God of the Game (Dreamstate) (26 page)

    In Lily’s hall is an elaborate ball
which dwarfs the grandest gala of fairytales. Chromosomes tower high in a cosmopolitan city, governed by the genetic ID for all microscopic cells to function according to the divine purpose of multiplication; perfect beyond any metropolis of man. If only you could die and be present inside her world of proteins performing the tasks of mitosis and meiosis, DNA duplication, you would fathom that scriptural saying. There in the streets of her beauty is equal to drooling awed at the centre of a galaxy.

    The glory in a single strand of Lily’s hair, the emphasis and sophistication that goes
into each trivial blossom that is here today and in the furnace tomorrow, puts to shame our human grandeur and pursuit for material luxury. Ironic then, such tedious detail and complexity is rendered for something so temporal; and so much more if we consider the wondrous workings and functions of man’s own physical shell – a surplus of wisdom invested to make a being so selfish and stupid.

 
  And Jimmy says, consider this, it is easy for you to accept the vastness of space, but what about the vastnesses in between? Alive, you are suckered by size. Goliath welcomed into a house suited for midgets; even doctrinally you’re not spared – a rich, fat fool facing the eye of a needle. But being dead is liberating, `cos you can be there...in spaces in between. Consider this; there are civilizations everywhere, all with their unique chronology. Just as in our own rational human universe, in the petals of Lily is her own Big Bang. Her inimitable Genesis. And since everything is subjective and mind-blowing, Jimmy says, being dead allows us to write and record our own story.

51

    Fiction. All starting with the dragon fruit. Now look how it’d evolved. They say history is lies made truth by victors. What does the vanquished do? The vanquished stay dead behind the scene like a toxic shadow polluting the conscience of society. That’s Jimmy’s theory.

    While flesh and blood,
on the run after turning dad into a masterpiece, he’d explained that our senses still operate after the last breath, but in a degenerative order linear with decay. So yes, I could see how the paramedics shook their heads in disbelief, how the coroner chuckled and pronounced us dead, how the undertaker cursed at the stingy church members haggling over the cost of my (and Jimmy’s) funeral, and how the sick mortician tried a threesome with cooked conjoined corpses.     

    Of course as tissue turns to dust, things get fuzzy and confused. The a
crid smell of roasted flesh and rot mixes to piercing disinfectant and sanitizers. Jimmy sounding and looking like my dad, even tasting the same, as if I were making love to the same man...
the same man after all this while
. And fire feels like sharp freezing water, two ends of a spectrum of the same baptism.

 
  They didn’t provide us with coffin; couldn’t find one that fit, had to custom make. Church said no! Too expensive, will not budget it in for me... because of Jimmy. Better ways to spend hard earned tithe-money. Option two is to saw us in two. But they won’t know who is who. Worse, it would be impossible to tell charcoaled leg from hand, frizzled head from ass. Also, extra cash involved for this additional service. Easiest solution then to this predicament: crudely mummify and toss us into oven.   

    Crackling bones and shrivelling flesh, chefs will tell you not to cook meat twice. But here I am at the end of my journey, the beginning of destiny, collected in urn and about to be released to
the wind. The real world drifts by, not caressing me, not harassing me. And my bad memories, they’re now just a dream belonging to somebody else’s nightmare.

    Ashes mingle, Jimmy and me, our particles breed, dust molecules commune. I don’t know what to expect, what to do. But Jimmy says, don’t worry, just see what I see.

    So, as the cap is undone and the urn upturned, our powdered remains gasp on a final rollercoaster ride; gushed off suddenly by a rising gust, separated, but never erased is our love to finally sleep deep in the ocean’s bed.   

    In the humming air I scramble for one last thought, one last souvenir of Earth I will carry with me always.
The purple blood of the dragon fruit
, I don’t know why it came to mind, but after RZ’s done resurrecting those damned creatures, and they’d flown off from the land of imagination, I will open the fridge, and certain no one stands behind, feast on cheesecakes forever in time.       

On the Fourth
Day

52

Movie Critic

   “So
, what do you think?” I asked, sitting cross-legged in a private screening, wearing a turquoise turtleneck sweater under an ash grey suede suit.

   “I would have delved more
into Jimmy. I think the audiences would appreciate that.” Vesper commented. He was in the Gestapo uniform I last I saw him in, looking very much the bit like Christoph Waltz.

   “I mean, there’s
so much dialogue and drama around his character; makes you curious, you want to know more about him, his view of the afterlife. But you never get to see it. Not even at the end...not even after the credits!” Pause. Then Vesper added, “Personally, he’s my favourite character.”

   “But that’s the whole idea,” I butted, “the story is about Sharon, not Jimmy. If it is, and the audience imme
rsed into Jimmy’s iconic stature, she would never truly be free. Regardless her father, lover, viewer, or even critics, Sharon will always, even in death, be under the tyrannical domination of men.”

    Vesper pondered while I continued my defence,
“Besides, you know I don’t fancy CG in my films, even though it’s better than the real thing nowadays.

   “That’s the problem
, actually; I mean, our imagination is doubtlessly limited. If I show you a mind blowing action sequence, or a stupendously beautiful otherworld, that will be all your entire mind comprehends. Especially for mortals; anything outside their dimension and all they see is the movies. Imagination kaput!” I motioned with my arm.

   “Sad, but some gods may consider this a good thing.”

   “Yah, if yer paranoid! A control freak or something. There’s so much more out there other than the world you paint for them.

   “Take Avatar for example...” I said
, bringing up cinema history.

   “Speaking of Avatar, did you hear the news?” Vesper cut in.

   “What news? I was busy filming.”

   “More like looping. Looping in Esotoria lane,” he laughed, changing topic.

   “Looping?” I gave him a quizzical stare.

   “Alright, you better come clean,” slapping my hands, I stated after a silent moment.

   “Remember our conversation in your
Horny Hound?
”

    I nodded, “T
he one you festered and Trekz transformed into a potted plant, and Jai-I...heh, what happened to Jai-I? Got a letter from him...”

   “Will come to that later,” Vesper
interrupted, more to avoid the subject of his humiliation than honest concern for Jai-I. “We were casually discussing Esotoria Lane and AXXion...”

   “Heh, by the way
, did I get to AXXion?”             

   “Stop being such an interrupting prick,” he scolded, “No you didn’t. You didn’t get to AXXion. You were just looping in Esotoria Lane.”

    My mouth hung halfway opened. He motioned for me to shut up with a zipping stroke. “Now yer going to ask, ‘What then is AXXion?’”

   “What then is AXXi...?”

    Vesper shrugged.

   “Are you going for mind-reading classes?” I pointed my finger, “I hate it when people creep inside my head.
Having Jahr doing it to me is bad enough. Now even my close friend... Wait, Jahr’s giving mind-reading classes?”

    Vesper’s eyebrows did the talking.

   “Cool,” I said, “I’d missed a lot, haven’t I? So then, anyway, what is AXXion?”

   “AXXion is the same as Ichabod.”

   “?????”

    The Evening Star smiled one of his terrible smiles.

   “Yer telling me to stick to topic, aren’t you?” I interpreted. “Okay, what do you mean by looping in Esotoria Lane?”

   “Looping in Esotoria Lane means you’re just passing back and forth through mortal life.
Your
ex-mortal life for you, that is. From birth to death, then to birth till death again; on and on and on in repetitive cycles. Nothing changes; it’s the same life, the same events blah blah blah, born on the same date, by the same mother, same way of demise at the same time, etcetera. 

   “Why
, you ask, do you do this?”

    I scratched my scalp knowing he’s in there again.

   “Simple. Many things pass us by each time; lost memories, insignificant occasions, white conversational noises; it can be the same life with the same things happening, but each time going through it, we gather a bit more, we see a bit more. We also take out the rubbish, remove the unwanted, the undesirable which weighs us down. We find out what’s at the side, what’s at our peripheral vision. We realize little morsels here and there, we collect bit by bit for a finale; and I have to say what you’ve done with Sharon’s story,
your
story, has really done well for your soul. Your anima her animus revealed; it’s beautiful.”

    It’s true. I feel a changed man, closer to godhood. Like a burden’s been lifted, a sin, an era erased with its curses, and now only blessings are a
head. At the back, skulking away from Vesper’s tentacles, I wondered how long it’ll last. 

   “Going round and round, looping, you’ve found the perfect truth, the perfect tale that’s befitting
of your experiences, your desires, your hidden secrets locked up from the whole world, and even yourself; a story of your life that truly, truly expresses who you really, really are. With your past settled, your future awaits. Well done.”

   “But I never got to AXXion?”

    Vesper shook his head. “You don’t want to go there,” he said.

    I took what he’d expounded in, stealthily wondering why I would not want to go there in particular. Was it bec
ause despite the ornate web of Sharon’s tale, I’d desperately excluded certain characters that could have spoiled the storyline?

    It’s easy to love
oneself; but what about loving another? One you cannot control. You see, whatever evil (or good) Sharon did, it’s calculated. It’s predetermined. It may seem random, but I’d already scripted the entire storyboard. Sharon dealt with my inner struggles in a controlled environment. She’s my placebo. Hopefully I am all that ails me. Fool myself to get the desired results. Set the compass right, and regardless hell or high water, stay the course and attain the star of divinehood.

    But what if an external factor charges in?
A for real ex-lover
that could affect the volatile balance of things. And I think that’s what Vesper’s keeping from me, my own AXXion, to face things as they really are. And yes, no doubt, after a few drinks, a few more rounds of drunken dares and mindless, violent, sexual games, I inexorably must brave the damned and search out who the hell this Ichabod is.

53

Anesidora

    According to Vesper, under intoxication, “AXXion, (or
ex-Zion
), means the City has left. Or in Ichabod’s case, the Glory has left,” he guffawed, “But what I really want to tell you is, JC’s signed a deal with Deity High.”

   “I thought he was not going to sell at whatever price?”

   “They assured him and his goddess, Ewala,” Vesper gestured, “that there would always be an original copy in pristine condition.”

   “Might as well. You know how much kids adore him. Now they have the chance to fuck around his planet. Who knows, a genius, or geniuses, could be in the making.”

    JC is chief architect and boss of a primeval planet
that, not till recently, got under the radar of Syurga. As with all hype, word spreads, grapevine and viral marketing playing their part, and in less than the time it takes for the Sun’s rays to reach Earth, children and adults alike are mesmerized by this colourful world, which brightens up as if perpetually under the lure of UV lights. The unique, multi-hued fauna is relatively friendly, and the animals, once bonded, would take visitors for free rides through jungle and sky. Everything’s connected by a USB port that’s available on nearly every species, thus, networking all that’s hooked up with a global vibe of peace, love, harmony and joy.

    Of course it’s popular with kids. Garish and plugged
into a digital designer drug, they’re definitely ushering in an era of neo-
hippiness
. But JC is protective. He is aware over consumption will rape his raw, virgin world; so he sets quotas, boundaries, and he limits contact hours. This drove teenagers ballistic with raving madness; they could not get enough of its potent high, so troubles in Syurga escalated as the addicted devoured substitute substances of inferior properties, therefore affecting the young minds of divine offspring. Put it this way, you don’t want unlimited power in the hands of underage demented druggies. The same reason the Lord God ejected Adam and Eve from the Garden after their eyes were opened to the knowledge of good and evil; no, you don’t get to eat from the Tree of Life when yer addicted to a degraded wisdom. 

    Enter Deity High, school for these omnipotent adolescents. “They invested in infrastructure,” Vesper revealed, “C
ost them a bomb. But they had to. Father and mother gods were harassing the angelic hosts on payroll to educate god boys and girls. They had to strike a deal. JC was just playing cool. Some of the
Kreators
opined he’s a no-good sold-out shark, victimizing and exploiting further mayhem to push the price up north. Rocket high. No one knows what the final rate was, but Deity High had to buy a parallel dimensional portal specially encoded for JC’s world. Cost them a bomb,” he said again. “The software is compatible with most brands and products, including Jai-I’s specs,” he held up son of Jahr’s sunshades.

   “Want to see?” he asked, passing it to me.

    I took it. Vesper babbled on, “But everyone wins in the end. I mean, it’s a private school; their fee is already cosmic. Slap on a handsome profit and pass it on to the gods. They made it compulsory for all students to get the programme, bundled it into the required educational AI guide.”  

   “Now at least all the
drugs and substances are legit,” I added.

   “Right. I also heard about the company contracted to build the portal... JC has a share.”

   “He’s making ‘money’ right, left and everywhere.”

   “I know, but what about ethics? The ear
lier reports on what JC and Ewala said about the purity of the land...”

   “Everyone has a price.” I concluded. 

   “Yah...they do,” he grumped, “Now only time will tell what the kids will do with the planet.”

   “It’s an interesting case study. Most will treat it like fuck
, I believe. Hook up and snort till they empty the world’s natural resources.”

   “And it’s shareable,” Vesper punched in, “definitely there’s gonna be some teenage narcotics
cyber-party where the psychedelic lights are freely passed around and sex is aplenty.”

   “But I also thi
nk a few will come up with things interesting, like how to conserve the planet, or even better the offering.”

   “Geek gods.”

   “Ha ha.”

  “And you know
, when that happens, what follows?” Vesper questioned.

    I shrug.

   “JC will be standing by the corner reaping the rewards.”

   “Probably. He’ll definitely collect royalties or something. Whatever new the kids come up w
ith, they’ll repackage and sell.”

   “Well, the geeks should get something too.”

   “I hope they do...” I strayed off, flipping on the wraparounds.

    It was raining like in Frank Miller’s Sin City, like a film noir visual direction. Thunder. In my hand, flicking from black to white in the storm, is a blue, diamond-shaped pill with a lightning-storm logo; a singular contrast against the monochrome. I am to swallow to proceed. If not, life in greyscale is a box. Walk to the edges of thin air, and an invisible wall blocks as though you’re a street clown performing the pantomime. What’s beyond the end, if you get past the force field, is just you coming back out onto the screen where you first began. Existence is 80’s arcade game...Pac Man; and all your experience is a living room in a DVD menu. 

    Take the tablet and a
neon sign says ‘Welcome to Anesidora.’ That’s the name of the planet by the way, and colours abruptly break into fireworks. A carnival is on. Tribal is the theme. In fact, we’re in a forest under a humongous tree. It’s dusk, and blue is the new black. Revellers have got like phosphorescent tattoos on them, and the beats are subwoofer bass under frenetic ethnic drums. Wild women shake their hair; mad men, their buttocks. On every male butt-cheek are circuit configurations, PCBs (Printed Circuit Boards) sandwiching the crack. Majority are hip skinny. Girls have extended tresses, and guys own a hole at the base of their spine. No, not
that
one, but another, positioned above. Above
that
one. The orifice I speak of is a perfect sphere with a silver cap.