Mormonic strength, he puts the womons to flight, beating the intransigent with great golden tablets. Then he walks over to me, where I cower in a corner. I look up to him (as, I suppose, I always have) as he pats me gently on the head. "It's all right, little one," he tells me. "Everything's going to be all right now. There's no need to worry." Slowly, I rise from my tense position - then immediately return to it as the door crashes open.

Dortmond turns to glare. "WHO ARE YOU?" he demands, furious.

The visitors are unfazed. "We're here to stop you!" one declares, brandishing his badge. He's a solid eight-feet tall, and glows blue in the dim light. The other one (shorter, glowing an equally dim red) continues, "Poor Dave has enough problems with romance! And after a freak accident with a batch of lab pheremones and an unlikely number of clear-sky lightning strikes renders him ready - for LOVE - you would deny him that?" Nichols and Keegan have also changed since I last saw them. They stand bold against the ferocious Dortmond.

I feel the need to ask one pertinent question, nervous though I am to intervene in this clash of titans. "Does... um, does this seems sort of... um, improbable to anyone... else?"

Nichols nods. "Well, yes. This is actually just an internal debate with added visuals. You hooked your subconscious up to a device of your own invention designed to help resolve internal conflicts, with HD+E quality video. We're just visually enhanced figments of your imagination."

I think about this, and decide that he's probably right. I ask him, "What happens if I decide to ignore your interventions on my behalf, and... um... strike off on my own?"

They somehow vanish, and the womons are back; and this time there is no escape. They cover me once more. And I do not scream.