God of the Game (Dreamstate) (10 page)

    Uncountable, the giant fruit balls, overflowing from the towering
tree, some at its utmost branch; others draping the floor, connected to the trunk by thin vines. Still, there are those that are fallen, ripened perhaps, plump and matured on the ground, ready to be gathered for the feasts of the gods. The
inhuman
race.                    

    Sha-Rronne was decked in glitter, a pop diva. Plunging neckline on a gold-beaded halter neck, micro skirt, legs that go on forever, and stilettos from hell. Above, her hair is bouncy, a beehive, which seems to be having a lot of spiritual activity. Evil spirits delve in and out of the strands like Formula 1 race cars, like World War Two Japanese warplanes supreme in dogfight, pod-racers of Phantom Menace fame. Guardian angels stand firm. Archangel Michael wields his flaming sword, protecting this follicled Eden. Demons run helter-skelter, and Satan is frustrated. Vesper pops by and says hi. I gave him a wave as he darts mischievously about Sha-Rronne’s curls of glory.         

    Fast f
orward. After sex. After the jizz and trickle, plonked to panting, to perspiration. Some chemicals excited in the brain, but calm like a stream. We can hear our breathing, the beat of nature’s tune. When I opened my eyes, I was in the inner side of Sha-Rronne, quite literally. My cock rested, flaccid on the walls of her vagina, slimed with semen and lube; and it’s as if I were my cock itself, a head on a stick with eyes and nose and ears, a stupid innocent face enthralled by the magnificent garden of the pussy, a worm ecstatic on fertile soil. If my dick and soul, (now both one and united), were to be illustrated in a children’s book or cartoon, it would be drawn as a cute looking sausage someone dropped on carpeted grass in a barbeque cook-out, grasping knowledge of the world. In its journey, it would meet wild wonderful creatures untold; some hungry, some loving. Some lie, pretending to love, before tricking it into the bite of the mouth. Others appear devious, but honest in the end. Mothers. Whores. Bitches and brides.     

    In this womb-like version of S
ponge Bob’s Bikini Bottom, in which I am the incarnation of my penis, my peaceful penis, I play along the forest lines, along the river shore. Discovering. An innocent child meeting magical beings, sitting on polka-dotted mushrooms, chatting happily. A sexless cupid with the womb for a playground. Groin of a mannequin, but the face and body of a cheeky preadolescent boy. There were others, young girls even, all playing games in Sha-Rronne’s reproductive organ. Her jungle, her desert, it was huge, with its own north and south poles, with diverse freezing, humid and dry temperatures; but I hung out most at the equator where it was wet and moist, rich with flora and fauna, exotic beasts, and the rainfall in excess of two thousand millimetres per year.

    I played Tarzan with my band of gorillas, and occasionally I visited the shrine of her temple at the core of the uterus. A Sheena Queen of the Jungle; and since I was
merely a dick, I shook instead, my whole body and limbs in a weird uncontrollable jig. I didn’t comprehend; it was intuitive, like a killer’s instinct. This marauding Jane commands certain hormones off my prepubescent biology. And at the end of the dance, I foamed in the mouth, an overtaking fit; convulsion of the psyche. Saliva blurts out like a lie, mucus overflowing as a flood, and I puked like a precisely coordinated fountain-and-lights showcase.   

    Marauding, because this Jane, whenever she is horny, hunts my monkey bros; sh
e eats their brains as delicacy while they scream alive with fire burning under their feet. But I didn’t know death; I don’t recognize terror. It was all a childlike game to me. Something funny. Something fun.

    One day
, in the depths of the tropical rainforest, during a torrential storm when flood rises, rapids flow and mud slides, the Queen strikes. This little boy goes stomping in knee-high water, pretending to be Christopher Columbus hacking through primitive America. And out of the bright blue, a spark of yellow, a macaw flashes, orange, fire and cerise flying across my sphere of vision; a squawk, and there she was. Standing as an Amazonian warrior in battled-leathered-armour, clutching a shield and a spear. A helmet hid her face, revealing only two intense grey-set eyes, a violent mouth, and blonde hair flowing from the sides. Cakes of dirt and dried blood made her up, war paint and camouflage, a soldier’s Estee Lauder.            

    She sees me and smiles. I returned it, warmth emanating from my heart, and I called out, “Mama?”

    She smiles again, wider this time; slowly the mouth spreads across the cheeks as if she’d been sliced through the gums.

    I raised my chubby c
upid arms, “Mama,” I called once more.

    The Valkyrie
reached out. I looked up. She must be a six-footer and I a puny three-feet-seven-inches tall. Hand-in-hand, mother and child, and I awoke a midget giving cunnilingus to a muscled lady in a bubble ball.

21

Jahr

    Jahr was comely as Kings naturally are. He paced the chequered black-and-white tiles, commanding servants in chess-piece suits in navigating the floorboard.

   “Knight to D4,” he ordered as he
strolled with his back facing to the end of the hall. The manservant in helmeted-mask and a mechanical horse that’d replaced his dick crossed in an L to the allotted square, fucking the opponent’s bishop in the ass with the stallion before lobbing off the diocesan’s head. The crimson Episcopal cloak soaked redder in martyr’s blood.

    The game is at the final stage of conquest, a few more inevitable moves before Jahr checkmates his challenger, which is a supercomputer programmed to balance the heavens and coordinate celestial orbits.

    The floor is a battlefield. The dead are left to rot, while carrion crows pick at cadavers. It was a scene from the Bible, Armageddon, an invitation for the birds of the air to feast on the meat of kings, great men emasculated, now awaiting judgement in the pit of perdition. Enemy soldiers walk the plane, stripping armour and gold and all things valuable. Peasants slowly trotting behind, scavenging for leftovers.

   “Yes, drink. Drink my children. Be drunk on the blood of lords, let it merry your heart like wine,” Jahr boomed, speaking to vultures and marabou storks
, deriding the powerful machine; its pawns all fallen, its king surrounded. It was a painful death, slow and excruciatingly evil, tortured and toyed and torn until the king in rags, like a pauper, a ragged victim. And his tormentors mock; his manipulative wife and queen, Jezebel the bitch, is butchered; beheaded. Paraded on a stake, like ice cream on stick. Melting. She with her long strides, his protector, the true governor of the province; she is dead, she who wears the pants. The kingdom rejoices. Now he limps one pathetic step at a time, the enemy in close pursuit, making him a laughing stock. Forced to ride a donkey backward, completely exposed and with a crown of thorns; his kingly tummy, three hairy layers of luxurious fat, is soaked with sweat. The oppressed of the land jeered the downfall of a dictator, once a tyrant, now a butt of jokes. Crying, weeping, in tears to his god who has forsaken him, the supercomputer, regulator of heaven, inept, unable to help its creation. Because of Jahr. Because of the
power
of Jahr.

    Checkmate.

    The king of kings summoned for me to approach. He will speak to me now. But before, he pointed to a window. I stared outside to witness the deconstruction of a universe even as the infinite-calculating cosmic machine broke down and surrendered, waving a white flag, conceding defeat. For once there were stars,
black holes and revelations
(as sung by the popular rock group Muse), now there is nothingness. A whiteness. But of course that was before the contractor in his yellow boots walked into the frame, followed by bulldozers and a whole lot of other heavy-duty machines. Each one outdoing the other before with regard to size; were if it were once with wheels ten-feet tall, it was now a hundred, and later a thousand…ten thousand times ten thousand, a million, billions, trillions, zillions, gazillions
blah blah blah
…

    The contractor, a Chinaman with a huge mole on his cheek and ultra-curly hair
, spoke loudly into the handphone, his voice crinkled jarringly over the receiver at Jahr’s end. The god had to keep his set an arm’s length away to talk to that crude builder. And even then I could hear every corrupted
English
word and phrase (
Singlish – Singaporean English
) that was coming out of the earpiece clearly.

    Jahr was annoyed. He only said, “Yah…yah…
yah…yah…yah…” throughout the conversation, while the other side babbled on and on and on. “Oh, but he is the best,” he finally told me when he switched his Samsung off, an irritation lingering on his mug, “Best in Syurga and Hell, and some say Planet Muthafukker as well.

   “I thin
k his country of origin is adjacent to yours. Your neighbour down south back on Earth,” he added.

    Yah, I recall him, a popular TV character produced in that island state.

    Now he makes construction his real business. What more, not merely erecting houses, but developing dimensions for gods. Impressive. Not bad for a humble start.

   “Let’s leave him to it,” Jahr mentioned and snapped. The window closed. “He’s making a new world for me, one which I planned. It’s
gonna be a glorious theme-park, a tesseract circus; rides you’ll never believe possible. The kids are gonna love it!  

   “Now, what can I do for you?”

22

    Jai-I had told me
to go see his dad. I was having an eternal-life crisis. That’s what he said.

   “How can I have a crisis? How can anybody have a crisis?” I contradicted, “We are gods after all
, aren’t we?”

    He waved for me to stop, but I proceeded, “I thought that was why we traded in our mortal life in the first place…so that we could have an end to our…
fucking
…crisis.”

   “Look, I won’t go
into details, especially not about the necrophilic games you’ve been playing in Utopia,” he winked, “not mentioning the odd sex you had with that Sha-Rronne babe in ZOOL.A.ND as an autistic dwarf dildo chained to the cunt of an imposing gladiator lady???”

   
I blushed
.

   “Speaking of which
,” he continued, “I’ve done some research, like I told you I would, and came out with some interesting data about her.”

    I was curious now, perked. “Yah
, what is it? What did you find out about her?”

   “Apparently
, she’s created by some anomaly.”

   “Huh?”

   “Look at this.” He sent over some signals to my brain. Charts, graphs, peaks, etcetera. “You created her.”

   “What?” I blurted stupidly, “This can’t be, it can’t be right. I’ve not created anything in my life…except…except…for my
pocket fantasy dimensions. But I certainly have not created life, not one that’s thinking and feeling on its own, at least. Just essences…yes…for my pleasure, but they’re vapour. They’re gone after I’m satisfied.”

    Jai-I was silent. He let me
blabber on. After I’m done, he coolly dropped, “You need a shrink. Here, go see my dad.” And with that he gave me unlimited access.

    I didn’t know what Jahr could do for me. Just like all patients with mental conditions befalling them, I couldn’t tell head from tail. Heck, I didn’t even know something was wrong with me. 

    He spotted a white goatee;
hair, shoulder-length and rugged like a hippie Jesus. An oily sheen caused the fringe to lump a little, giving the strands volume and body. He appeared to be in Earthly forties, the prime of a man’s life – successful career and family. 

     Jahr wa
s seated crossed-legged. Casual; and whenever he gestured, the background danced. Sparkles of fire, music bobbing in solid states of blues, yellows and greens, and at one point, the heavenly hosts of pale stallions foamed in the shape of a tsunami.

    Otherwise
, when I stared into his deep, dark irises, it was just a plain mantelpiece with a flame burning at the back. We were in an ordinary office room; nothing smelled of godlikeness.

    But those eyes. Those eyes were like black holes sucking you in, the richness of the palette, a wealth of knowledge, seen many times, lived many lives. It was hypnotic, calm, a kaleidoscope. His spirit drew you in, and you existed in him. 

    Jahr asked again, sensing my syrup of bewilderment mixed with some honey of awe, “What can I do for you?”

    Being god, clearly he knew what he could do for me; but like most deities, he played dumb, preferring to consult the subjects. Perhaps it has to do with fellowship, two-way communication. It’ll be fucking dull if it’s unidirectional traffic always.

   ‘Conversations’ would probably go something like this:

   “So, what can I do for you?”

   “I don’t know. What can you do for me?”