God of the Game (Dreamstate) (52 page)

    However, here’s the crux. He can’t annihilate me. It would be purposeless if I die by his hand, for he possesses not the power to alter the fabric which suits him up in the screenplay. Sharon’s the lead; for there to be reformation,
she
must be the one who executes the plan.

    Sharon’s heart will break realizing Jimmy’s an asshole. Jimmy’s just as cr
ude and predatory, if not worse than daddy. Her knight in shining armour is just a jerk using her. Like every other male she is acquainted with. Up to half his bloody kingdom, the peaceful half, he gives her to administer as she wills;
bullshit!
He had his spies on her all that while, scrutinizing her subconscious and unconscious, coming to conclusions, drawing the connections to Sanguine Lover, and the great goddess Sha-Rronne lounging at the back of subliminal wormholes.    

    Here’s the analogy again:
Angelina Jolie as Lara Croft. Lara Croft may be Lara Croft as a person, but Angelina Jolie (though fake) definitely stamped her mark as Lara Croft in the film universe. Her character, her signature; if, for example, Megan Fox were to play Lara, a different heroine would, naturally, be on foxy parade. Jennifer Aniston? Lara would be crying over blunders and ex-boyfriends, and the only secrets she’d solve are breaking with Brat and Rachel’s hairdo.

    Sanguine Lover would have
unquestionably, or even unknowingly, rubbed her aura on Sharon, and Jimmy would have, doubtless, sniffed it out and pried at the director’s chair through my ex-lover’s sense of sight. An opportunist like Jimmy, sure he is to recognize a prospect if he stumbles across one.

    And from whom does he inherit this trait? Frank
, of course; the actor cast to play the eccentric artist cum murderer and paedophiliac father. At what level the two personalities are allied is obscure. From the descriptions above, I’m sure you’re aware they’re separate entities.  

    Now enters the next enigma
: how the hell did Jimmy capture me? I can’t confirm on this, but remember what JC said about my own reincarnations I’ll meet in future? And my James Bond doppelganger? My suspicions of his hospital could be true. And if I were to pinpoint an exact moment Jimmy kidnapped me, I presume it would be during Detective Lingam’s screen time. I was the actor. I played that cameo in Sharon’s movie and a lead in JC’s tapestry. In that link, coupled with the fact I was under Anesidora’s spell, Jimmy, or rather Frank, could have conveniently crossed over the timelines as Jim Franko, Sergeant Siva’s gay pal, and stole my DNA. He didn’t have the power then, but in Sharon’s sequel, when he is plainly a vengeful spirit unbound in the eternal consciousness of the dead, he easily steps back to the suicide-climax when the cops surrounded the diner, and in the aftermath of the electrocution, hopped on to a pensive Lingam stupefied by the miracle of the ashen pubis sprouting innocence and purity in the form of the fresh lily, entered my soul, hyper-jumped into Tapestry 13 with me reprising the Detective’s role (albeit Siamese twinned to the Sergeant), projected himself as the homosexual, snooped around my
mural
, and, somehow stole and stealthily exited and returned home to his realm of unbridled ids with a piece of me.         

    The Jack of Asses card may save my soul. That’s the angle of my defence. Work Sharon against Jimmy, show her what a heartless bastard he is. I said, “Sharon, do you know who I am?”

   “You look like my daddy...
but it can’t be.”

   “You’re right, I can’t be. And Jimmy’s not the gentleman you hope he is either.”

    Jimmy smiles that bogus turn of lips. “Sharon, where’s your sense, dear? Are you going to believe me or this liar? Look at him; your eyes don’t deceive you. It’s your dirty father,” he comments on my appearance, “He’s back to screw you again.”

   “But daddy’s dead. I killed him,” Sharon double stares us both.

   “Yer dead too, honey,” came his reply.

    I got to do more. Jimmy’s way convincing. His version is so much easier for Sharon to
swallow.

    He adds, “Y
er dead, he’s dead. He’s come to reclaim your soul. Luckily, I found him first. Why do you think I’m at the outer edges of the empire? Searching for him,” he answers his own question, “making sure he doesn’t have the opportunity to fool and hurt you again.

   “I love you
, Sharon. Only you. But this time you got to make a final decision; the man who abused you your entire life, or me, lover of your soul. Only you can send him to oblivion.”   

   “I’m not sure if I want that fate for him
, Jimmy...he is after all...still my daddy.”

   “I’m not your daddy,” I interjected, “and your boyfriend’s a liar!”

   “Hear how desperate he is, baby; but if you let him live, he’ll do to you more than all the torment he did you on Earth. Your call. On the other hand, you can spend forever with me. I’m out there working my butt off, working to build us a future. I do it all for you, honey. Come,” he stretches his hand, “let us rule over our kingdom, forever.”

   “Jimmy, I can’t. I just can’t. I dunno why, but I just can’t kill him.
I can’t kill him again
.” Sharon cries. The Smith & Wesson Model 29 drops to the floor with a heavy thud, and she buries her face in the palms which used to cradle the death contraption.

    I sense an opening for action. Jimmy’s gruel brainwashing over the vast lands of time had not wholly bleached Sharon’s aptitude for judgement. I swung at the gun; and with the speed of thunder, pop a hole in Jimmy’s forehead. In slow motion, the bullet tore his brains, and his eyes parted to the sides, to where his ears previously were.
Jimmy dropped to the floor face first, feet in the air. He’s wearing Nike runners I’m suddenly aware.

    Sharon screams and screams and scre
ams and screams. Nonstop - a horn blaring into my eardrums. I can’t take it. I shout, and I’m aiming Jimmy’s antiquated firearm directly at her. Sudden silence, except for the squishy sound blood makes spurting out from ruptured arteries; and all I can think of is Clint Eastwood
as
Harry Callahan;
not
Clint Eastwood
is
Harry Callahan.   

88

    What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. Know that maxim? I can say the same, what happens in a movie stays in a movie.

    For whatever reason, I’m hearing myself shout at the top of my lungs, “
Die Frank! Die, you asshole, you fucking cunt! I had had enough living under your shadow. You think yer better, you think yer bigger...you got guts...well, no more! Who’s the one with the balls now? Who’s the one with the balls, Frank? The big fat balls!
”

    Sharon, timid and frightened, squinting at the shaft of the object that had just diminished Jimmy’s position
, squeaks in a mouse’s voice, “Who’s Frank?”  

   I don’t answer. I’m letting out my libido. “Strip,” I command with a flick of the revolver.

    Sharon’s frozen. Her tongue shivers in the inner chill, “it...it...it...it is you...”

   “Put this on.”

   “...daddy...”

   “Put it on, bitch,” I say.

    The gun miraculously transforms
into another pointed object at my imaginative command.

    Sharon obeys. She’s naked, and a strapped-on dildo stands erect at her crotch.

Sharon’s weeping. Mascara is running. She is, obviously, a hilarious sight to behold. Mourning, dejected, stupid, nude, and a sex toy springy from her groin. An extremely odd picture. Teary-faced and ready to fuck, a forlorn, slouchy body posture hard and turgid for penetration; I take a few snaps with my automatic mental camera for a wank tomorrow.

The adolescent girl was instructed to pull Jimmy’s pants off. I got her riding his cadaverous ass, mimicking a Texan rodeo in a deli on a headless slab of prime beef. She’s shipwrecked in lamentation,
a galloping cowgirl wailing, “
Wh...wh...why...daddy...whyyyy?
”

No replies.
What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas
.  

Why, daddy, why?
Easy. `Cos daddy never touched you in real life. Daddy wanted to, but daddy was afraid, terrified of the law. So daddy composed a story for which he surrendered to his passionate lust. However, his guilt had to punish him in the storyline. He had to die, sentenced by his unforgiving sins. And what better means to end a sordid and insidious existence than by the hand of the one he’d soiled and oppressed. Death executed by daughter, a fatal gift from his Lolita. Jimmy was the man he could have been. Brave, in your face, disrespectful and fearless in the uncompromising eye of the law.
Act first, think later;
that was Jimmy’s credo. That was Frank’s credo, too.

Frank. Damnit, Frank was the reason Sanguine Lover left. The reason Gee Ni departed. The reason I became a handjob addict, a CFNM fanatic. She said if I’m honest, I’d acknowledge that I’m gay and in love with a dead man. I denied; vehemently. This nonetheless I’ll be truthful, Frank was my pal. And with all pals, there’s...
what’s that word
...? Bromance. That was it. Full stop.

There was also envy. Frank was everything I was not. He was
badder
, tougher; he was the person I wanted to be in my head. I was him in my fantasies, for he lived the life I feared but craved. Frank was my hero, my icon, my pinup in a shitty world which I hated. But in the last few months on death row, Frank crumbled. He was slaughtered by a need for honesty; to discard this macho dressing and put on pyjamas knitted from threads reeled round the spool of integrity, nightwear for the everlasting sleep which awaits him. He wanted to snuff out as who he truly was, not as a ‘rock star’ on stage. I struggled during that period, rattled by the change of his conduct. Difficult it was for me to accept this fragile temperament of his, especially after years hanging out with his hard deportment. Those lunar cycles, I despised him, I mocked him; I loved him. I was one up; the term of his incarceration saw the genesis of my Sanguine Lover, the ‘first book’ of
my
bible for a new road ahead. We dated, I scored, and my friend was still moping in his cell. For once I was not jealous of him. Who would? I had a girlfriend, a new life paving forward. He only had the noose in lieu of hope. Frank wished to set wrongs right. He sought forgiveness from a wife (yes, Frank was married, and she too was a friend of mine), but, safe to say, I was the last companion he saw alive.    

She got it wrong, I am not homosexual. Frank was just a buddy; and
how many men can boast they had a condemned criminal for best friend? But that didn’t stop Sanguine Lover from retreating. Said she couldn’t count on my instincts. She believed my congenital nature would triumph eventually, and I will only hurt her if we marry.

My temper rose. She’s insulting me; I’m not an innate lover of cocks. I have to show her. I d
emanded more sex. I raped her to prove how masculine and testosterone-charged I was. It backfired, it failed. It was only paltry and pathetic instead. We broke up. But Sanguine Lover had planted a seed; or perhaps it was truly Frank who did the deed. Couldn’t help but rationalize - maybe she’s right,
I’m into men
. She swapped lover for the tag of soul mate. I accepted. Geez, only gays would share that kind of labelled humiliation with someone of the opposite sex. All thoroughly befuddled and exasperating it was.

Sadly, I too let
Gee Ni wear the pants. And as my last and final girlfriend exited the front door, and I made my exodus to the house of whores, I couldn’t help but wonder if it were true, that I liked guys more than gals. I am parched for masturbation but numbed to intercourse, and I relish the sight of nude men in company of fashionable flocks of the fairer sex. 

89

Planet Muthafukker

The fate of Sharon is lost at sea. Jimmy’s time travelling tidal wave of a feat had forced me to improvise. Sucked into my own creation. No more the god outside watching the telly screen, directing players. Can’t change channels now, I’m interacting with breathing effigies made in my own image. Reminds me of Jesus Christ. But his visit to the Third Rock was purposeful; mine, in the clouds and mists of afterlife is a sham.

Go on rampage. Fuck your fears. Become Frank, seize Jimmy’s empire.

And so I do. I ravish Sharon, my young, ripe and beautiful daughter. All the years of self-control erupts in a single volcano. All that false piety stagnant in reservoir becomes too forceful of a burden for the dam of morality to withhold. I gush out, I gush forward, and I gush onto Sharon in generous cheesecake flavours. I protect her, I ravage her; I am the evilest motherfucker. If the gods are angry, let them come burn me. I announce a challenge, a fight to a fiery hell.

And the evilest motherfucker needs his Jezebel, his Babylon; the mother of harlots. Together they will set the titans ablaze, commit incest and all other abominable sacrileges in the holy of holies; whatever devils may craft.