God of the Game (Dreamstate) (23 page)

    Lunch time, munching burger bought at a McD’s drive-thru, Jimmy’s now fondling a Smith & Wesson Model 29 .44 Remington Magnum six-shot double-action revolver. Yup, the one made popular by Dirty Harry. Jimmy loves Harry, loves the character, the grit of old action-packed movies; unlike the polished CGI sequences bombarding silver screens nowadays.

    After James Cameron’s spectacular Avatar, it was downhill all the way. People don’t even dream in original anymore. Dreaming someone else’s dream. True fact, someone in the motion picture industry’s doing your dreaming for you.  

    Says Jimmy, statistics show ninety-nine percent of what we see in our sleep has been seen in the movies. Jimmy’s that remainder one percent. That’s according to him.

    Jim
my loves 2D. He can watch Hanna Barbera and Looney Tunes for hours. Opens up the child in him; Tom & Jerry and Road Runner are a source of inspiration. Adores how Tom and Wile E. die over and over in the most violent and exhilarating of fashions, and yet, resurrect to consecutively devise a plan, doubly outrageous, which would only end in certain and definite disaster; all in vain attempt to catch a mouse and bird respectively. 

    Jimmy dreams in animation. And he hates what Pixar and Dreamworks have done. Seducing entire societies toward a total lack of imagination and sedating our diabetic subconscious. What we really need is a good jab of creative insulin. Something to shock the senses awake.

    And Jimmy’s got the perfect antidote.

    Jimmy says when we die we don’t really die. The sun has set and we’re searching for a place to rest our weary head. Jimmy’s best buddy lives nearby. Indifferent towards DUI laws, he’s chugging down Buds as he drives. In some manner of a juggler’s act, he’s also fingering a shiny Desert Eagle semi-automatic pistol.     

    My boyfriend looks like James Dean. Dresses like one
, too. I especially like the all-American faded jeans that hug his toned buttocks. Oh no, they’re making my vulva weep, again. And I’m wondering when he’d put that gun up in me. When would be times up? Now you die...or don’t die.

    Loving Jimmy is a Russian roulette.

    But who else do I got?

    Daddy?

    He’s dead and gone.

    But no one really dies. Jimmy promises me that.

    Or else I would not have shot my father in the first place.

    Well
, that hypocritical minister’s not much of a role model, you’d say. I agree, but he’s still my daddy.

    On Wednesday nights
he brings the entire clergy to my room. In guise of a prayer meet, they venerate my naked body. I wonder, those ‘older boyfriends’ of mine, now that their pastor’s a decapitated art piece, are they afraid they’ll soon follow suit? You know, become like exhibited works in a mass grave site?

    Jimmy could
massacre the entire committee for me.
If
I want him to.

    He’ll do it,
`cos he loves me.

    When RZ opened the door, mighty hair and beard hid his face. Under cowboy hat, all you see is your own reflection augmented on Ray-Ban specs. Two nostrils are what’re left of his features.

    Hungry, I’d asked Jimmy
earlier about food. He replied we’d better get takeaway, `cos RZ doesn’t cook. In fact, we shouldn’t even bunk the night. RZ’s the ultimate wild chimpanzee. He intelligently survives on bugs; his own bugs. Ticks he’d pick from his own grizzly coat.

    RZ’s glad to meet us. He’s heard m
uch about me. Hands opened wide, but Jimmy and I are not too keen on a group hug.

    Digging hand
into caveman moustache, RZ asks how things are. Says we can stay if we like. Jimmy looks at me, then to RZ who was now twisting beneath his chin.

    I said
, no offence, but no thanks; and RZ says he understands, twitching something out of his facial fur.

Jimmy says before we leave he would like to see some art. For i
nspiration. RZ replies, no prob; and he’s sucking fingers.

Munching whatever’s caught be
tween thumb and index, RZ says to us to follow him. 

    The basement holler of animals sounds like the nagging rhymes of rap artistes. RZ’s abode reeks of packed flesh crammed in tiny crowded space. He says if PETA finds him out, they’re gonna get upset. Those animal activists, they’ll grab him by the balls and stone him with his own testicles, RZ chuckles, chomping on another flea. According to him, insects have the highest nutrition count. Forget about the government’s incentive with regard to vertical farming, planting crops in urban buildings to feed city folk. All you need is body hair creatures can call home, RZ burps.

    Jimmy’s eyes dilate.

    RZ’s testing on animal dreams. Cages are filled with the souls of dogs, cats and all other vermin and strays people would be happy to rid. Perhaps, animal lovers terrorists groups wouldn’t kidnap and behead him on primetime TV after all; instead, society will reward and knight him for his good deed. 

    He’s skinning anesthetized beasts alive with electrodes embedded in their poor numbskulls
, and output is to a labyrinth of screens. Distorted images are jumping in and out of the monitors, the severed last thoughts of canines, felines, rodents and reptiles during a drowsy death ritual. As the numbing potion wears off, and the cacophonous pain kicks in, Jimmy’s and RZ’s pupils are glued to the VDUs. I didn’t catch a thing, but the two boys are ecstatic seeing solid colours flashing on and off, turning the laboratory into the bowels of the hippest clubs in town.

    When the flickering charade dies, RZ whispers, watch for the surprise. The
hirsute madman had implanted tiny time-bombs in the intestines of those poor creatures. Well, of course Jimmy and I did not know that till the messy explosion occurred.

    I screamed. Jimmy, as usual, was just stoic.
The blasting innards smashed onto black crepe, a guided trajectory, for what was now revealed where shiny blood hit was a majestic galaxy. And we had the best seat. At the centre, staring up at this marvellous splendour; what was once unclean flesh was now glorified beauty.

    Now observe, RZ stated. The cluster of stars began to rotate. They began to orbit. Round and round the minced meat went, and Jimmy was reminded of ancient faiths teaching about spirits leavi
ng dying bodies to become stars; celestial implants nip-tucked in zodiac constellations.            

    The Bible may too have me
ntioned that a star is an angel; and here we have it, RZ proclaims, a dog-star or a seraph-serpent, his hand pointing at a twinkling light; here lays Pooch, his favourite pup.

    Argue how you want, but RZ’s given them a better home.

    Amazing. That was the only thing Jimmy had to say. On and on, he chanted this mantra in the car. Seeing how animals are sacrificed for a greater good has wetted our appetite. It made sense.
Poultries, abattoirs, forced-fed delicacies and laboratory test-tube Frankenburgers, these are all shrines in RZ’s interpretation. Fast-food chains are churches people go to worship the abundance these creatures have provided for our satisfaction. Of course the common consumer is oblivious to this cosmic connection; but for us who are enlightened, sweeter is the taste of Big Mac, more succulent that fried chicken, juicier when a serrated knife saws into a medium-rare t-bone steak. 

    Filling our tummies
, giving praise, we communally offer our tithes and offering to the Trinity - our Colonel, Clown and King.  

    It’s past midnight, past a meal of saturated fat. Jimmy can’t stop flattering RZ. Says he’s the best there is, the most original. Makes Da Vinci a copycat retard.

   
Frankly, I got a little annoyed. I want Jimmy to make love to me. So in pretence I say I wanna pee. Leaving the isolated car to a shrub, I remove my jeans and pink baby-t instead. What I’ve got on inside makes me feel sexy. I’m sure it’ll make my man horny.

    When I come back to the Cadillac, Jimmy’s started without me. Enraptured in an orgy with his h
arem of guns and ammo, Jimmy’s eight-inch single-shaft solid weapon is inserted deep in the barrel of one of his babies.

    I turn and leave. Jimmy stuffing Dirty Harry
’s piece up his anus, like fowl filling, makes me honestly prefer an uninterrupted solitary pee.

46

    Life as I know it is a silent film. And Jimmy’s getting the same treatment. If most of what we truly want to say is through what we not say, then why do we say in the first place? Jimmy understands this real well. 

    So we’re just driving on the long straight desert road, cruising at a hundred-ten, kicking a dusty trail, talking to the wind
, and eating the occasional bug.     

    I never want to speak to that man ever again. Of course
, inside, a million things are trying to escape. Dying to communicate, tell him how I feel.

    Definitely I’m angry, disappointed and angry; I mean
, which girl wouldn’t, discovering such a grisly thing about your boyfriend?

    That he lov
es his toys more than your tits!

    How can I have a relationship such as this? I’m just a normal teenage girl. Well, of course abnormal things have occurred to me...but still...well
, I just wanna be a normal teenage girl.

    I’m sixteen. Two orbits have passed since that night of the dream. Daddy touched me for seven years; the perfect number. Perhaps his end was symbolic.

    In that dream I am a Q
ueen.

    And I met Prince Charming.

    He was debonair, and we were of many shapes and forms.

    Later I found out we were by right
One
. He was father, and I came from him.

    We shared all-access spirits. Meaning, I could be in him, riding in the crevice of his soul. Similarly
, he could be in mine.

    At those points, we shared everything. Intimately detailed. Right down to the universe in each nucleus.

    At others, we were half-beings, fused animals, parabolic personas of polytheistic faiths.  

    But he who created me was not satisfied. He was having an eternal life crisis. History will tell you that deities in dilemmas don’t make good offspring. Their creations are usually fucked. Prone to some emotional defect, those produced often reflect their own god’s sickly state of mind during conception time.

     So here I was; punk attitude meets Japanese schoolgirl anime, chewing gum in defiance `cos daddy-god said he needed severance. Didn’t want to be joined with me no more. Wanted his freedom, liberation; enough of kids. Said I ate too much, that I’m not keeping my figure. Stuffing on cheesecakes;
if
he’d let me.

    But despite, that dickhead still wants to touch me.
That
, he won’t give up. God fucking his own daughter - that was his profane and profound pleasure.

    And so Jimmy’s getting the end of it. I’m the shit that fell onto his lap. And now the shit ain’t talking. In sign language I signalled I wanted coffee. Jimmy pulls into some deserted diner in the middle of nowhere in this ill forsaken land. If the folks recognize us and act suspicious, he is to turn them into artworks. All this I communicated in monkey speech.

    Thankfully
, the old man at the counter was almost blind and partially deaf. He’d given up on news ten solid years ago.
Speak up, child
, he shouted, for after half a day in mute, my vocal cords were puny as I put in the order.

    One tall latte
, please, I said again, ignoring Jimmy. If that boy wants, he can get his on his own. 

    Unfortunately, Jimmy’s playing the same game. He’s not mouthing anything. Instead of sitting, he’s got a dime in the jukebox and dancing solo to Hound Dog.

    Oh my, he’s so sexy. My cunt needs tissue-wipes. Biting into panties, camel toe spasms.

    Right now, I just want to say I’m sorry and let him ravish me. Rip my bodice to bits and bite
into my jugular. My thighs asphyxiate him in torture as we die in fire.

    Which we
eventually did.

    Jimmy commands me to shut up
, gently pressing finger to my lips even as I repent and rapid-belch out confession after confession. Says, since it is a silent movie I want, a silent movie I should get.

    The song changes to another Elvis classic, a soothing melody, and Jimmy grips me by the wrist. Hand gradually crawling to my waist as time stalls in love so tender, love so sweet.

    Love now swaying to rhythm of a Blue Hawaii. The perfect romantic holiday.   

    By now I’m melting, and when Jimmy softly hums he can’t help falling in love with me, nibbling at sensitive earlobes, my knees apologize and buckle. But the hero sweeps me off my feet
, and his square shoulders are all the support I need.