God of the Game (Dreamstate) (46 page)

Vesper’s back, zip splayed. No secret that Virgin’s boss denounces such slutty
conduct, but, heh, Vesper’s a charmer. No girl will say no. Heck, no guy even. 

I don’t understand his behaviour. Why is he so nonchalant? Our friend is dead. How can he be so insensitive? Jai-I is most probably just a cell in Nimrod’s body by now. What an inglorious end for a glorious god! I’m contemplating how to put this forward when he yanks up the fly and says, “While you were running for your life, chicken heart,” he mocked, “I fingered some adjustments.”

I just gawped, exuding a dumb and perplexed air from my deflated face.

   “The knife?”

I looked on.

   “I plunged it in.”

My dear Vesper, always quicker than a bullet, dodging troubles, never caught by fanatics; unlike Lucifer (well, they have polar personalities, but now’s not the occasion for comparisons). With vampiric speed and mechanical precision, and perfect timing, he stabs Leper and the Gunk’s blade into Jai-I just as Nimrod takes over.

   “Nimrod didn’t kill him. I killed Nimrod.”

Amazed, I stammered, “So...so...yer saying Jai-I’s alive?”

   “Er...some sort...”

   “Meaning?”

Meaning the filthy, furry soft toy fell due not to Nimrodititis, but a deep wound to the heart.

   “Where’s the dagger?” I changed topic.

   “No time to retrieve.”

   “Wait, I need you to explain.”

   “Well, for one, I don’t know what effect it’ll have on Nimrod. Stabbing a serum of bitterness in his heart to destroy him could just be wishful thinking. As for Jai-I, Version 1.0 is still probably in bed in JC’s place, with Trekz howling by his side. Version 2.0 is as you guess
ed, a ping-pong ball going to and fro in Nimrod’s system, assimilated. Version 3.0...or 1.1...that could appear anywhere, though what effects to his sanity, I can’t predict. Conclusion, he’s okay, and you’ll bump into him some day.”

   “But he won’t be the same.”

   “Bro! No one’s the same.”

Well said. If I were to meet myself on a different timeline, I probably won’t recognize
me
either. Who are we? Just fragments of a mystery.

Now, about the three oth
er passengers on board business-class; two are together, and one in solitude. The man alone seated at the back is a creepy fellow, perspiring profusely, as though monsoon season was over him. Black bowler hat, black raincoat; he has got a stench creeping out of his unhealthy, pale greenish skin, more repugnant than death’s bed. The crew avoided him unless terribly necessary, and even the cyborg butler for priority travellers gossiped and complained to the girls behind his back on the unsanitary aspects of his nature - this, Vesper reported after a double cunninlingus on a mini bar served from the retractable torso of the plump steward humanoid.

I paid no attention to that
despicable character, but in turn was fascinated by the pair. They were asleep. A lady of high regard, in the most distinguished of taste in apparels and pearls, had on a leash, her companion, a cross between a man and a dog dabbed with the DNA cocktail of a lizard - circa Jurassic era - and some colourful alien bird. They were quite a sight to behold, leaning head to shoulder; and I pondered what kind of offspring would be begotten from such a union.

I theorized:
perhaps his nose would be a beak, but snobbish, the pride inherited from maternal genes. Skin would be hard and cold, possessing the camouflaging qualities of a chameleon; teeth as a T-Rex’s and, he would shave his feathers into uber-cool formations adorning his wings. His high cheekbones, though masculine, would have a feminine aura, whilst his wrists would be convincingly delicate. Overall, he oozes with cultured elegance, sits crossed-legged, wears Hush Puppies, skinny pants, pink tight tops, and a preppie college sweater knotted round his shoulders; an amiable youngster, evident of a shaggy-waggy
tail.  He is hygienic, he pampers himself with beauty products, and he moisturizers his tough hide; a goliath, but also a sweetie pie. Raised by mother who is captain of a thriving empire, and a dad that lives in a kennel; the boy is most probably gay.

I guffawed aloud at the spectre of this imagination,
and shared the visuals conjured in my cerebral cortex in a holographic format with Vesper. He sniggered too, trying desperately difficult not to be rude. We were bored. The journey is long. The silent hum of the cabin is annoying. Vesper suggested we be naughty. I asked how. He said we should sneak in to the sleep of the lovebirds and plant some insinuating seeds. I agreed with gusto! 

Thus, plugged
into headphones, we drifted off to dreamland to Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody. “
Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy?
” Freddie asked from across the grave. Then in the second section he says, “
Mama, just killed a man. Put a gun against his head, pulled my trigger, now he’s dead...
” And eventually Mr. Mercury exclaims in choir, “
Beelzebub has the devil put aside for me...for me...for me!!!!!!
” before the rumbling guitar takes off. You get an idea how impish we were; diabolical even, if you take us seriously.

Vesper and I met at the crossroad where our dreams ended. Th
e path ahead was a hilly boulevard, though winding and deserted, and at the tail end, jagged. A balmy sea lay ahead; and my cautiousness is always alerted in a breeze of clemency. Often, something sinister lurks. The quietness of the wide, tranquil expanse was contradictory to the clawing cliffs of the cape, and the mountainous facades of islands hopping off the mainland was as though skulled faces with sunken eyes stared at us from afar off.  

Ferryman of the demised,
Charon’s cousin from a distant mythology, paddles up. His boat is a spiv’s vessel, and he stinks of gasoline. I vaguely thought of lighting his ragged robes on fire. That would have been a cruel joke.

   “How much you got?” he asked. And we were supposed to
have a cadaver with us. The fare was for the dead.     

   “Two? And alive
?!” he exclaimed, “That will not do.” He pinched and played on his moustache, twirling hairs between the thumb and the index. His dark complexion, burned beyond recognition, all day under the hateful sun, coated by calluses flaking off into the salty liquid of the deep whenever he scratches a spot, beamed with a conman’s exploitive air excited by easy bait. Bunions on his feet seemed precariously out of placed and obvious; true, detailed clues of a closet hobby or moonlighting career.

   “It will cost you more.”

   “How much?” Vesper asked.

   “Fourfold the usual fare,” his fingers opened like an Oriental fan.

   “Will this do?” Vesper sprouted alloy wings.

   “Ah...a fallen angel.
..why didn’t you say earlier? And is this your prey?” Chiroz, (he introduced), pointed at me; one pallid yellow eye winking.

Se
nsing an opportunity, most probably at my expense, Vesper replies, “Yes.”  

Under breath, I murmured
; but Ves says in hush tones, “Trust me.” 

   “That the case,” the fisherman spoke, “his soul by my side would suffice; plus...” he added as an afterthought, “a bone from your wing.” Chiroz, in his spare time, not ferrying the dea
d, is a deep sea angler. At long spells even, he ventures beyond, to the great oceans, risking the giant Weir at the end of the North to hunt maritime serpents and colossal squids, delicacies that are well sought.

Vesper chips off an aluminium piece in
protest, throws the shrapnel to the eager palms of the ferryman, and climbs onboard.  

   “Don’t play dumb,” Chiroz states, “I know your celestial appendages heal in a jiffy. Cherubic souvenirs are hard to come by. I could trade them off...or
, I hear fishes love them. My cousin says you can catch an entire school just with a scrape of angel’s dust; attracts them fishy in frenzy...” he trailed off.  

The Evening Star retained his cool; took his seat at the front of the
skiff after handing me over. Chiroz takes me to the back, pulls the chord of the engine and the motorboat speeds away across the cool aquatic quilt covering the abyss. The vessel jumped as if in remonstration of the waves. I was seasick, but a fresh mint was beginning to diffuse in my nostrils. I thought it was the salty wind playing tricks, but on turning, it was only Chiroz, chewing gum. He smiles. Caffeine stained, nicotine blackened teeth said hi. A gold incisor greeted me.

T
he devil; he brushes his palm daintily across my thigh, as if by accident;
and he had to sit so damn close!
I was stiff as a statue, limp as a used mucky condom; cautious and scared of his shameless advances. But at least he just sat; one hand on the tiller, one hand wrapped round me. Occasionally, a pinch led to a leery and pale expression; the latter being mine, and the former belonging to that stinky predator. Chiroz spoke not the entire journey, a few unintelligible growls that’s all; but his legs shook nonstop, this I can tell; and when we arrived at our destination, he let out a loud and satisfied sigh.

   “That wasn’t that bad,” Vesper teased. I gave him a fucki
ng frown. Chiroz waved good bye, his voice high pitched now, and he said if we ever needed a ride back to the mainland, just give him a buzz. “
Zero, one, six
...” he yelled out his mobile number.       

The creep was
raping my spirit. I vomited onto the pure, fine sands of paradise. Over stretches of water is where Chiroz’s powers remain. Over water is also where a live soul is most vulnerable. Not yet dead and separated from the host body, but neither alive. It is trapped in the crevice of its own breathing, an oxygenated jail. By my inhaling of the minty flavoured gum emitting from his mouth, the pervert was having intercourse with my psyche through the nose!

Damn, how naive was I.

O’ well, what’s done is done. Vesper shrugs, taunting me again. He hoots, and I showed him the middle finger.

Proceeding, we should be on the correct atoll. The area is an archipelago. This should be the shared dream of the
exotic couple. Queen’s megahit is playing on and on in a loop in harmony over the sound of waves as an assortment of shellfishes are washed up shore. Blue crabs with seven legs and drill-like cones for homes scurry for a swim.

We walked inland. To a
five-star village comprised of grass-roofed huts. The camp is empty, but Bohemian Rhapsody’s volume is in ascent. Even eerie. Then screams run out from a chalet. We rushed in to fill the void. Three characters were involved. The music is at that part about mother murdering a man; her man...her slaved pet – dino-lizard, bird and dog. Revolver tremors in the lady’s grasp, sticky Hush Puppies soles printing blood patterns on the rectangular parquet floorboards.          

   “
O’ god, o’ god, o’ god
,” someone was climaxing in hysterical shock and
shiok
. It was the elegant woman. “What an ugly kid you are,” she referred to her son. “Damn right for fathering such a retard,” she consoled herself for pumping two into her half-breed lover’s heart. “How the hell did I not know I was pregnant with you??? What mojo did that monster use? What curse or charm?”

Eighteen years after
birth, the boy who took more from his paternal side decides to hunt down the folks. He was abandoned by a dad who drugged mum consistently over nine months; father performed an illicit caesarean with nothing for tools but his two front paws. The scar on her abdomen, she’d been told, was due to acute food poisoning, for she’d complained daily of tummy ache. He had to wheel her in for an operation after she’d lost consciousness. The reason was the marinara platter she was fond of for lunch and dinner. Paid the doctors and nurses a handsome bundle, donated to the hospice charities, all to cover this conspiracy; they even issued authentic counterfeit certificates of surgery and a clean bill of health.  

The figment of my initial imagination was inaccurate with
regard to his childhood. No, the boy was not brought up silver spoon in mouth in a home where mother was boss. He grew up on the streets a scavenger. But he was able to forgive daddy...unlike mummy. And no, he is not homosexual.

He is sore to the eyes though.
That
I was correct. To the dot. As ugly as my mind’s eye fathomed. And his fashion sense was as atrocious as ever. Father, before dead, said he did what he did to protect mum. The pet slave (according to his own animalistic deduction) was pedigree, a unique breed. Their offspring, pariah! He couldn’t bear such a mongrel suckling on her fine teats. Could she? That was his defence. But she objected that he should have had let her made that choice instead. It’s her belly, it’s her say! She labels him a liar, a fake; and that’s when she lifts the weapon to his chest. (The firearm was kept locked in her drawer. Only she had the key.) His last desperate attempt before deflagration was the excuse of love. He is to the brim with adulation, enamoured by her regal carriage. Joy is a collar and a leash, taken out for a walk, doing his morning poo in front of the praises and approval of his mistress. No! He could not share that with another, something so intimately detailed, not even with one from his own loins.
She is his right
. No one could steal her away from him. He wanted her, only her. So be damned! And for a reply, she terminates by announcing he is sick and disgusting and thinking only like an animal.