God of the Game (Dreamstate) (6 page)

     The show must go on. Rogol is cornered and weakened. Our teamwork and consistent attack had paid off. Rogol had lost; it was defeated. It collapsed to its knees, and we were ganging up for a combined final blow…but…before we could execute, there was a loud explosion. The remaining Centaur played her card. We had forgotten about her in the ecstasy of violence. She charged through in complete battle mode with a device in hand, which she threw as she drifted her tyres next to Rogol’s face. It was a dimensional bomb. The three of us were flung back, and when we got to our feet, there was nothing but a crater in Hell’s abyss. Both Rogol and Brunette were missing.

   “That fucking bitch!” cursed the white man, “she’d teleported to finish it off.” He removed his glasses and chucked it to the ground, trampling and kicking it at a r
ed coloured stone. I was silent; so was the third guy.

   “If I see her, I’m gonna kill her,” the European s
houted again. Then he spoke not; we spoke not. There was an eerie silence, the contaminated howl of Hell’s wind carrying with it the hushed cries of a trillion tortured souls - more adventures and quests to be played.

    An awkward quiet
arose like a zombie from a grave, three man bonded by combat were now naked without action or plan.

   “Hi, I’m Jai-I,” said whitey uncomfortably as he simultaneously picked his destructed shades, regretting over his impulsive tantrum, “You are?”

   “Vesper,” answered the impressive dark gentleman of brooding countenance, who had now folded his artificial wings back into his body.

   “As in the Evening Star?
Brother of Morning Star?” I asked in schoolboy awe.

    Vesper nodded his head.

   “As in a Satan?” added Jai-I.

   “Nope. A Satan is someone else altogether. And so is the Devil. In fact there are many devils. But I’m one of them.”

14

Vesper

    Our friendship af
ter that day in MMORPG Hell solidified rapidly. We went for a drink at a pub, plotting our revenge against Brunette for outsmarting us, and fantasized (guy talk) what we’d do to her well-oiled parts over bottles of beer and brandy.

    Vesper wears a different avatar every day. I’d never seen him looking the same
, ever – dark gentleman, blonde double-O-seven secret agent, sun-bleached surfer dude, foul-mouthed Chinese businessman, fat bastard, prissy girl, ice queen, tribal chief, ninja warrior, bearded-turbaned holy man and chocolate-skinned well worn traveller are some I recall seeing him loitering around in.

    He was not yet at the pinnacle of Tower 1 when I arrived, so I killed time by browsing magazines. The material bug bit me, and soon I was choking on products I could acquire. Off my spam
filter and advertisements catered to my profile flooded in from the four corners of the universe, and beyond. It was pretty fun. I visited showrooms, sampled stuff, tried new clothes, planned for holidays, test-drove the latest vehicles, all without promising or committing to purchase.

    However
, note that economies are different in the eternal realm. It is not dictated by dollars and cents. Since anyone and everyone can have anything they can imagine, it makes no sense to sell. It's better just to give away for free. In fact, once out in the market, others can analyze your creation and copy. We only craft something unique and bask in the approbation of our fans, most notably if it hits cult status. That’s the meaning of money.

    It’s not about sales. Instead
, it’s about sharing. Profit is intrinsic rather than financial. Within such a system, one requires maturity not to take things too seriously; one learns to honour and respect others, even as the same is returned. Life is only a game after all…a perpetual game; though winning can be everything. 

    This was what I could not comprehend in my human years preceding immortality. For lack of k
nowledge, we take it too earnestly. Now that I know all things, I chill.

    When Vesper arrived, I recognized him in the spirit. Expected, he was physically a stranger, but I’m aware of his microbial code, and thus, I could pick him out amidst a crowd even if he resembled the Queen of England.

   This time though he was present
as a wry serpent-woman, mocking the form his identical twin, Lucifer, is often associated with. If my memory serves me right, they have a business running together, some trading-organization-network working amongst gods, men and half-beings.

    I asked Vesper once why he always changed avatar, and he repli
ed, “Oh, just a creative thingy; and I get bored easily.” As an afterthought, he added, “And yah, I’m a ‘celebrity’ of sorts with certain quarters, and I don’t want to be mobbed.”

    Vesper slithered across the roof of Tower 1 after emerging from the elevator that sped up two thousand floors. He, or should I say she, as it was a fema
le form he was donning, was a colour of shimmering grey, her underbelly tanned white. Uncoiled, she was twenty-five-feet long, the snake body as thick as a voluptuous woman’s ass. The scales of the reptile ended at her feminine navel, which was pierced; and the goddess, waist upward, was a tone of ash. This black beauty stood proud. Like a Goth rocker; she was decorated in gold body piercings on all visible parts of her skin, similar to the one ornamenting the belly. And her head was shaven bald. Underneath her nose and ear rings connected by a gold chain was a mouth of fangs when she snarled.   

   “Whoa! Ves, why the shocking look?” I remarked.

   “Thought it’ll be fun,” she returned casually, “you could ride on me when we sky surf.”

   “Ok,” I said, not really sure what it meant. “Let’s go.”

    Space was crowded. The top of Tower 1 commanded a stunning view of Syurga and the adjoining star systems. Below, flying vehicles cut across buildings chaotically, safel
y guided by GPS autopilots. Syurga is the perfect example of a social planetary network - citizens and corporations, man and machines, mortals and immortals, contributing to infrastructure and content to fuel heaven’s organic growth, like a well tuned piece of mechanical marvel.

From where I stand I can see prominent landmarks like the Bank of Nirvana (BON)
, and the HQ for Matrix Corp, which deals in simulated dreams. BON is made up of seven spherical airborne mandalas, rooted by reinforced carbon-nanotube space elevators. From Tower 1, they appear as transcendental lollipops. As for the Matrix Corp HQ, its super structure floats above head; a hundred meters off ground. It hovers like a miracle; an aureate corona washing its black hieroglyphic walls, sitting in outer space a brilliant coronate. There are no doors into this massive monolith, and all visitors are beamed up from the land under its direct shadow, which also doubles as a lobby and reception area. This particular spot is enclosed by the manipulation of light into solid state, transparent like a pyramid jewel case, a prism. Close to the edifice one hears a continuous hum emanating from its core, an enigmatic element of the secretive activities conducted inside.

    The atmosphere entering Syurga is
by far the busiest level of this giant planet city. Residents and tourists are forever coming in and out, spaceships joining and leaving streams of traffic to and from galactic highways bridging faraway systems. The heaven above Syurga is cramped with digitalized billboards, publicizing other worlds and dimensions, most commonly of Planet Muthafukker, the second largest conurbation in the galaxy. It is also the most hedonistic 2D getaway to exist in my knowledge.

    Images fill my cerebral cortex whenever I fly (or plunge). My mind empties, and is reloaded with transient visions fed from afar. It reels like a video clip; frantic, fast and furious. I am at my most receptive and responsive to new existences, it’s like I can see and hear the thoughts of trillions begging to be born in me. I choose my impregnation, like I could choose the strongest sperm to conceive and form the healthiest baby. I can smell, taste and feel the ones I allow to latch on to my soul. They are like leeches sucking me dry.

    God is an anarchist. By God I don’t mean the all Supreme Being, merely someone going by that persona. I visited God’s homespace; it was filled with fairies floating in a forest landscape. Paradise I presume, which opens through a thick foliage to a primeval lake and a jungle of ancient green with broad vines and giant leaves. Dinosaurs grace by the shore, big colossal birds glide the sky, their vivid colours painting the sunset bright.

    I leapt out, caught another glimmer that attracted my attention, an engineering feat of preposterous proportions –
a
dream
recycler
. For each and every dream that finds its way to our sleep, countless others fleet indiscernibly, never making it, at most as a half-light. These are fed back to a bin where they wait for a master’s call, regurgitated and recreated as something else that finally provides meaning for a measure to a life. The dream recycler also chews up used up planets and bygone universes, and spits them out a shadow of their former self, but with new functions and verity. 

    A mysterious coil grabs me; Ves’ cold, slinky body. She laughs; then zooms hundreds of meters away, straightening to an arrow, the serpent’s rigid form flowing with
the wind. It seems as though she were about to swallow another surfer alive when she wildly toyed with him. I think he relished the occasion, playfully stroking the viper’s belly.

    Suddenly Ves’ structure softened to a slithering ‘S’ shape, and she hurtled down
, before a sudden blue flash signalled, and unexpectedly, she transforms to a jet plane, speeding back up to the cosmos. I smiled in wonderment even as I observed my fellow free-fallers; hurling endorphins of bliss…ahh...this indeed is a wonderful experience. The joy in our faces.

    I caught another phantom pr
emonition; it was a girl, short spunky haircut, chic. Medusa’s hairstylist. She stands by a shallow pond, staring at the reflection of time (past, present and future) stopped and turned to stone. And then I hear her, a voice so familiar. Sha-Rronne; like a whisper in the wind. I was surprised; snapping out of trance to face ground zero. I had to zigzag my way out of traffic as I fell, the curse of drivers sliced past my ears even as I manoeuvred dangerously to avoid being hit. Don’t want to be a casualty.

    Sha-Rronne, her undeniable voice calling out to me. Soft and still…
but yet it could exist outside of ZOOL.A.ND
. By the aid of white plastic wings I gently landed on a helicopter pad on the roof of a low building. And with the grace of a gangster, I knew it was time again to re-enter Jai-I’s chaotic world.     

15

Club Utopia

    Club Utopia. Club Utopia is a haven humans
go to be human. There is a counter at the entrance of the discothèque where revellers are required to leave their superpowers, bio-robotic integrations, gene-enhanced therapy and divinity at the door. Stripped of god, you relive your history.  

    There is a school of thought that we will only truly know ourselves when we are less…not more. They believe that life is more precious in its imperfections and frailty. In the presence of mortality we become more appreciative. The fact that we are not all-powerful makes every morsel of life sweeter, as if we we’re sucking that little bit of honey out of a flower.

    Utopia - an ideal life and society, hence the name. Of course it also makes perfect sense that the suffering of humanity is rudely excluded from this idyllic scenario, the bad and undesirable beheaded from the total human condition. Executed by a big fat wrestler in a mask operating the fucking guillotine; in this one-sided demoted reality of good vibes minus the evil, only lovey-dovey feelings fill the room. An aura created by ecstasy and other drugs. There are those however who feed only on pure adrenalin, the rush, sweat and grime without the artificial stimulation of smoking, snorting and popping.

    Mankind’s sorrow is out of the equation in this nightclub. That makes it pretty la
me to follow a philosophy of so called ‘truth’ when you only include the sugar and not the spice, the magic mushrooms but not the bitter pill.

    But most sub-deities come to Club Utopia just for a good time. To remember an epoch that was. A time when we were young and foolish. A simpler time. A time devoid of eternal complications. It was of a time when I had no power to wield, when I could not have everything I wanted; a time of innocent desire, when I was man, not god.

    For the negative experiences of both my childho
od and manhood, I have to admit that I occasionally muse over. After all, they made me what I am today, this crass and asinine being armoured in immortality, so different perhaps from those born or created in perfection.

    The girl behind the counter had red hair. She was also a witch. She collected our supernatural powers and deposited them in safe-boxes before handing over the key. She was also the last mote of magic I saw before entering the cathedral, which was converted into a massive dance floor.