God of the Game (Dreamstate) (41 page)

    He is pissed with her for bringing him here without allowing him to partake of the action. For Charles is all alone. And he does dumb things when he is solitary. His brain goes haywire, and he thinks up nasty thoughts. Thoughts that can really hurt.

    Charles is imagining setting the lovers alight, burning the bed blood bright. He’s an arson specialist, a pyrophiliac. He is about to descend into wanton reveries when a guardian angel touches his heart, leads him to the inner courtyard. In there, amidst the trees and plants, he is a voyeuristic participant. Anna says, “Shhh... Watch.” He does, but the movie frame is not right. It’s like watching all the porn ever filmed in one sitting, all at once. There are the tasteful, artistic intimacies, right down to filthy hardcore perversions and the offensive snuff; often, it’s beautiful and ugly, insulting and simultaneously sweet, heart-wrenching and sick.

    Anna Doreen says, “You
’ve got three minutes and thirty three seconds.” That’s the length of a pop song. That’s also the period it takes for a man to cum.

    And Charles goes, “What? You want me to watch all this in two hundred and thirteen seconds?”

    Anna shrugs, “It’s been done before.”

   “Now stop complaining and just get it done.
Obey
,” she finishes, and has the final say.

    So, Charles
starts. Cramping all that smut in a ridiculous space of time, he discovers Anna to be in all of them.          

    Anna Doreen, porn queen. This
industrious bitch holds many titles; but only because we want her to. She smiles at Charles. In that 3:33 video clip, Anna is an angel. She’s also a she-devil. In fact, she is an innumerable number of cherubs and demons. She’s a machine. There’s a halo and an aureate glow irradiating her. She is often in a flirtatious pose...
just damn bloody sexy
. Tattoos and heavy makeup sometimes elaborate her body. She is pale as a ghost. Hot blood lips. Anna Doreen is cradling babies. Anna Doreen is a saint. But she’s also a slutty nun in garter belts. She’s cradling machine guns. She is now the mother of god. He suckles her nipples. Anna rides on a Harley in a bikini, striding out of a yellow Lamborghini in a matching skanky micro-outfit, jumping off some spaceship in a reflective cat-suit. Anna Doreen is not real. She is a picture, a watercolour artwork, a pencil sketch, an airbrushed masterpiece. She’s a computer generated succubus, even a pixelated seductress. Now, Anna is just a schoolgirl, but the type boys fantasize, the type that taunts her male teachers. Then she’s fucking monsters, and robots are going into her. Worms gnaw out her orifices: biological worms, worms from hell, worms with a microchip. Insect larvae poop out, Anna explodes, she is torn in two amidst agonizing screams, and all of a sudden, Ms. Doreen has butterfly wings. Colourful ones. She is a fairy. She is a tiny pixie under a microscope, friends with fat minutiae vixens and minxes, and she too is a human-sized white witch in snow undergarments. The wings now have circuitry, the wings are now batwings. They swell from her spine. And Anna is an android. An interactive sex doll. Life-like. But smash her head and it’s a metal skull. The lady is queen of dragons. She’s a psychotic lover. She feeds her men to her pets. They come in all shapes and sizes. They are of a myriad of shades. They have horns, they breathe fire, they come from China, or some Northern zone. It’s a zoo, and she trains them like the way some people train prized racehorses, stallions. She shows them off like the way some show off luxury and sports automobiles. Anna Doreen is a lesbian. She is participating in group sex. Guys with unrealistic cocks are cumming on her, jizzing over she who is a debutante of the dazzling jazz age, creating a scene, squandering her with affection. This is boring. Cut to other channels. Anna Doreen is an anime warrior. She is a goddess. But she does not know this famous fact yet. She will soon discover her superpowers. She can walk through walls, read minds, control the elements. She is omnipotent; shoots lazer from her palms, a martial arts exponent femme fatale, Anna Doreen cannot die. Her wounds automatically heal; she is saviour of the world. She carries the burden of mankind. You can see the weary lines upon her pretty face. Anna Doreen is a victim. She is beautiful, but always sad, always melancholic. That’s the mood she emanates during photo-shoots. The setting is often sombre, dull hues and shadows make up the photograph. She too is a Playboy model. She’s got her own website dedicated to her ideal curves. All women want her body. All men too. All women want men to want them; if they are Anna Doreen, they can have any guy for fancy. The server crashes, the URL is getting millions of hits per day. There is a need to upgrade, for men subscribe maniacally to her topless pics and vids. Naked too, of course, garnished with articles of clothing worn inappropriately as accessories. Ladies and homos too key in credit card details. Anna Doreen is filthy rich. She also makes her manager and agent a lot of money. This is crazy. She is the playmate of the decade, centrefold of the century, pet of perpetual millenniums. Guys, when she is dead and gone, still wank over her; hundreds of fucking years into the future. They clone her. Anna Doreen is back in the twenty-fifth century. Then civilization ends. Intelligent life blossoms again by the year ten-thousand and they discover this ancient goddess frozen in a deep ocean of the earth. She resurrects from the cold watery abode, a terrible beauty. But then piranhas eat her. They remake her. She’s got adamantium sticking out, especially from her head, like chopsticks holding thick Oriental hair in a bun. Like the decomposed, oxidized skeletons of ships undersea, like a gorgeous corpse killed in battle by an axe to the forehead.  A synthetic bindi accompanies her stare. It is her third eye. Anna Doreen can see into the future. She is omniscient. She is merely a consciousness, she is god; she is the mind of all life, the cognition of existence. Anna Doreen is virtual reality; she is almost real, and in certain ways,
even better than the real thing, more human than human (from the U2 and White Zombie songs)
. She is what Charles wants her to be. Which is this: he manages to ogle this paragraph in three minutes and thirty three seconds, just as the song is sung. Create and complete her within those specific numbers, the birth and death of a universe. Anna Doreen, she is the alpha and the omega, the beginning and the end.

    The man
she had sex with is wiping off by now, going for a swim in an open-air shower. Outside, on the balcony where Charles’ odyssey first started, the scenery is changed, the world is different. Charles Schmuck is leaning on the balustrade. Anna Doreen comes over, one of her incarnations, that is; she’s topped with a pink, fibrous China doll wig, and she starts to explain.

   “Every three m
inutes and thirty three seconds a new dimension supersedes the current one. Mind you, we’re in the same spacetime, only quantum particles switch, but that is enough to bring about drastic alterations.

   “What you call ghosts, you can’t see them, and they can’t see you
, but you both share the same space. We’re talking in between molecules. And there are a lot of spaces between. Now is this location (she swaggers a GPS unit on her palm demonstratively) -
longitude
: 101.59361°E,
latitude
: 3.06444°N - on Earth as you know it; after the next hit song, it could be this exact location as the spirits know it. As the music continues to play, it could be here but in the future, or the past, or before the world was even made, just molten lava.”

    Anna and Charles stood there, at the
upper tier, absorbing the view for a good ten minutes or more. Two cycles had passed by, and now they are at the tail end of the third.

    In the first, life was a pristine rainforest seen from the zenith of this massive rock. Mist floated on treetops, baptizing the leaves with morning dew. And soon the birds sang and the animals came out to play. All day
, the harmonies of the jungle silenced Charles’ schizophrenic soul, mirth for a schmuck. He is sure the land beneath those spreading branches is hostile and violent, filled with death, and is unsuitable for children. But the animals get by. No remorse, no regrets; they live, they die, and they contribute to the environment for the next generation of evolution.

    Mutants.

    It is evening, and the sun sets. But it is getting brighter by the second. Soon a blinding light emancipates, and for a moment, it is surgery-room white, heaven bright. Anna explicates that it is merely the blank sound between track number two and three. The third song should start soon.

    It does, and it’s loud.

    Trees have been replaced by skyscrapers. No more is the tower they are in commanding vantage point; here, in the next reality, they are unfortunately dwarfed by black structures that eat the sky. Yes, for it actually does seem to Charles that the shadows cast by these imperious monoliths have the appearance of teeth chewing whatever remains of the day.

    Thirty
three seconds upon the first verse the catchy pop punk chorus kicks in, and night descends.

    With the darkness
befalls all manner of posthumous sapiens. Anna says it’s some kind of purgatory, but no one is suffering.  No one is of flesh and blood; everybody instead is composed, carved out, of enormous precious stones. Jaspers and rubies and sapphires and emeralds, the beings shine with splendid extravagance. With bodies that cost a bomb, who needs clothes!? Indeed, these zero-genitalia seraphs radiate. Muscular bronze statues and iridescent Venuses, they illuminate this realm.

    But not for long. Song four begins.

   “The only factor which remains constant is this building you’re in,” states Anna Doreen nearing the end of the fourth piece, which stages a city orbiting in an asteroid belt, the Earth having broken into pieces like a porcelain vase. “And why that is is because I am sacrificing my own life in its place at the end of each triple-three cycle. Naturally, I choose a man on each occultation to contribute his seed for my rebirth. So Charles Schmuck, you have been a good and faithful servant, ever reliable even in the most arduous of tasks. Track number five is all yours; and track six will be your child. Make sure you ejaculate in me in three minutes and thirty three seconds...starting...now.”     

    But Charles shoots in 3:34. “
Damnit!
I told you 3:33. And of all things, you gotta choose this to screw up?!” A lot can happen in one second. The tower is turning inside out, imploding. Where it’s going, Charles has no idea. Anna Doreen is really, really fucked up. Fuming. Cursing unintelligibly, she’s fading away, and she’s taking his cock with her. Dickless Schmuck is back in his room, and we are all laughing at his expense to the sight of a forest canopy shading scrotums only. The California Redwood had been timbered.

    We left before Charles Schmuck set fire to his bed in rag
e, pissed, and vowing to pay teacher Anna back for making him pee like a lady. Every time he goes to the loo, urine cascades off his testicles.

    But this was only a nocturnal fantasy. He neve
r truly got his revenge; not to satisfaction, at least.

    However, Grinlock gestured in sign language that he lived all his dreams with Anna Doreen. Grinlock’s dreams are different. It is universally ac
cepted that it is a male desire to make love concurrently to many versions of the same woman. But, it is rarely the case that the varieties are of the beastly and alien kind.

    Grinlock’s a simple creature. He pleasures animals. The computer interpreting Grinlock’s fingers say
s he is at a full moon party, dancing with exotic Anna models. Anna models growing colourful parrot feathers below the nape, Anna models with leopard spots adorning the spine. Anna models in tiger skins, hybrid Annas of fishes, Anna living symbiotically in a shark. Anna Doreen with furry breasts, Centaur Annas, Minotaur Annas, Anna in Medusa’s wig. Anna appearing to wear a coat of lion’s mane, but it is in reality the queen of the jungle’s hair Grinlock shaves off. She’s covered in wool. Underneath, she’s a wolf, a werewolf.

    All these fantastic females flock round the guy with unmovable jaw. They are doing the jive bunny. On stage, Anna Doreens are dancing the original, raw and vulgar Moulin Rouge of the late nineteenth, early twentieth century; Anna Doreens that are blue and green and orange in colour, kitsch, kicking high those florescent legs under frilly petticoats. Anna Doreens with webbed limbs and pointy elf ears gyrate to the slow rock of a striptease.

    Surreal world of the Grinlock, they are giving him a lap dance. The customer’s expression is unchanged. Flushed, but unchanged. They chug alcoholic beverages through the cracks of his teeth, and they also open beer bottles with it. Annas sitting on him, Grinlock is drenched in hard liquor, and pretty much drunk to an augmented state. One Anna suggests lighting a match. Another laughs. Then one, which is the daughter of Bambi and HR Giger’s Alien, screamed, “Do it! Do it.” A harem of Anna zebras whined in harmony, “But he’ll burn with all that intoxicating liquid poured over him...” Anna Doreen’s face under the hood of a Mustang vrooms, “It’s ok. Let him burn.”

    So it was unanimously decided that they should torch Grinlock.  But that drunken
bastard’s not bothered. In perdition, Anna Doreens are singing from sepulchres, an operatic choir. She is inside rocks, and everywhere Grinlock steps, it is Anna’s painful face. He is surfing over a sea of delicate hands. Though each sassy, illustrated nail is unique and lustrous in enticing handjob desire - like crowded fingers
rubbing in
the ingredients of delicious apple crumble - he recognizes them by the ring Anna Doreen has on her middle finger, a jade eyeball chained with and coiled by gold dragons and serpents. Very ancient Chinese mixed with Mayan caricatures.