God of the Game (Dreamstate) (49 page)

    I kinda understand, I said, but it’ll be clearer if he brings in
Sha-Rronne, Sharon and my Sanguine Lover into this complicating relation. And stop gawping at me with his private part!        

   “Ok
ay,” Jahr faux apologizes and keeps back his eye behind the zipper of his brain. “Sanguine Lover
as
Sha-Rronne and Sharon; just use the same fucking analogy!” he scolds; and suddenly I am outside his gates, stuck in the middle of a winter blizzard.  

80

I must have offended Jai-I’s father when I was so frank and blatant about his ‘
cockeye
.’ But he did provide me a clue, and it’s now up to me to figure this all out.

So here goes.

Sanguine Lover
as
Sha-Rronne and Sharon. If I apply the same
fucking
analogy, as Jahr puts it, then Sanguine Lover should be Angelina Jolie, and Sha-Rronne aka Sharon is Lara Croft. Just as Angelina plays Lara, Sanguine Lover plays Sha-Rronne. (We’ll just skip the Sharon part from now on since it’s understood Sha-Rronne and Sharon are one. And by the way, that teenage bloody bitch shot my face and mutilated my cock! I still hold resentment.) And if Croft existed before Jolie’s possession, then Sha-Rronne would be a separate entity as well, and my Sanguine Lover (perhaps directed by me) took control of Sha-Rronne the moment we met at the fight club in ZOOL.A.ND. Hmm...this is piecing together. Sha-Rronne, before our acquaintance, is a goddess outside of this book I’m writing. She is far off my fantasy. She is what you would call God in human terms. She is so out of my league and beyond my wildest imagination that I don’t even bother try fathom her existence. Should I, my castles in the air would be way out of line and inaccurate that I would only succeed in erecting a worthless idol which is too distant from the truth. Perhaps...perhaps in another book, when I’m wiser and I’d accumulated greater knowledge; then I’ll endeavour, and hopefully do justice in the telling of her tale.     

My relationship with Sha-Rronne loops from that particular po
int in ZOOL.A.ND, to our exit through Elizabeth Amber’s UFO, down the Vitruvian Man, and finally, awake in a future ruled by the Illuminati when she took the form of fourteen-year-old Sharon. But in this small window of Sha-Rronne’s entire existence, it is my Sanguine Lover
as
Sha-Rronne. My Sanguine Lover acting as Sha-Rronne. In fact, Sharon was the name of one of her friends on Earth. But what possessed Sanguine Lover to play Sha-Rronne? Perhaps she misses me just as I miss her. Or, again, this could all simply be the figment of my imagination. My imagination and yearning so great, it directs a movie, borrowing a life from Earth it is familiar with (Sanguine Lover) and fusing it with the great unknown (Sha-Rronne) to create an abomination (Sharon). 

But conversely, if all the players of this game are consenting adults, why then would someone as eternal as Sha-Rronne allow herself to be used by my incongruous whim and fancy? I am but microscopically insignificant. Why would she care about a worm? Unless it’s a masochistic and submissive desire she cherishes to have worms crawling all over her...
hehe
. If you can believe in immaculate conceptions, then it is not too farfetched to accept the meddling of omnipotent beings in corporeal affairs. Sha-Rronne wants to be of use; but big-headed as she is, I don’t know what to do with her. My pea-brain slaps mysteries and contradictory theological theories, enacts anecdotes to justify its own paradoxical existence in eternal horizons, but never ever attaining a straightforward answer. It continues to worship this goddess, this Sha-Rronne, this aged-old misconception inherited from our forefathers; no one ever possessing the entire picture, just shreds, fragments of a parchment, torn fragile pages of an ancient book; moulding gods out of rock and wood, out of the smoke of our minds, out of feeling. All wrong, all incorrect. For in truth, the more exalted the deity, the greater their triviality; the more you know, the more you have fun, the more you chill, the more you relax. The less you go to war, the less you fight, the less you conceit and cringe in bitter hurt. Only lesser beings bicker in pride, and are smothered by insecurities. True gods aren’t so drugged out and wasted on inferiority complex that they require worship from mortals; only false ones, created by men, need such ass-kissing therapy; for in reality, man only prays to his ignorant and ignominious self.    

Thus to my unholy triune goddess Sha-Rronne, Sanguine Lover and Sharon -
the Mother, Lover and Bitch
- I dedicate a shrine. In this union, the glory has left, and the door to Ichabod is open.

81

Ichabod

No wonder it’s a freezing winter blizzard; for the glory has left. AXXion (
ex-Zion
), the city has left, and it is now a discarded icy wasteland. I am back at lonely Pluto. Ichabod is in me. In fact,
I am
Ichabod all this while. Not my name, but me. ‘
Is me
.’ Regardless where I physically am, if I allow it, my soul will turn an entire planet to ice. You can say I’m like a dejected and misunderstood comic book villain. My alter ego’s name is Ichabod, and my dominion is AXXion. Here I sit alone in the faltering snow, and make movies that screw with the brain; some kind of washing, some kind of programming, sowing the seeds of confusion in order to rule the world.

But what good is a world if there is no one?

Then I am the lord of I; the conqueror of me; for I must master myself before I can rule real subjects. I must reign over the make-belief. Angelina Jolie as Lara Croft is fake, Jahr said; therefore Sanguine Lover as Sha-Rronne is fake! I am the Puppet Master (
versus
the Peppet Master
). I am the director. I make films; porn on occasion, because people love watching. Caramelized art to go with popcorn.

I am a joke. You can’t take me seriously. I am your
court jester.

And now I am filming the sequel. My lead is in the trailer, putting on prosthetics, applying ghostly makeup. She is supposed to be dead in part two, living in a
dream. She is my Sanguine Lover; and once she steps in front of the camera as Sharon, she is fake.

Lights, camera, action!  

82

Teenage Wasteland: Sharon’s Sequel, the Day After

Jimmy says, don’t worry. Just see what I see.

But I don’t see nothing.

No eyes. In fact, no ears, no nose, no mouth, no nothing.

Just a big black abyss.

Just...

Just...peace.

And it is in this empty quaintness that a sixth-sense flowers. This weird yet wonderful gift attracts the original five which I’d lost in cremation, reeling them back in as if they are fishes hooked.

The world is different. I am different actually, lig
hter, seared off mortal weights; thus my surrounding, my environment, appears changed.  

But it’s still darkness all around. All silence. And I feel numb.

Till I smell something. Something succulent.

Someone
, to be precise; someone delicious, musky. Someone that makes me horny.

My pulse quickens, my heart rate bounces like a basketball on court in a
n NBA playoff. Like I’m passed from one man to another, all in a team; but then abruptly snatched by an opponent, and slam-dunked to the noisy chants and rowdy music made by spectators.

I guess this is an accurate enactment of my life, a well described metaphor. Yes
, I was just a plaything for daddy and his players, handed around for ejaculated pleasure.

Until Jimmy...

Until Jimmy came along and gifted me balls on a platter. Those marbles, rotating in my palms, emanated confidence, assured me. Filled me up with guts and gas to pull the trigger.

And now they’re here again. Those orbs orbiting; Jimmy’s twin planets slinging round in trepid darkness. I hear it, the whooshing sound, feeling the continuous loop of air, the smell, and eventually
, taste, of his semen. I sense his sperms swimming out of those balls, and as the tadpoles swim through, I start recognizing a body. Mine. Giving me life again, a resurrection, but not in the world I once lived. Rather, a new one - in his scrotum perhaps - and I remember what Jimmy said:
Don’t be afraid, RZ is waiting on the other side
.

And t
hen, the black empty canvas of nothingness once more.

I felt like I was choking, drowning, ebbing in a sea of panic. To survive, I tried recalling, those intimate moments with Jimmy, the stupid senseless things he used to say.

Painting. Jimmy was a painter. His art is black belt. He can put a revolver in the anus, and, and with one bloody shot, recreate the Mona Lisa on a wall with the biological hardware which gifts flesh and blood life. Jimmy used to pump coloured dyes in the bloodstream of his subjects so that he could paint pictures beyond black and red.      

Jimmy loved cartoons. Old ones especially. And he hated CG. Even more, 3D. Says they’re ruining imagination; says we’re dreaming manufactured dreams of a
sold-out
industry.

And
Jimmy’s other hobby, is guns. He’s got a collection. Knows the damage each piece can inflict.
And he likes to fuck them
. This I can’t say with a straight face. Even though dead, the thought that he possibly loves those weapons more than he loves me still upsets the core of my being.

What more, at a stage when I’m just forming for an afterlife, my naked anger irritates easily. As if it is a bell, this exposed jealousy, ringing nonstop, a buzzer vibrating
like crazy, until, until all that hatred is shaken away, all that envy evaporated, becoming food for Jimmy’s impregnating fishes; then, and then only, am I truly ready.

The first flicker of a fresh existence in spirit realm is just a dot; a dot like a beep on a defibrillator, and an extinguishing light-tail following through. A comet. Reminds me of Jimmy’s sperms. Then one dot becomes two, then four...then an unremitting pulse. A heartbeat, a new life, a baby. I am that newborn. That child.

And the dots start to dance. More than just a beat on a linear path across a blank page, but explosions, fireworks; and what starts off merely as a red dot is now a vibrant constellati
on, evolving farther in becoming a galaxy, and finally, a brightly lit universe of neon lights.

A
t the centre of this incredulous mitosis, I’m admiring this amazing phenomenon when I realize the wonders bend to my every whim and fancy. A universe of neon lights exists because, as a little girl, I have always been seduced by the visual-lighting display of monumental buildings in cosmopolitan cities.

And therefore, what comes next naturally is my favourite.

It rains cheesecakes!

But
simply more than that, earth is a biscuit base, and the sun’s rays which fall upon are the rich contents that make me happy. I lift my finger to thin air and scoop cheesy ecstasy out from nowhere.                             

I could live here forever.
             

And so I do;
reprogramming my memories, all nature becomes my choice dessert.

But I
became lonely. Through an aeon, grubbing on cakes started to be a chore. A bore. I was hungry, but of a different kind. Stuffing cheeses into pussy could not satisfy. I craved for meat; sausages, cunt wanted to devour.    

So, the subsequent phase of m
y evolution saw me as a butcher; a bloody apron, and the carcasses of men who used to hurt me. As much as I enjoyed seeing daddy die, I relished every other male murdered and emasculated. But I can’t help to admit too, the satiation each dick gave this nymphomaniac bitch was wonderland.

Angry v
agina tore and gnawed wicked guys to death, a little greedy-eyed pussy predator gorging meat with arachnid hands and feet; but yet again, an era passed, and I was not fulfilled by the gore. There must be something more.     

I was in ennui.
Sick over the fact that, presented with so much time, I still could not conjure any beauty beyond gluttony and violence. I was filled to the brim, but only with lust and revenge. I could not forgive...
damnit
, I could not.

And the tears started to fall. Shooting stars
crashed through the atmosphere; but alas, a meteorite so voluptuous streaks across my sky, screeching out. A boom. What comes after is nothingness, again.

Except for my breathing. And another beside. An anomalous entity. Hot air sizzle my cheeks; a mist brews upon my neck.

Who can it be?

Have you forgotten? Came a whisper.

After an age, yes I have.

He reminds me he only wants to fuck my mind.