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by Andy Dibble When demon gunk squirms up my neck and down my throat, I wish I didn’t play Deymons. I wish I leapt for a Vieuwscape experience scrolling through media feyds for vieuws of celebrities. You click, the fugue of headswap, and you’re Tjel on stage, singing your heart out—with none of the work to get where she got. Or Z-Marciano scoring the winning goal. Or Skryzyx riding that perfect high without the crash afterward. When the demons in Deymons are up in you, you retch, sometimes in real life. They are many, and they are always around, like evil oil bubbling up. It differentiates into tissue and bone, normally only after finding an orifice. It’s disturbing how familiar it tastes, like meaty fingers. Some players boast that they beat Dasharaakh, the muscley demon, by force. Or Adaranth, or some other. They lie. Your only hope is to get to the next fire: to run fast enough, to answer their riddles, to offer the right object, which is sometimes a part of yourself. But for now

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