Ushio shoots herself in the head and goes to hell. She meets Bob Ross there, and he is the demon lord; the dark prince and sugar daddy to all conniving wigger thots.
"I knew you would cum, [B]Ushio." Said the Ross, Bob.
"I wish I was dead."
"You already are."
Bob the Ross drew Ushio a pretty picture of a pentagram, made out of pretty birds and trees. Ushio looked into her fate and wept.
"God fucking dammit . . ."
The Destroyer Ushio normally made Anime Girl™ noises at the sources of discontent in her life. Keyword being "life". She sounds like a cat with rabies now.
Suddenly, a Cherokee hair tampon materialized in Rob Boss's uncleansed hand, coming from his third nipple, which looked like a brown, lifeless tree. He dipped the tampon into a bit of nearby stool softener and lead-based yellow paint. He drew a doodle of a naked Homer Simpson over the pentagram. Bor Sobb cackled in delight.
"I know what must be done, Bobb Sor. I've spotted the enemy ship."
Ushio the Failure Shitheap of a Destroyer commenced smacking the fictional depiction of a fictional character with a flyswatter. She slapped Homer's ass and thighs, just as the Rodex Borsob had lusted for, millennia after millennia after painstaking millennia. Finally, after all this time, and all the plotting to have reached this point, he had defiled the souls of humankind and western civilization for the righteous quenching of his thirst for erotic Homer Simpson fly-swatting pornography. The very best of his ritualistic mind-set on display; a broken servant ceaselessly smiting the image of Homer again and again, with a smile that was planted straight from the seeds of his trees of misery. Ushio shed many tears during this timeless ritual of permanence and lust, and even the hole in her head where she shot herself had mutated into a grisly, crying face. Always trying to scream, but it simply can't.
To the Reznor Bobalina, this was the top of the mountain.
And it was good.