God of the Game (Dreamstate) (19 page)

   “It’s time to go at it alone,” Village Idiot who was not flattened said.

   “Where?”

    He pointed up at the gelatinous skin.

I mirrored his action, dumb as an ass’ stare. I didn’t want to climb
into gooey surface, let alone while
pregnant
with Sha-Rronne. I was carrying her in the spaces between my molecular structure. Figured it easier we journeyed through this self-discovery ordeal in singular frame rather than in two. She voted mine, and might as well, `cos she’d been frequenting so much of Elizabeth’s kitchen, my sexy female-incarnate was now a tri-coloured beach ball – flesh tone with un-matching bra and panties. So imagine me yoked to three orbs of flesh: one planet-sized sex doll with a fattened face and four sad excuses for limbs, and two satellite moons meteor-crashed and impaled onto her front continent – the acme of her world, never allowing Sha-Rronne to ever see her feet.   

She was stuck to my solar plexus with her belly button right on top of my cock and in a way my balls
saw her face. Up north, my chin rested on her cunt. If I tilt forward, I can smell her asshole and tell what Elizabeth Amber had just fed her for lunch. In fact, if I sniff real hard, I can document, to the minute detail, everything she’d chow down since our arrival at the D’Arcy. Then, when I erect, my member sits snug between two vigorous pink jugs, and in the short spell which follows, murky river flows past the valley sandwiched by Mount Titties. Torrents jump a waterfall into the pool called
Sha-Rronne’s Mouth
.

    Very practical this; instant porn. Do-it-yourself mutant intercourse. Immediate gratification this arrangement allows.

    Believe me, somewhere in the solitar
y confinement of my imaginarium exists a world such beings are done justice. A world Siamese twins are norm, stuck together at odd angles as a varied puzzle.

    You don’t want homophobia;
not just plain old boring male to female.

    You don’t want zoophobia;
equal rights for animals too. Greek Mythology 2.0.

    You don’t want xenophobia;
(in the widest sense of the word) ETs have to be treated with equal respect. Just because you don’t understand their private parts doesn’t mean they should be ostracized and discriminated and not get wedged to common man.

    And not just two-by-two.

    Puzzles are meant to form larger puzzles. Like some Decepticons and Autobots humping to fuse bigger machines, these allied creatures can merge into, for example, a house of flesh, or a tree made of skin and bones. Now envision an entire Earth formed by splicing terrestrials together in myriad poses (a photographer’s orgasm), making up nature – hills of meat piled up one on top of another, not unlike mass genocide graves, but only alive; or a botanical garden of genitals, torsos and talking heads. Fashion designers have a fun time clothing this symbiotic system of beings. Their theme: Unity of Domain. Rolls and rolls of silk and muslin weaved around figures; sometimes teasing with cleavage; and at others, unabashed, flashing pubes on purpose; and still at times, conservative, but with class like that little black dress, or the turtle-neck woollen one-piece with matching jackets. Only problem is, with the uncanny combinations of synthesis, where does one outfit end and another begin?

    Human ball of a world and it
s touchy-touchy trendsetting angels buoyant in atmosphere, makes you wonder what collective consciousness is when all denizens combined is but one body, one soul shared deep in the complex threads of organs and fluids, becoming deeper and darker in the recesses, even as the seraphic stylists plunge to clothe the spirit as they have the flesh.     

     How does the human planet interact with other human planets in this universe? By human
, I mean intelligent species; or the human sun for this matter, or human dark matter? In creation not composed of dead dust but living tissue joined, where life is not the anomaly but rather the norm, life not separated but linked even in farthest space, not enlightenment mumbo-jumbo but biology, by a single string even, to an arm or leg, a head or even just a penis, that segregated body part suspended in the remotest corner of the universe, that prick at the final frontier of this dimension going in-out-in-out into an unknown celestial vagina,
that
extremity will never know loneliness, isolation, for even in its solitary standing, it is nourished by the galaxies pumping blood through veins to engorge its purpose, its destiny, however fucked up it may be.    

37

   
And that is the miracle of the pimple, the mojo of pus. In it, after we’d overcome the repulsion of climbing into slimy skin, is this lathery realm, this silky film of mucus dancing over us in crowded club. We are not alone. It’s like picnic in a packed phlegm pool. We are aquatic alien life-forms, all joined party-style. With Sha-Rronne appearing as my flamboyant cock, this fat female jutting out from my groin, my left ankle was now also latched to the head of a middle-aged man grovelling on the floor as though my foot was his brain tumour. He in turn was one with a teenage hand harlot, thighs-to-thighs, his bestriding hers, whilst her hands were, where else…chained to his dick. Those fingers moved, at times to wipe her brow, and I can see a rat nibbling at the veins of his cock.

    I heard they were a dysfunctional family in another life, now living in nursery rhymes in between worlds of the D
’Arcy and Solid State. He was a single parent paedophiliac father training daughter to be trigger happy with male spunk, and it was a lonely rodent in her bedroom she confided. In overprotective rage, the rat bit the mouse off from between his legs. He lost his manhood, she became a handjob specialist, and it ate the biggest meal of its life.

    Now they’re here
, re-enacting the tragic day with a perpetual karmic jive.

    Why they chose to stick to me, I don’t know, but as far as
my eyes could tell is a scenery landscape populated by such succulent bonds of beings behaving badly in comic versions of Dante’s infernal dream.

    Where there is no marriage of flesh, goo comes to play. This world is basically living in jello. Contai
ning us is sticky splodge, as though we are sperms in semen.

    Or worse, god came on us.

    Nothing operates outside this jelly, this jelly alive. It’s the by-product of everything joined. Our breaths, our shit, body odour, ear wax, dandruff, skin-peels, all that scrap and junk of our existence growing, monstrously growing. What goes around comes around. That which we defecate ends up nourishing us, becoming our food, our air, our oxygen, our swimming life in sewer. What more, that ever swelling lump of waste breathes as one of us. In this ballooning cosmos of pustule is our succour, our breastfeeding nipple.

    If someone loses a limb in a car crash accident, or disfigured in arson bombing, or simply dissatisfied with the size of her boobs, no problem. What we moult and excrete is luxurious
DNA, living tissue, perfect for repair jobs, enhancement therapy. Not youthful
the way you were? Inject collagen and the fats liposuctioned out from many thighs. Plentiful donors. Out one organ, in another. Shot in the face? Skin-graft outsourced fresh every day, not necessarily skinned from your own neck; that unsightly meaty beard can hang off the chin of someone half a world away. Same genetic code we share, our body does not reject. We are the world anyhow, one. When squid jaw is healed and finally teeming with healthy, beaming
cells, we simply cut that living moustache, Fed Ex and paste it onto your missing face.

Use your waste, sell your waste.

Your trash is mine. 

    That prevalent smell is mortal burnt rubber. Odour of creatures cooked in the sauce of their own dung and leftovers. Somewhat like funky Chinese cuisine.  

    Pheromones float, that’s how we recognize. It’s hard to see in the gloop. Envisage a cream of lard smacked on your eyes; even Sha-Rronne in front is purely a buttery blur. With our noses (like in Elizabeth’s coital culinary closet) we make sense of our surrounding. That’s how I know of that malfunctioned family and their pet rat anchored onto my ankles. Of course I can feel something on my leg, but the details of it, I visually sniffed out. That’s how I made meaning of the entire beastly landscape cocooned in animal litter.

   “Push to the top,” Village Idiot had said earlier. That was before a tubular piece of spectral shit passed
out from the Eye-of-D, swallowing him whole, and tumbling to the D’Arcy below as if it were a gold-plated, florid, Georgian toilet bowl.

    At the top is a travel and tour agency. The eco-adventure kind. Hordes of thrill seekers hog round the counter, all coming from Elizabeth Amber’s empire. I’d no idea she was so popular, that so many people wanted to leave ZOO.L.A.ND via the D’Arcy, or from wherever else, and to whichever sides of eternities for that matter.

    Here we were told to disengage. Choose for ourselves a single
, permanent image to be crafted by an Omniscient Artist, which is to remain fixed for a lifetime back on the home planet of our return. We were given catalogues. Promotional brochures. You could spray paint your skin tone. Pick from wide variety of shades like chilli red, olive green, electric blue, silvery black, multi-vitamin urine yellow.

    Add a
limb; grow angel wings, or just sparrow feathers. Of course you were advised optimal selections which combined well with the environment and physics of your world, but you needn’t have to follow; so Sha-Rronne chose punk attitude meets Japanese schoolgirl anime, and she shortened her name to Sharon. She was a cartoon next to my average Joe.

38

    Up from here was a breezy ride. Sky lifts took us all the way to the point of no return. The PA of a sweet woman’s distorted voice announced the severity of our location. “
Attention, dear travellers for Permanent Formation, this is your last call for boarding, requests WILL NOT be entertained after
...” those who’d had second thoughts and wished not for solid state should now descend the slopes and pass the pus of adhesive enzymes to commune with that perverse father-daughter-rodent unit of a family.

    If not,
those ill prepared can retreat farther and opt for dung-worms, bats and giant demons pooping out from the Eye-of-D. But stay too long in the D’Arcy and Elizabeth Amber has a surprise installed. In the dungeons of cottage life, after you’d outstayed your welcome, Village Idiots seize and strip you, inject something profound* up yours, and in a week’s time you join a host of hunchback slurring brothers, turning to be the youngest member of the Idiot family. Not quite as glamorous as being bitten by a vampire...or even a werewolf, or a plain animal for that matter.

   *Profound ass. The D’Arcy is full of them. In the Village Idiot’s case, the interpretation is
big moron
. Stupidity at its most philosophical inserted up the rectum.

    But for Elizabeth, queen of profound asses, the translation is physical
and literal, a best feature.

    Elizabeth Amber has a profound ass. Go figure. Some versions use the word
deep
. Elizabeth Amber has a
deep
ass. Go figure again. Ask actors with long organs. It can take anything, a favourite of voyeurs, the seventh wonder of the pornographic industry. Another history she fled. In the footnote is mentioned it talks a lot. Go figure. However, a few insider reports say it is cold, unyielding, clamped, moody and reserved in reflective thoughts. Yah. Go figure!

    The view is beautiful. Marvellous. The air, gorgeous. Each breath stimulates the brain cells, a tingling sensation unparalleled. To the north are two sunken valleys side-by-side, followed by a convex landscape of a large single mound. To the east and west, sheer cliffs drop into the ocean. Jagged rocks are constantly smashed by hard waters of the foamy seas.  The south expands as far as eyes could travel, and the land beneath juts out to become four peninsulas where archipelagos grip the tips like little fingers of a foetus in a womb yet unformed.

   “It’s your mould,” said our guide, a New Zealander with a twangy accent. Through his thick mouth and sunglasses, he continued, “Nature is plasma. You are its soul. You need to possess it. Otherwise it continues to lie here redundant.” Even as he worded, he played with rope. A shroud of trepidation mummified our faces. “Once you take the plunge
, the scenery becomes who or what you initially picked, the permanent image chiselled by the Omniscient Artist. Consider his the blueprint, and this, this leap of faith, solidifies and materializes the design.”

   “Joseph Goebbels!” He abruptly shouted. A thin, deathly man packed with cyanide timidly emerges from th
e back of the crowd as if he were singled out from a congregation at Auschwitz. “You wanted to be a beloved novelist.

   “This is your redemption,” he spoke to the multitudes even as muscular arms yanked to tighten cords round Joseph’s legs, “a second coming to own the life you wanted but never gained.