God of the Game (Dreamstate) (30 page)

Her superpower is, well, turning men to stone; and it’s surprising no one has yet made this direct connection between the Madame and her midnight per
sonality. Though, in this crazy world, who cares!? And besides, the bad boys she hardens up, society doesn’t mind. Fact, she’s doing this country, and the world, a huge favour, what with the high and increasing number of delinquents and law breakers.

When the fire truck came with the rescuers, Kunty Kaur was stuck on a penis. They had to saw the dick off and yank it from her aperture. It hurt like hell, so she was clearly traumatized.

In the police report, she
mentioned it was just a regular, a nobody doing the doggy, when a piercing scream streaked the air and a grappling pain tightened in her. She saw nothing, and in the dim shadows, the man was still. Silent. He spoke not even when she hollered and yelled.

Finally, when she managed to lay eyes on her client, he’d already had his cock cut and extracted from her organ; it was only then
, Kunty, shivering, realized the magnitude of her ordeal, for the poor guy had been frozen forever into a nude Renaissance statue that appeared vandalized, or
censored
, like the many historical artefacts by the Catholic Reform of the fifteen-hundreds.

The victim is a twenty-one-year-old lowlife drug dealer, acquaintance of the runaway flattened and decorated across Madam Medusa’s shop. There is a connection between the two slayings, William Borg thought, but he doesn’t know what.
Yet!

At his desk, the cyborg is comparing
photographs taken at the scenes as well as detective notes and witnesses’ accounts. He does not have to do this with hard copies; the images and texts float around in line of his vision in augmented reality, according to his dancing cerebration – studying one picture, highlighting a clue with a virtual marker, cross-referencing another image, relating this to a statement made by a bystander, rewinding his video-feed to a particular angle – fun, all very fun. This is what he loves most of his job; and to the untrained mind, William Borg appears just to be an autistic living in his own exotic dream. 

Speaking of neural disorder, or brain damage, Divalicious is lying in a vegetative state in the General Hospital. He is now the heroic face of third-genders, their tranny mascot. Support has been generously flowing in, get-well-soon cards and flowers too; an ongoing vigil for his recovery is held, both at the riot site and the hospital.

Poli
ce are always at bay to ensure peace and order, to quench hostility should there arise from anyone stepping out of line. No doubt, tension yet exists, and the situation is hot and sensitive.

So, for effective brand expansion, Roanna Fausi’s publicist suggests she run for mayor. This could be the beginning of a political career. Not just mere hope for womenfolk, but all mankind. She is to be the androgynous saviour of the future.

First course of action is charity in
Divalicious’ honour. No doubt, regular chicks will initially baulk, but they adore her, and a little verbal chastisement before culminating words of encouragement should open the eyes and hearts of all girls; the prologue of a progressive march towards a genuinely equal world.

The publicist, also a female of small bust measurement, states, to show her goodwill, Roanna
should sponsor Divalicious’ sex change operation, so that when he awakes, he will be a certified lady and proud vagina-owner done away with the dreaded penis and testicles. This will definitely buy the vote of the in-betweens as well as gays and lesbians and all those liberal minded. All combined, she should win the next election.

News of Roanna Fausi’s ascension gets to Master Wan during an avocado facial and eyebrow trim. The venerable Master considers himself metrosexual, albeit, a kung-fu fighting one more comfortable in cloaks and robes and ancient clothes.

He is in a Keanu Reeves bullet and gravity defying pose, very serene and composed. The environment is a Japanese garden - wood and sto
ne arc-bridges over waterfalls and an endless river with a pagoda on a hill. Scenic; postcard scenic.

The stylist, cum beautician, at his service casually states her support for the breast-less one, and in a sudden undetectable
, yet conspicuous, fury, the Master’s finger lightly brushes a nerve. He smiles, and she collapses and dies.

Rex the dog is fucking a dead body. A bitch’s scent permeates the air. Rex is feeling happy when something glimmers at its side. Curious, it scampers to the source with its nose leading the way. Someone had dropped human flesh by the wayside, a trail of meaty treats. The dog, tongue swaying and drooling, eagerly chows down bit by bit, rounding a corner, entering an alleyway.

In
the darkness, a thud...and a whimper. Rex does not reappear.

Somewhere, an untrained surgeon is operating on a brain. An experimental procedure, homemade lobotomy, the organ exposed, the pink folds visible; throbbing, blood is flowing. The unlicensed doctor, dressed in a daisy-motif tomato and chilli sauce stained kitchen apron, carefully incises with a scalpel, cutting off something, inserting something else, reconnecting and stitching up gyri and sulci, wiping bloodied hands on menstrual rags, replacing the sawed off piece of cranium, screwing tight with bolts, sewing back skin and flesh and fake fur, perhaps creating a neo-Frankenstein monster.

He turns, fac
es a camcorder, removes the surgical mask. It is the familiar bespectacled image of Wong Boom Bong grinning innocently. He explains the operation, and gently strokes the juddering reflexes of the anaesthetized Rottweiler.

Manny Masculine is at the police station. The officer at the high-counter is not sure who he is talking to. All he sees is an invisible man reporting his lost dog in a frantic, high pitched voice.

Apparently, it’s a famous dog, a Rottweiler. The precinct borrowed it for investigative work. It was let off its leash to track a homicide at a demolition site, but the dog mysteriously disappeared. Now the spectral owner is fucking furious! 

Another person who is fucking furious is the police chief. He is raining saliva and banging profusely on tables, screaming at the Siamese twins team of Sergeant Siva and Detective Lingam.

The authorities are in bad press for police brutality, especially after the violent beating of a defenceless lesbian by a conjoined-one caught on tape by mainstream media. To his justification, the twin states that the lady was initially armed. It is difficult to decipher the truth, but no doubt, she was whacked and whacked again, even after she went down.

Roanna Fausi’s party is sure
to make a big fuss over this. “Political mileage,” he screeches, adverse to the idea of Roanna telling him what to do. The chief, a big man with boiled lobster countenance, wants to maintain the status quo. He likes the current mayor, they have a relationship. They have deals on the side.

One of them is the legalization of child pornography. Underage sex is still illegal, but legit naked-kiddie media spruces the demand for young flesh. Paedophiles who watch would also want to touch. But touching is against the law!

Behind black markets, behind crime syndicates supplying
children are fat cops and politicians brokering deals, profiting from sin. Unlawful acts are higher priced, naturally, and the average Joe paying that exorbitant amount to sate shameful longings is also contributing to the coffers of the authorities.

Fact, gangsters too give a cut, for protection from police; everyone is in league, an immoral alliance governing the cities, puppet masters of a flawed judicial system. Occasional raids pacify public
gripes, but paltry fines hamper nothing, and closed-doors negotiations only further bulge the pockets of district chiefs. The big fishes are never caught. Instead, everything comes their way;
advance to go and collect £200
.

These are demoralized times. The climate is a gloomy economic thunderstorm. Households are short on cash, so sell your kids for food. People are low on confidence, they need to feel powerful, and thus, the sensible, but sordid, soluti
on is to sexually abuse the innocent. It’s a vicious cycle, and Muhammad ‘Tongkat’ Ali is right in the cyclone’s middle. 

At the centre of a group of men with unleashed ogre genitals is Pomelo Anderson naked and sitting like a frog. Heavy hooters swing from right to left in mock motions of a pendulum.

These are scarred boobs. For n
ot only had she ignored advice and gone ahead to get them bigger, she’d stapled her stomach as well, skimmed off her waist, sucked out even more fats, lengthened her legs, and more or less replaced her face.

At a shrine is a
Barbie doll, and Ms. Anderson is ogling pictures on a pamphlet on bod-mod. She’s thinking of implanting a third tit. Right at the centre! She’s gotta outdo the bloody toy. She’s gotta outdo Roanna Fausi. Her enemy is running for office, she’s telling the world she is better than Pomelo Anderson. This cannot be. Sure, Pomelo may not have the brains, but she’s got other organs, other bigger and better organs...

...So, the urinals are the shape of giant vulvas; and Brit Patt is scared of them.

Halfway through a photo-shoot...
he gotta pee
. Rushing to the loo, hands unzipping the fly, pulling out that thing he wishes women adore, he abruptly halts, and sees rows and rows of enormous pussies entrenched onto black-tiled walls. Shiny white gleaming porcelain female sex organs, how do you expect a man to piss in them without feeling frightened, without feeling intimidated, insecure, insignificant?! Brit’s dick felt so small; the gorgeous hunk wet his pants.

59

William Borg is upset. His body parts are malfunctioning. More often than yesterday, even before the expiry date. Damned cheap ware, those mass produced electronics with zero quality control. But that’s how things are made nowadays...to crash easily. How else would corporations make money?

However, that’s not what he’s upset about. Just the other day he was at the spare parts store, pu
rchasing a brain chip, a second-hand shop to be precise, `cos old hardware without warranty are more reliable and they last longer; and in comes this stubbly, haggard looking guy in an odorous shit-coloured trench-coat, a typical suburban middle-class kind of guy suffering depression with a little too much to drink - a common factor these days. He whips out an Uzi, shakily demanding the proprietor the courtesy of opening the cash register.

He’s apologizing as he takes the notes, saying he’s gotta feed the wife and
four kids, that he’s been retrenched as CEO of  a company, and it’s been two years now, and he’s still out of job, and he doesn’t know how he is gonna eat. Tears stream his cheeks, but for all you know, he could be an actor telling the same sad tale at each robbery attempt to suppress guilt and justify his necessitated crime. The truth is the same everywhere.

After World War Three, countries are broke. Unlike e
arlier ones, there were no victors. Everyone lost. All nations had to rebuild their empires, but resources are scarce. It’s a downward spiral, global economies plunged, and commoners go on living in a state of clear and ever-present hunger -
teasing Death, who is perpetually famished
.

A window of opportunity, the robber
was somewhat distracted by borderline compunction and the owner quickly swung a baseball bat, hitting the man square in the head, splitting his brain. The Uzi goes uncontrollably out, and the second-hand pawn dealer goes down in a red misty shower of bullets.

  
“What is the world coming to?” William Borg asks no one alive even as he dials the precinct to report. Chaos and anarchy sprout; families are breaking up, selling and killing each other for bread; homicides are getting more and more gruesome; jobless men feel castrated; paedophilia is on the rise; rape is showcased in open streets with strangers joining in - others walk past, and the victim is not only ravished, but robbed as well; clothing, money, fake jewellery, even filthy undergarments, dislodged; and the poor person staggers home barefooted, naked, blue-black and alone, as passersby stare at their own transgressions reflected on concrete pavements.

In backdrop of such misery, Roanna Fausi visits a broadcasted support group for raped women with tits cut off. It is believed they are all preys of the same serial predator. This rendezvous is part of her publicity campaign.

The traumatized ladies recount their tales. They’re always the same. Some mechanical device is latched
onto their armpits, something with a timer and robotic spider legs. Her muffled cry in underground space goes heedless, and a saliva soaked tennis ball is stuffed in her face. A blatant alarm - old type sounding clock - the kind with a little hammer banging furiously between two silver metal bells; a poof, a bit of smoke, and a churning saw is activated on the diabolical device.

She screams, but she is not hearing herself. The noise of motor fills her ears, somewhat like a lawnmower, and arty specks of blood hit her chin. Pain mixes like ingredients of a cake with serrated flesh and burnt
tissue, and her breasts scamper off on a modified spatula on spidery limbs. The boobs run down her body, ticklish where each needle pointed leg pricks. In her mind, it’s an awry nursery rhyme gone even more terribly wrong. Blood is oozing off her chest, and she faints by an injection to her veins.