God of the Game (Dreamstate) (45 page)

I was shocked. So was Vesper;
but he showed not. Nimrodititis apparently had been more damaging. It was slow to articulate in Jai-I’s case. We thought his antibodies were doing a good job. Sure, Jai-I’s world was systematically chewed up, but his being was intact. So we assumed. But my CT scan now resonates that the syndrome had been quietly regurgitating his cells. They were well hidden under Nimrod’s spell. Now that the malady is near a complete takeover of Jai-I’s brain, the virus discards the disguise it’d don and surges for the final strike.                   

   “Now’s not the time for Creator Insecurity,” I went for the brash approach, very well aware it was the Nimrodititis speaking through Jai-I.

   “How much time do we got?” Vesper asked.

   “Not much...I think, before he coll
apses. We gotta get him to another realm. Get him out of his own mind.” I pointed to the tall beaming waterfall.

Jai-I’s throwing a tantrum, an uncalled for disintegration of confidence. All at the wrong moment! The virus’ reading our minds, it comprehends our plans. As long as we are in Jai-I’s head, we too are not safe. The rabies will eat our brains. Nimrod’s controlling Jai-I to stop us.

   “It’s true, it’s true,” son of Jahr cries out, “nothing I’ve made has been good enough...”

   “Everything you’d made has been excellent!” Vesper slaps him, losing patience.

   “No, no,” Jai-I fights back.

   “Can’t use violence in a time like this
, bro,” I calmed Vesper down even as his actions caught gaudy looks from technicoloured ravers and a yellow-faced constable built of Lego bricks. “It won’t work. We need psychology. Let him talk.”

   “We gotta creep behind Nimrod’s programming,” I added.

Vesper nodded.

   “Ok bro, tell me about it.”

   “My father, my father,” Jai-I was in tears, “why have you forsaken me? Everything I do is not good enough.”

   “Why do you say that?” I tried to empathize.

   “Isn’t it obvious?” he shot a remonstrance, going into a list of all the things he’d done that were off the mark. There were many, to his discernment. “Why does he have to be so hard?”

   “Have you ever stopped to think
,” Vesper put in, “that perhaps it’s your father who is at fault?”

This got Jai-I’s attention.

   “I mean, his standards are just
way
too high. Does he even keep them in first place? If you ask me, what you do is just as good, if not better than dad’s,” Vesper blasphemed.  

   “Yah, I agree,” I collaborated, risking Jahr’s wrath, “
standards are subjective, anyway. All you’d designed had been sublime. Just take a look at ZOO.L.A.ND...did me wonders.” I recalled Sha-Rronne, and Elizabeth Amber and the Village Idiot, and later Sharon...and, what’s her boyfriend’s name again?

Vesper went for the kill, “Look, yer an anarchist. Do whatever you want, not your father’s wishes.”

Jai-I replied, “I know. Just that I enter his realm, and witness his creation, and I go...well, I’ll be honest, way inferior...

   “Did you see that theme-
park universe he constructed out of nothing after dissolving an entire dimension and its ruling supercomputer?”

   “Well...I was at its ini
tiation,” remembering the curly-haired, yellow-booted contractor Jahr hired when I went over to his mountaintop mansion cum office to consult him on my mental health.

   
Now it’s Jai-I’s turn for a shrink!

Vesper steered back to course, “And if Jahr enters Jai-I’s worlds, he would feel the same.”

Silence.

Could it be true? Jai-I must be assessing.

I pressed on, “I go into your world and I’m blown away,” glancing at Vesper for affirmation.

   “Me
, too,” he nodded...a tad doubtful of the effectiveness of my stratagem.

   “Yah,” Jai-I launched a cracker, “that’s you. You’re not Jahr. Do you even show him your talents?”

   “I haven’t made anything,” I defended.

   “Yah
, right!
Horny Hound?
Ring a bell? What would you think if Jahr walked in? Or JC? Or any big fat god for that matter?”

He got me there. The
Hound
is no space I’m proud to parade for any hot-shot deity, but I pursued with my heresy; it’s either this or being consumed by Nimrodititis. “Who knows? What if Jahr’s a horny bastard too, and he’ll like a wankjob by Fanny Wong?”

Jai-I was appalled. This was his sickness speaking,
`cos in normal circumstances, son of Jahr would have just laughed through my incredulous assertion. 

   “Yah, look at Earth,
” Vesper threaded, “world of your genesis; movers and shakers, industry leaders, throughout history carried dark, dirty secrets. Religious, righteous men had plenty semen stained laundry in seedy motels and decomposing corpses in closets.

   “What m
akes you conclude that if man is evil, god won’t be?”

Silence again.

I tried a trick, “Why not carry on the conversation over the other side?” I gestured to the sheet of light, “Doubt it would be that crowded.”

   “I don’t know,” Nimrod stated via Jai-I’s voice, “I like talking here. You are both giving me clarity.”      

   “That’s good,” I assured.

   “Here’s a thought,” Vesper injected, “What if Jahr does not look down on your creations? You are his son
, after all. What if the truth is that it is only you, yourself, who abases yourself?”

I picked up the thread, but part of me felt that we were talking too much, wasting precious time, “I mentioned Creator Insecurities earlier. It’s not an uncommon dilemma. I bet your dad has them. I have them
, too...if anything I’d done had been worthwhile...

   “See! I just proved myself right.”

That was lame. Jai-I, infected by Nimrodititis, is fidgeting. He is not buying any of this. Nimrod is not fooled. He floors us, “So, if yer saying I’m suffering from Creator Insecurity...won’t that be worse? Now, it’s not what Jahr thinks of me, but what I think of myself. And what I think of myself is that I suck!”

   “That’s not true,” we both interjected
on reflex. 

   “Prove it!”

I gave Vesper a defeated air. He breathed it in. Nothing we can say will sway or win. Nimrod’s got him by the balls. Sensing victory, Jai-I’s tone of voice changed. He is twitching, writhing, shrinking, and when he next gazes, there’re two black pools of nothingness in his eyes. Then a teddy bear with an evil grin emerged from within him, red and unsightly, grimy with knotted fur, possessing the son of Jahr, morphing his appearance to a discarded cuddly toy. A child’s mischievous laughter echoes over
Catacombs
, and fur-ball Jai-I utters in a comical tune, “Nimrod says, hi!”

And thus, he collapses and dies.

74

The Rape of Brunette

We ran like hell, Vesper and I, right
into Hell. But before that, smashing into the vortex of that shimmering cataract, escaping Nimrod’s knights.

I can’t believe he’s gone. I can’t believe he’s gone
. That was the only concern occupying my mind throughout the teleportation spin.

I made a mistake. Should not have brought Creator Insecurity up; played against me.

At that point I had no idea where we would end up. “Just jump,” Vesper said, “anything better than to be gnawed by Nimrodititis.”

True. And now that I’m on this crazy, bumpy ride, one I can’t get off without the
risk of being torn to shreds at hyper-speed, I might as well divulge concerning Creator Insecurity. Now that I have time; wherever we land, my hunch is talking won’t be required. Not much at least. Only action is necessary. 

Creator Insecurity. The troubles in corporeal spheres, to a degree, are due to this divine m
ental disorder. Put it this way - all artists, architects, craftsmen, they understand this - you have an infinity that is...err...endless... and gods, goddesses and whatever other things that can’t die, banging off, making life, shaping galaxies, etcetera; naturally showing off. Some of them big-headed bosses of multiverses start to think, that his competitor, (though not necessarily true), in Nirvana next door for example, is doing a much better job. And they begin to doubt their own skills. Yes, some rise up to the challenge, creating novel beings under pressure and stress; but others sulk, and wallow in self-pity, transferring this inferiority complex to the subjects.

Imagine
a science project, only that every student is divine, and you have this hot-shot top-boy, teacher’s pet,
he
who can do no wrong, and everything he touches is bling-bling, and bang-bang. Superfly. Cool. But your own deity here can’t get the burner fired. Imagine how he’d feel...

Imagine how
you
will feel...

Now suppose it’s a popularity contest, or the number of Facebook friends. Babe has like got uncountable! Trans-dimensional
Nephlims
are lining up, begging to be her pal; while dude has a paltry, less than ten billion pathetic mortal links to his homepage. If you were made by dude-god, what would be your demeanour? The same one he carries, I suppose.

Someone said the problem is that there’s
NO money. The concept of currency is unworkable with omnipotence. No one buys your product? No problem, make the people. Programme them to love you and your handiwork, your blessings; you don’t need to market your offering, you don’t need to convince others, rally them to your side; if they don’t, churn out more, push the assembly line, make more Adams, more Eves. What’s the issue? Inflate everything.

Earth governments minting money without gold,
or any base mineral of value and substance, where do you wonder they got that idea from? Borrowing what you can’t pay back, owning what’s not yours, the fall of the financial system, the end of the world as you know it, the characteristics of greed, where does it lead to, where does it point? Who originated it? Can man be blamed when his god plays the same game?

The old fashioned way, spending only what is yours, living within your means
, cold hard cash without frills: unpopular. Laughed at by the gods. Humans, at least they had a warning siren; they could still measure financial success. A project may be a flop, or it could be embraced by the masses, receive relative acceptance at least, breakeven; you could appraise your ego in quantitative terms, decide if you’ve got to kiss ass, or allow others to suck on.

No such gracious luck for deities. Each failed creation, they jus
t top up with a newer, but similarly inferior, model. Ever thought why we’re so superficial? Why cosmetic surgery is a huge industry and entertainment is only about the icing? Cream it off and it’s a rotted cake underneath. The spiritual pillars of our world are of this substance. Definitely it crumbles.

And so, my end:
as I stare off into the vast planes of eternity, good and bad, through this time machine I ride on with Vesper toward an unrevealed destination, I conclude on Creator Insecurity; indeed, what is there not to be insecure about? Forever, it is our heritage. And together with selfishness, insecurity fuels the massive engines of creation.

Chill. Accept it. Vesper’s taking a smoke; then a leak. When he returns, I speak, “I can’t believe Jai-I’s gone.”                            

Vesper lights another. He seems blasé, unperturbed. He stretches and relaxes, smiles; while I try to hold back tears. The Evening Star had chatted up a stewardess, showed her his planet (
his own personal planet
) through the oblong window of the spacecraft and gotten us an upgrade to business-class. “Might as well travel in style,” he mentioned, “since we don’t know where we are going.”

It’s a Virgin
Galactic inaugural flight to uncharted destiny. We just hopped on, gunslinger burns smoking off boots; in to the portal and on to a spaceport, we bought a one way ticket to nowhere at half price, a destination only idiots dare travel, and afraid, if Nimrod’s cronies are behind.             

Virgin. Great company. Another that succeeded in the shift to singularity. Take off was shit scary, b
ut now that we’re in orbit, it’s plain sailing. What more, thanks to Vesper’s charms, we are elevated off cramped seats, and on to cushiony, reclining lazy-chairs which seem to have been borrowed from a retro space movie.

Business-
class consisted of only five passengers; three more, besides Vesper and I. There are seven empty seats, and a bar and pool area large enough for twenty comfortably. A luxurious waste of space. The ratio of one stewardess to two and a half travellers; there was another girl next to the bodacious vixen Vesper seduced, a slight and svelte figure, and a chubby android serving alcoholic beverages.  

Vesper’s not listening, he is fiddling. He is jumping off his chair, and he is now, currently, behind the curt
ain flirting with both chicks wearing bright red uniforms. He’s in the loo, in the mile-high club, though technically, he is much higher than that. Someone rings for the attendant. Only rotund robot responds.