God of the Game (Dreamstate)

Read God of the Game (Dreamstate) Online

Authors: Kit Yan

GOD of the GAME

First of the Dreamstate Series

Kit Yan

All characters and events, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental

Chapters

In the Beginning

0:
Dreamstate

On the First Day

1:
ZOOL.A.ND

5:
Jai-I

7:
Syurga

11:
Hell

14:
Vesper

15:
Club Utopia

20:
The Tree of Love

21:
Jahr

23:
Music Videos

On the Second Day

24:
The Horny Hound

26:
Twilight Twins: The Morning & Evening Star

28:
Esotoria Lane

32:
Elizabeth Amber

36:
Vitruvian Man

On the Third Day

39:
Earth

42:
Sharon

On the Fourth Day

52: Movie
Critic

53:
Anesidora

56:
Tapestry 13

On the Fifth Day

63:
Murals

65:
Whoring Earthlings

67:
Charles Schmuck, Dilidos and the Grinlock featuring Anna Doreen

71:
Trekz’z Tit

74:
The Rape of Brunette

76:
Sanguine Lover

On the Sixth Day

78:
Business of Imagination

81:
Ichabod

82:
Teenage Wasteland: Sharon’s Sequel, the Day After

86:
Jimmy

89:
Planet Muthafukker

92:
Hairy RZ

Sabbath

On the Eight Day

I say, “You are gods. But you shall surely die like men.”

Psalm 82:6 and 7

In the Beginning

Dreamstate

Set in the afterlife, past the second coming, beyond singularity, life
now is a conglomerate of videogames. Join our nameless hero as he effortlessly traverses dimensions, jumping from multiverses to metaverses, pursuing a mindless selection of violent, sexual vocations. Existence here is a hedonistic pit. With unlimited choice and eternity at his disposal, life should be meaningful. But it is not. Poor fool is stuck in his human past, continuously digs up the grave of his mortal time on Earth. Unresolved desires, ex-girlfriends and aimless addictions, the makings of a flawed deity; one that pisses on everything he creates, screws everyone he makes. No rules, and purely anarchic, so meet a motley crew of divine characters ever ready to crush the fragile egg of sanity.

Dear reader, pray your faith saves, for your convictions of infinity, of heaven and hell, may never be the same after this.

I want to blow you away. Open up your mind and show you the greater side of things. Imagine if you could do anything, anything at all. Imagine the life and society
that proceeds from it - what we will become, what we can do, and the consequences that abound in such an existence. Growing up in this community, imagine the toys we’d play that will form our opinions of reality.

Ahh!...
I don’t want you to imagine.
Don’t do that
, because you are already there. This particular tale stems from the eternal root and tree, and you are present in its infinite design.

I watched Matrix the oth
er day, you know, the part when Trinity requested for the programme to pilot a helicopter, and she automatically possesses the knowledge innately? I’ve heard of stories whereof languages are downloaded into the mind, and the person immediately understands and speaks multiple tongues, both foreign and alien.

Information exists in the rivers, rivers that flow
into the great sea…oceans…waters of data. In certain ancient texts of the 20
th
and 21
st
Earth century, they described it as the information super highway, the Internet – first informative, then interactive. No doubt, it was a prehistoric tool compared to the vast endless streams which flow around and within us nowadays, but for the human species, it was the beginning of a new social trend that opened the doors, first to virtual worlds, then to alternate universes, and ultimately to all realms and dimensions, waiting to be discovered by ever growing beings encroaching into divinity.

Our only
limitation is our imagination in conceiving and creating. If we are able to do so, we will bring into fruition the ideas of our soul. Reach out to the timeless tentacles and everlasting sands of inspiration to fashion and form that which we birth in our minds. And we share our knowledge and craft, each individual dimension uniquely perceived in a collective pool of immeasurable intelligence.

I don’t want you to be bothered by logic, what’s possible or plausible to your finite mind. Don’t fathom about the journey to the divine, it will only splinter with hypocritical and fanatical religious theology. From the position you stand
, you cannot see beyond your frail human infinitesimal body, like a cell in comparison to the vivid and colourful zenith of the heavens.

Instead
, I want you to come to my point of view from the end of ages, where all routes, regardless actual or altered, lead to an expressive explosion of art and creation like flowers in bloom. Then you will understand that all you can imagine is true.

With an open mind
, I beckon you to read this book, and experience for yourself riches un-foretold tingling in your spirit, energy sizzling from your bones and fingers, avatars and alter egos brimming in subterranean beauty.

Come…let me excite and arouse all your senses.

On the First Day

ZOO.L.A.ND

I sat
silent with Sharon next to me after a heavy brunch of bacon and sunny-side-ups. Her shoulders settled innocently on mine and I felt the impulsive currents of desire flow. Sharon was listening to music over her Walkman Cell, head bobbing in rhythm to the beat pounding as electrical signals directly in her brain. Simultaneously, she shopped and yakked with friends in a virtual parlour of clothes, shoes and costume jewellery.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Oh, some ancient stuff I’m digging out from the archives,” she answered. “Pretty cool.”

“Let me hear?”

She switched to share mode via
Bluetooth Light Speed
, and I received the song she was listening. It was quite loud, so I adjusted the volume by mental command. The drums sounded electronically flat, and cheesy keyboard melodies were playing over it.

“Ahh…songs from the birth
days of techno and electronica.” I recognized, knowing that it probably came somewhere from the 1980s even before all information about that tune flooded my vision and was downloaded into me. “Didn’t know you dug antique.”

“O
h, I’m just experimenting,” she replied.

Sharon’s hip and hot. She’s also punk attitude meets Japanese schoolgirl anime. Like many bubbly teens Sharon’s into self-exploration with all the tools of technology and magic we have.

I met her in a world created by a friend. The world in which I speak of was developed in a back alley of low-town Syurga. Syurga is a giant planet-city, the capital of the Milky Way, centre of all trade. In the deepest regions of Syurga
, where denizens abound in cutting-edge cultures and societies, lived Jai
-
I (
pronounced Jai-Ee
), a madcap scientist bent on creating new dimensions of surreal fantasies. This came as no surprise as his father is Jahr (
Zhahr
), the famed artist whose name rings throughout the galaxies.

The back alley I mentione
d is behind Club Utopia, a head-banging ecstasy parade for cool cats, hot dogs, cold chicks and bad cocks. Jai-I spends much of his time there with his
paramour animus
, DJ Trekz; and while the superstar DJ is up on his podium driving crowds into rapture, Jai-I is in his own bliss creating new worlds from Trekz’z private room while waiting for the spinner to finish so he can fuck up his ass.

Back at the alley, amidst the graffiti strewn walls and rubbish d
umped, in accord with the miasma of decaying pizza nestling fat maggots and diseased rats, touch the gangsta street art, and in coded password find yourself suddenly transported to ZOOL.A.ND.

The cool element about ZOOL.A.ND that Jai-I incorporated was his anarchic style of programming. This allowed anyone to just
do
what they want, how they want, when they want
. Unlike the case with the more regimented metaverses by megalomaniac authoritarian creators uncool about their property, intellectual or otherwise, being abused and pirated by others.

Sharon in ZOOL.A.ND was not the same Sharon listening to 80’s music on her Walkman Cell. In this of Jai-I’s world she was ageless, like a goddess, eternally beautiful with waters from the fountain of youth. Her skin, especially of her face, though not smooth as porcelain, was refined with fire, hard as jade, seen a million events, terrible; wisdom growing from her gaze. Sexy biker chic, ice princess, leather dominatrix, aloof lady boss in a symmetrical pantsuit, innocent cupcake sensualist, butterfly fairy, alchemic queen and femme fatale; qualities of hers all rolled in one as if a layer cake or cinnamon bun. Her image morphed random from character to character, and at times it was all at once. Her hair, apple green, then fiery red, sapphire blue, etcetera, floating as if in water, then as if in flames, then stiff in rigor mortis. Eyes cold, the colour changing, lashes in various hues, mascara and makeup in shifting tones to set different moods, like in constant restlessness finding hard an identity. It seems she were many persons at once, a legion, for much was in her.

There was a sensitive side behind her rock façade when I got to know her, one of vulnerability, softness and affection. I remember the day we met; of course I didn’t see her delicate countenance at once,
for all that was on parade was the power chick portrait she portrayed.

We met in a pseudo
bar, a makeshift arena for an underground fight club. In this arcade, angels battled demons; there were monsters on steroids, gods and demigods, tricksters, killer robots and superhumans, the incubus and succubus, devils with horns and halo-saints. They went at each other, battling to kill to the song of a drunken crowd. Heads were torn, bodies strewn, blood splattered, the incense of intoxication and sweat filled the air. Money was won and lost; brawls ensued among the audience. There was more death, more blood, more gore…all to the delight of the spirit of violence and doom.

Sharon didn’t come to wrestle, she came to watch, to check out the scene like the generation of voyeurs raised by TV. Insufficient cocks and lazy cunts.

She caught my attention from a distance. I was checking the whores out when my antenna captured her scent. We communicated by pheromones, sending perfumed IMs
(instant messages) across air particles. Flirting. She laughed out loud to my last comment, which smelled like sex, and I walked towards her, simultaneously checking my avatar in my AI self. I was fucking gorgeous.

ZOOL.A.ND allows customiz
ation of props and attire. There is a costume wardrobe that highlights upon entering through the back alley, in the menu bar, seen at the top left corner of my sight. One can be as he is in Syurga, but I decided to spice things up on my body before venturing in the adventure of this animalistic sham.

I adorned my skin with surreptitious tattoos, surfacing subt
lety, encoded to the environs of ZOOL.A.ND to express its arts – koi, dragon, skull, beautiful rotten faces, flower or merely tribal patterns of many subcultures and civilizations. Depending on where I am, or whom I’m interacting with, different shapes appear as conversational pieces. So if it’s a potential business associate who likes the koi fish I am to meet, the design will alter to his preference, while sending signals to his brain to hypnotize him to my favour. Of course this does not always work as he may have conjured some other magic to counteract that may even spellbind me. Therefore, when I laid my lust on a red she-devil who adores dragons, which my body art took form to impress to bed and bag, I ended up masturbating in front of her
galfiends
amidst their demonic laughter. When I realized my stupor, and that I had been thwarted by an imposing charm, I had already ejaculated, and my hand was slimy, while the banshee-screams hit an orgasmic soprano note.

Besides my misfiring tattoos, I designed my avatar as part machine, a cyborg with half
silvery metal and half inked flesh. I was cool, my designer choice of clothing enough to cover and show the masculinity of my frame and the lean mechanics of the AI exoskeleton.

“I’m Sha-Rronne,” she said, switching from pheromone IM to audio as we moved within human earshot. Not that we could not have communicated by audio from a distance, it was just more tantalizing and teasingly playful this way, conversing via odours. I could faintly smell her past, zephyr of a blue-ocean lake.

Sha-Rronne was her original name before she shortened to Sharon when she moved back to Earth with me.
I was attracted at that instant. Not just in my hydraulic enhanced cock, but in the deep matrix of my labyrinth heart. I saw her soft soul immediately, her contradicting thousands, confusion and loss complementing an arsenal of power and poise. It was as if Sha-Rronne walked in a thousand worlds with a thousand personalities, and yet, all is as one in ZOOL.A.ND, housed in Jai-I’s mainframe in the psychedelic shag-a-shack that is DJ Trekz’z powder room.

Orgy won the final round of the fight, clobbering its challenger with the wind, transforming the element in the likeness and might of Thor’s hammer, before reshuffling the storm into tiny shards of air piercing the colossal creature deep in the innards. The muscled monster shuddered and shook; faeces and urine streaming uncontrollably down his naked thighs, giant worms gnawing out of his rectum as he fell.

The multitude was frantic; it was more a commotion than victory. Orgy was crowned champion. Despite its name, Orgy had nothing to do with group sex. Hell, it had no sex at all. Neither male nor female, it had no form. Orgy was just a dark cloud. It finally possessed the body of the red she-devil I miserably seduced
, and was interviewed by dissident media, wherein, word of the triumph was instantaneously planted in the lo-fi data vines that carry across infinity.

The celebrations cut
into my conversation with Sha-Rronne. I suggested we leave for a homemade Italian meal of pasta and wine in a cosy café down the street. I also proposed a change of costume first. She agreed. In a blink of an eye we accessed our wardrobe option and transformed accordingly to suit the romantic occasion. As we left, the glam punk band The Nobodies rocked the set with their hit song
I Ain’t Ugly But You Love Me Anyway
, while dead bodies were piled up as a mountain and burned in a gigantic bonfire. A Nazi bitch in lingerie was heading the event, while riders in tusked-headed motorbikes stripped the carcasses of valuables like hacker codes, magical potions, warlock chants and teleportation belts. Hitler’s harlot held an Uzi and whip, shouting obscenities at the mob like a backup singer for The Nobodies. As we left the building, the reek of charred flesh rose from the chimney. Ahh…a perfect prelude to a romantic symphony.

We are simply human now.

“So, where do you come from?” the titillating Spanish lady asked sumptuously as she sucked on a spaghetti meatball. Her accent on the other hand was nowhere European; it was unidentifiable. Mouthed and moulded in the vast lands of Jai-I’s alternate reality by hordes of file sharers and virtual characters.

Sha-Rronne was no longer the celestial mystery in fight club; she was an elegant Mediterranean female in a leaf-motif earth-tone strapless dress. Her tanned legs were exposed beneath the knees, which led to laced sandals with a slight platform and a huge wooden ethnic button painted blue wit
h decoration. Her toes, visible; and the nails, polished in a matching sky-blue. They were both alluring and welcoming in their intricate feminine curves.

I was a gentleman in linen, comfortable and smooth as the breeze.

“Syurga,” I replied, “but before that, Earth.

“And yourself?” I enquired.

“I was born…if you can say born…created… well, that’s not the right word either. Formed…hmm. I guess the best word to describe is that I
woke up
in ZOOL.A.ND. I have no idea how I came to be!” she exclaimed. Her hands swayed in dark bimbo confusion, womanly, translated in my manly mind as balancing generous jugs.

“Tell me more about Earth,” she added.

I started…stopped…stammered, scratched my head, searched for one thing about the blue planet worth mentioning. I couldn’t, but had to say something. I had left Earth so long ago, not long after my transfiguration from frail biological being, coded by DNA wrought in flesh and blood, to divine son of many godfathers. I still consider myself human though; I guess it gives me some kind of self-identity in this everlasting abode.

But my mortal Earth life had been painful. Empty. I had no problems leaving it behind. There was love, there was lust; there was un-fulfilment and a ton of regret. There was Gee Ni
, and she left me. I don’t think it was coincidental that her name was somewhat similar to a lamp-dweller’s. She answered my three wishes and leeched on to another master; a lover, and not a fucking loser. “A provider,” she said, “a man who wear’s the pants.” Oh…fuck her.

Rub the lamp…ooo…Gee Ni appears in red-hot leather underwear with garter belts, stockings and heels to match. She wears a cheeky PVC cap, and holds a black rubber baton dildo.

“What is your wish
, my master?” she purrs.

“I wish for pure nasty sex with you…slave.”

“Your wish is my command, masssterrr…”

O yeah, baby…o yeah, lady…o yeah, you bitch…ahhhhurrgghhhhh…

Rub the lamp…ahhh…Gee Ni materializes in a cloud of smoke, dressed in simple pyjamas, post-coitus after freshening up.

“What is your wish
, my dear?” she asked.

“I wish to share my heart with you.”