God of the Game (Dreamstate) (12 page)

    Glory!

   “
Yer gonna die
,
you fool
,” he mimes to the computer’s voice of the song. Like a video clip, it cuts to his mouth lip-synching the words. Fangs protrude from behind the tongue. Repetitive motion, same riff on replay, gathering force with each progression, it hits a climaxed fury.

   “GO!” Screams another voice, a deathly growling utterance, a metal man’s tonal quality. A 32-note double-stroke roll and we sp
ring to action; accelerate to kill, like a coil unwound on sudden impact, potential to kinetic energy. A reservoir unleashed. Our swords clashed. Blue sparks ignite the twilight sky, giving colour of life. Two enthused artists paint the clouds. The dance of our duel remixes into a multi-instrumental synchronization. Harmonies entwine over vast octaves; above the solid thumps of precise jungle percussions.                  

    Colours slide in and out. Violent hues vibrantly vibrate with visceral vertigo and at a vociferous velocity, dislodging constellations in the firmament with the ferocity of Cyclops shaking an apple tree. The stars fall even as we battle, the entire synchronicity of the heavens morphing to our motions. He, my opponent, summoned a cluster of suns with the tractor-beam of his broad sword and flung them toward
s my direction, skimming off the surface of my skin with a slight acidic sting, a flesh wound pH imbalance.     

    Once
it was bright night-sky, but now the descending sons of angels and their signs blaze to supernovas, explosions, crashing to the ground in the land of the gods. You could see the end, a slow journey to darkness cascading past our floating feet, starlight mixed with blood from my face, an eerie silence, a muffled boom like rock hitting water, and finally, an atomic kaboom!!!  

    A blinding light roared o
ver the realm. It passed; a moment’s awe, then it was back to business. I was enraged by the cut he gave me. Replacing the shiny jewels on black velvet is now an ancient map of space, the true meaning of the universe, encrypted by the placement of stars orbiting within the sphere of creation. Now the mysteries have been revealed. I swung to the offensive, the speed of my Katana marking three tears on his armour, weakening its shield. His broadsword is no match for my lightweight precision killer. The celestial bodies had been strategically positioned to conceal portals to other dimensions. When stargazers watch the sky for signs, they are distracted by the endless oscillation to notice the hidden revelation underneath. All they attain is astrology, a guide to their one-dimensional future.

    Dagon wobbles four steps back. A
stab punctures his heart. God’s blood dribbles from my blade, trees immediately grow and flowers bloom wherever crimson falls. He gazes around realizing he’d unwittingly unearthed his kingdom’s defence in a flash of rage. He stares at me; then his eyes fall upon his stricken subjects, all sunken and silent, awaiting a nameless doom told by the writings on the chart now adorning the cosmic wall. Dagon collapses, and a cloud swallows him, instantaneously turning black; lightning and thunder hurl out, striking the pillars of his temple. Panic encompasses the people, running helter-skelter. Too late. Spirits of all manner and sizes emerge from the holes in the dome of the sky, which used to be plugged by stars. Fluorescent blue spectral, raging red phantoms, yellow flamed apparitions ate both men and women, and also unfortunate babes and children. Consumed whole in one big gulp. The ghosts are translucent; you could see the gobbled beings in their belly. The victims suffered in ingestion hell, punished in various states of digestion, crying in the stomach and intestines. But
behold
, there are no rectums, no anal release, no bowel motion; defecation is absent. These beasts are bottomless pits. On and on the prey are anguished in each level of absorption, going on for a tiered eternity, tormented. The monsters take strength from the energy extracted from Dagon’s priesthood; and now, with worshippers, young and old and from all walks of life, imprisoned forever in the cages of damnation in the sea of their abdomens, the ghouls return home to their parallel realities and sleep a thousand ages, until another fool opens another floodgate, another Pandora’s box, which awakens in them fresh hunger pangs that plague their fiendish and famished souls, resulting, consequently, with the doom of one more archaic faith.        

Daft Punk plays on. This entire conceptualized reality was encapsulated within the first two songs of the album. I sent my recorded incarnations to the French duo for review, as well as shared with all, this inspiration of musical art which arouses new worlds. I closed the window of the media player, and with that, the entire dimension concerning Dagon and ninja warriors and luminescent demons shuts off and stores as embedded helixes in the compressed files of the two tracks.

Then,
I backed-up a copy in my hard drive. 

On the Second
Day

24

The Horny Hound

   “
Boobs, boobs, boobs
,” the music pulsated through the loudspeakers with each accented bass-kick. The room was full of bare breasted women playing with their dicks. Vesper, Jai-I, Trekz and I sat staring at this abnormal activity whilst drinking beer and indulging small talk.

   “So
, how was your appointment with Jahr?” Jai-I asked about my meeting his father.

   “Insightful,” I replied. “Gotta do something about it
, though,” I added.

    Jai-I nodded before
he started licking Trekz, who was shifting shapes with my every blink. A mind trick? Jahr’s son had a forked tongue. I wonder if he borrowed it from Ves’ serpent avatar.

    I still wanted to talk. Jahr hadn’t entirely answered my question. He just told me to embrace my past, present and future, embrace both good and bad. But I can’t comprehend completely. Do I need to suffer in order to feel good? To quote my book again, ‘
For it is in pain that we can love, otherwise only hedonistic pleasures of unsurpassed libidinous rights reign in the light
.’ I also said, ‘
Paradise is a place where I can’t sob when I see a touching movie, or experience brokenness in a haunting tune; I cannot mourn when a loved one dies, because a loved one never dies, and that seriously undermines my love for that guy
.’ A friend died. I was melancholic, no doubt about that. He was a close friend, an idol, a hero; I loved that guy. But his passing was also symbolic. Heroic. It was a life-changing event. I found, through his death, the impetus to tow my life in line, to write that book which gave me fortune and glory. However, my sanguine lover left me, my dancing queen, and I later met Gee Ni…and she dumped me too, and then I could only find release by the hands of prostitutes.             

    I don’t agree with what I’d written. I’d continually felt sad every time I watch or read a poignant tale. I cry when Lucifer plays a heart-wrenching tune, tugging and piercing my soul with the sound of strings along his ribcage. I’d even broken down when a partner was blown to bits in MMORPG Hell, though technically speaking
, she’ll reincarnate elsewhere.

    So I guess that’s the problem. We can always reset our motions. There is no fear of loss, no eventuality. That takes meaning away; rather, meaning has to be cast like a net over wider seas, broader oceans; much wider seas, much broader oceans. Perpetual. Eternal. In contrast, diminutive life on Earth is merely a molecule in a drop in a bucket in the heavens of heavens. Therefore
, that which we collect from birth to death, with no knowledge after, becomes prized possessions, treasures. We attach significance to them, our lovers, our children, our careers and passions. Why? Because it can be lost. With a stroke all can be taken away from us. Children die, parents expire, widows suffer. Accidents happen, diseases come and mental illnesses escalate. Jobs go down, retrenchment increases, economies collapse. Suicide, homicide, genocide…

    In the face of these brutal mountains life confronts, no wonder the little things are beautiful. No wonder w
e cherish and leech eternity onto them. Belief, hope, faith and love.

    Jai-I conversed with me. Trekz longed for his attention. Son of Jahr split to two. Vesper cut him from head to crotch, and new halves regenerated. The ‘twins’, one pampered the DJ, the other chatted on with me.

   “Yah
, I guess that’s what I need to do, incorporate more urgency borrowed from a tick-tocking time-bomb existence, like the previous one I held.”

   “But your previous life wasn’t urgent,” Jai-I remarked.

   “Well, I was unhappy, and I looked for happiness. And I cherished it whenever I found it, no matter how fleeting it may have been,” I mentioned with some self-remorse. “That sounds urgent to me.”

   “And so you say you need to be unhappy in order to be happy now in Syurga?” Trekz interjected, “What kind of weird fuck
ed up logic is that?” He was in form of a pale-skinned zombie, bloodshot mindless eyes contradicting the acidic words that’d just escaped him, as though the undead piece of meat was possessed by a higher and eerier intelligence. “If you want to know what unhappiness is, you should ask our brother here,” the walking corpse pointed at Vesper.

    Vesper, now
, (and for once), the same dark gentleman I first met in Hell, was playing with that glow-green magic dagger by Leper & the Gunk, the same objet d'art which I picked up that fateful day. Lost it to him fair and square in one of our drunken dares. Sunglasses wrapped round his face from temple to temple, like an effigy. I recognized it to be Jai-I’s invention, that parallel reality device that runs on a single environment. The Evening Star was absorbed in his own world, slouching, enjoying the dimension playing on the screen before his very eyes. His hands flipped the knife like a harmless toy, the manoeuvres of a pro, avoiding the sharp edges and whatever enchanted properties the whitish green glow emitted.

   “I’ll take you to AXXion (
pronounced ex-Zion
) if you want to experience suffering,” Vesper spoke, candid, his concentration still behind black reflection.        

   “Ooo! Ooo! Ooo!” The
dicksy chicks
encroached on orgasm communally.

    I was aroused by then, “I never heard of AXXion,” I said.

   “There are many things you don’t know, young one,” replied the Jai-I who was fingering Trekz with a laugh. 

    Have to admit. I am a novice compared to th
ese guys. They’ve seen double, at least. “Tell me more,” I asked Vesper.

   “It’s not that simple,” he explained, “it’s esoteric.”

   “So, enlighten me.”

   “Esotoria Lane has no enlightenment. It’s a rite of passage.”

   “Esotoria Lane?”

   “Is it a land?” butted in Jai-I. Clearly the lovers were in the dark about this
one. Trekz, who was now a hot sexy mama, adjusted her cleavage, two water balloons plonked on the table even as she paid full attention to Vesper, the personification of Planet Venus of the Evenings.

    Something was amiss, a shotgun triggered, glitch in the programme. A teleportation door was opened on a majestic scale. We all knew the
Kreators
were in some negotiation deal with the
Nephlim
to develop the Western slums of Syurga, home to mutants, awry android experiments and demonic rejects. A landmark agreement must have been reached; the repercussions felt throughout the universe and its interconnected dimensions.

    In my
Horny Hound
we were high in CLIT, (a
Cunt Lickers International Tour
), a rave organized by the Bitches of Mercy to assert vaginal supremacy. This ferocious yet forgiving feminist movement of strippers was throwing a gala ball celebrating sexual empowerment, and someone suggested, rather than invite pathetic males to drool over them (cunt lickers), they should ask
dicksy chicks
instead. But if you ask me, I think them chicks with dicks are more enthralled by their own masculine organs than honest, naked working gals.       

     Hell shifts and repositions itself. Construction work starts and spatial dislocatio
n is sensed in certain terrains; the
Horny Hound
,
one of them. An augmented reality occurs, as if angels altered our retinas, and the underworld domain of devils breaks out from the ground like they were being raised from the dead.

    Vesper sp
outed pustule laden horns, and the
dicksy chicks
metamorphosed to
headless chickens
. We were still trying to have a decent conversation.

  
“Esotoria Lane?” Trekz queried; a third breast slowly budded between her voluptuous pair. Like a Rafflesia flower. “Sounds cheesy,” she giggled, and the third jug stank of sour milk. Yoghurt. Rotten boob juice.  Jai-I number-2, who was immersed in mammary, climbed into
Tetek-3
, the name of the extra tit that shot off like a spaceship from Trekz’z chest to outer space. The monstrous tata ate Jahr’s son with wide-opened jaws, extending six sticky cloves, sucking the man in, even as the original twin-towers lactated.   

    Lava flows. Vesper was now bathed in blood. The
Horny Hound
was gradually transforming into a gothic torture chamber, an SM fest. Chief organizer and president of the Bitches of Mercy, Mona the Moan, who was molested by moles, approached our table and asked me in private, “Do we get a discount?”

   “No. It was an act of god,” I defended.

   “Yah, but you didn’t put up any security,” butted in vice president Lolla Lollipop, scintillating pink wig and always suckin candy or cock. Sometimes both.

   “Some anti
virus against dimensional augmenting programmes would have been useful,” Vesper sounded, not being helpful. He was infected and itching with rash, a holy eczema which was counteracting his evil. I don’t blame that guy for his irritation. He looked like shit. With each second passed, yellow pus frothed from the surface of his flesh; and the symptoms were accelerating. 

   “Is it contagious?” asked Mona.

   “No,” Vesper groaned, “but I feel sick.” And with that he vomited; a green glob, which half appeared to be a dead hybrid bullfrog. We cringed. This devil’s face ballooned to the top right; burst, and then bloated at the left ear. Burst again. Now it was a bubblegum chin. Pop! Poor devil was also fizzing from the skin, effervescent acid devouring him up. And he farted a fuzz.

    Everyone had to clip their nose. “But I kin
da like the smell,” commented Ms. Lollipop.

   “I need to go home,” Vesper apologized, “Will tell you about Esotoria Lane and AXXion another time.”

   “I’ll go with you,” Lolla hollered; picking up her sequined electric blue handbag, swinging her fake pink hair, adjusting her yellow furred micro-miniskirt, she grabbed the blistered one’s red raw arm. They walked through a portal, which appeared with the snap of Vesper’s sore fingers, and the door closed after them in a type of perfunctory purgatory.

    Someone was killing the
dicksy chicks
,
‘slash’
,
headless chickens
. A masked butcher in kitchen apron, armed with a carving knife, was dismembering limbs. He seemed more like sodomizing them, going between each pair striking out as ‘V’s on high-heels.
Jimmy Choo’s
.

    Grinding groin even as he cuts and grade
s meat; wholesalers were present, so were the non-
halal
deli owners, restaurateurs and world-class chefs sourcing for the finest chops.

    The Jai-I that survived and I were the only ones
not affected by this dimensional revolution. I suppose we possessed some kind of natural antibody to ward off the virus of inevitable evolutionary change. Perhaps due our link to Jahr. DJ Trekz’z physical manifestation in this cartoon horror genre of a catastrophe was the snail speed suffering of his insides turning out. Here a liver, there a heart; over here, a pancreas; and behind, the kidneys. Intestines coiled round the floor like a snake charmer’s cobra, like someone squeezing the fat tube of uncapped toothpaste. From hot sexy mama, Trekz’z incarnation was now a torment; her hourglass frame twisted, writhed. She howled out to Jai-I for help, hands reaching forward, which seemed to be growing leaves. Frantic, mad scraping at air, an eyeball dangled from veins; but her boyfriend only chuckled, tickled by the funny sight of the DJ lover becoming a potted plant.

   “Wow!
” he exclaimed, “I gotta ask dad what happened on the grand scale of things.

   “Let’s go,” he added. And with that
, Jai-I stood and exited. But not before plucking a leaf from the Iron Cross plant, “Need the DNA to revive him…er…or her…it…or… oh...shit,” he said to no one in particular. 

25

    Decided not to follow Jai-I. Figure I’d better play the sensible proprietor; what with the ‘earthquake’ that ensued. The
Horny Hound
is my place after all; don’t want a bunch of bitches, fanatic feminist strippers, assaulting my cock for not providing satisfactory service.

    Mona the Moan
, however, is a good friend of mine; a regular entertainer at my joint.

   “Hi Jack,” she called
out to me, sitting down in a professional manner on the cushion by my side. My friend Willy was positioned at the other end of the settee; Mona, sandwiched in between, rubbing our thighs.

   “What can I do for you boys?”

    Jack is my avatar in the
Horny Hound
. Jack O’Leery in full. He is fat, balding and ugly. More precisely, he’s insecure.

    Even more so, Jack’s a loser.

    Why, you ask, do I fashion such an uncool, despicable personification of being when society is hyped with trendy images and successful impressions? Hah! This is when some brainwashing and social conditioning is required. By chance, you will be reading this in 21
st
century Earth; a seed planted, which is this book in your hand. Hopefully it will bloom to an eternal jungle and not be choked by the cares of your world. Fragile and mortal humans are obsessed with the ‘cool.’ Proof exists in blockbuster Hollywood films, pop rock bands, the commercialization of subculture – goth, punk, etcetera – all becoming retail therapy. We’d often, (though not always), lost meaning of our expressions; blurred behind fashion statements.