God of the Game (Dreamstate) (55 page)

93

   “Well...you know what to do,” RZ scowls.

Sha-Rronne opens
a chat-box with me in a wireless spirit connection.
Tie me up
, she types.

Oh...ok
, I replied.

Use your instincts
, boy
; appeared the words on my screen as encouragement.

So I obey the will of the goddess, stripping the schoolgirl off and knotting
her down on the sacrificial altar, which is the rusted iron slab beside the prolific old clock. Sha-Rronne, under Sharon’s disguise, does a bit of acting on her part, pretending to be shocked and terrified of the whole charade.

   “W
e don’t have much time,” RZ mumbles to himself. “Do you have it?” he then speaks to my face.

A blank;
but then it registers - the weapon, Leper and the Gunk’s dagger. I
swagged
it out, a priceless booty, always present and prominent throughout my adventures. RZ grabs it from me; guts Sharon like it’s a scenario from a wet fish-market.

Sha-Rronne’s acting is award
winning material.

He speaks an alien language, a rumbling chant of a foreign tongue.

Sha-Rronne’s role is just plain silly now. She acts like dead.

In RZ’s
hand is a human heart. It goes ‘be-boop’, ‘be-boop’, ‘be-boop...’, but a dissatisfaction flitters across whatever’s visible on Hairy’s hairy face. He was hoping Sharon’s - or Sha-Rronne’s - life-beat would be more substantial, more divine, but instead, it’s similar to every other woman’s tempo. The disappointment, nonetheless, wasted him not. With the magical tip of the blade, he punctures the organ, and immediately the rhythm stops. He then jerks down, and it is now twinned cloves in his black and wrinkled hand. Held captive, those two halves, prisoners behind bars wrought from sharp talons.

One is supposedly mine,
but that
idiotic
glutton
, he gorges on both! Then he laughs with a full mouth. Right then, it chimes twelve.           

    But nothing occurs!

A wild disposition made of obscene anger drills RZ’s countenance. He looks at the jewel studded knife, and then he screams at the top of his voice, “WE HAD A DEAL!!!!!!”

Silence only replies. To add to the insult, Sharon sits up; the cavity bobbing at her abdominal front. His eyes are in horror of her, and Sharon merely folds and stuffs
back in her entrails, appearing all demure at the ghastly task. With a lazer finger, she solders up the mess RZ had caused.

It is unclear what happens next. But if you can imagine what it would be like seeing your entire life’s dictatorial dream dashed in a few seconds, it would be realistic to accept that Hairy RZ went completely bonkers, running out of the castle fortress round-eyed (rumour has
he could never blink again), clutching a looted blade encrusted with precious stones, shouting, “We had a deal! We had a deal! We had a deal...!” over and over and over again.

Some say he
now roams the arid mountains scourged and scorched by dragons encircling the citadel, but others claim he never left the building. At night, when the haunted sounds of animal holler are at their loudest, the villages around the old rock tower also echo the anguished shrieks of a madman being pecked, bitten and crushed, as if to death, by these ethereal beasts. Then, next dusk, the bawling repeats, scaring inhabitants out of their wits, forcing mortals off the land. Planet Muthafukker (which rhymes with
Mad-Old-Fucker
– tourism brochures suggest this was how the realm arrived at its name) remains a ghost town populated by ghouls, phantasms and all other evils; and forever it retains its two-dimensional hedonistic facade for the holidaying fun of those unfathomable ids larger than the egoistical universe.

94

   “Sublime,” Sha-Rronne prides and simultaneously shreds Sharon’s skin off. That was the last I saw of my prurient and incestuous daughter, my teenage bitch, the adolescent harlot. She deteriorated like dust and was danced away to dine with desert dunes. A part of me too died that day with her demise; but frankly, I was relieved. I was glad. Sharon was an inferior incantation of my subconscious lack. The best my aging sins could ignite.

I am ti
red. Tired of the games I play. It is the evening of the sixth day, and I desired rest. So delighted tomorrow is Sabbath! Granted, I was an appalling creator (my first attempt; not much of an endeavour, not much of an effort). I’m no god of the game; rather the game plays me, and I am only a pawn shuffled along by the greater forces that abide.

Sha-Rronne wishe
s her goodbye, but I stroked on to her little finger even as she boarded a chariot of twinkle-twinkle little stars. I say, “My Sanguine Lover...can you show her?”

The goddess pauses to my request. She palms my chest and responds, “Search your soul, do you really?”                  

Do I really? Or is it time to let go? Free her from the prison of my heart. The longer the princess is stowed away in his ivory tower, the more haggard the king gets. Sitting enthroned on his gilded stage, glitter is the throne, but the ancient sovereign is blind, creased and gnarled, unable to enjoy the delectable splendour of his own excessive lust; summoned, instead, by arthritis and other bodily aches. His majesty is ill; he is chained perpetually to his own iron ball.

Night falls. One last deed before I greet the dawn. I don’t call for my Sanguine Lover. Rather, I give
an order. The soldiers are rude, but are directed not to desecrate her femininity. Blindfolded and shoved along; at the point of no return, they undo the linen strip that ties her eyes. A riddled wall; on the ground, familiar faces stare agape. Jimmy, Frank, Sharon... butchered by bullets.

Detective Lingam, with Sergeant Siva, commands
in an alacritous tone, “
Ready! Aim! Fire...!
”

Somewhere, Sha-Rronne releases a dove to the sky, and I can’t help but
cry as I crawl out of Hell well and very, very much alive.

THE END

Sabbath


        
 

Ah...Sunday; roused by the digital clock blinking each second as if it’s a lighthouse revolving by the rocky beaches of my bed, a beacon for ships sailing in the sea of dreams. The green linear lines of time state 11:39, and I swam another fifteen minutes in that aquatic blue of fantasies, which merges with the horizon as one huge azure cloud, a fabric flowing on from an earlier cobalt hour. I am both bird and fish as I straddle groggy over a bowl. Urine makes foamy waters, and I am
flying
, or
swimming
, away again into drowsiness when the reverie is suddenly snapped by my wet, indigo striped, boxer shorts.      

Shit! Totally awake now. They’re new, and they were fresh from the cupboard. Stripped, showered, freshened up; the mint of fluoride paste evokes a caffeine crave.

Raided the kitchen garbed only in clean undies – cerulean and decorated in a history lesson on timepieces – but gawked at the Star Wars wall-clock instead. Darth Vader, in defence pose, pointed his red light sabre just after twelve, whilst Luke Skywalker’s thrusting blue beam was closer to where three would have been if there were numbers on the plastic guide that dictates the tempo of my life.

Mulling over, weighing
the choices, I could call some people up to spend the day with, provided they’d not made plans, or...nah, had a hectic week, spirit’s clamouring for a few chilled-out hours. Maybe dinner I would want company.   

Patronized Starbucks solo. A light frilly chicken sandwich winged by lett
uces and weighted with tomatoes and with onions dribbling by the side was sumptuously accompanied by the roasted brew of the day. Dark, creamy; infuses both nostrils and brain cells.

Then I went back up to the apartment. I was determined not to do anything productive. Watched a Robert Rodriguez film followed by a Yasmin Ahmad direction; Pink Floyd’s
Dark Side of the Moon
then rocked the CD player with its psychedelic groove, and by the time the lady screamed her lungs out after the moody ballad of piano and slide guitar, I was already at
my
own dark side of consciousness; her orgasmic opus, in my dozed off daze, sang like a deal with the devil. How much
Money
(incidentally, the name of the following track) was involved, I never hung around to hear. 

Rather, an olive pond greeted me
, and I frolicked with frogs.

Woke up in ennui now; this cycle, creeping out of slumber
, is such bane. Anyway, loneliness now is no friend of mine; so I desperately sought out solitary souls. Not worth mentioning; they were boring; a man-and-wife couple of more than ten years, a bachelor in his twenties attached to an IT firm which services banks’ auto-teller machines, and a fifty-six-year-old divorcee – married twenty-five years; her husband, ten years her junior, absconded with her sister, ten years her senior. The bland Italian delivery and Chinese takeout were the highlights of a sonorous but anal evening.      

Goodnight...!

On the Eight Day

0

    Ros
e before the sun. A new week greets with even newer opportunities for capricious, wanton and mischievous madness. One rest day is enough to set my sirens off, my systems on, and the libidinous engine revving to go. I am ready, I am hyped, and I am warmed up as Bruce Lee is before a fight. Red kung-fu pants, barefooted, a black pearl dragon tattoo sculpted along my spine; masculine torso and abdominal muscles showing off its every lean line; knuckles wrapped, and glued to broken glass; a devilish grin sets girls ablaze - I prance, I pounce, I punch, and the announcer through the biggest, meanest loudspeakers broadcast, “
In this corner, weighing eight hundred and fifty pounds
...” Sizing up my opponent, I’m dying to play again.

Ripped off that bastard’s face, filled the chalices of the drunk and ravenous crowd with Cyclops’ blood, fed the carcass to my hounds; and the one-eyed bust, it presently bedecks my living room as a taxidermy ornament, festooned along a high and wide wall which stretches beyond the rims of Earth, a treasure trove of my numerous victories, the decorative heads of giants, gentlemen and gals, souvenirs I’d collected down my long and everlasting life.      

Champagne time. Drinking off the overflowing bottle, I ponder,
what next? Projected my mind onto a nebulous white wall; googled the options.

Page one of my search results:

A Day at Deity High

    Be a kid again. Return to high school. But not just any school; enrol at Deity High, where daddy and mummy gods send their precocious offspring. Learn how to exercise your omnipotence, screw with the fate of mortals. Make them cry out to you in the perilous moments you allotted them; those puppets, let them know who’s boss! Gratify in their obedience.

    Enjoy our second-to-non
e science labs and art rooms. Design your dimensions. It’s okay if your laws of physics do not work properly; we believe
error is the mother of evolution
. So what if the volcanoes don’t go off on time, or the planets do not align, the important thing is that you tried, and you had loads of fun along the way.

Tour this site.
Read more.
Play now.

Kreator & Nephlim Alliance: The Fall of Syurga?

    Go behind the scenes in this documentary and stay up to date on the embittered development affecting us all in our beloved
planet-city state. Hear from the mouths of those at the negotiation table.

Naysayer prophets proclaim that
, whatever the outcome, whether the deal goes through or not, the split and destruction of Syurga is inevitable, for the planet is already plagued with greed, and the alliance would only circulate the fruits of power in a few hoary hands.

Other oracles, more hopeful, believe that once the dirty laundry is aired and the details ironed, a benevolent agreement can be attained for the
general good of the public. Naturally, such opinion is not spared its cynics, claiming it a childish worldview.

Then there are the sorce
rers who wish to keep the status quo. Why fix that which is not broke? While some seers disagree, and opine that Syurga is already too steep in anarchy, and the alliance would welcome in a new order of predictability.

As for the anarch
ic wizards, they petition the gods of mayhem. A renegade sect wrecked discord during arbitration sessions, even waylaying the deities involved, and invoking pranks at the high-courts and heavenly mansions. 

Choose your
side to support.    

Tour this site.
Read more.
Play now.

Pussy Envy, the Male Dilemma

Ideal for men moaning their lost femininity as well as the pathetic woman wanting to bas
k in male sexual predicaments. Tear through this voracious read, the latest by Sigmund Freud, a conclusion of his studies from beyond the grave.     

This
interactive book is illustrated by colourful case studies. Go back in time and possess the souls of guys pretending to be girls over the Internet, seducing other hapless males. Feel what they feel; experience their sensations. Then go on a shopping spree with a flock of chicks; feel that too. And then, know what it’s like brooding alone in a strip club; with inspiration from an exotic dancer, fantasize away what you’d do to her with that throbbing organ of yours, your myopic revenge on the female race. All at your expense of course, as you pay that salacious tart, and she goes out to buy the sexiest pumps your hard earned moolah can purchase.       

Tour this site.
Read more.
Play now.

Jimi & the Galactic Empire

Live as a
rock star! You are Killa, Turbo, Vince van Vobo and Yvper: members of Zero - the greatest band on Earth; and you are after that one killer hit that will alter the future and change the worlds.

But wait, cyborgs and ho
t tranny whores are closing in on you. You gotta escape, you gotta tour, and you gotta give `em violence, sex and rock & roll! 

Tour this site.
Read more.
Play now.

My Name is Legion: Managing Multiple Avatars

This is not a disorder, but it can be pretty insane juggling many intricate and complexly woven characters in the even more convoluted plot of life. Sometimes
, it does get tangled up; and that’s when we arrive. 

The manual first teaches you to accept. This is who you are. Or rather,
they
are who you are. All of them, all your incarnations, though they may be in conflict, though they may be zooming in and out, and off to the many corners of existence, and yes, though you may meet them again, unrecognizable; yet, each rebel is still a child of your cells.

Through a
step-by-step, easy-to-exercise navigation therapy, regain control of all your renegade avatars.

Tour this site.
Read more.
Play now.

The Original Bowie’s Knife

    Trace the mysterious and enigmatic daggers. Handcrafted,
jewel encrusted, their origins (fable tells) are even before Leper & the Gunk’s development of Hell.
Disclaimer: the game manufacturer disputes this theory
.
They say there is but a single blade; and they forged it
. But the alternate argument of the legend states the plural (how many, is not quantified), and that they’d surfaced frequently in history.

Azazel (a father of the
Nephlim
), according to non-canonized scripture taught men to make swords and knives, and the art of metal for jewellery. He later commissioned the Katana and the Bowie, and decreed that steel would always change the course of history.

Explore conjectures and spec
ulations; speak to lives whom the weapons had touched and study the corresponding changes of fate they’d brought. The precognitive nature of these finely wrought instruments of death will find the hand of a ‘
chosen one
’ destined to commit the deed(s) that would revolutionize the timeline.     

Tour this site.
Read more.
Play now.

Spacetime Management

If r
unning a conglomerate is boggling business, try running spacetime continuum. All those sci-fi laws, all those celestial orbits; all those whiny humans begging for your attention! A new car, a higher salary; please god, protect our son, give our daughter distinctions, heal mother of cancer; oh...why did papa die? Why did my best friend commit suicide? Why are there drug addicts? And crime? And rape? And all kinds of nasty deeds? I hate you, god! I love you...
blah blah blah
...praises, complaints, nonstop supplications; ungrateful children forgetting earlier blessings, a self-imposed memory loss. These heralds and hums, booming thunders of a zillion cacophonies coming at all angles, like missiles on every frequency imaginable... a lesser person would go crazy. 

How do the famous deities do it? Find out their secrets. Read interviews with the likes of the immaculate and eccentric Jahr, t
he promiscuous Olympian who rides by the title Zeus, the pluralistic Queen of Heaven, G.o.D - mechanized processor of
Genomes on Demand
- and many others.

More golden nuggets within...

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Read more.
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Sha-Rronne’s Toy Boys

A saucy reality show tailing young boys vying to be Sha-Rr
onne’s manwhore. This episodic programme produced by the goddess’ media co. shadows the social quarantine of fourteen juvenile males on a paradise island over thirteen weeks where all their needs and wants are pampered in exchange for total submission to their mistress. Their bodies, minds and morals are exposed to the most dominating of tests, and each week, a candidate is sent packing after a good spanking. In the finale, the remaining two would have matured into any woman’s dream stud. Regardless who Sha-Rronne picks as parvenu to a polygamous pantheon, they are both already winners who can satisfy a black hole bitch.

Episode 1 starts today.

Casting for Season 2 is now open. Send in your videos showing off your package. 

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Tapestry 14

Continue with the omen of the
book of good
, and a new cast, as its proselytes Detective Lingam & Sergeant Siva, Kunty Kaur and Madame Medusa establish a new religion to counter the deadening and diabolical indoctrination of the unholy triumvirate of Master Wan, Wong Boom Bong and Pomelo Anderson, aka the Ageless, the god-Boy and the Barbie.

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Play now.

The Cosmic Disco of Creation

Who says the act of creation is difficult and only for those that are talented? Now anyone can create. And lose weight in the process
, too.

With easy to follow dance steps, ranging from relaxed to vigorous, you would be burning calories in no time. What more, the fat
and sweat you shed will not go to waste; but rather, automatically transform as they roll off your being, with the help of our AI subconscious guide, into the world and universe of your dreams, ideal for your new and improved perfect self to enjoy.  

Tour this site.
Read more.
Play now.

Next: Page 2 of ∞

The cursor of my awareness bleeps. I have mail. Vesper and Jai-I, leading a regiment into Nimrod’s dominion; my captaincy over a battalion would be highly valuable and appreciated. The objective is to retake ZOOL.A.ND (though the damage by now would have been complete, perhaps irreversible, and nothing of the computer realm would be recognizable. More practical to reconfigure a new-fangled virtual sphere from the backup drives; but I guess the manoeuvre is more a question of pride) and unite the same son of Jahr. What is the state of the other Jai-I is beyond anyone’s comprehension, but Vesper is optimistic, and hopeful Leper & the Gunk’s bitter blade would have injected a poison, a malady, into the veins of the preadolescent deity and possess him with an adult’s pessimism of despair.      

I guess I woul
d join...but later. For now, I’ve made up my mind. I scrolled up the webpage and clicked the
fourth
, my current choice.

THE END, AGAIN