Brie Fly (pt.5)

The stench was unbearable and the sensation was indescribable as the creature's misshapened, battle scarred limbs wrapped around Evad and pinned him to the ground, with the strength of steel. Its deformed, blackened body rested upon Evad and all about him, blocking the sun from his sight. All he could see, and all he could sense, for that matter, was the dark shape that was his captor.
Thick, hot, foaming saliva dripped onto Evad's face, as the creature rammed a rough, hard appendage between Evad's legs and proceeded with a lewd mockery of the sex act - the lubrication being Evad's own blood. He screamed in agony while the hideous monster moaned and growled in ecstasy.
Evad knew he had only one chance of escape: the blade he had fashioned into the toe of his boot. He'd considered himself quite ingenious to have conceived and engineered the idea. Actually, it was inspired by two fighting tom cats - and just like a cat's claws, he could project the blade and draw it back in, by using his toes. The only problem now was he could not move his leg. It was underneath the main weight of the creature and, as he had no feeling in it, it could very well have been broken.
As the thing tried to kiss him, Evad turned his head and the burning kiss landed on his cheek. The creature, at this point, with horrible laughter, crude talk and putrid breath escaping its mouth, repositioned itself, seemingly to allow it better access to Evad's lips. This movement led to the freedom of Evad's right leg. The blood, once again, began flowing through his veins and the leg slowly came back to life. With his toes, he locked the blade into position - protruding from the tip of his boot. This was his chance. With all the power he could muster, Evad kicked the creature between its legs, driving the blade about six inches into its flesh.
The monster emitted a gasping scream and reeled back, falling, thunderously, against the rocky entrance to its cave. It shook and spasmed and roared, as thick red blood oozed from the gash, forming a puddle on the ground.
Evad tried to regain his breath. He was soaked with sweat and his heart pounded violently. He weakly raised himself upon his hands and knees and began his laborious escape. He feared it was all in vain. It seemed as if death was easing down his throat as he fought for air.
He tried to stand and walk. A stumbling exodus ensued for a few miles, at which point he began to feel safer in the knowledge, that being injured, the creature would not likely leave its den. After a brief rest, Evad began traveling again, long before the sunrise, leaving the creature in its cave, nursing its wound. Hopefully, it was a fatal wound...

Rubbish. It's all rubbish. It's very much the same old sword and sorcery shit that fills the sci-fi sections of bookstores and libraries. The type of unimaginative and out-and-out exploitative "literature" of writers who continue to publish trilogy after trilogy to the delight of their readers: pseudo-intellectual students and "hip" housewives. But, lying here, contemplating my problem, I realize that even the bastard children of Tolkien or Robert E. Howard are more creative - and their works more alive - than this thing will ever be.
What if the fantasy was different? What if I changed the station? Flipped to another dream network...