God of the Game (Dreamstate) (29 page)

    Manny Masculine
: Hobbit with a hotbod. Won Mr. Dwarf for the seventh consecutive time. If still alive, Michelangelo would have begged to sculpt his two-footed, four-footer frame, knowing how much the artist loved chiselled men. He lives alone in his custom-for-midgets apartment with his pet, Rex.    

    Sergeant Siva & Detective Lingam
: Siamese twins in law enforcement. One is writing a novel he doesn’t want anyone to read, and the other is gay. It is hard sharing private space for these two; and when a terrorist threat strikes, the impenitent pair is thrust into brotherhood beyond what they can bear.     

    Brit Patt
: The handsomest guy on Earth. A wink sends women into frenzy. Topless, he drives the fairer sex up the wall. If naked, they would just want to kill him! Denying ladies coitus fancy, he only wishes to exhibit his lean-mean-glorious-nude-machine in front of clothed members of the female clan.

   
Rex
: Rottweiler with an appetite for goldfishes, but now having acquired a taste for human cadavers. This happened when it chanced upon a murder victim. They had to extract fingernails from doggie poop to identify the corpse. Now, Rex is a hero, having helped solve twelve cases; but its greatest challenge lurks around the corner.

   
Master Wan
: Ageless guru endorsing a popular 2-in-1 shampoo and conditioner, promoted by his silky smooth white hair and beard. The Master is author of the first fully-interactive 3D novel, which words jump out to grab at you. Literally. It is about a dull schoolboy who travels evergreen fairytales, meets flamboyant characters, and eventually becomes saviour to children’s bedtime chronicles. In the last chapter,
the Death of Death
, the Grim Reaper seeks a successor to pass on the skill. 

57

The premise opens at a Madam Medusa retail outlet with the remains of a teenage runaway sprawled across the ceiling, like embossed Sistine Chapel art-replica.

First to arrive at the scene i
s William Borg, and the grotesque wonder caused his jaw to drop, followed by his right hand disjointing from socket and falling onto the timber floorboard with an unruly crash.

Bodily liquids dripped onto this summer’s fashion fad, the entire new collection unworthy of wear.

When Madam Medusa heard
, she was mad.

  
“I’ll get to the bottom of this,” she screamed and sent the coffee mug flying through the bricked office wall, simultaneously staring at her aid, transforming him immediately into a painful rock. 

Then Rex arrived on a leash, and the first thought that clouded its canine mind was, “Yum! Lunch!”

Intestines
, strung out on the right-hand-side wall of the store, packed in continuous rows of fat figures, crudely mimicked the Last Judgement. Nonetheless, to the dog they merely appeared as fresh sausages.        

On the phone, Manny Masculine is negotiating a protein shake whilst talking to his girlfriend. The police had come to borrow his pet. He gets paid by the department after that.

She’
s angry he doesn’t give cunninlingus as he used to, and Manny explains that it’s because a contest is coming up, and he’s got to focus on flexing the right muscles. “But baby, I promise,” he cajoled, “once this is over, my tongue is all yours.”      

Roanna Fausi offs the cellular and chucks it on the velvet sofa. She strips and inspects her boyish breasts. They are deflated balloons of skin nipples hang from, reminding her of a mushy mottled man sac. Roanna Fausi wraps herself in a towel and cries, recalling the traumatic story of how she’d gotten empty scrotums for chest; but soon, the phone rings again.

It’s her publicist
once more.

A meet-and-
greet the fans session is ahead. Time to put on a brave face. Time to lie. Lie to the many ladies that adore her. She applies makeup, wears something chic, but secretly desires to be famous for shallower reasons...like Pomelo Anderson... That
bitch!
The mere mention of her name makes Roanna motivated again. 

Somewhere in the middle of the long queue is a flabby man in a gold and pastel suit and skirt, clutching Ms. Fausi’s autobiography to be autographed by the legend herself.

   “I’m her biggest admirer,” Divalicious pro
claims through a mouth puffed with crimson lipstick, and to the horror of the common women who share the same heroine.

   “
What freaks does she attract?
” they must have thought for a moment. But then they reassessed. No, it cannot be Roanna’s fault, the star they so highly worship, the muse of their average existence. It’s this horrible mutant who must not be here. How can
he
love her too? How would he ever understand female plight? This black-skinned abomination, born a baby boy, but now behaving as if a member of the fairer sex; he must be ostracized!

    Abusive words
flew, the murder of true-blue gals chanted. A massive fight ensued.    

Relishing each morsel of a punch - here some chick’s molar comes loose in a puddle of saliva and blood, there a broken aquiline nose - is Wong Boom Bong on his way back from school.

   “Man, can that
thing
fight,” he mumbled under whispered breath, pointing a finger towards Divalicious.

But there were
too many. Soon, the ladies jumped and clubbed the manicured monster into a coma.

   “Dream of me in
your hospital bed,” the boy voiced his desire. At the same time, he memorized the judo-sumo hybrid technique he’d just witnessed. “Perhaps I can use this in school...or in Street Fighter,” he said.

    At recess
, a bully made him drink urine. Good thing he’d left his faeces at home. Daydreaming, young Wong bumped into a big gong belly. Something sharp and hard pricked his navel.  

Muhammad ‘Tongkat’ Ali looked down and laughed a jolly sound at the young boy who was definitely freaked by his prized-cock. Stiff since birth, Ali suffers from a mutation called
priapism
(permanent erection). He could not care less about the street mêlée. His dick preoccupied his mind.

Cursed -
ejaculation after ejaculation - but still that damn thing never goes soft! He must have murdered in excess of a quadrillion offspring. Every time he sees a Viagra ad, or any aphrodisiac for that matter, he flies into incessant rage because his craving can never be sedated. Other men his age, impotent, longs to fuck. They long for seventy-two (or more, up to twelve-thousand-one-hundred, some say) white-skinned virgins with breasts voluptuous, large round and not inclined to hang, and an appetizing hairless fanny that never menstruates, nor in that region urinate or defecate, and, very importantly, childfree, always singing his performance’s praise, blessed, indeed, with a God elect penis that is ever erect! In his insufferable condition, Ali questions the wisdom of that desire, a hard-on for all eternity; and in contrary to those, perhaps complicit, manly yearnings, Ali simply
has
to have sex. If not, he goes mad. Quench the insanity, the extreme semen build-up. Masturbation is pointless, he’d fucked his wives to death, and whores are an eternal addiction. Only one thing relieves...(momentarily). 

From a distance, the lady of the street recognizes the duck-like waddle of her client. In the past she’d charged by the hour, presuming if the man came quick, (which he usually does) he falls into a flaccid stupor and that would be the end of it while she collects for the whole sixty minutes. But this guy, Ali, jizzes and jizzes,
and jizzes again,
till her vagina is shredded and abrasive, as though the organ had been run on gravel. So she ditches counting by the clock and re-strategizes to payment by orgasm. That bastard, he now grimaces and holds till his countenance is a boiling pressure cooker, lasting beyond the hour mark before he dynamites and detonates the broiling and overflowing dam. After that, her entire body is submerged in inseminating mud.

Why must Kunty Kaur get all the weirdoes and perverts? Did she ever mention that ‘Tongkat’ Ali
always brings along with him the meal for whatever time of the day? A grinning penis hauling a tiffin-carrier, eggs kept warm in soup; what he does with the food on her physical body is worthy of its own recipe book.

Kunty Kau
r wants to be an actress; like Traci Lords, like Pomelo Anderson. She’d sent a tape in, but with so many beautiful women out there, she doubts her chances. Every day she acts when she fucks. In drama school they gave her a tip for intimate scenes: imagine you’re doing it with the person you love, or the person you most want to get on with. So, when Muhammad ‘Tongkat’ Ali holds her ankles apart and shoves his shaft within, and all she sees is his potbelly and constipated cringe, all she truly wants to see is a six-pack on a cool Brit Patt.

On the other hand, the most desired, handsomest man on Earth is jerking off over Roanna Fausi and Pomelo Anderson in a CFNM threesome. In this fantasy of his, he is seated on plush purple cushions, and naked. The two opposing female celebrities are decked in the latest Madam Medusa couture. Pomelo is teasing him with her prominent cleavage whilst massaging the testicles; and Roanna, in her prim and proper manner, manoeuvres the handjob. In quarrelsome discord they shout at his cock with clichés of admonishment and little praise, and he blows out to smear his exercising hand.

Brit Patt in the shower is remorseful. Curds cling to the tiled bathroom floor, tau
nting him, refusing the swivel down the drain. He can see semen in his sleep, tadpoles with sharp teeth decapitating him. He’d been brought up a Roman Catholic; he’d been born an ugly duckling. He used to have violent reveries toward young alluring ladies. Not anymore. He knows it’s wrong. In the confessional, the priest prompts him to pay penance. He does, daily. He flips channels on the TV; and in an upcoming episode of a primetime talk-show hosted by Master Wan, he will tell all. 

On the news channel, camera traces a riot downtown. The lens catches a strange looking policeman. This law enforcing chimera has two heads, three legs, one body and two hands. It seems to be undecided which way to go. Perhaps it’s due the commotion, mayhem sprouting here, there and everywhere, pillars of smoke rising, Molotov cocktails hurled, and shoplifters taking the advantage; or just that the two heads are in perpetual dispute, nonstop squabbling.

A reporter runs through the action, ducking bombs, pushing unruly mo
b, saying something into the screen; but they’re only unrehearsed stammering lines amidst the crowd’s hysterical shrieks. One of the heads tells her the hubbub started with a group of women attacking a cross-dressed man outside a bookstore at a Roanna Fausi book signing session. The other head shouted obscenities and clobbered an assailing lesbian with a baton. The details of it is not clear; some say the she-man incited the ladies, but over the hour the uproar developed into a bewildering war between third-gender equal-rights activists and average working girls and housewives. Men either ran for cover or, grabbing the panicked opportunity, stole the current month’s
Triple F
magazine with Pomelo Anderson in feature. 

When she got the news, Ms. Anderson was delighted.

However, she was then consulting her plastic surgeon,
‘slash’
, shrink, on the physical possibilities, and the emotional-mental stress, of enlarging her breasts further. And since she was at it,
bitching
, she rattled on and on about her dissatisfaction with her nose, face, eyes, waist, buttocks and legs - in fact, her entire body - and it was precisely that moment the good doctor asked if it was her intention to eventually end up looking like a “mannequin or Barbie...?”

Pomelo, without hesitation said, “y
e...” but stopped short, reconsidering the specialist’s, perhaps sarcastic, statement.

Master Wan smiles at Ms. Anderson decorously, then glances at the digital stopwatch and says, “Times up! Same time next week?”

She nods, suspending her final thoughts.

He added as she flounces toward the door, “I think your boobs are big enough.”

The door slams! Sometimes patients just don’t want to hear the truth. With a sigh, Master Wan disrobes and steps
into a bubble bath, shampooing his world-renowned facial hair whilst reading positive comments and reviews on his bestselling three-dimensional novel.

58

No one knows this, but Madam Medusa moonlights as a crime fighting vigilante. A caped crusader, a costumed superhero in latex; her alter ego’s secret identity is nicknamed Gorgon by gangsters and good citizens alike.

But o
f course, as always, it is hard to differentiate hero from villain; all our characters are thoroughly drenched and muddled in grey they straddle the middle lands of purity and evil.