There was a box of flies to his left, and a can of worms in his lap. Literally, a can of worms, and he'd opened it. There was a can opener in his right hand: this he saw as proof. He threw the opener to the far wall, and it dented the paintwork. He knocked the can onto the floor, forcefully, and worms began to write on the floor. He got to his feet and ran at the door, smashing it open. The door broke into two halves, and splinters swam through the viscous air, melting into droplets. Some droplets spattered the lenses of his glasses as he continued running. He slowed quickly in the air out here. His coat flailed behind him, and his hair flowed as if in water. The landscape around him was a computer generated plane inside a valley formed by two parabolic hills off to infinity, either side of him.
     Gravity then got bored, and gradually gave up existing. He became weary and stopped running, but kept flowing through the dense air. He faced the air head on, streamlining his body, and soared like a superhero. He found that by gently contorting his body, he could manoeuvre himself into whichever direction he wanted to go. Suddenly, he felt himself accelerating, constantly, increasing speed. At this speed, nothing mattered. He ripped space-time as he flew. Created wormholes and portals. Windows and television screens. He saw God in one of them. Once he'd seen God, he pretty much died.
     Dying was only the beginning, though. His arms were little more than generic, from his point of view. In fact, he found limbs passé. What was in now was scars. He ripped his left leg off, then his right leg, and then his right arm with his left arm. His glasses wept with fear, melting into nothing. His clothes dissolved and biodegraded in the soil. His naked torso, left arm and head lay in the soil. He waited for scabs to form over the stumps left where his limbs once were.
     But in place of scabs were worms and each segment was a color. Lucid, unimaginable colors that burnt, sun-dozed and furious. Pulsing colors ripped apart, casting shards of bruises to smoulder and smoke out the senses. The bruises pummelled and struck out as if these lucid worms had tiny little gnawing arms and they were spitting; splitting the flesh apart. The fleshy varnish cracked and fell away as husk. Burrowing into the ecosystem the worms split apart. Some flew this way; some flew that. Looking down from an airship the horizon would have shook with aching trembles; an aurora of the soil.
     Into the cracks and crevices the worm drove, splitting and replicating at every turn. The stench was foul like mould in brass cabinets or dingy fungus-nibbled paperwork. There was a hint of correctional fluid. Worms absorb and suck. Much like a cheerleader with a cock, the worms slurped and spat out soil. Farting it out their orifices they screeched like tires on soggy concrete. Lathered in slime they searched for milk. And when they found it they gobbled with the sound of a thousand hungry birds. Mouths hanging limp, torn like stomach lining at their pus-caked seams. Milk was slow poison. Screams like engine oil usually go unabated. The inheritants of this place will be people with milk bottles for heads and stars for hands. If you must call them devils, then you must.