God of the Game (Dreamstate) (33 page)

To sell a new product, you need a great story. That’s the advice forwarded by advertisers and marketing gurus. Pomelo Anderson started a business. She just launched a fast-food chain selling affordable, nutritious and healthy value meals and snacks under the brand name
Pomelo Pie
.

Just as a clown is the face of burgers and an old colonel the face of fried chicken, Pomelo is the face of her
Pie
.

She swears by her sexy physique.

   “Ya’ll wanna be like me?” she shrills for the ad in fake Southern accent, “then c’mon an’ eat at da
Pie!
”

Inside the outlets, the decor is Texan cowboy.
There is a near naked mannequin of her at the door, riding and gripping the bull horns of an animated rodeo, concurrently greeting and welcoming guests with galloping pre-programmed phrases.

Bestseller is the chocolate milkshake, curling out thick and soft from pressurized kegs the shape of Pomelo’s curvaceous rear. Meat between two buns is another popular dish amongst customers
, and so are the dumplings the size of her breasts. Every item on the menu is presented and served either in the form of one of her gorgeous and desirable body parts, or male alien genitalia.

  
“Eat all ya wan, it’s fat free,” she promotes, sounding spastic rather than an all-American belle, “Tuesday is aur buffet for
4 dollars and 38 cents
. So c’mon down, everybody, to da
Pie!
”

According to the website
,
Pomelo Pie
serves organic vegetarian cuisine which tastes a hundred percent like sugar, fat and meat. It’s a wholesome secret recipe of Ms. Anderson’s grandma, who just recently passed away peacefully in her sleep at a hundred and two without suffering any major diseases, bored merely of this world and aspiring for heaven and her Maker. It’s the only thing the centrefold hottie swears she consumes.

  
“Ya dun hav ta feel guilty like aw ancestors did, `cos ma granny’s got da secret. She did no share bac then, bu’ now I’rm sharin it wi yu!” she ends the commercial, losing the slang entirely, and replaced instead, by another more comically Asian than anything else.

That’s right, before the W
ar, our grandparents were a vain bunch: going under the knife, always dieting, watching what they ate to mimic celebrity matchstick figures; and after the War, food and plastic surgery became obscenely expensive, and mostly unpalatable, thus resulting in many starving and ugly souls.

Pomelo
, in her venture, so she claims, will succeed in abolishing world hunger by introducing healthy meals which has the flavour of comfort food; and on the plus side, her patrons could end up looking
hot
like her (or in possession of bulging ET organs, if they are guys) even as they partake of this symbolic consumption of her flesh and fluids which the
Pie
provides.

According to Manny Masculine, Rex shuns
Pomelo Pie
. “Well, the packaging states it is all veg made to taste like meat,” Manny gesticulates, “and as far as I know, dogs don’t like greens.” The hobbit pats his pet, “Good dog,” he praises, “you know what’s junk, don’t you?” He rubs the Rottweiler on the head, and the large animal lolls its tongue in response.

Honestly, Rex has been a bit moody
ever since returning from its disappearance, Manny notes. He’ll never know what happened; if only the dog could talk, it would tell of its ordeal. “Probably nothing, just letting my imagination run riot,” Manny consoles himself, “that boy just went off on an exploratory track. He came back on his own, didn’t he?”

But the changes co
uld not have been more peculiar. For one, it’s lost its zest for human cadaver, and subsequently, of course, the police found no use for it any longer. All of which means less income for Manny.

By right this should not be a problem, he is Madam Medusa’s man, arguably t
he most powerful woman on Earth; but Manny Masculine is a proud male of Italian stock. He may only be 1.2192 meters in height, but he is not going to ask any woman for help, not even if she sits on the advisory board to NUN, the New United Nations, and is head of an international conglomerate.

As far as he is concerned, she is the needy one in love with his enchanted tongue of pleasure. Wet, bright-pink and elongated, that slippery thing can swim in any position, and she is well aware that it is even more dexterous than Rex’s panting piece. It is the lover’s favourite organ. Not even his muscles garner such attentions and affections.

Suffice to say, Manny Masculine has got no use for the phallus. It’s just an accessory to pee. All that weight lifting and body building had rendered it exhausted and completely useless; and wherefore the balls are but mere testosterone factories for his iron pumping career.

She does not mind that. And neither does he. The short Ita
lian considers himself a ladies’ man, a romantic. It is the passionate welfare of his woman which is paramount. He satisfies her with his mouth, and by the way she groans it is evidence of his prowess, a testimony.

Now back to
this manly pride of not soliciting women for assistance. Madam Medusa is the perfect girlfriend. She may be rich and influential, but she had never ever once offered him money. He would have been insulted if she did, and instantaneously demanded a breakup. She’d not bought him gifts either, and most of the time, she comes over to his tiny abode for sex. His partner enjoys a tight squeeze; it turns her commanding frame on for she has a thing for restrictive clothing and coitus in cramped spaces.

Only a few times
they’d romped in her penthouse overlooking the crowded city and the dry desert in the west beyond, and the ocean yonder in the east; and yes, Manny had thought that her mansion of an apartment is posh and nice; but no, he would never call or consider that home.

Home is where his blood, sweat and tears were shed, an
d his neighbourhood in the ghetto, lush with heritage before and during the War, a township that saw many scars of machinegunfire, buildings still riddled with holes, and barren lands crater bombed. A grey zone he witnessed all his family tortured first, and then snuffed; such memories, such recollections, such tearful pain; if ever they got married, he would be adamant Madam Medusa moved in with him, making into a matrimonial home his bachelor pad fronting the sewerage in the slums.       

Madam Medusa is chairing a video-conference heads of division meeting of the Medusa Group. She’d just terminated the marketing director of coffee distributions in mid-sentence justifying the reasons for poor sales. She did not buy any of his excuses, and ordered for him to be shipped to beautify her garden of statues, ferns and flowers, proving her powers do work over mega computer screens.

Now the gentleman in charge of
Far East real estate is speaking. He should not be that anxious as market share has increased consistently over the quarters, but he is staring at his shoes, just to be safe. The Madame only hires men, `cos her charms don’t work over women. But she is not listening. She knows she can read the report later to gather details. Instead, her thoughts are masturbating over a dwarf. In it, she’s sitting on Manny Masculine’s bald head, grinding her shaven cunt over his rough stubbly top, occasionally sliding down to the sides to let his pointed ears fill the orifice. She’s wet, and the juices mixed with sweat are charging down like a liquid army shooting watery arrows all over Manny’s face, blinding his eyes with a crying sting.

Medusa looks up, accidentally freezing the COO of finance. Damn, her lace panties are soaked. She hopes it’d not stained through he
r skirt for subordinates to see; otherwise, more people would have to die. The hard consolation is that they go off with an exhilarating
angel’s lust
, or priapism in other words, (Muhammad ‘Tongkat’ Ali’s condition). It is only fair that should you shock a man to a perpetual cramp that you include his main muscle as well.

Overall, business is up nine percent
. Some subsidiaries are in the red, which is expected, but most are growing despite the torrential economic crisis crippling the world twenty-odd-years after the War, which could have as its parable an acid scarred bride clinging with an eagle’s grip to the ankles of a born-deformed groom believing he deserves the well-augmented super-beauty of someone as extraordinary as Pomelo Anderson. Madam Medusa attributes this to her iron will and visionary leadership, and her innate motivational skills, which are sure to fire up the workforce to strive for their jobs
if
they don’t want their careers to stay put like a dead rock.

Final on the agenda, Madam
e says she wants a casual meeting with Pomelo Anderson and Roanna Fausi, three of the most dominant women on Earth in one room. For what to be discussed she would not say. “Oh, just a chat,” she waved and glanced across the room and the cinema-sized monitor. Everybody averted her eyes, which were yellow and black vortexes going to the Underworld.

Suddenly
, she recalled and enquired the status of the murder investigation on the slaying in their flagship fashion store. How is the police progress? Everyone looked around, no one had an answer. The head of fashion, though gay, was wheel-barrowed away. Medusa considered giving him as a present to a dignitary of State, whose birthday was just around the corner. Carved from her own eyes, she would state. Then she banged the table in indignation, cursing the authorities. All present stiffened, but were relieved when their muscles could relax.

That night, as she
put on her Gorgon mask to probe - which incidentally does not look too dissimilar from a black Great Dane, and in turn quite resembles Batman - she got to think of Manny. Does he love her? Does she love him? What is the nature of their relationship? Is she capable of love in the first place?

Medusa’s mother was a goddess. She had no father, or at least that was what she was told. She was an immaculate conception in a lab; mum fucked herself, some asexual reverie. But that was yesterday’s news. Mum and her could
not get along, quarrelled often; at sixteen, she was supposed to be a virgin sacrifice to her own mother, a toast to her parent’s everlasting life. When conceived, mother had already injected a curse in her DNA. Should she lose her virginity, she would have perpetual bad-hair days so terrible all men who cast upon her face would be turned to stone instantaneously. Medusa did not know. As a rebellious fifteen-year-old, she snuck away with a handsome intern, or lab assistant, she cannot remember; and after he’d taken her, he gazed longingly for a sequel, but in place, gawped forever through dilated granite pupils.

Youthful Medusa screamed;
she was of no use to mummy anymore, and with hundred dollars and a tiny suitcase that was her life, she was put out in the rain to fight or die.

Not bad, how
far she’d gotten in approximately thirty years, though Medusa, as she harboured reminiscences, realizes she is but a barren woman, empty and angry, a restless spirit which knows of nothing but revenge. A creature absent of remorse, and to the brim with hellfire; this was she who loved doomed Manny. 

Rex is possessed and on the run again. This time he joins with a pack wrecking havoc across the lands. In their spectral states, these dogs can teleport and devour on every continent. More gulped down souls and conflagrated vestiges; the man in a London phone booth, fried; the couple making love in their car in a secluded Central Park spot, melted onto the seats and dashboard; the Chinese youth on his Walkman, blackened on the Shanghai-Pudong Maglev as he makes his way back home after a study stint overseas, pushing his parents to suicide, unable to cope with the loss of their only son of the one-child policy regime; the
in
-group of Japanese schoolgirls harassing a nerd during recess in a Tokyo public school toilet, altogether microwaved; quite similarly, in Busan, South Korea, popular cheerleaders embarking on a rocket ship to superstardom after their dance choreography went viral and attracted the attention of K-pop manufacturers had their budding careers permanently shortened when all five young female lip-synchers were electrocuted during the filming of their first video clip which had them prancing skimpily to the resurgent
Oppa
Gangnam
style; rock stars on stage in Berlin, fused to their instruments during the guitar solo of their megahit, sending fans off in a stampede, killing hundreds and injuring thousands more at the Brandenburg Gate; the lone pornographer in a Singapore government flat, burnt unrecognizable on the couch with hand still stroking cock as the TV moaned a faux orgasm; the stripper and her from-out-of-country client in Las Vegas during a lap dance, singed, the lingerie-tease lingering on her expression, and a primate’s mug is plastered all over his East-European facade; a loathsome housewife contemplating divorce in a Perth suburb is cooked at the kitchen stove, with latex gloves wilting, as if her fingers were chewing-gum stretched and dangled from wrists, whilst her estranged husband, with his buddies in a barbeque cook-out, are charred more than the fowls they have on skewers; tourists at the
O Christo Redentor
in Rio de Janeiro, also becoming statues themselves, though totally undignified, and foul smelling with smoke puffing off their skins; summer sunbathers at Cape Town got hotter than the sun they worshiped, as if solar flares lapped them with tongues of fire and heat waves; in Spain during an
El Classico
, the footballer of the year, together with his closest rival in an eye-to-eye, chest-to-chest face-off after a hard tackle, also kissed mouth-to-mouth in a soldering smooch of death when a stray incandescent mutt trespassed the stadium green and came between their rivalry and eighty-five-thousand cheers and jeers, leaving zigzagged, smouldering patterns that vaguely resembled the famous Nazca lines drawn from grass to stands amidst wailings and cacophony and the mass panic of burning men running helter-skelter; a terrorist mastermind hiding in a cave in the Middle East was cremated alive against his will and belief; and in more or less the same region, one of the richest men in the world was found dead in a scorched sanctum carved from pure gold, liquefying the precious metal together with his harem of one thousand and one virgins (some will say sexpots), of which only one survived; nearer the Arctic, an old Eskimo out of his igloo, admiring an aurora, was seared beyond identification in what local tribes described as the dance of the spirits ferrying his consciousness away; and in downtown Kuala Lumpur, shoppers ran amok when flames of wild wolfs suddenly appeared on a public holiday and randomly ate panic stricken persons in proximity.