God of the Game (Dreamstate) (53 page)

Slay your offspring in exchange for a goddess. Fair trade. For Sha-Rronne’s rebirth there must be sacrifice, and the offering is one from your own loins.
Figuratively
. Sharon does not struggle; she does not put up a fight. Passively the teenage nymph submits, succumbs; but who wouldn’t, if one realizes the passage after dagger and blood culminates in the reunification with a goddess; only insolent fools, or souls already purchased and redeemed for salvation by another deity, would turn down such a charitable, knocked-down and discounted offer.        

Sharon’s nubile package lies unwrapped under a plastic Christmas tree, on a marble tombstone, and a familiar knife is raised above her thick breasts. (In my pants I had it all the while
, for Vesper had advised never to leave home without. Jimmy ceased it in my capture, but I regained the weapon - sticking out as if a comb from his jeans’ back pocket, the job was effortless with him dead, and faced down.) An identical blade to the one that plunged Jai-I, the one that tried to pierce Rogol the Beast’s head; the one with a connection to Leper and the Gunk, developers of Hell the Game, foundation of a heaven, the MMORPG Syurga’s real estate property prices are based upon. Cold steel slices perfect meat, and Sharon is served as sushi. Colour coded plates denote the cost of each delicate dish, referring to various portions of her rack. Rice balls, a cut of Sharon slapped on top, and she’s sent out together with wasabi and soya sauce on a conveyor belt for a random dinner crowd.

M
y muse, o’ Sharon, inspiration for my perversion, amorous and playful sacrifice, fawn of my desire prancing in an enchanted forest; here comes your end, my darling, my babe, my sweet little girl. Shared out amongst strangers, an insignificant finale for the fate of a female child; but the rise of a goddess emerges from the faeces of those who partook of adolescent flesh. Steamy, stinky vapours ascend to heaven, a sweet odorous offering, and Sha-Rronne, asleep outside the confines of time, awakes to the digested aroma of her young ghosted flesh.

She’s exalted at the pinnacle of J
immy’s eternal empire, now mine; and I lay at her feet, prostrated as a worshipful dog, bestowing adulation. Sagacious Sha-Rronne, she is in the form I first encountered her, which is a conflagration of feminine characters morphing in and out of her lofty being. Femme fatale to freak show, I recall that night in ZOO.L.A.ND, how she called to me. I was checking out prostitutes in a pseudo bar, fights were underway, and I’d just been tricked miserably by a she-devil to masturbate in front of her
fiends
.

   “Pause,” Sha-Rronne states, “Rewind. Zoom in. Watch how we met.” The still frame is anchored at my monkey mug of an orgasm. She brings the cursor south to the firing freeze of my thing, then zooms in further to the cascading seeds. “There,” Sha-Rronne declares,
“the little bugger that started this all.” Magnification at 12,000x shows a cheeky sperm soiled on the floor of Jai-I’s cyber land.

Sharon, when she was just an infinitesimal cell, just joined to the ovum of ZOOL.A.ND.

   “Why...it?”

   “Random,” was Sha-Rronne’s reply. “You called, I came.”

   “I called?”

   “Somewhat.” Sha-Rronne shrugged, “I’m a goddess. I just want to have fun.” She hums the Cyndi Lauper song.

So she zips a beeline to that chanced big-headed, long-tailed swimmer; immaculately impregnates the programming codes of Jai-I’s virtual world...and, bingo! Her pheromones permeated in the club, and I was mesmerized by that scent. That’s when Sha-Rronne materialized, and I caught the tantalizing glimpse of the triune she-god – Mother, Lover and Bitchy Pubescent Whore. 

   “Remember your fantasy when you came?”

   “...Ai...”

   “That’s right. You were dreaming of your Sanguine Lover; the love you would do to her, the mad sex both of you would share, the emotional leap of the spirit through the passage of a kiss, magnificently freeing your frustrations
into a heart-shaped void.

   “Somehow that yearning latched on to zygote
; the mould set, she was cast as the actress to play your female lead. She was like a leech,” Sha-Rronne bitched, “even
I
could not get rid of her. Without your wanting, that is.

   “And boy,” the divined one pointed at me down there, “how
you
wanted her to stay.

   “But enough of this whimsical caprice, n
ow to loftier matters. Remember this?”

Sha-Rronne brea
ches my mind. Ripples transcend off my brain pulse and on to material plane. One can observe the rings of air floating out. My attention is hooked on a line in the original screenplay Jimmy conveys:
Don’t be afraid, RZ is waiting on the other side
.

What’s the s
ignificance? Full name Hairy RZ; except for his quirky experiments and bug eating manifesto and dragon farm in Part 1, he has yet to show up in the sequel. Jimmy’s fault, had he not tampered with the timeline and abducted me into celluloid. But now, every frame after Sharon and Jimmy’s confrontation is merely an audio-video distortion. The sound is of a digital blah vomit, and the image like semen under microscope. 

   “No worries,” Sha-Rronne assures, “sure we can cook something up. Improv, as jazz musicians do.”

A Dizzy Gillespie tune kicks in as if it is the end credits; but instead, it’s just the opening song, for at the end of the dark tunnel, a kaleidoscope presents itself.

Dogs bark, cats screech and reptiles hiss.
A decrepit signboard reads:
Welcome to Planet Muthafukker,
most hedonistic getaway of the galaxy
.            

White Zombie and Gorillaz are playing, the epitome of cool. Sandstorm boils in the horizon, and the roar is the engine of motorbikes
and modified ATVs. They fly past us on the deserted desert road. Someone’s got Appetite for Destruction on mini-compo, and the vibe is an infectious, in your face, fuck-you kind of fun and joy! Catchy. A psychedelic flyer advertising a carnival waltzes in the wind as the loud punks vanish to the East together with the double-time outro of Paradise City.

Law of Planet M
uthafukker: Everything is garish, gory and luminously lighted. Everything is 2D, paper drawn; a cartoon, an animated series.

We arrived at the party, two hours after battling the sun; its rays are a legion of hur
tling angels. They came at Sha-Rronne and I with flaming swords, sabres that shoot a devastating array, products of nuclear fission. We blocked with psychic shields, invisible force fields. Sha-Rronne is having a blast. I, intrinsically moody, did not hail the ambush with the same enthusiastic tenacity. Regardless, I fought on, side-by-side. We make a good team; hacking off the wings of cherubs, substances composed of cosmic gale forces whirling in the universe. The celestial appendages disintegrated, and those amputated angels, they plummeted to the ground like injured wild ducks gunned in game seasons. It was a breeze from then; all you had to do was annihilate crawling creatures of extraterrestrial flight. No escape, thousands exterminated. Obliterated. Ceased from existence and sent home gnashing teeth, tail between legs.

   “Is that all you’ve got?” I shouted at the painted sky, “Pansies! Send someone our own size.”

Twilight. A bonfire is born
. Excitement level warming up. A single-street town, old cowboy outpost; caricatures check us out from behind bars, bordellos, banks. Demons pick their teeth, maggot ridden zombies; and in place of horses, fluorescent out-of-shaped, bug-eyed, beer-bellied, hairy ogres. Skulls shaded by sombrero stare via hollow sockets.

Sha-Rronne indexes a brothel, “Go have fun. I got business to attend. Look for you when I’m done.”         

I nodded.

Inside, it’s an acrylic version of
my
Horny Hound
. Comic pale blue and green Mona the Moan, Fanny Wong, Lolla Lollipop and gang greet my entry. Surprised to see Lolla, I said, “Hey, aren’t you with Vesper?”

   “We broke up,” came her reply.

I enquired no further. At the far end, I spied a foul, perspiring yellow fellow under a black bowler hat and raincoat.

   “What is your preference
, sir?” Asked Fanny in an Oriental charm.

Honestly
, I’d none. Not in the mood after battling damned heavenly hosts. More tired, actually. But, I’d never had sex with an,
or as an
, undead cartoon before; so heck, why not.

Picked my
preference and was led to a gothic, burlesqued theatre. Contrary to the opera box, I was seated at the centre of stage, instead. As a performing furniture! A nude statue showpiece the drama revolves. It was a full house, for the white gloves of gentlemen stood out from the sombre coats they were wearing as ghostly claps upon dark waters. Upper-class ladies in feathers were more stuck up than the dead peacocks which attired them. 

Drum roll. Axl
screams, “
Take me down to the paradise city where the girls are green and the grass is pretty.
” Wait. That sentence is incorrect. Too late. The chopper bike crew that overtook us is back. Where’s the chick I paid for? 

The only supple
, Photoshop augmented grade-A piece of meat in a sea of rotting flesh, sure that is to cause a bomb. She falls from heaven, a trap door opening above followed by a beanstalk of light. A thud. She is in pain, but in no hurry to feel hurt. For the panic is even greater in this lower coliseum. A pasty pink pixie possessing budding horns and vortex areolas struts out. She is our emcee for the night. With clouded irises and sclera, the nipples start to spin, and she shrieks, “
Let the show begin!
”

90

The crowd is mesmerized by those spiralling teats. Ladies and gentlemen sucked into her voluminous breasts. “For the first act, no prisoners are spared,” the emcee’s voice is bitchy and witchy, “voyeurs not allowed. You watch; you partake; you pay!” Her teeth cringed and her eyes narrowed in evil light.

Circus theme fires
up. Evil clowns torment the so called cream of society. They get to watch, alright, from bottom up. Made to lie supine, an aristocrat flooring is formed. Actors step all over them; and the ground grimaces. I’m still the immovable centrepiece. The action heats up around me. The performers represent the bohemian, the avant-garde, the proletariat, the eccentric geniuses born in the wrong century and the worthless dead sacrificed to feed fat bellies of the rich. “
It’s payback time, baby
,” ringmaster in a hideous mask shouts. He peels the masquerade, and what’s revealed is twice as horrible a mug. An acid victim, a perpetual grin; jowly flesh flapping from the cheeks, and puffy eyes appearing more like dunked-out soggy tea bags.

Fire-eaters and fire-farters:
a precarious mix. Arson specialists these are. They burned the
Horny Hound
down - the pong of ammonia - taking the festivities outside. A prismatic celebration presides. Heaven and hell combined could not have been jollier.

A single streak of light thr
ough the looking glass, a prism procreates for the birth of rainbow. Need I elaborate the power of animation? Take a man, he is a boring man; but draw him out, art him up, and he becomes interesting, fascinating. And so many styles to reanimate that tragic figure: longer limbs than natural, ghastly proportions, childlike puppy fatness, Manga amplification, a Disney succulence, Marvel or DC flamboyance; so much more excitement being a cartoon.

91

Sha-Rronne states, “Time’s up. Let’s go. You’re a wanted man.”

I reply, “But I’m up next. That’s my cue.” Topless pink
pixie with the psychedelic jublees gestures at my direction. “It’s my turn to fuck the girl!”

Ruined
. It was the climax of my sexsimulation coming to naught; for the finale, the plebeians were to invoke the idol to life by atonement of beauty for gifting them the collective courage to devour the bourgeois. Now, my wooden anticipation of an accumulating libido, hoarded by this stiff, impassive voyeur of marble and teak taking first breaths to automaton, was to be unceremoniously axed and fired.

She simply walks off.

I shrug, and the little horns of the emcee grew an inch. She snorts and summons an incubus to commit the furnishing rape in my stead; and Orgy, the sexless cloud from Jai-I’s ZOOL.A.ND, rains down on all.

In a glum I swayed to the swing of Sha-Rron
ne’s two round buttocks juggling, hypnotized by the force of pendulum’s bounce. To the right, a pirate galley is booming cannons. Note the absence of liquids; the ship is sailing on thin air like the Flying Dutchman, shooting candy and confetti, as if the spectral vessel was on holiday.   

To my left, zany preacher man prophesies doomsday in eloquent phrases. His calculations reveal an abstract date no one believes; but he persists. “You are but words,” he
speaks, “poetry recited by the Almighty. Stop this partying at once. Raise your ears to your conscience, to the subtle frequency of expression, where actions glide in slow-motion grids. In stillness, your remote heart makes meaning of the empty carousing your watercolour-self instigates.” Clearly a dreamer, an arty-farty poet of the comic strips; he’s tormented by night visions of illumination beyond the borders of two-dimensional pages.