God of the Game (Dreamstate) (38 page)

Complex kids are made.

Stop. Change topic. Still on felonies though; what about those babes with boobs sliced off? It’s him again, the youth’s alter ego. This time the reason is infatuation, puppy love; you know this already, Wong Boom Bong has the hots for Pomelo Anderson. He is planning the ultimate gift, a present that will bring Pomelo’s hands to her bosom in delight. At his workstation, Boom Bong is crafting the supreme pair of jublees for his soon-to-be beloved, so perfectly shaped they will surely win her heart. To do this, he needed girls with gorgeous jugs, the best of the genus;
and he wrung the curves out of them
, moulding into the one perfect pair, as a master perfumer extricating individual essences and in combination, fan the most captivating scent.

Complicated emotions
, this.

But wait, there is more. More perversions going on here. Pomelo Anders
on and he, written in the fairytale, in the final pages, are King and Queen living happily ever after...

They have a relationship, a marriage, but it is an incestuous one...well
, kind of...these gods, if you read their family tree, they always sleep with kin, forever some divine soap opera going on - she is Master Wan’s daughter, and Master Wan is his son!

So the young boy is marrying his granddaughter
???
Well, not technically; the ageless Wan is Boom Bong’s alter ego. And when your avatar is an old metrosexual, you better let him think he is in control. But you know better, the god-Boy is just playing dumb. Behind the Master’s every move is the finger of Wong Boom Bong. He is the god of death after all, for in the last chapter, he takes over the reins from the Grim Reaper. 

This is the Master’s story. The uncensored version before it being
sugarized
for babes, before being made digestible for tender minds so that mums won’t complain; before popping in the visual effects onto keywords to make the novel interactive, for the imagination of readers are dulled nowadays. This hardcover leather-bound storybook with large print is Master Wan’s most prized possession in the material world; for with it, he rules the Earth and all the creatures that walk upon.

But there is another book in the making, also a storybook of tales un-foretold, of incredible fables. Some call it the
book of good
, but Lingam doesn’t have a title, and Siva just drools.

Perhaps one day the two books will meet and an epic battle will be fought in the realms; but today
, this tale is finished, its plot and characters weaved. The tapestry is completed, and the weft threads filled over the warps. The finished product is cut from loom. Now, it only needs to be exhibited on mural.

If good will ever triumph over evil, if ever the underdog wins, if ever the rebels subjugate the empire and the Resist
ance conquers the Unholy Triumvirate, that story will only be told in
Tapestry 14: My Name is Legion
, in the next
Series
, or in a
Sequel
, or maybe even in a
Spin-off
to this magnificent tale. 

On the Fifth
Day

63

Murals

It is 3
.00 p.m. in the backside of Anesidora, and the sky is dark and brooding, and twisted with constipation, which finally releases after a grimacing disposition, a rain of thorns upon my inebriated brow. My head is shipwrecked and surviving on stormy seas in a hallucinatory raft even as I stagger upon the symmetry of a preposterous
panorama.

Safe to say, I was on a plateau, or rather, crucified on a plateau
, named the Place of Skulls. Old Romans staged this slow-death technique as a form of cynical joke and amusement. Documentation of soldiers crucifying criminals in comical positions survived through time; and
bloody bastard
, JC is inspired by it for tomorrow’s opening. Nail-gun in hand, he is hoisting, in the downpour, with the assistance of Deity High trainee teachers, subjects into laughable poses; each one triggering a cacophony of delirious snorts, from JC himself, and all the assistants following suit.

    Take for example that dude in
a ballerina’s pose, nailed as if on tiptoes; or the goalkeeper strung midair trying to save a ball; or the puppet, with wires tied to limbs, doing an acrobatic routine over and over in adherence to the commands programmed by a props-technician on a remote control. And of course there are the sexual positions, no need to mention.

    Just like Jesus C
hrist, uncensored by the Church - the real thing - and thousands others offered up in violence, we were robed in our emperor’s new clothes; or how else would one view the murals on show? However, unlike olden day practices, we were not hung on wooden beams; but rather, this high-tech sacrifice was tagged by digital markers, pinning the joints for a multitude of rotatable angles, rendering the ‘actors’ for motion-capture sequences to be superimposed on electronic screens as nonhuman characters later on in post-production studios. 

  
So, there’re two projections going on in JC’s exhibition. One, the tapestries telling the long tale on the history of a heaven and an earth, (
whereby thirteen lives intertwined make up part of the saga, comprising billions others
); and another, with 3D glasses, the fantasy extended to countless dimensional shores, interlocking with the imaginations of the audiences.

    JC, in a hooded raincoat, walks up to where I am propped upside down and splayed open like a racoon p
rior to becoming a coonskin cap; like Saint Peter having permission granted to be executed facing the earth, for he wishes not to be the equal of his Saviour. He details, for no apparent reason, that he enjoys books, and that the tapestries only paint half the picture. The tapestries are a guide for the mind’s eye. They are just words after all; binary and other encrypting languages, circuit configurations on male asses to be precise. JC’s picking titbits inside. He’s curious what each spectator conjures for the other half. Boring, mainstream and predictable mostly; but occasionally, a gem emerges.

    The man smiles
at my inverted retina and gestures to an interior decorator, who in turn speaks to a contractor, and eventually workers lay the tiles to conceal the muddy ground. The torrents had stopped; the sky is clear and azure; and the mass of crucified flesh in rows and rows of funny postures, they’re primed for tomorrow’s inaugural exposition.     

64

    I see myself; smart and sharp in tux. For a while I could not recognize this handsome figurine of a man: polished, dapper, and cheeks chiselled with a healthy masculine glow. Not a strand of hair out of place, as though they were glued to scalp, as though they were moulded of the same material as flesh; a perfect plastic toy.

    Then I saw his eyes. They wer
e mine. The windows of the soul; my soul. 

    JC’s undeniably done with me. Remade me. And now I am here to see myself.

    It’s a typical black tie event. Women are in designer gowns, and all men are penguins. Some do more justice to their suits, but nonetheless, it’s the fairer sex which provides the flagrant lavishness that incites the lascivious coveter in all of us. Such occasions makes one wonder life: that all men are but uniforms; and women, red carpet opulence.

    By the load of praises pronounced, I can tell, even upsid
e down, the roaring embrace of JC’s work. “
Masterpieces
,” I hear them proclaim; and the guests are chattering and discussing what emotions these murals evoke, what they’d taken from the tapestries, how the configurations had spurred cognitive revelations and understandings of brave new worlds within them. Esoteric knowledge written plain and decoded on buttocks.
How heavenly
.

   “I am in love with your mind,” JC announces as he strides up to me after closing hours. He must be talking about my dream; and I ponder which character is he.
Master Wan
or
Wong Boom Bong
most probably. He never tells; he just shrugs and fishes a shimmering orb out of his coat pocket. “Technically, your mind is here,” he fingers the marble, “...remember...Anesidora? Ewala gave it to me...popped out from her vulva...like a fizzy drink dispensing machine,” shaking his hand, “oh...but you needn’t have to know that,” he laughs out loud.

   “See, what I can’t figure is,” he squats, now eye level with me, “where your imagination is coming f
rom? It can’t be from this ball because it’s busy noshing my wife! It can’t be from that guy,” JC points to the debonair version of I, who just stares icily at me through cold blue eyes the whole night, “because I made that mind. And what we got here,” he knocks my cranium, “is just a hollow trunk. By the way, when you have the time, I suggest you get to know your other you. He’s quite creative, too...just like you.” James Bond I raises his champagne flute my direction and sips its crystal content.

    JC continues, “So
, my educated guess, the probable deduction, would be it coming from here,” he stands and slaps my butt. A current ripples through. “Fascinating, fascinating. You can actually think with your ass!” He fizzles and exclaims, “More than that, in fact this fat flesh,” he pinches, “can visualize such fantastic realms and make them a reality. I
must
do more study.” The last phrase, he wasn’t speaking to me. JC marched off, pointing a finger to the air, and the crew cut me down.

    JC had promised I won’t be a prisoner. I was free to come and go and wander within his palace walls. And considering, it’s a huge castle indeed. I was given my own room too, and chic clothes, for it’d been long enough that I’d trudged naked.

    The abode was s
partan, somewhat like that pocket dimension Jai-I and I designed. Speaking of which, I’d not been to in ages, and I wondered whether our business plan, the coffee culture franchise, would have flourished. I also got to think of my friend...I miss him, and I hope he is all right. I would have to get in touch with him after this, after JC discharges me. Track down Trekz.

    My abode
, yes, it’s spartan. The way I prefer. Uncluttered. A humble bed lines the side, and a study table adorned the opposite corner. The room itself was not large, but it was very comfortable. It had a cushiony reclining chair, and on the other side of the wall was an entertainment unit filed with all the books, movies, music and games I would have pleasure to read, watch, listen and play. JC ordered that I be continually inspired, so I spent many hours indulging the arts, which was a luxury I’d not owned for some while. I devoured through and through, nourishing my brain cells, expanding knowledge of infinite realms, reading up on a myriad of gods - their deeds, their creation - and how innumerable heavens collided and fused, and the sciences behind how one could travel between and beyond portals, touring to and fro across multiverses. An analogy which best describes is the literature and film and albums and MMORPGs I have in the room. Each novel paints different lives; each video illustrates unique adventures; each song reflects the soul of a singer at a particular point in time; and each electronic sport or mission, contested and challenged, exists in its own unique digital environment of a game-universe. We, as consumers, can choose our amusements. So, similarly, we, as demigods, and some lucky humans (our pampered pets), get to traverse dimensions just by the push of a mental button. Thus, if Christopher Columbus discovered the New World,
we
are all explorers, encountering new spectrums at the end of rainbows daily.         

    Occasionally
, I was to spend the night in the infirmary after they’d conducted tests and there was need to monitor my responses. It was not unpleasant, and there were other talented individuals in the ward. We will peep through hospital gowns and marvel. Same like me, these guys are geniuses, for the tales their tattooed butts told were nothing short of spectacular; we’d all hold our breaths in joint admiration of the crazy and entertaining worlds wheezing out of
farts
. I caught threads of my own flatulent fable on some of the lines on their posteriors, and it’s proof again, I guess, that all spheres entwine, and that the minds of all men are but one, albeit, a massive one, with rooms and doors and secret passageways that weave across wide illustrious labyrinths.

    Friends I made during my stay were Charles Schmuck, Dilidos and the Grinlock. The
re were others, but these three I related most closely, and our time was full of nostalgic memories. Strange, somehow, incarcerated in an asylum of prodigies brings back the child in us. Moreover, when the timeline charted across is an eternity, one would naturally feel like a kid in the presence of a god as great as JC.

    We have
a common hall full of fun stuff. Working at Google would be a pale comparison to the toys we had at our disposal. JC was always encouraging us to go mad. Don’t let any inhibitions stump us.

    So, that said, I wanna talk about whoring Earthlings.

65

Whoring Earthlings

    Can a man fall in love with a harlot?

    Hosea did. Hosea of the Old Testament. But perhaps he did it more out of duty and obedience; to make a prophetic statement.

    As you may know, I can’t fuck without love. And the last fuck I had on Earth was with Gee Ni in my thirties. Decades after till death went downhill, drugged on hand and foot jobs.

   
She castrated me. I was south of mediocre, sexually. Forlorn and lovesick over an earlier sanguine lover. Perhaps I dated Gee Ni out of a reeling rebound that never ever healed thoroughly. Hopeless. My horny desires were pitiable. She grew tired of me. She did not placate. It was my fault. I felt like it was. And the only good I’m for is to let women lord over. Laugh over. Especially when I’m naked, and they’re not. It’s my lot in life, my punishment, my self-imposed emasculation therapy.

    After she left
, I was like Brit Patt; minus the handsome part. A CFNM aficionado. I could only wank satisfyingly to clothed chicks teasing and humiliating my exposed machismo. It’s an inferiority complex I guess, fantasizing them lounging in clouds of superiority, piloting my genitals, imagining them relishing a group-stroke from their lofty positions frowning down toward my ejaculated ignominy. High in their high chairs, I believed certain ladies found enjoyment in femdom.

    So I sought them out. But I was shy. A time, I considered the best option was to become a male stripper. But I had not the balls
, nor the bod, and was afraid the species of females met in rose dominated parties were more than my degradation could bear.

    Thus I tried masseuse
s instead, and found out the disappointing truth that they got no enjoyment making me cum in their hands. It was just for the cash. I timidly asked if they could pretend to be intrigued by dick-and-balls; and they said I had to pay more.
Which I did
. And they were atrocious actors! Two were even rude to my naked manhood. They burped at it in unison, and the poor dog was so cowed it went soft. Then they bellowed in hilarity at its shrinking disposition, and the intimidation caused me to quit and cry. I still paid full for the unattained orgasm, and drove home in tears and desolation.  

    If ever there was a time I was most prone to the notion of suicide, it was that period. I thought of the friend who tried it two unsuccessful attempts, and considered calling her, but decided otherwise. Besides
, she’d migrated to the US, and as far as I know, she’s married with two kids (and died a happy old lady - in the arms of her loving husband, children, grandkids and great-grand progeny).

    After a sabbatical
, I picked up my marbles that had rolled onto the floor and tried once more. This time I was more cautious. I chose girls that were petite and sweet. I ensured they were physically attractive to a degree, and that they were my type. These were lousy masseuses though; but at least they gave gentle handjobs. Nothing spectacular, just safe; and I have to admit, the ugly girls from earlier gave sensation a lot more. They understood the stimulation of the prostate gland as well as the manual rimming of the anus.