Mero awoke in a pool of amniotic slime the consistency of phlegm and the color of curdled milk. His back adhered to the pulsing mattress beneath him, made of stitched-together human faces—some screaming, some smiling, some still blinking slowly despite the lack of eyelids. Each breath the bed took sucked air into its tracheal folds, whistling wetly through ruptured windpipes like someone gargling on their own vomit.
A drooping umbilical cord, thick as a man's arm, had wrapped around his throat in the night and had to be bitten through—its interior filled with chunky, congealed blood the texture of liver yogurt. The fluid splattered his chest, steaming slightly in the putrid, humid air. It smelled like afterbirth steeped in burnt hair.
The room was not a room. It was a womb, a sac of quivering meat, dimly lit by phosphorescent cysts growing along the ceiling. The floor squished under him with every step, made of sweating dermis, bloated with fluid. At intervals, it wept—yes, wept—discharging milky pus from infected follicles the size of dinner plates. One burst as he walked by, ejecting a handful of black, oily maggots that burrowed into the folds of the wall, squealing.
A fleshy orifice opened in the wall ahead—lined with rot-blackened molars, coated in what looked like diarrheal mucus and human hair. It coughed.
It coughed up a boot.
Someone's half-digested foot was still in it.
Mero picked it up. The bone poked through torn muscle. Toenails were missing. Fungal tendrils grew from between the toes, writhing like worms seeking soil. He bit into the ankle.
The flesh burst with a pop, spraying coagulated ankle marrow and pus-infused blood into his mouth. It was like biting into a week-old fish eye—but warm, sticky, sugary. He chewed as the foot twitched in his hand. There was cartilage in the skin. He swallowed it all.
Outside the womb was the city: Sputum's Reach.
Everything was alive, nothing was clean.
The sky overhead was an unbroken tissue membrane, semi-transparent, through which pulsating arteries could be seen twitching and vomiting blood back and forth across the heavens. Wind didn't blow—it wheezed. The air was thick with aerosolized intestinal vapor, rich with the scent of feces and expired meat.
The buildings were organ stacks, colossal pulsating towers made of muscle bands, bones, uterine walls, and scrotal folds. One of them was defecating onto the street—a splatter of bone chips, teeth, and liquefied eyeballs.
A shriek echoed through the streets.
A Skinslug—twenty feet long, made of stitched-together human torsos—oozed past. It moved on a bed of ribcages, dragging behind it a trail of gastrointestinal grease and shedding skin in thick wet sheets. One of the torsos it was made of looked at Mero. It had no lower jaw.
"Mmmaahhgh... gklllkkk—kill meee…" it gurgled from its exposed throat, the trachea vibrating like a flesh flute. Mero didn't bother. He watched it split open at the middle seam, revealing a nest of centipede-like fetuses gnawing on a beating heart with teeth.
He moved on.
Mero's destination was the Waste Cleft—a canyon carved into the earth by centuries of writhing digestion. A place where the MeatGod shat, bled, and birthed its malformed dreams. He passed through the Anus Gates—twin towers made of prolapsed rectal tissue, flapping slightly in the breeze like a sphincter breathing.
Inside, the world grew worse.
He stepped into The Spill, where meat overflowed the ground like a flood of offal. Discarded uteruses, still twitching with ovulation spasms, floated past him. Something small and wet—a newborn with six heads and no skulls—crawled up his leg, begging in moans.
He kicked it. It exploded.
Its brain jelly splattered across his face. He licked it away. It was better than foot soup.
And then it came.
The Placenta Cyclone.
The sky tore open with a retching scream, and down came a cyclone of umbilical cords, each one whipping and flailing, seeking connection. Hundreds of them found the bloated corpses in the street and plugged into their navels—reanimating them with such ferocity that their bones exploded outward from under their skin like spears.
One cord struck Mero in the shoulder. It pierced his skin like a syringe and injected a quart of hot, frothing bile into his muscle. He dropped to the floor, screaming, as boils erupted along his arm, each one filled with larvae that clawed at his nerves like fishhooks made of teeth.
He bit off his own arm to stop the spread. The bone crunched like overcooked pork. He screamed into the void.
The world screamed back.
As he passed through the Gut Gate, a mouth carved into the meat-earth with thirty-seven tongues—each of which whispered ancient secrets through teeth made of shattered baby bones—he stepped into the true wombscape.
A valley of vaginal cliffs, each birthing horrors.
Fetuses that walked on hands. Umbilical cords that whipped like tentacles. Placentas that wept milk and blood.
A colossus of stitched scrotums and screaming heads lumbered in the distance, its penis dragging like a firehose, spewing acidic pre-ejaculate that melted the landscape.
Mero vomited blood and bile.
He laughed.
Welcome home.
They called it Ur-Vasck, but among the rag-eaten survivors, it was whispered as The Tower of Meat, or simply, the Penis Monster.
It rose from the center of the Fertile Wastes—a behemoth of meat and blood, its shafted body a kilometer long, stitched from the fused groins of the dead and the never-born. Veins as thick as locomotives pulsed violently up and down its glistening, mucous-coated length. It had no face—only a yawning urethral maw, constantly leaking a stream of yellow-pink fluid the viscosity of raw eggs and the smell of bleach and burnt hair.
This was no creature of desire.This was not lust.
It was rage.
Every part of Ur-Vasck's being screamed with a need it could not understand. It was a creature built for endless ejaculation without pleasure, for reproduction without purpose. Its cries were shrill, wet, and infantile—like the scream of a newborn being dragged across broken glass.
At its base, testicles the size of freight ships dangled low, sagging with the burden of eons. Their skin was translucent, and inside, visible through milky membrane, were humanoid forms trapped in fetal positions, endlessly churned and never born. They clawed at the walls. Some had faces like Mero's. Some had no skin at all.
Ur-Vasck moved not by legs, but by ejaculatory spasms, each one launching ropes of corrupted genetic soup into the sky. Wherever it landed, forests of genitalia burst from the ground—trees made of shafts, leaves like foreskins, roots dripping with ovarian slime. They withered quickly, screaming as they rotted.
Its head quivered.
A thick plug of mucus sealed its tip—grown over like a scab, crusted with decades of backlogged seed. The pressure inside had built for years, and now the world trembled as it prepared to purge again.
The clouds parted.
The earth peeled back like labia, eager to receive the flood.
And then—
It ruptured.
The urethral maw split open vertically, torn by the sheer force of its own need. Blood, bone fragments, and tumors fired into the air like shrapnel. A geyser of screaming spermatozoa, each one a tiny malformed humanoid, shot skyward and rained down across the Wastes. Wherever they landed, they dug into the meat-soil, embedding themselves.
Mero watched from a distance as one of them entered a corpse.
The body twitched.
Then it pregnified instantly, stomach ballooning, limbs snapping from the speed of growth. The belly split. A new Ur-Vasck pup erupted from the flesh, screaming with its throatless voice.
They were multiplying now.
Ur-Vasck, bleeding and empty, slumped forward. Its testicles had ruptured. Thousands of proto-humans spilled into the crater, crawling over one another like ants made of scrotum and nerves. It let out one last sob—low, like the end of a prayer.
And then it grew hard again.