God of the Game (Dreamstate) (24 page)

    I cling on;
I surrender. Necking me, he simultaneously positions my butt on top of the jukebox. And here I must insert that Jimmy’s one heck of a guitar player. Callous fingers strum my knickers, plays the chords to my diamond’s desire even as I can only meekly restrain, meekly complain. He says a master musician makes his instrument gently weep and cry aloud. I am his instrument. And I lament that the proprietor is in proximity. But Jimmy rebuts that we’re the best entertainment that short-sighted old fool has had in ages.

   
Daddy may have mentioned about my big breasts. I tell Jimmy it’s very constrictive. Please liberate me from father, free me from his manipulative patriarchal restriction that is dictated by my tight, flowery, black lace brassiere.

    He is only too pleased to oblige.

    White bosom ice-cream topped with pink cherry nipples is extravagantly delicious. It’s a delicacy, and Jimmy’s obtained generous portions. I suspect he’s searching second helpings when he gulps down my succulent tits in one big lungful.

    Roses bud.

    Eat me. 

    Teats twirling at the tip of his ton
gue; I’m shivering, while tatas dance ballet, perfectly harmonious. Elegant is his caress. Jimmy freely gives. My matching panties tossed are a polyester-mixed figure-eight at the feet of the elderly gentleman. I think he pocketed it. 

    This moment, Jim
my’s suffocating under my short chequered skirt and I’m vibrating without the use of battery powered sex toys. This is the ecstasy I need, the remedy to forget. Jimmy makes me explode. His role-playing World War Two Panzerwufmine Nazi hand-grenade is already triggered by the twitching of my toes. It won’t be long before it detonates over my feet.

    Not wanting that, Jimmy shoves his dynamite deep inside my cavity, filling the emptiness with the broadness of love, the length of intimacy
, and the rigidity of indomitable passion. He scratches a secret Sahara I myself cannot reach, not with any crude device or fashionable tool. A location so discarded, my filthy father was murdered under its singeing solar flares, buried in grainy dunes, and fossilized for future generations.

    No, it’s not merely a spot Jimmy’s flexed love touches; rather, it is his beautiful penis that unlocks Pandora’s Box during the adventures of my
activated cum animated vagina.      

47

    Pandora. Not the planet with tall blue beings, giant fluorescent birds and luminous flora. Not a planet at all. But a girl. What type of girl, men could not agree. Historical fact, men could never agree whenever it came to pussy.

    Some say she was a goddess, or rather, a watered down goddess. Others describe her as the original woman, somewhat like Eve. Only, instead of biting
into a juicy fruit, she opened a stupid box, which wasn’t even a box in the first place, but a jar. How dumb is that? Whatever, Biblical or Mythical, it’s always
us
females that are blamed for the fuckedupness in the world today.  

    Still others proclaim Pandora was a punishment Zeus sent on man. She was adorned by the
Olympians and given talents which drove males insane. I prefer this interpretation. Yah, I’m still accused for all the evils caused by, in truth, dickheads, but at least I’m hot and gifted. Sure sounds like a clear case of pussy envy to me.   

    Then there are those who
mention she is the bane of her father. While dad possessed the willpower to fight urges, poor Pandora could not help but submit to her capricious curiosity and unscrew the bloody lid.   

    And with that innocent act of ignorance came the decay of existence. Hope remai
ning in the jar;
that
was her story. Whether it pertains to a good thing, this virtue not lost, or a record low pessimism that hope was not released alongside the deluge of wickedness, again remains a point of debate. 

    For me, I actually don’t remembe
r much before the night of that weird dream. When I roused, the first emotion which cascaded over my long fringe was love. Love for father. I recall making his favourite, bacon and sunny-side-ups, for breakfast. Brunch actually, `cos he’d woken up late. And perhaps that was the happiest moment of my life, squishing around that kitchen floor, absorbing the expression of gastronomy satiation on his face. I don’t know why, but I don’t remember the particulars before fourteen. Except for his
first
time. But then again, that incident stayed in my head because of cheesecakes. It was my virgin marble cream utopia. Not because of the ritualistic desecration he performed on me. I know it wasn’t a good thing, and maybe that’s why my mind’s mechanism was to shut down the memories.

    Simply,
epiphany came on me. It was as if I were two persons - one before the dream; the other, after. Like some spirit floating down from Hell to possess me once awake. Such, the last two years, I remember everything. All the minute intricacies, the detailed fingerprints of contact, seared fresh as if it were only yesterday.

    I love him;
I hate him. How can two extremes exist in a single soul? What he’d done to me, he should be incarcerated. Incinerated! But there’s this hooded flesh that’s captivated by his perverse deeds. Like I said, I was happy the day after. Joyful, elated, I just wanted to please him. Please daddy. But his disgusting actions accompanied by slinging semen, showcased together with the crescendo of yodelling techniques, brought back the brood in me. 

    Post-ejaculation, he transforms
into exemplary dad once again. Cries, `cos mummy died at childbirth; died while delivering me. The purest sacrifice, the offering of a mother; and he parades her on the highest pedestal. Stroking my hair behind the ears, daddy says he loved mummy. Loved mummy very much. I am all he has to remind him of her, the heir from her loins.

    He would tell me how they met, stories of their courtship. How he proposed, which was at a Hawaiian
beach, the tide washing up her knees during an orange sunset, ocean weighing her white linen dress down. Drenched and salted like anchovies, he on one knee, mother’s hand is on her mouth, spilling champagne, high-priced fruit juice pouring down the chin, and father, cradling a modest magenta velvet box, exposed as if a crab’s claw clutching a most exquisite twelve carat sphere of marital bliss.   

      Can’t help
falling in love croons from a romantic canopy by the shoreline, and mum, as karaoke backup, sings
yes, yes, yes
out of key. 

48

    Daddy says when he fucks me, he fucks mummy. Playing on my mind like that is not right. Naturally I comply, after the sob, sob sweet tales of ardour and fidelity. Says I’m doing mum a favour; says her spirit will be happy. But there never was a photo of her in the house except for a faded picture kept in an old shoe box of a smiling woman by his side. Only once he showed that to me; when I was little, right after the notorious and unforgettable cheesecake incident by the fridge. Could it be a sham? He said he couldn’t bear seeing her on a wall or on the tabletop, or in the flap of his wallet. I can’t remember her face other than a set of carefree, sanguine eyes. In my dreams she’s always fuzzy, like someone scratched her features out deliberately. Is she even real? Or did he cook her up just to sedate me? Open me up willingly.    

I was a rebellious teen
; c’mon, that’s only normal, even in girls of good household. In public, however, we’re a righteous example, an inspiration for single-parent families. I can’t say he kept a leash on me; I had healthy relationships with others my age. And somehow, I didn’t have the heart to confess and spoil his good name. Dad’s congregation adored him.

I wonder if they still would if the truth was laid bare for all to see. His close quarters knew and partook of my cup, but the general flock was oblivious of their leaders’ filthy transgressions.

    Now the secret’s out. To the left of the headlines concerning the Illuminati’s initiative of a manned mission to Mars to discover the cosmological origin and ancestry of intelligence is an article of two-hundred-and-twenty-two words with well-placed, grabbing captions. 

    What! Nothing about his perversions?

    This was yesterday’s
paper. The daily takes one day to download around here. Illuminati mentality is city-centric. Network signals rarely exceed one bar in the rural zones.

    Of course, what was I thinking? Dad covered his tracks well. Not a mote to give him away. Condoms discarded, dildos wiped clean (cops will assume they’re mine
anyway), fantasy wardrobe and BDSM paraphernalia surreptitiously rented through third-party accounts, no smut traceable online, and sperm stains bleached out even from powerful ultraviolet light.

    As for the pagan statue and Eucharist, the idol sacraments and rich religious artefacts, they confused the cops, leading them to think that Jimmy and I are some kind of bullshit blo
od-orgy ritualistic sect. And me, an abducted weakling. Society waiting for news of my butchered body parts gruesomely found in dustbins all around the city; the perfectly placed head, abdomen and torso, the well manicured limbs providing the police more clues to close this macabre drama with the arrest of a brilliant, but disturbed, cult figure, who psychologists analyze and conclude came from an abusive and dysfunctional family.

    Dream on.

    Daddy and crew prayed to a moustachioed dwarf with an elongated penis. A ruddy countenance of pride and joy graced his face. Exalting Jesus was just a front. How pathetic was it to cry out to a man crucified on two sticks? Such a joke. An invisible resurrected god that was all spirit and no substance.
Boring
. A religion requiring blind faith, belief not fleshed out, but merely a concept, just an inspiration. Never the real thing.                   

    They idolized virility instead. Sexual prowess. They worshiped the phallus, and since they carried that organ everywhere with them, they believed they were incarnations of this squat god with a cannon too discomfiting for his own diminutive size.

    Although, all of them were just sad and puny. As proxy of the priestess, I was to lay hands and grant them her blessings. One by one, I stroked till their passion enflamed, and they swore allegiance to Small-Man Big-Dick with contorting cries, jerking joints and lurching limbs.    

After that, I was solely in charge of the messy cleanup.

49

    Detective Lingam’s pistol is un-holstered and Jimmy’s injured on the mouth. Helicopters and squad cars surround the isolate
d diner. To flush us out, stink-bombs are used. The old owner of the joint said,
ahh
...dinner’s ready. Next, some modern sonic-warfare ear-piercing shriek, and the old man this time says,
hallelujah
, my hearing’s back. Then it was the tear gas, and he proclaims his ducts have all but dried up. No tears, no remorse, no regrets. Hundred-and-twenty years in the making, if the gods are now clamouring for his death, he is prepared. Only that he never expected the opera, and that they would trumpet so loudly his return. An unseen blanket drifts upon his antediluvian frame even as he psyches up for the afterlife.

    When they finally stormed in, the ancient creat
ure was on his knees, screaming, Lord, take me; hands waving in celebrated blindness like a village idiot.

    But then in the blur
, I see angels dressed in black, he murmured through forlorn dentures.

   
Are you taking me to that other place?

   
You shan’t take me to that other place!
He thundered authoritatively like Gandalf. Crooked hands gripped a frying pan and ladle, ready to ward off any SWAT unit swarming his way.