God of the Game (Dreamstate) (40 page)

    I nodded.

   “Those are the stat
ions to be operational next week based on the sales forecasts of new releases. Old superheroes given a badass facelift, novels shot to the silver screen, as well as fresh stories and characters morphed in original dimensions.”

   “By whose forecast?” I asked.

   “Who else?!” He pointed at the tinted window of the control room monitoring our every move. “He gets it right most times.”

   “And so, why does the train stop here?” I enquired, puzzled.  

   “Oh, don’t you know?” flew the response, “We’re already in print. We’re under publication. And a tie-in movie and game will be coming out soon.”

   “But we’re not done. We’re
still incarcerated in this funhouse going through tests...”

   “Yah, but you don’t see
the other side of the story,” Chubby butted in, “JC’s already sucked the plot out of you. He is many steps ahead...and yah, even if the story is not completed, so what? It’s all about sequels and prequels and trilogies and more these days. You don’t need to know the end. Fact, you can make up the end as you go along...depending on crowd response. What’s the point of ending...of closure, or continuing for that matter, if people don’t like your show, people don’t like what you’ve got.

    And what on earth ends any
way? Life? As far as you know, being a god of the game, it has not. And the horizon of a completion is nowhere near in sight. Chill, bro. Have a break, have a Kit Kat!” He offers me the chocolate wafer.

    I declined.

    Everyone seems to have an answer except for me. But I guess that can be expected in a game. Much of the fun is in discovery. Writers and producers may be accustomed and familiar with the plot, but not the players. The players find out. And players can reset and restart if their characters are killed; that’s the luxury of being divine.

   “Thanks for the enlightenment,” I offered.

   “No probs,” fatso replied, “I’m Soy
, by the way.”

   “And I am...”

   “Oh, I know who you are. The question is whether
you
know who you are. Bye. Gotta go. JC’s paging.”

   “Wait,” I stepped in, stunned by what he’d said, “yer not one of us?” I gestured to the motley crew, now scaring the paramedics who were influenced
to not doing a dutiful job in resuscitating the elderly and infirmed lady.     

   “Nah, I work for him. And he sends me down whenever one of the subjects is confused.”

    Soy was already on his way, halfway up a stairs. He stopped, turned, and added, “You can say I’m some kind of a Messenger. You know, the ones either holy or mad people see in visions; the ones written about in religious manuscripts.”

68

    By the time I joined the crowd, the boys of the ambulance were already gutted and grotesque. Throat to cock, everything out. Inverted. Back to front, inside out. Exposed. Lying supine, it appeared as though someone played a tactless prank placing disembowelled gonads, a skinned banana, pig entrails and viscera upon their bellied-up fronts.

The recess bell finally rang
, and the cleaners came out to do their jobs.

    What I take delight most in classroom is Ms. Anna Doreen. Most boys do. She’s the biology teacher and faculty head of the sci-fi fantasy club. And man,
is
she hot
. Doesn’t matter how she’s dressed for the day, she’s just smokin!

    Best part is the
one-on-one private tutorials; we boys will have our ecstatic experiences to recount. Dilidos, for example, was teleported upon entering her office to Manslaughter Club. Greeted immediately by two urban trendy geishas in hot pants beneath front slitting kimonos, they escorted him to a private chamber where the teacher was waiting. The room, a cross between quirky Japanese decor and classical European, was littered with illuminating confetti and models pretending to be dead. Fake dark blood oozed out of the mouth of a girl lying on the dining table, sushi decorating her back. A slender male physique sat splayed on the floor with a chandelier as a head. Two PVC bikini-clad chicks, black and pink, with bulky cathode-ray-tube computer monitors for faces seemed
in-voguely
electrocuted, while a montage of motion pictures flashed on their screens.

    Anna Doreen was in
company of a man in black suit, white shirt and skinny tie. His square shoulders narrowed to pointy feet, as if he were on tiptoes, as if he were an apparition, a Manga artist’s comic interpretation. Without a neck, his face was the shape of an elongated owl. Dilidos mentioned his name was Black Owl, apt for his appearance, and he was the owner of the establishment.

    The name Manslaughter Club, according to Black Owl, started a
s a joke when it was but a nomadic revelry. People would ‘accidentally’ die during those parties - `cos it was
that
wild - and no one would claim responsibility. Police investigations led nowhere, and if there were any court hearings, no one was ever found guilty. So much so, this became a mockery of the judicial system, that even now, the club scenario always ends with a faux high-court in session with pseudo lawyers and judges and registrars and the accused, all in ultra-fashionable cuts of wigs and robes - un-sombrely, un-soberly and un-solemnly defiant of legal black - bobbing heads and thumping fists in air to a punk climax, trampling anything that has a simile of justice.

    The perfect location for an uncouth character like Dilidos. He was barking mad, his usual behaviour, raising voice incoherently to th
e displeasure of Anna and Black deep in negotiation over cups of ocha, that Ms. Doreen finally tolerated no more and commanded the irritating boy to play dead.

    That’s her power. She tells you to do it,
and you do it
. You obey. Perhaps it’s her beauty, perhaps it’s her stare, or even the texture of her voice, or aura and presence; the reports often differ, but regardless, we all abide to the song of this Siren.

    Speaking of Sirens, Anna Doreen promises Dilidos, and even Mr. Owl, if they are good, to take them out for a concert by her band,
the Sirens
. She guarantees a good time with a flirtatious laugh, and ensures there will be mayhem for the night. 

    But as of this exact moment, we are introduced to the business acumen of this woman. The name Anna Doreen is p
recious and precocious for high fashion. It is synonymous with style and elegance. It conveys sophistication, but is yet mod; classic and hip simultaneously. It’s a label supermodels will deck on, dab on, be seen in, carry over elbows, hang on ears; so Anna is planning a launch party for her latest scent and line of accessories. It’s gonna be two weeks from now, and the theme is classy slut. The ballroom permeated with pheromones, her perfume, wrung and extracted off her own pores during life-threatening, painful sexual encounters of pleasure. She is of the opinion that glands secrete sweeter hormones in presence of torture when blood is pumped hard by the heart trying to keep the body alive.      

    Anna Doreen plays
the submissive. And that is what Dilidos likes. She allows men to experiment on her - a gang-bang with sharp objects and tight knots. Playful cuts and chokes, innocent cuffs, hot wax hurting her; the grinding of teeth, squinting eyes, engorged blood vessels and tensing muscles; tubes collect sweat all the while, and conglomerated, with bizarre and exotic spices, into a sexy smell.

    A success. The crowd laps the
Banquet
by Anna Doreen, which, by way, is the brand name of the odour. A-list clientele going crazy for the fragrance, ripping feline inspired Anna Doreen jewellery off, Anna Doreen haute couture; “It’s okay,” she says, when an apprentice designer scowls, “we’ll rehash the torn pieces to something else; something glam punk with a dash of Goth and 80’s Rock.”        

    Orgy is ensuing. Dilidos strips off a
nd swan-dives into a sea of skin. Black Owl is more composed. He merely smiles behind an oxygen mask. Anna is a bit insulted.
The Sirens
start to play. The band members have beehive hairdo, gold gowns and diamond tiaras, and are almost shoeless, barely barefooted. Just a three-piece all-girl ensemble. Drummer, cum backup vocalist, is christened Sasha Sashimi; lead and rhythm guitarist only goes by the moniker Dallas; and Anna Doreen plays double bass and sings on stilettos.  

    Their repertoire is original Chinese retro with shre
dding guitar over a twist and a-go-go beat, and on some tunes, guest percussionist Jane Flamingo and the horn quartet, the Horny Siztaz, syncopates rhythm for additional jazz.

    After encore, Dilidos is murdered on
the dance floor.

    Anna Doreen repositions his body to a comfortable foetal sedation and marks him by stepping on the ribs, pie
rcing in with her four-inched spikes. Dilidos loves going into pussy, and he’d had a fair share tonight. And as always, after satisfying them dames in a sex jam, passed on from one hole after another, he is discarded. But Anna Doreen will take him home, wash him, and use him on herself. She is his biology teacher, after all.

    The following scene takes place in Doreen’s abode. The camera is angled at her spre
ad-out cunt, and she is shoving Dilidos in. Slowly, you can see her student disappear...then reappear. Wet and lubricated with digestive fluids, like a snake swallowing prey, Dilidos’ shoulders are sucked in; the pussy readjusts, lynching forward, and his buttocks protrude violently out of the fanny. Finally, Anna moans. She moans continually, and is holding Dilidos by the heels, stabbing herself as if with two spears. The movements become frantic; the woman goes loud, blaring like a hi-fi on full volume playing a soprano prima donna. As she hits those high notes, her bosom trembles, and at the end of the song, perspiration is funnelled to her cleavage. She swabs with a sponge, and carefully squeezes the substance into a bottle. Then she stoppers the mouth. Blueprint for the next mega-scent: the aroma of a woman masturbating. 

As
epilogue, she pulls Dilidos out. He has resurrected, and a blissful grin brighter than the sun adorns his fucked-out phizog. Sweating like a pig and drenched in Skene’s juice, he is satisfied with his smooth and polished mannequin pubes. But he is much happier with his huge Darth Vader helmet of a head. Dilidos also takes pride of each extremity, hands and feet, which presses the right buttons inside of Anna Doreen. Never failing to locate, and then aggravate, that elusive G-spot, Dilidos is honoured to bear the mark of teacher’s pet upon his ribcage.

    He speaks of alien worlds within her. This Charles Schmuck concurs. The unifying factor for all favoured boys is Anna Doreen’s seal on the left side: the initials AD in a barbwire, florid circlet. Her logo at the tip of the stiletto, imprinted on flesh, is clear when we lift our shirts to compare. Apparently, it punctures the skin and implants a microchip. This way, she, and Principal JC, at all times, can track our whereabouts. With the chip, she can also place us where she pleases. It’s a teleportation device. Now yer here, and then suddenly yer swept up by the wind and, yer elsewhere.

    This occurred in class to Charles. He sits in front of me. I blink, and he was no more. Later,
that night in his room, he recounted his story.

    Charles is holding a chalice of fine wine in his right hand.
Romanée-Conti 1945.
He is in a penthouse balcony at the apex of a high tower. The view is a magnificent sun inflicting the entire panorama. It could be the end of the world, the explosion of a star, or its beginning. From inside the room tinkles the voice of Anna Doreen. “
O’ darling, come here
.”

    Charles obeys.

    But he soon discovers his indisposition, for Charles Schmuck is merely the butler. Anna is speaking to another man. It’s a long hall, a majestic temple of carved pillars and a domed ceiling. Paintings adorn the pinnacle, but the images are flash forwarding, as if the future is happening above a layer of fog, and those below catches only a glimpse, a blur.

    Gold plates the walls.

    She is at the far end from where he stands, enthroned on a marble dais. A naked thigh hooks the armrest, her royal heels dangle from toes painted dark metallic green. The curvy upper leg sizzles Schmuck.

    That
man has got no respect for the monarch. He passionately presses the queen; and she is responding. Charles wishes he had the chance. Instead, he is only consigned and condemned to walk towards the libertine couple in an erected stance, enviously ignoring their amorous foreplay. This is his first appearance in this arena, but somehow, he is familiar with his role. Anna Doreen’s right hand is passionately outstretched, and he places that globular rim on her palm. Then he proceeds to a corner, silently awaiting the mistress’ call.

Anna and her man share the delights of
fermented grapes, of blooded vine. Soon, she is leading him to her sanctum of a private garden, which extends from the rear of her venerable seat, her august throne, to a cool patio where a hidden forest rushes out, as if a crouching predator unexpectedly pouncing with a wealth of twines and sumptuous bouquets of a bountiful botany. She is already dressed in lingerie. She is an otherworldly Luis Royo fantasy. That’s the show currently playing in Charles Schmuck’s mind.