God of the Game (Dreamstate) (25 page)

    Fuck off
, you demons, he rang; and they circumvented him, streaming both sides like traffic avoiding accident. Victorious, but suddenly alone in the commotion, all the king’s men charging into the basement, leaving the antiquated geezer in dismay that life is again back to the monotonous drone before Jimmy and I stepped through the door.    

    In prime of his dotage, he had so much fantasized the rapture, the paranormal transfiguration of this fragile frame to a super being
of the infinite levels. The dream, he’d rattled on-and-on, saw him in a vast carbon-fibre elevator with buttons going all the way to the rims of the Earth; the atmosphere outlined as a massive soft-glow ribbon from the openness of space. 

    These buttons, some of them
were lighted like windows of a high-rise at night, and from where he was standing he could not discern in or out. Was it the view of the world he was staring, as if Satan had taken him to the pinnacle of a high mount and showed him all the magnificence of the nations throughout millennia at a single parallel point through the telescopic lens of time? Or was it merely just a lot of buttons with numerals replaced by encrypted calligraphy which controlled the lift door to open at specific dimensional floors for one to spend the rest of forever in? Some kind of Vegas-like hotel, the porter of his dream mentioned, with gaudy carpets one inch thick one would feel one were walking on air.  

    People went in an
d out – businessmen, hookers, choker-collared priests, paramedics and black shapes under blacker plastic zipped and hitching a long tunnelled ride on gurneys – but, converse, he, in excess of a century, is ignorant of life beyond that reflective door except for the momentary glimpse of crowded excitability around gambling tables -
gowned and tuxedoed
- prior to the lift door closing; and thus begins a new tease, featuring the next level of sentient suffering and mortal bliss.

Defeated,
morbid, the frail, bent senior dropped the pan and scoop onto the floor with a loud clang, and wondered if he were to ever know the mysteries behind death’s door. The truth is that he would have rather died thrashing in the embrace of the devil than live another day to man this rusty old joint inherited from his pa, and grandpa before. What could he now do but to quietly pick up the broken pieces of crockery and cutlery dashed on the ground by the chaos of attacking angels, and clean up his diner amidst the dying hiss of gas and the prevalent mist of farted out stink-bombs.

Slowly, in small old man steps,
he sits on his favourite rattan chair, and in the dark, sombrely awaits the dawn, which brings with it the tired travellers of the lonely highway.   

    Jimmy says, look into my eyes. Around us I can hear the boots of Special Forces. And I’m afraid.

    When they f
ind us, we’re gonna be as one; so impossible to extricate our firmly fused flesh. Jimmy’s playing with livewire when he asks, do you love me?

    I say yes.

    He says, remove your clothes.

    I obey.

    Now he says, remove mine.

    And I smile a timid smile of satisfaction as I undo his fly.

    Machine guns are unlocking, loaded weapons of destruction that can ply holes in our bones and end the stakeout with black body bags removed from the building. Problem is, the way we’re gonna die, there ain’t no bloody bag big enough for the both of us. 

    I’m shaking.

    Jimmy says, don’t be afraid. All of us are virgins once in our lives. And then he spreads my labia apart, but enters by way of the bum.

    Look at me, he states again. I stare
into his cold blue irises; they had animation in them. Face-to-face in an impossible anal sex Kama Sutra position is an acrobatic endeavour requiring the flexible skills of a professional contortionist. Jimmy does all sixty-four love-acts instructed in the manual on me while Detective Lingam and his boys look on.

    They think he is raping me to death
, but dare not engage in case they accidentally trigger a barrage of bullets, killing me too in the process. Snipers are considered, but the sparkling wire in Jimmy’s hand is a deterrent, fearful he may decide to have a threesome with me and a sumptuous bolt of electricity.

    Which is exactly his plan.

    Look into my eyes, Jimmy commands this time, `cos I’m easily distracted by the voyeuristic audience of young virile men not certain which gun to point at our direction. This must be very odd for them, watching hardcore porno staged at the climax of a high-tension hostage situation.

    Then Jimmy drills deep into
my vagina, throbbing on one intimate spot. Where the tip of his stiffened 20.32 centimetre dick kisses, according to him, is the solid steel cage wherein my soul is enslaved. And his penis is the key to that gate. Consistently banging on my drunken gong, yet not turning the glans to unlock the dungeon; the rest of his stature is as still as a statue, silent and barely breathing, ignoring the salivating police; and Jimmy says one final time, look into my eyes.

    I do, and love bubbles out of his eyelids and swims across our misting breaths
into the opiate pores of my skin, absorbing every addictive ounce of affection. Thus emancipates my broken spirit from its sacrum jail, as vibrating energies ascend the womb through a flood of feminine fluids to drown out an aching heart caused throughout the years by my irresponsible and impenitent father. My heart then, the crown of emotions, is a flaming forest of famished desire licking dry all that vaginal liquids, till only a pure and uncontested devotion for my man remains. This purity shoots up the brain, tangos with every yarn of memory - some good, but mostly evil - thrilling those amorphous thoughts of the mind, which is a well or hole strewn with debris and refuse over a long, convoluted course of time, but now sanctified by Jimmy’s blood sacrifice. I bite into his wounded lip, and the iron flavour of crimson flow permeates with the poignant storm already present in the head. This amalgamated elixir wrung from unadulterated feelings and liberated memories, mixed in a dash of Jimmy’s red life, is the potent ingredient required for the hyperspace jump that will transform us onto the next rung of evolution’s fidget run.

    Jimmy, sizzling wire in hand, comforts me one ending moment; don’t be afraid, RZ is waiting on the other side. What he’d done is to ignite the spiritual explosion in the coitus. And with that, I close my eyes and bungee into his fragrant mouth. I can hear his last sentence transmuting synapses as they transient bond with incarnated information; Jimmy says,
in my past life, my name was Frank
.

50

    The purple blood of the dragon fruit, its disembowelled pulp is an offering for the orgy of gods.

    The courtship of Shakti and Shiva; they say, creation is the love-play of these divine two; the universe, their supreme shit. Planets roll and spill out from beads of sweat during intercourse, and the yin-yang blend of saliva sparks the stars. In the nether region is dark matter. Moist and sore, ever spewing new life, these fountains spurt and splash; what’s made is formed from frolic and frivolity. Fun! The ultimate essence. Required while baking cake; also needed when fleshing out existence. And the entire history of spacetime, cause and effect, fate, karma, all these in various guises and names, merely run along the contours of this deistic copulation - what you do tomorrow is already tattooed on her inner thighs; when you die, predestined on his palm lines.        

    Legend has it that the
pitaya
, otherwise dragon fruit, was at the tail end of dragon fire. Charred meat; when the beast was slain, they ate its flesh. Such tasty grade-A dragon chops our forefathers desired. Now what’s left of the world of mythological heritage is this scaly dessert which we continue to devour.  

    RZ is planting dragons. He believes each
fruit is an inseminated egg that will hatch to become the mythic creature. He’s got a big fertile field ploughed for this cultivation. The cactus, from which the delicious fruit comes, according to him, is the spine of the leviathan. Seedlings that burst forth will ripen and fill up the plant to eventually become the fearsome creature.  

    I know thi
s `cause somehow it was the last thing that crossed my mind. Before Jimmy jacked up the livewire. You can say half my brain was on a field trip to RZ’s farm, while the other part attended my own funeral.

    No one could separate my boy and I. We were seared tight like
a baby in its womb; and fire has a funny way of rearranging reality. Flames throw new meaning to the word unity. We are so selfish alone, and our scope pathetically limited. But when your skin is smelted to another, your perspective broadens, and you become less egocentric. I guess you can say the word is, ‘joined.’ Joined to something bigger, joined to the universe. Joined to the lovers beyond.

    Shakti and Shiva, two in a room full of naked majesties. Scantily outfitted courtesans sashay between to meet any intimate need. Be it oils for massage, lubes for penetration, aromatic candles for therapy, dim romantic lighting casting long shadows in the chamber, the maidservants of pleasure appease the royal deities for cosmic balance. The gods don’t care; they continue fucking and making worlds from secretions expelled off their unified mass. It is the humble act and dutiful nature of the slave girls that nurse and nurture infant universes, amassing the sex-charged liquids into vials, and afterwards, by manipulating the ethereal spectrum of fire, extricate each unique and individual scent composed from the copulating divinities. Each dimension, each heaven, each earth and sphere of creation is priceless perfume of finest bliss, able to attract the deepest loyalty, the maddest love from mortal beings, setting alight hearts combusting in blue flames, and commanding irrational behaviour from all smitten to absolute sacrifice. These dames, they daub it on, and descending onto corporeal planes walk amongst men with the pheromones of gods sweetened by feminine sweat and the odour of perfect breasts.

    Jimmy says I can be an angel if I want to, hostess of a divine harem, keeper of celestial glands, seducer of humans. But first I gotta rot away. Jimmy’s voice is coming from everywhere; he says, until my entire fleshly faculties perish, I will not know my dreams.

    As his familiar accent f
ade, the dragon fruit is offered in the eternal love-shag as a type of aphrodisiac; its original aroma, reminiscent of the breath of a primordial fire breather. A potent brew, hot air encircles as mist upon the depths before creation.

    It was also available
at my father’s wake. Cut and sliced for guests to partake. At first, the church had wanted a coffin for me side-by-side, but due the manner of my demise, (adhered permanently to Jimmy), they could not find a casket our size. Then a deacon said it was abominable for a villain to share my father’s funeral, and since it was an unfortunate event they could not separate my remains from my killer’s, a photo of me would suffice. Put to the vote, the assembly unanimously agreed, for reason of not blemishing the good name and memory of my father, their pastor, I was to be unceremoniously cremated (with Jimmy) in all regret and thrown into the sea, becoming fish food forever with a murderer.

    Quite poetic
, huh? Of course no one knew
I
was the one who pulled the trigger. Justice is served...I guess.    

   Dragon fruit was also served at my minimalist memorial. But none of the congregation showed up; as if Jimmy’s dead spirit could soil their fragile souls. The service was subbed out, cheap and bare, unrecorded in history. In the months to come it was even forgotten that my dad had a daughter. He was just a middle-aged bachelor married to god.

    Speak of denial, which is a good thing,
`cos the less people remember you, the freer you are to roam; no moron magnetizing you with masqueraded memories, or worse, conjuring you to possess the physical body of a medium or move some stupid token on an Ouija board. 

    So, when Jimmy plugged in, our sockets came out. My skewed view could appreciate Jimmy’s eyeballs dangling by the nerves. He said I was his mirror image. I was kissing
him when the current came. Our
Frenching
tongues transformed to chewing-gum, incandescently flavoured.

    How romantic is this, our very own suicide putting Romeo and Juliet to shame.

    And therefore, Jimmy was right. Barbequed to crisp, and witnessed by the authorities, I could feel beyond pleasure and pain, beyond death. How the old man envied when they brought us out of his basement. Dark stares at my black legs splayed; one jolted and torn outward, with the other twisted at the knee for ankle to touch buttock. Hands walk the Egyptian. Jimmy jumps the,
fried
, starfish. Together, it seems we are doing an impossibly coordinated modern breakdance routine. Our embedded pubis is now just a white lily. Out of the ashen ground of our cadavers the flower blooms. Not even Solomon in all his splendour was clothed as one of these. Some of the cops fell to the ground, calling it a miracle. Even Detective Lingam wept. We were waltzing in the molecular structure of the
Hesperocallis Undulate
.