God of the Game (Dreamstate) (37 page)

The measure of a life...yes...meaningless. Strive all you want, guilt, unhappiness, not contented with your lot
, though others may kill for your position; what does it all mean? It can just go away, by the fly of a bullet, by an abbot’s tale.

Poor Brit, all he wanted was to fulfil destiny, be holy, purge sin, turn his back on an ungodly industry. Was it worth it? No one knows. What we can only say is, lying there, he is all ready for the click of the camera. Lying there, he does appear quite cool and serene. Lying there, Brit Patt is still the handsomest guy in the universe.

That should be enough said.

For some, life is a tiny cage shared with demons in a cell. In a spiritual warp of his soul, standing in the middle of a sea of a hundred young vengeful spirits – a significant handful, his past victims, now undead and ogling him with ghastly white eyes and cold dead skin - Muhammad ‘Tongkat’ Ali never ever achieves another erection for the rest of his anguished life. It is both justice and peace, he got what he punishingly deserved and longed. In the material world, his new name is
Legion
, for many live in him.    

And yet to others, life is regurgitation, a recycle bin. If it is ever true the notion of reincarnation, then it is most apt for androids.

William Borg, at the finale of
battle, the last note of war, is just a lump of silicone. His processor fried, and his unreliable limbs strewn across the four corners of the police station. His memory is rebooted, and he remembers nothing of his former directives. In fact, he is no more a stand-alone unit, his CPU is integrated into the Barbie machine, a super computer, whose eyes roam the Earth via clones, and all information uploaded to the omniscient mind of Pomelo Anderson.

One might even say, for William Borg, he has attained Nirvana.

But what is the fate of Roanna Fausi? Together with her campaign manager, she was beheaded. Roanna had
grace by her side all the way till death; but the same cannot be said of the manager.

Brought before
Pomelo’s throne, the small lady in a smart suit cursed Roanna blatantly in the open. Her hair is, overall, still in a bun, though a few messy streaks cling to her face as she begs the Barbie for mercy. With sweat bubbling on her delicate nape, she swears allegiance, and vows to promote Pomelo Anderson’s public image.

But most of all, to prove these are not mere words
, but action, she jumps, face first, onto the banquet table, and chows down the entire spread inked on the
Pomelo Pie
menu in a glutinous fashion. Looking maniacally up like a vampire on heat, makeup meshed into chocolate milkshake, and meat between buns, she swims amongst the dishes and accuses Roanna for not allowing her to wallow in such delicious grubs. And finally, she rips her blouse and trainer bra off and madly kneads her two little lumps of breasts.

Her acting is quite good; she’s got
, put on, the seductive O of mouth as she massages herself whilst covered in a buttery sheen of food, as if posing for paparazzi; and she moans, even as she does so, that she can already feel the shapeless size of her mammary enlarging to filled-up matured fruits.

  
“
All thanks to the Barbie, all praises to the Barbie
,” she worships. But Pomelo only chuckles, and the next thing Roanna’s campaign manager knows, her head is rolling on the floor, still donning that fake provocative O, as her topless body does a chicken dance before collapsing in an eternal disgrace.

Thank g
od, no such indignity befell Roanna Fausi; for when it was her turn, she was silent as sheep before slaughter, composed in the roar of Pomelo’s mockery. Eyes closed, she meditated. All was lost, her dream of an empire, her desire for a better humanity. She recalled her past, the chain of events that’d led to today, the disease that cut her tits, which presented her fortune.

She prayed; she emptied her brain as one would a garbage bin; she has no regrets of her mista
kes. This irked Pomelo Anderson for she did not get the satisfaction of seeing Roanna grovel and beg.

Swiftly she ordered the execution. Roanna’s carcass was fed to the hounds. Her head impaled on a stake for all to see. Supposed to send the message of victory, but the visage had more a breath of tranquillity; Roanna Fausi, her demised face became the badge, the seal, the banner and the hope of the Resistance. Her image, destined to be the emblem on the cover of the
book of good
.

And what of that other traitor, Divalicious, who now stands as Pomelo’s number two? What of the nature of prophecies when they’re duped?

Divalicious reflects
upon her dishonest life, and yearns for the time it was simpler, the time she was but an out-of-shape cross-dressing Indian man working in a Chinese coffee-shop, the time when all her name meant was but a stage moniker. Before the operation, before she was white and fit, before she could sing and dance well; before men desired her.

Now she is trapped, Pomelo’s
caged bird; the evil trinity had tricked her, and at night she can’t stop the nightmares suggesting what Master Wan meant when he said he had other plans for
her...him...it???
Divalicious wakes up sweating. Like her mistress, she survives on multi-vits and medications, on more beautification procedures, for there is no end to the curse of vanity.

When she sleeps again, she manages to dream of the era before World War Four, even that period before her
prolonged blackout attributed to normal women pouncing on her. If she could then have accepted her innate oddity, happy just dressing as a closet drag; if she could then be contented being called
he
, he may have tasted slivers of bliss and die a human being, instead of holding designation now as Satan’s slave. 

What about canines?

Anima
ls are pure; same as toddlers, they grip no grudges. Rex is but a blue flame of energy, a consciousness of destruction without conscience; and maybe, of all the characters, the dog’s is the least conflicted – no remorse, no destinies, no final destinations. From swallowing goldfishes to human cadavers to human spirits, a fiery hound’s life is just eat, shit and sleep, and then waking in a coma of repeats.

Manny however disagrees. He believes his old pet is somewhere in the Cerberus. He implores Medusa to don her Gorgon mask and save the canine, but she replied she’d traded for love in exchange of powers. Besides, even if they managed to extract Rex from the three-headed monster, it wouldn’t be the same animal. Cerberus is spliced from three fierce dogs, and it would be impossible to separate the genes from this detestable mix.

Manny Masculine, being the stubborn Italian that he is, is adamant on a rescue. Unbeknownst to Medusa, he storms Wong Boom Bong’s fortress, whistling for Rex
; he is torched to ash immediately as he tries to pat his pet.

Medusa is morose. She condemns herself for Manny’s death. Perhaps she unwittingly gave an ultimatum;
Rex or she
, Manny had to choose. And Manny chose.

Medusa cannot have power and love, it’s a trade off; it’s either one or the other. She begged Manny to let Rex go, let her love be the substitute; surely it is better than a dog’s, isn’t it?

Apparently not. Medusa is both angry and hurt over Manny’s impulsive decision; he loves her less than he loves his dog...
ridiculous
... She cannot forgive herself, she feels selfish; she cannot forgive him, she feels Manny is selfish; and she cannot forgive that damn dog!

Medusa feels stupid. Perhaps she should have given
in to his demands, put on the Gorgon mask; but she’s not sure if it’d even work. Love had diluted her negative emotions; no fuel for hatred, Cerberus will tear her to pieces. Then it would be Manny who regrets, Manny, whose tears mar the ground.

And odd, even now, even t
hough Manny is gone, she cannot summon sufficient rage to turn anyone to stone, (not that there is anyone left around to be turned to in the first place), for she loves him even more now that he is merely a rooted memory.

Medusa crumbles; it is the paradox of the time. She is filled with love, but it is hate that is needed in order to survive. Maybe in her mother’s house there is a solution; if it’s still around, if it’d not been destroyed.
Find the serum or virus that transmits via pheromone and sight, causing the blood of males to cement, engorging the veins of the pathetic penis till it ruptures and hulks out of its pants.
The statues and their statuettes
, they look so aggrandized and funny. She takes the arduous track into austere territory, an icy god forsaken land where her parent’s lab is. But of course, everywhere is god forsaken already today.

In her quest,
Medusa laughs an ironical laugh; she thinks back the days she was called Madame - all that power, all that hate; she was planning a merger with Pomelo Anderson and Roanna Fausi. The three of them had gathered once for coffee, and it had seemed amicable enough in spite of the media reports and quotes made concerning her contemporaries. She was about to put in the pitch, a conglomerate to unite the countries in all arenas of politics, economics and society, having as lynchpin clean renewable energy – a solar project her research & technology office had been tirelessly working upon and is now confident for public revelation - a network that would guarantee a return to prosperity that is far more glorious and hygienically oxygenated than anything seen or experienced by their forefathers and their vast carbon footprint before the total ozone depleting years of the Third World War when...
hah
...what a twist of fate.

Well, you can say we were never pure in our
intentions and relationships, it was all just a front; behind, we had our own evil agendas, only that Pomelo’s was eviller. But regardless, and in all respite, for whatever it’s worth, Manny and Medusa did find salvation in each other. 

Two lone sojourners of the Earth crossed paths in the icy lands of the Tundra, an unlikely alliance, Medusa and Kunty Kaur.

Kunty said she was strangely led to this place, and Medusa replied she is searching for her mother’s
home. Kunty believes in destiny; Medusa does not. In her zeal, Kunty proclaims she is seeking the
book of good
- which soothsayer writings say contains the keys to unlock the human souls caged in those mindless dolls, those beatific monstrosities - and divine providence had brought them here for a union and purpose. Medusa laughs. Kunty insists they must find Medusa’s mum’s abode, there is something there, a clue, perhaps even an article of light to fight the dark forces. Medusa laughs some more. Kunty’s antics are entertaining; and when she suggested they walk together, Medusa thought, why not,
two is better than one
. She shed a silent tear for Manny as she mulled over that idiom; and that was how the Resistance was born.   

Pomelo Anderson. She has been called many names – Queen Bitch, Slut of the Century; but no one ever coined
Eucharist
. She is the body and the flesh of the future. All the inhabitants of the land not only bear her image, they are ciphered from her DNA. She is the Barbie – uniformed, mass produced versions of her roam the lands, all similarly packaged, all similarly pink.

And all guys are Ken, with large
, interchangeable alien toys screwed onto their crotches.
Oooo
...just the thought gets her horny. Pomelo Anderson, the Eucharist, the Barbie, she is the head of a collective consciousness; all her dolls’ five senses are
her
five senses.

  
“It’s a good world, don’t ya think?” She speaks to no one in her chamber, “Everyone is pretty, and beautiful and fashionable; everyone looks just like me,” she giggles, “and all the guys are hunks with
huge hunks
...
hung,
” she tailed off, giggling some more. The only frown on her face is caused by the ghostly mind-fucked-through-ass kids her father has as sentinels. The spectral hounds of Wong Boom Bong, she can take. They’re quite cool, with their blue flame and all, and besides, the god-Boy has a crush on her. She giggles again.

   
Then she picks up the old sepia photo of the obese teenage girl - the
stranger
- and her yellowing Barbie doll from its shrine, and feeds them to the three-headed dog sprawled in her room. The articles burn up instantaneously. Next, she commands the mutt to consume the Altar. From now on, the only Doll in the world will be her.

Before he was operating on animals and on his mother, Wong Boom Bong was cutting on himself. Those heinous crimes, like the one that opened this tale, well, his alter ego was the culprit. And the question on everybody’s mind –
who or what is Wong Boom Bong?

What causes a teenage b
oy to go on such rampage? Videogames? That’s only half right. For one, he’s an orphan; that surely has to say something. Mr and Mrs Wong adopted him. Boom Bong is not his real name. Growing up, being bullied in school, a daily affair, it affects a kid, but usually not enough to turn him monstrous; unless you throw in another monster, a child molester, a sexual predator, a cock diagnosed with priapism abusing young Wong anally. Now, that could drive a boy ballistic; and if that minor is a genius, a computer expert hooked on graphic electronic entertainment, and an innate hacker of systems...
Boy!
You got a potent mix here. You got a screw up of identity, a moral blackout, especially if your career-minded parents have got no time for you. It’s not that they don’t love you, they do! But they show it with tangibles rather than affection.