God of the Game (Dreamstate) (36 page)

There is a strange
and awkward liberty which exists when there is nothing more to conceal, when your partner knows all, when you can finally be yourself under the possession of your myriad flaws.

This susceptibility, we guess, is love revealing its petals, blossoming in spirit as you’re joined to your most significant other, the person you wish
to spend the rest of life with.

Instinctively
, their quavering lips met for the first time, love once more traverses their union; and as Medusa loses herself in the arms and emotion of the man she is madly passionate about, pouring her adoration all into him, a chain shatters in her mind, fetters released, and her mother’s curse is broken. The captivated men of her gaze are freed from their stone prisons, and she rips off the veil and stares Manny affectionately in the eyes. 

This is the mission: Divalicious has been sent to infiltrate Pomelo’s factory and discover the mysteries of the
Pie
. The following is the summary of the report, (which never got to Roanna, `cos the ‘snipped-off’ drag was captured at the last resort.)

  
[Pomelo Anderson has no grandmother. As most records were destroyed during the War, genetic scans concluded no one alive shares the same DNA as Ms. Anderson. Of course this could be due to the simple reason that she is merely more plastic than flesh, but it is highly probable to mention that
if
Pomelo Anderson had a grandmother, she died during, or before the Great War.

Who then is this lady who passed away recently at a hundred and two? Just
a random person Pomelo picked out from the streets to accelerate aging to within the century bracket. It is noted that many test subjects were used for this vile experiment, various degenerative genes introduced into their biological system, and all the ‘lab-rats’ perished by the artificial age of seventy at most, till they hit the lottery with that one successful host.

As for the secret recipe of
Pomelo Pie
– it is regurgitated content expelled by her middle finger down the throat, blended with preserved ‘bacon’ (meat, fatty tissues, innards and the rest) extracted from her countless plastic surgeries, genetically modified and compounded into tablets and massed produced, and then seeded in synthetic farms that were once toxic-waste landfills, mass graves, and gory battle sites. The potent and rich contents of blood-spill, flesh-rot and lethal chemicals nourish the first trees that bear animal protein.

One interesting piece of information is the financial statements showing m
onies siphoned to various third-party accounts of phony companies owned by her shrink,
‘slash’
, plastic surgeon.]

   “You know yer not getting away,” Pomelo grins, veneer cheeks lift, a Botox smile, and her hands are clasped with the thumbs rolling. It’s a subliminal message penetrating Divalicious’ cerebral cortex, that the showgirl Marilyn Monroe wannabe is trapped in a lair like a hamster on the spinning wheel; like two scimitars slicing, certain to cut her in pieces should she even try to escape.

  
“What I don’t get,” the plastic princess continues, “is what a beautiful and well-endowed girl like you is doing, swearing allegiance to the tit-less one?” Pomelo stands and strides to the other side of the interrogation table, laying her perfectly nail-polished manicured hands on Divalicious’ shoulders. The captive can clearly see in her periphery the design depicting zebras, but upon closer inspection, white swimming sperms across dark water.

  
“Of course I am fully aware that you used to be an abomination, an ugly man wanting nothing more than to be beautiful.”

The Caucasian hottie who
was formerly a South Indian sissy provided an intriguing stare peppered with fear.

  
“Well, you came to the right place,” Pomelo laughed, slapping a file down on the surface, which had the word ‘Divalicious’ in boldface and ‘
Classified
’ stamped diagonally across the name in red ink. She goes back to her seat and resumes, “Look, you and me both,” she gesticulates, “we’re not that different.” Ms. Anderson watches the mirror, and eyeballs Divalicious by the reflection. Diva does a copycat. “We’re pretty much the same. We’ve both had extensive makeovers; we’re both hot and gorgeous, lusted by guys and envied by females.”

   
It was true, they seemed like sisters.

  
“
So why the hell are you on her side???
” The scream rattled Divalicious’ eardrums.

You gotta admit there is some logic to what’s just being said. It is tempting, flattering, to be compare
d to the most desirable woman on Earth. Bearing in mind her humble and masculine start, this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, a dream come true. Wasn’t that what Pomelo Anderson was insinuating? That they’re alike, that they’re even kin, and now the queen wanted her by her side?

Yes, this is all ve
ry logical and appealing indeed; but no, she couldn’t do that, she couldn’t betray Roanna; she must adhere to the prophecy. Roanna is redeemer, and Divalicious is the herald preparing the way. The dream, the dream, the visions, the visions...she
must
obey.

Bang! Another slam on the table, a hardcover book this time, “
The dream, the dream, the visions, the visions...I must obey
,” Pomelo mocked and mimicked.

Divalicious was shocked. She knows. How did she know? She was reading her mind.

   “Who do you think put them in there?” Ms. Anderson touched her temple. Divalicious was speechless; and right then, a man entered from behind the violet curtain, standing at the rear of Pomelo Anderson. He said, “I did,” as if cued, as if he were a thespian and this was all a theatrical performance; and he added, “Pomelo, don’t recruit
him
...or
her
...” he shrugged in disgust, “I have other plans for
it
.”

Di
valicious recognized that voice; and that man, standing there with his long covetous white hair and beard, his long white robes, if she could switch off the backlight of her hospital dream, she realized, the silhouetted figure in her vision is set right and clear before her very eyes. What woke her from her stupor was when Pomelo said, “
Daddy, you know I never listen to what you say
.”     

Rex the dog is guarding stout at the door; so fierce, that should Manny Masculine walk up, it’ll tear him to shreds. Rex now serves new masters. It is also obvious to mention that Rex is now a Cerberus, a three-headed hound from the pits of hell. This is its new incarnation, without memory of the former; spliced by the gas of stars, Rex will torch the soul and marrow of any human who dare approaches.

Take a pause, move forward. Kunty Kaur is a sole survivor of World War Four; a lone resistance fighter against an army of possessed animals, the demon controlled, and plastic zombies cloned from the most beautiful person on Earth. She is tough, muscular and able to fend for herself. A bit zany, her inclination is towards a religious zealot, for she seeks the legend of the
book of good
, which the ancients say will free the world from this tyranny.

There are clues of the existence of other hermit warriors, and possibly even a community, but she’d met no one in her journeys. She walks the Earth, continues her travel
, from Europe to Africa and Asia, admiring whatever remains of the old-world.

She is planning to cross
into America through Siberia and Alaska, and in so doing, if she meets another living human being, she will preach the message of peace through forgiveness of sins. Otherwise, if they are
not
(or no longer)
Homo
sapiens, she’ll introduce the strangers to her trusty pals, machineguns.

That not working, and they’re still alive, she’ll execute plan B, which is to run like hell.

Rewind. Back to
now
. To the
now
Detective Lingam and Sergeant Siva are leaving Muhammad ‘Tongkat’ Ali all alone in the interrogation room; to the
now
there is a deathly commotion in the police HQ.

One is to be the inane
seer; the other, the scribe.
What are the seven tongues of fire?
, wondered Detective Lingam. If he needs an answer, now is the time. Sergeant Siva is fending off fiends, he is also wounded, he is shouting at his brother. Detective Lingam is breaking out of the headquarters, dragging his other, who is still screaming, still bleeding from a head injury, still spraying a barrage of bullets.

Sergeant Siva seems to have
lost it. He’s yelling profanities, he’s yakking nonsense. The police department is overrun by ghouls. The evil is consuming everyone on the streets not already transformed by Pomelo Anderson’s
Pie
.

The brothers make way to their house, reloading on ammo, Lingam grabbing his unfinished book; unknown yet to him, it is the most precious article on the side of good. They head out of the city, the Sergeant has gone completely loony, the metropolis is burning behind them,
and the collective screams of souls are too much for the Detective to bear.

World War
Four officially starts, but it is not between man and his brother, it is the climax of the pilferage of another species; slowly, unassumingly, and surely, all of mankind is cooked in the faeces of his own folly, wiped out by his own vanity.

The disabled
and fractionalized armies of the New United Nations (NUN) never had time for reconnaissance, intelligence and attack. They were paralyzed, demobilized at the core command centre in the onset by the foe. In all truth, it was a short war, lasting only days. They turned Earth into the Lake of Fire, a free trade zone for demons swooping down to pick the carrions of those unfortunately alive. The Ageless, the god-Boy and the Barbie, they call themselves
Christ & Whore
, like as though they are some multinational company; which in a way, they are.

All consciousness worships them. Armageddon is won, but they are assembling a new legio
n, for Master Wan has many enemies. As for the fate of man, to surrender meant death; they lobotomized the conscience and bypassed the spirit, and assimilated all to One.
O’ what have they done to our Earth? What have they done to our blue planet?
They have turned it into a dark one.

Detective Lingam is tearing;
he is inconsolable. Hands trembling, he takes out pieces of paper from his bag. Siva suddenly screams; he is completely mad, completely crazy, if not from the lesion across his skull, then it is from the trauma of the end of the world. His brother was always the stronger, mentally and physically, but an urge grabbed him, a psychotic lust, his subconscious manifesting; he doesn’t care about his other, he’s attained an erection, and his fighting to fuck his bro in their shared anus.

Lingam punches him,
furious with force, till his insane other goes limp. Lingam can feel the pain of his own brother with each bash of the fist, each hard slap on the cheek, and he can take it no more, this is beyond the suffering any sane person can burden. With a final blow he crumples and cries. Lingam hugs Siva in Phileo, brotherly love; one, throbbing, and howling, with salty liquids flooding from the ducts; and from the other, just a gurgling spastic murmur. They hold each other as if dead, especially when the dragons circle the air, searching souls to eat.

Then
, when his brother sleeps in exhaustion at night, Lingam, in the cold, with torchlight and the eerie glow of the city smouldering from afar, with a cheap pen, on smeared paper, records the events of that calamitous day.

He lives it through
the continuation of his story; for how else can he accept the cataclysmic events that’d occurred if he not distant his heart? The characters take a spin, the plot twists, and fate takes an unhallowed turn that would be laughable, and too fantastical, had not any living person gone through the episodes of today.

As Siva stirs, Lingam stops; the novel he is writing, entry after entry, dates after dates, he still does not want anyone to read
, till this day.

62

What is the measure of a life? For Brit Patt, not much. He falls off the chair as if it is the sensation of waking up from a dream. But he does not. He lies there in the abbot’s office facing up; his eyes staring vacantly at the wooden ceiling. That is his last absorption of the world. There is a small hole drilled at the centre of his forehead, and behind, a darkening lake spreads out its borders.

Indeed, what is the measure of a life? Why did the abbot shoot him?
For no apparent reason it seems; he was just telling a story.

Perhaps the abbot himself
has his own demons; perhaps he’s psycho. Perhaps, death is Truth; or perhaps that was the way it was meant to be, providence. Perhaps the abbot freed Brit Patt; and yet perhaps, Brit Patt
is
sin! Perhaps that is how we separate sin; or, that is the meaning of
it is not Brit Patt that sin but sin that sin
. We will never know. Brit Patt will never know.