God of the Game (Dreamstate) (13 page)

    Where is the soul? Where is the creature of evil? The soul is not beautiful. It can be sweet…but certainly not beautiful. It is a battlefield. Temptations are fought, morality in debate, choices are made. Jack O’Leery is my defeat in the war of
the flesh. The vanquished victim unable to rise above sin, nor sinful enough to enjoy a decadent lifestyle. He is a pornographer, a voyeur.
We
are pornographers, voyeurs…taking pleasure in the pleasure (and plight) of others.

    Jack O’Leery is my anima
. Perverse, and in plentiful parade of my shortcomings in a star-struck, star-studded world. Be it heaven or earth, I fall short of the mark. Though I can be hip, I need to be the grotesque, to fill a void my imperfections leave.    

    It’s a return to vomit, our debased human nature. Mankind’s flaw. Even when I am divine, when I am god, I choose to be fat, balding and ugly. I choose to be a loser. It says something about my core, my defunct flower blossoming to the dawn of stink. It says something about my character, my soul. Jack O’Leery is my soul. He chooses to be a loser; he chooses to be a loser in the hands of Mona the Moan. He chooses to cum in the hand of Mona the Moan.

    Mr. O’Leery’s collared navy coloured
t-shirt was rolled up above his man-boobs; fly undone, and an average bird flew out. Globes of sweat sat round his nipples and upon the unsightly shadow of a cleavage, as if it were the morning dew - trickling down from a savannah chest and the armpits’ lair, down south to his gratuitous tummy; layer of blubber over blubber, a marshmallow man. His trousers was buckled too tight, for when Mona pulled off his khaki pants, the legs were skinny and bowed, malnourished. It would seem to a casual observer that the belt he girds prevents food from fattening his buttocks beneath, capturing all that lard up north in the region of his belly button above.

    Jack’s best friend Willy is a naturist who w
ouldn’t wait to undress. Long hair in streaks of grey and an unshaven beard; overall, like a skinny nude-camp hippie. Willy’s willy was stumpy, nestled in body fur, which likened it to a woody stub of tree in a forest termites had eaten down. A pink inside smudged with circular patterns was encrusted by dark bark.       

    Mona the Mona was still molested
by moles, and according to Willy, you could suck the birthmarks off, which tastes of
toddy
, fermented coconut juice, an alcoholic beverage perfect with stout. This, Jack has no yearning to discover, as he is petrified of bodily fluids (except for his own). She had both Jack’s boring and Willy’s squat organ in her hands, jerking furiously, the boys copying the jig in upward motions as though they were John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever.   

    Opposite, a popular politician cum highflying business leader of industry sat with his head thrown back, shirt
unbuttoned, and his tie stiff around his neck. (As with all men) his penis stood out from the zipper ahead of his nuts, puffed from the slit of heart-patterned y-briefs; they peered over the underpants like nosey neighbours.

    Willy
was suckling the moles on Mona’s armpit. She turned to stare at Jack, mimicking a charade with her facial muscles, gazes which contrived how much she adored his cock.

   “Yeah…” Jack groaned; dilated pupils locked on her tits.

   “Yer so strong, Mr. O’Leery…so powerful.”

   “Yeah…make me feel like a man,” he huffed, “make me feel like a man
, you bitch.” He caught her eye, before the gravitational attraction of those melons pulled his concentration back to their ripened state. Mona’s breasts were cluttered with brown and purplish polka dots, so Jack had difficulty determining nipple from moles. Regardless, he ogled on, relishing the visual distortion, which was welcomed like the challenge of an engrossing Sudoku puzzle.

    A sharp gurgling commotion
cut the din of an already orgasmic den. Jack glared ahead; Willy was aroused from his slurping. The politician was dying. Choking, he ebbed by asphyxiation. Fanny Wong, the Oriental gal who was pampering him, yanked his cornflower blue tie tight. She held it there, muscles aching, face grimacing. With her left hand, she amplified the violence committed on the monument, which was standing erect from his groin. Her movements were a blur even with a high-speed motion capture camera. Fanny Wong couldn’t stop now, not when he is about to peak, not when he paid such an obscene amount of money to be extinguished by such a manner. She was exhausted, like running the last mile of a marathon. Perspiring, teeth gritting, energy sapping away, the veins on her neck were obvious. The man met her gaze, his bloodshot whites seemed ready to pounce from sockets, and his being vibrated vehemently as if a giant vibrator was stuck up his ass.

    And it gus
hed, rivers of semen
soooo
much; so much more than Fanny, Mona, Jack and Willy had ever seen before. It shot high, smacking square on Fanny’s face, dribbling like drool from her startled mouth to the velvet blue, black lace Cowgirl-Western bordello corset she donned; similar to an intoxicated goddess throwing-up in a luxurious ancient orgy. She tugged with her right with all her might, cutting oxygen off his lungs completely. Total annihilation. Mr. Politician Businessman’s windpipe whistled, wheezing a chorus of tweets. His legs lurched forward, and it appeared to Jack that he was doing the breaststroke, kicking like a frog in a pond. His left Armani shoe shook off his sole, and the gaudy green socks gave the impression of an elf, Santa’s helper, or a Leprechaun, punished by a cosplaying 19
th
century Asian dominatrix of the Great American Wild West.

Like a night
train, slowly his combustions grinded to a halt. But not before an adrenalin finale; like the last few notes of a rock concert - stage lights coordinating precisely with the syncopated metal drums and distorted guitars, crowd roaring in frenzy, and the artiste taking her final, curtain-closing gesture of a bow.

He is in handjob heaven
. Fanny collapsed upon his lifeless limbs; drained of vigour, she felt like dying herself. In fact she seemed dead. Still, silent, and except for the thin membranous breathing misting out of her nostrils, you would have mistaken her for a corpse.                      

Instead of inviting solace, whether out of reverence or shock, the demise of th
e VIP hailed thunderous claps and catcalls.  The
Horny Hound
was overridden by a gang of ‘chimpanzees’ witnessing the bludgeoning of their own. An outcry, but behind bars; able to protest, voices heard, but nothing could be done. The animal testing continues; meat for cosmetic companies. Secretly excited however; thrilled to death.

And soon we were copying. T
he lines between jeering and cheering were blurred, sport in a Roman coliseum, the feeding of Christians to lions, an entire arena applauding in accord. It became mere noise. One by one, men expired by the hands of their courtesans, concurrently giving the ladies a ‘French manicure,’ animated art on the space of fingernails. First it was Willy, then Jack, followed by paying patrons; in the frame of seconds, both tongue and penis lolled limp. All ejaculated and strangulated; friends, foes and strangers garrotted in a united bond.

    T
he women were now the monkeys, a family of screaming baboons with milky bananas and nooses in grip. Sharp, white gleaming teeth, extra-glossy lipstick, and a slut’s gaudy makeup; feminist harlots exercise supremacy over a dumb male species.     

26

Twilight Twins: The Morning & Evening Star

Hades 20007-8
. Jack O’Leery’s soul splintered from being. Spiralling upward is a black sordid tornado, an opened sewer, a jammed toilet flushed out the bowl. Dirty, brown water bubbled from his mouth and nostrils like an art house horror, causing Mona to immediately recoil and jump off her seat. Willy’s vibrating being was also effervescing considerably. Squeals distracted the president of the society of the Bitches of Mercy, and when she spun it was as though she saw her own squeamish reflection mirrored by her peers.

The house of dead men
was a rushing tributary of mephitic fluids. Soon the girls were clambering on furniture, but those little pole-dancing tables could not accommodate the lot of them, hence the misfortunate babes who fell were instantaneously washed off by the hot bitter choc rapids to
god knows where
. Cat fights ensued, skimpy costumes scratched and shredded off, chicks pushed off slippery surfaces; others lost their stiletto footing or were just too slow to haul their asses up the bar-top and were thus mercilessly swallowed by the ravenous torrent.          

    It was then I reali
zed my disentanglement. Like a newborn baby in an operating room with unfocussed and misty eyes, I was perplexed by the sight of Mr. O’Leery lifeless and supine in muddy water. Why wasn’t I with him? Why wasn’t I
in
him? He was ten-feet below; and it hit me hard, my being now severed from his atavistic carcass. I was floating millimetres beneath an asbestos ceiling, and Jack O’Leery was now food for dogs...awaiting the canning company. Till I acquire him again in a neo-version of the
Horny Hound
, he is momentarily a memory-wraith stored in the vaults of
Virtual Towns
, supplier of incantations for incarnations.

    A voice bellowed behind. I faced a jagged wall. It was no more the
Hound
. At my peripheral vision, wailing saints kissed piercing tips with the flesh of their cheeks. Bloodied hands clawed and battered the bricks. The deep noise came again, and this time I turned. I was in a cave, gentle fires flaring from fissures, casting an evil glow. Shadows flickered, and I perceived more clearly. It was not a cavern, but rather, a room; a room which was decorated like a hole in a rock! Ornaments waved under the charade of light, and the visages of the bewailing souls appeared liquid, as if rocking in a boat sailing on a sea of mirrors.

    Lucifer, according to a bible was an archa
ngel wanting to be just like G.o.D. He was thrown out of heaven together with other fallen angels, one third of the heavenly hosts. Lucifer is a bitter man, a brother of man. Yet, through the endearing course of time, his disposition softened. His actual origins may not be that conspicuous, there are many renditions, and he’d often played naïve.

    What I do know is that he resides with his
twilight twin
, Vesper, in
Hades 20007-8
. Let’s, for a moment, take a bird’s eye view of this southern isthmus of Syurga, a paradise cove fronting an artificial lake of fire – crystal as glass, hot as hell...and it melts like wax. This is where devils stay, lords of netherworlds. Business transactions are often signed over a game of golf, and the balls are human testicles still attached to the man and his scrotum, pinned excruciatingly high upon the dickhead acting as the tee. On the green of the grass the poor male is nailed to a pentagram, splayed open as sacrifice. Two caddy-chicks, rotting purple and embalmed in aloes, myrrh, frankincense and spikenard, prepare the man for tee-off. In their icy hands, he is stiff. The dead hot babes made alive by sorcery have lactating nipples for horns on their foreheads, and the smells they emit under
Nike Golf
, putrid and sweet, festering yet aromatic, blends a mix that runs like a pungent river up the nasal passage to the brain, juddering the reflexes of the mind in a manner mortals react to a ladleful of wasabi.  Satan stands over his crotch and swings the club. “Eeee…. yawww… yawww… yawww... yawww... yawww!!!” a shriek cuts the peace, and two objects are sent flying across the sky in widening trajectories. This is how the sport is played here – two courses simultaneously doubling with each condemned man, (a host of them jogging profusely behind the electric buggy, chained neck-to-neck with iron collared spikes, their manhood, or rather, spare balls and tee, swinging right-left like an absurd ensemble of extras), unless, of course, a hole-in-one is struck.

    The voice belonged to my friend…Vesper the devil. “What am I doing here in your abode?” I asked, recognizing his living room in
20007-8
. 

    He answered, “All lousy loser loners end up in hell.

  “Especially perverted ones.” “Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!” he laughed out loud. The décor trembled, and the tortured in the corner quavered. Lolla Lollipop, lickin a semen-flavoured lolli, teased and petrified them. 

    Vesper wasn’t sick with warts no more like when he took leave from the
Horny Hound
. He was, rather, comical, a cartoon devil of traditional motifs – horned-head, tri-fork and tail. On second glance, it was just an animated ride, a chuckling, funny ghoul-face in an amusement park. His spirit was the poltergeist speaking through the machine.

I know why I am here. Jack O’Leery is just a shell, a hollow avatar my being possesses*. He is similar to a Kent Barbie doll on cheap sale, at most a ventriloquist’s dummy. And since Jack died, his heart had to be judged. His heart had to stand before the throne of god, to be
doomed to either heaven or hell. Earlier I stated that Jack is my soul, and that this soul is evil – a wanker with only porn in mind. Evil needs to be judged. Hence I am sent to
Hades 20007-8
, to be punished for the soul of Jack O’Leery, that fucker who possesses* my soul.