God of the Game (Dreamstate) (27 page)

    Someone strides up. My s
tare traces a whirlpool bonfire; smoke tornados on the roof of the giant ET oak. Natives dance round individual fork-tongued flames, dodging the massive thumps of three eight-legged mammoths with triceratops’ head. These extinct elephant-crossbreeds also circle the inferno, and are actually the producers of music be it the stamping rhythm of soles, which are low frequency speaker cones, or the high-definition trumpeting of trunks.

   “You wanna
insert this?” she asked, holding up pigtails. A green girl stood, swinging split-ended, purple dyed curls.

   “The colour doesn’t really flatter you,” I replied.

    She sulked.

   “Let me rephrase, it doesn’t do your beauty justice.”

    She smiled. “What then does?”

  
“Put it in and find out.”

54

    Ok, this is how it works in Anesidora. Female hair has feelers at the opposite end of follicles, looking like lipstick - under magnifying glass - twisted out of its case, and inserted into the male cavity for procreation. The procreation of fantasy; these sensitized tips are coated with hallucinatory spores which tickle the flesh inside the geometrical opening, causing the meat around the void to bud as though the male spine is a fecund flower. Quickly, neurons bond between the threads of her head and the soil of his soul - her brain coupled with his prostate, leading to the liberation of the mind chemically induced.

    Random is the name of the game, a gamble of desire, perhaps even a Russia
n roulette. Each strand of lady-locks, turgid, and revealed in powdery points, contains in itself an episode of wonder; encryption codes for a fun time. This in turn sticks to the ground of man; every nano-plot of his land is fertile for a particular crop of joy.

    So, an analogy is a child. Fuck on a different night and it could have been a boy, not a girl. Switching from doggy to missionary may make another baby, a prodigy swapped for an eccentric
minus the innate intellect.   

    Get the picture?

    Chaos theory. Some butterfly’s effect.

    Only two differences are, one,
it is the girl who has the XY. Guys’ port is a singular X. Females determine the future. Two, Anesidora’s design is zero-tolerance against waste. Consider the inefficiencies of nature, five-hundred-million sperms sacrificed for one miserable tadpole to conjugate and evolve to the superior matrix of zygotes; preposterous, when cum-happy men squander innumerable lives on a weekly basis, a trillion in his lifetime. What an abortive genocide! Better if killed in treacherous
vagina, but most are netted in rubber, flushed into toilet bowls, captive in rubbish bins with kin, relatives and strangers, or wiped off coarse, curly pubic hair by crispy towels unwashed from swabbing an earlier load - a desiccated, stubbly graveyard of semen and epidermis used to pat dry after masturbation or a bath.

    No such farce in JC’s creation. Nothing is redundant. Ever
y seed or egg cradling life is promised the opportunity to mature into a meaningful existence. And he delivers. That’s why women are given the key, the authority. They are better managers, and are more orderly. Less wasteful, they don’t go dumping seeds around.

   
Each hair in a single port copulates with the dirt of his ground, begetting new beings, whereby, the parents are the pilots within. With JC, all is hierarchal. And he sits at the top of the dunghill. King Beetle. That’s why he is adamant concerning structure; no misconstruction or misuse of his plane, lest dissident groups set up a leftist rebellion. Unrestricted use for abuse is unlocked only when registered users meet creative standards upon merit and distinction - original hallucinations worth a cult following or two - this way he is able to monitor all activities online; and for this reason the deal with Deity High was outlined and subsequently signed. Activation of accounts is only through the school, and hackers are ignominiously neutralized.    

If you know JC, he’s one of them egomaniac gods
, uncool about democracy.
He must
have the last say. Subscribers and tourists are free so long as they don’t piss him off. So, revelry seeking druggies don’t grasp the substances they pump are, in an ironical truth, enslaving them. All’s fun in a bright blue world overflowing rainbow rides, but unbeknownst, they are just slaves in his parlour of machines, a Babel of memory space to store countless impregnations, births and deaths, and the copy and paste cycles in between flourishing in Anesidora within.       

*

    Women’s antennae - silkily shampooed, a wavy perm, vitamin malnourished, bleach destructed, artificially bonded - rooted on rough, raw man-holes, trigger nerve endings to multiply, and originate in his and her third eye, clones, composed of their wedded chromosomes. These replicas, resembling mummy and daddy, live in the invisible realm within daddy’s digital rear, which makes up the magical backside of Anesidora. It’s perpetually a perfect womb in here. Trippy rides, lazy-hazy afternoons forever, hot vibrant nights of hot sex,
sex
and more sex, getting higher and higher in heavy rotation like the music listened to in a kaleidoscopic relish. X this an infinite time; countless impressions of ourselves chilling in purple clouds of bliss; our legacy, our progeny, reflection of our fucked up selves in the River Styx; aimless addicts shooting fixes upon fixes, anticipating another wave of orgasm, another climax; evaporated and extinguished in the cuddles of a lover; her fuzzy, coloured, spoiled scalp, cuticles screwing the superficial, superfluous and supercilious hole above the asshole; the asylum, which is called
my
bum!    

   “Split ends are double the fun,” she says. “You get two babies instead of one.”   

    I studied the
filament by zooming in the microscope embedded within my iris and saw clearer the two-headed snake of copulation squirming for action.

   “You attain parallel pleasure. Put simply, twins...sometimes triplets
, or more.” A pause, she squinted, and then added, “I’m very much sought after, you know?”

    She had a bespectacled oval face, crater bombed. A studious dame
hugging an Apple tablet upon her breasts. I was peering, looking yonder, beyond the electronic tool. That’s how I assess women, by the size of melons. Judging from the circumference of her encircling hands, she must be quite impressive.

    Arcane male habits are hard to perish, even when I am the one stuck with a precious pothole of pleasure
ready to gorge on follicles. 

    Mammaphilia versus Trichophilia, the fondness of boobs against hair fetish.   

   “Well...” she stated, “what are you waiting for? Unscrew the
cork!
”

    I just gawked on, ignorant.

   “Oh...yer a virgin,” it dawned, and she squeaked in tremor and delight. “Not many around, nowadays.”

    Frankly, this is quite embarrassing. The
first time
; it always is, regardless what planet or plane; regardless if yer human, alien, god, demon or machine. Losing your virginity, awkward as hell.

   “Just turn this,” she twisted me round to loosen the lid as one would to fill petrol in a vehicle. A ticklish apoplexy wrung out, giving way to weird bumps in my throat as vapid air bubbles zoomed up the lungs. 

    In her palm is a small blue thing. A shiny sapphire marble globe of the world toy; and she proclaims, “Every time I wind this off, the guy’s brain migrates south.” She bounces the ball around on the Astroturf, fake grass carpeting Anesidora before popping the end of my mind’s journey into a pouch slung across her shoulder containing a collection of similar round gems and jewels. “Up there is now empty; all set for brainwash.” 

    She chuckled. I don’t know her name. From here on I can only relate what’s been
revealed after Jai-I’s shades were removed.

55

    Rumour says the map of a world is actually a human body; a human body part to be precise; an organ, a particular organ. If the male cerebration unit has been relocated near the bowel region, what then remains above is unlimited space for reprogramming.

    What was once a gu
y is now just a shell, and poor dude’s dormant consciousness is stored in that smooth blue ball, which is buried in earth, stuffed in foliage, or eaten by labia. The collective, sleeping, masculine brainpower spellbound in orb is what causes ovulation, the changing of seasons and the cycles of regeneration in the ecosystem of Anesidora. It is the quiescent resonance at the base of all life.

Next,
vivid action takes place in the bumper, in the circuitry of his posterior. This is where Jimi Hendrix’s Purple Haze is playing nonstop. Where washed out, purposeless Teenage Wastelands hop All Along The Watchtower right up to a Space Oddity.  When The Music’s Over, with all mental lobe content removed and fed to Ewala, goddess of Anesidora, only moronic compulsions and idiotic obsessions retain in the entanglement of tresses.

It seems
, to the observer, that she is plugged into white earphones, and wires run the entire distance from the domain of her skull to the bottom of his spine. Note that she still has her pink tofu in the head intact, so she’s nourishing his fantasizing buttocks via the cybernetic orifice and follicle.

Speaking of which, her mane
is actually fibre-optics that continually transmit binary from her cerebral cortex; bright, gaudy instructions beeping and running down her wires for the hallucination, which is the dominion of their joint incarnation.

   
Keyword is earphones
. JC’s podcasting subliminal back-masked music and coded lyrics through an iPod she’s hearing. Mind control; affect the source and the rest will follow. 

    Why?
What’s his reason? Posterity. From children to deities, offspring of immaculate conceptions ripened from babes to heirs, trained and equipped to take their father’s side, be mother’s pride. Vacuum clean the thought process of teens, yet provide an outlet for rebellion cordoned around the groin – that they may taste for themselves good and bad, and choose therefore the very best.

   Vesper doesn’t agree. It’s gruel brainwashing. But for JC to have such authority, he must have the approval of Deity High’s board of directors, unquestionably in league with the upper echelon of
Kreator
hierarchy. 

So, to surmise, we have three levels of simultaneous activity.

One, in the physical and primordial plane of Anesidora, unsurpassed and unspoiled in extraterrestrial beauty, revellers lounge and party
in a planetary web after they’d swallowed a blue, diamond-shaped pill. 

    Secondly, in the ass of men, women live thei
r fantasy. Why? Because JC is aware females are fastidious and fussy. Guys will do for free, provided they get to orgasm. Women have to be pampered, coddled...spoiled. The logic: use
hers
to control
his
, and the rest is magnetized and aligned. So long as he has an outlet to cum, his intellect ain’t present, and he’ll do what she desires
...what JC and Ewala desire, actually
. The powerful pair puppet-toys her without sweat, because she’s naturally enthralled by the notion of marital bliss and domestic cohesion, which they preposterously wax lyrical and flaunt in abundance.

    On the other hand, his mind is
already trapped in an object the geometry of a ping-pong ball; and this is where the interplay of dimensions is wonderful. Suckling on the milk of ovaries, the male brain truly becomes the planet’s soul, seeds which impregnate all the glory and phenomena Anesidora hold.     

And finally, in the third existence, blank and white, his former head ready for re-possession, JC and secret sinist
er schemers craft the god-man to their own image. They worry not about the females; for once the boys turn to men, girls automatically adore and obey them. Adore and obey JC and Ewala,
Kreator
doctrine, in honest truth; alumni of Deity High, they’re all set to uphold the banner of divine bloodlines.

Sons and daugh
ters of old blueblood dynasties trading across the omniverse, setting sail beyond the seas of eternities, ruling the lands of time, championing in the long wars spawned by ancient family feuds; these are godly and godlike men and women after their father’s own empiric heart.

    How interesting, this sacred symmetry and synergy of the sexes
– male-female functions, myriad emotions and expressions, unique behaviours and hormone driven thought patterns - harmonize violently to sound that
One Note
, that quintessence, which pierces three synchronized provinces of reality.                       

   
www.anesidoraplanet.com/forum
states
this conjugation is often associated with the word
weave
. The connotation is derived from the
warp
, or female hair, being held in tension inside the
loom
, which is the male orifice. It’s also denoted from mythical allusions on the act of Creation, many involving weaving divinities, and is especially lucid when considering the colourful fabrics of delusions, called
tapestries
, which are fashioned by JC’s
weft
(manipulative instructions interlacing the warp). The finished, documented and translated tapestry from binary or other base coding to a sophisticated language of texts and pictures is referred to as a
mural
, a public exhibition of fine art painted on the facade of the male ass.