Hours have passed since the Squirrel locked your doom. It's you and it's Bob, it's a hospital room. It's dim and it's silent, he's connected to tubes. The dosage you gave him was too much to use. It's induced a coma, reduced Bob to nothing. He's fallen to something he never saw comming. And as for the girl -- your beloved and his -- she was falsely arrested... for what YOU did.
See somehow the pills that you used in your works were found by police way deep down in her purse. The Squirrel! The Satan. He's at it again. What he's orchestrated's a pattern of sin. By way of exploiting your personal weakness, by way of appealing to your vain obliqueness, he successfully made you an instrument of evil, and used you to decimate innocent people.
You drop to Bob's bedside, your face at his feet. With no God to turn to, no Satan to seek. No Father to guide you or Mother to grasp. No Spirit or Friendship or Loved One to clasp. No beauty, or shelter, or future proceeding. The concept of nothingness takes on new meaning. There's no point in praying, there's no hope in pleading. Without even knowing you find that you're screaming: that your only hope in the world is you're dreaming.
But just as you do so your skin starts to flay. Your blood begins boiling, your limbs fall away. Your tissue of torso turns in on itself. Your kidneys jump ship, and your liver, it melts. Your spinal cord unscrews itself and slinks off. Your pelvis and hips liquify to a sauce -- a bowel and bile and blood marmalade. Your heart leaps in midair and pops, a grenade. Your muscles and ligaments untwine to thread... And once again, finally, you're only a Head.
A voice floods the room neither devlish nor godly. It wraps Bob in white light, encapsules his body. It vibrates your skull and what's left of your meat -- sends ripples through puddles of blood, ankle-deep:
Every man worships like every tongue sings. What happens when you worship money and things? No matter your triumphs or how much you thrive it just won't be enough. Greed will eat you alive. If you worship appearance and outward display, you will die several deaths when your looks age away. If you worship yourself, just as Narcissus or Satan, you will end up a prisoner, a parishioner of hatred.
Your mind oddly clear and your word now your bond, you still can't quite format a way to respond.
So what should We do with you Head? Your suggestion?
"Just send me to Hell, I am beyond redemption."