God of the Game (Dreamstate) (48 page)

Starbucks is overflowing. Business is good. I need to find another corner. I began to loath what I did for Sparta
. Jai-I’s business plan.

Actually it was mine.

Heck, let’s go home.            

77

Bumped out. I throw the house keys on the glass table. Slumped straight to bed. I dreamt. I don’t remember the night vision. I woke up. I took a drink. On the night lamp to read a book; something unspectacular, something boring. After the adventure of the day, I care for some mundane chore, a story on trivialities. Stupid, hot gossip, perhaps. Thick, steamy chocolate drink for company, air conditioning at an ideal temperature, cosy under a quilt, my mind left my body and twirled round the lines, the lines of words; an engaging novel is one which hums in the brain, your eyes following the sentence trail like a child to Pied Pipers’ tune. Onward to destruction or not, you don’t care.

Do I feel guilty raping Brunette? I admit to the sense of thrill; yah
, it is a bit similar to reading a sensationalized tale, the world disappears, and all you see is pussy. Logic goes out the window, lust swarms in; did I tell that my sanguine lover left because I raped her?

But we’re in a relationship, the ‘r’ word does not constitute. However, she was not in the mood. F
act, she’d not been in for months. She
was
, in the beginning, but over the years, the relationship soured. Unspoken dissatisfactions, un-discussed frustrations. Pent up feelings. Habits, behaviours, mannerisms of mine she couldn’t bear but didn’t say, or said too late. I frequently misjudge characters; she was different too at first. But she changed; and she clammed up; and her pussy along with her.

I reverted to excessive masturbation, hit on her; humped her legs while asleep. She was totally put off by my frantic pet dog behaviour. I was a sex starved slave, but the queen was cold and lofty. She did not placate my fantasies. One night, I mounted
her without consent; she pushed me away. I pressed on. Determined. She got upset, and angry. But I didn’t care. I tore off her knickers and rammed into her line of defence. Sanguine lover struggled. I hurt her, I held her down. I finished my job. She just lay there; docile, defeated, pouting, but silent. Brewing resentment, but never communicating. Our love became awkward after that, mechanical. Kisses were cold and rudimentary, as if it were a regulated response, a chore. She began seeing other people behind my back; she treated me with a wall separating us. I could feel, by the way she talked that she was attracted and interested in other men. I confronted her. I was frustrated, suffering too, inside. In the spur of annoyance, I suggested we cool off. She agreed. Two weeks later, I wanted to be back together; the separation should have been enough, ran its appropriate course. I was already missing her. But she was enjoying her liberation, her independence. She couldn’t fathom rekindling the relationship; it was not that she was being heartless, she was sad, she explained, sad that we had to come to this;
but
,
we are not meant to be
. That’s what her heart says, that’s what her gut is telling her. I took her hand, she recoiled. I put mine out halfway, asking her to meet if she cared. Sanguine lover’s arms were politely folded. I realized then, without a doubt, the battle was lost. And just like that, I watched her silhouette walk away. Every day, that silhouette walked away in my broken heart, leaving nothing behind but an evil shadow of repressed wanton desires.

Till today
, I never truly understood the reason for our breakup. Therefore I am afraid of accidentally meeting her in eternity. God knows what mayhem will ensue if I see her. Already, I’m projecting my anger and yearning by ravaging Brunette. I miss her, I still love her, and therefore I have to humiliate and mutilate every goddess whom I’m acquainted in my long and winding path. Otherwise, I need the roles reversed.

Sentiments never work with me. I will screw it up. Destined to be a bastard. I carried this fantasy throughout my Earth life, I still do; but first I want to say how strange it was my sanguine lover and I ended as soul mates (a tag I hate). Even relayed my
sexual solicitations round the world without shame, and she’ll laugh through my pathetic shell. Perhaps, after all we’d experienced as a couple, we sincerely found some middle ground of grace and composure, of amity; but perhaps, too, it’s just a cloak, on my perverted part, to be actually hurting and secretly wanting to experience CFNM adventures with her.

I deserve nothing more.

In it, this fantasy, sanguine lover is crying and confessing, repenting, saying how sorry she is to have hurt me. I am aroused; I say if she is really remorseful she will appease me by handjob. She does; and with her other hand, she wipes unending tears off her cheeks, snivelling hard. Near the tail end of a good weeping I urge her to play on fast as her strokes and sobs soften at the threshold of a new emotion; and she states suddenly, with renewed vigour after crossing the sentiments, that she will give me the cum of my life. She fulfils; I ejaculate, and in ecstasy, I scream, “
I forgive you...I forgive you...I forgive you...!
”

Sanguine lover is smiling in happiness, a weight is lifted off her shoulders, a heavenly peace descends, and she says she senses her soul is cleansed from all unrighteousness; she is forgiven for all her errors, washed of impurities, and lifted above the mire of transgressions.  

Then, her four best friends enter the room to join in mortifying me. I jizz again to this embarrassing emasculation.

Next, one by one, each girl had her way with me,
all in their own unique fashion - a policewoman, a nurse, a judge and a nun - ending eventually with my sanguine lover and I again, alone. She pleasures me simply as she is without play-acting, a natural Madame poised on the balance of power on the scales of the sexes; this time no more feeling downcast, on the contrary, she feels powerful at my expense, and full to the brim, even overflowing, with feminine confidence.   

All in all, I came a perfect seven times!

And we didn’t kiss. That would have screwed our flawless relationship.

Did it ever happen? Of course not! Not in the world; and besides, the second coming changed everything. But I carried it with me, in the locket of my heart, this
besotting reverie of absolute union to and beyond the pearly gates of infinite notions.

On the Sixth Day

78

Business of Imagination

Best way out of such a conundrum of twisted feelings is to stare at space and wonder who the fuck you are. Alive on Earth, you figure Heaven or Nirvana wouldn't be that complicated; but mind you, take it from one who lives there, impediments are gorged on steroids, goes under the knife, cosmetically enhanced, and surgically beautified. Therefore the fuckedupness becomes palatable, even addictive. Will I trade my snags for bliss? Doubt it. I’m already engaging a blissful idiocy, honestly, an idyllic lunacy, and as far as I’d encountered, all gods are fucking crazy!

Sub-divine
that I am, I shed my skin to blue flame and spun past solar systems. Technically, fire does not blaze in black void due to the lack of oxygen, but my burn is not powered by any substance of physics present in this universe, not even nuclear fusion. So I float there, in nowhere, absorbing the solitude, studying the unfinished creations of a deity; dead and dusty planets, wasted energy balls called suns aging to red giants and white dwarfs; it was as though the developers ran out of money, hit by a celestial recession, or perhaps, greedy partners fled the project with the venture capital stuffed in suitcases. Now, these abandoned constructions merely hang there, gathering dirt, inviting dilapidation, orbiting their set courses aimlessly, waiting for a new investor, one to pump in new life in the rise of the next economic cycle ordained by higher forces.

I am in the business of imagination; so I imagine this facelift, this corporate takeover; a new name, a new heaven, and a new earth. I guess the thing is that I can’t stand the loneliness. So much vacant land
, but no one to culture it, nobody to abuse it. What good are breathless lumps of gigantic rocks? Tell me. What good is only lava and gas without life? Such a bloody waste of outer space, a blatant underuse and apathy for planetary and stellar coordinates; a true artisan would do more than just the barest minimum.

Almost liveable; what a sarcastic shame. 

So, what’s my concept? When I’m done, the god (or gods) who made this half-baked cake of imperfect heavens won’t recognize the neighbourhood. Sure, they did a good job with Earth, this I can tell, and credit goes to where credit is due. But take a trip above the atmosphere, and it’s dull. Yes, initially the solace hits you. The emptiness is big, it’s damn huge, and yer struck with awe. But after a while it gets boring, the silence, the loud ringing silence, makes you want to come back down and kiss soil. A spiritual awakening that merely leads to hunger for sensational flesh.

On Earth, there’s green, nature’s colour; and man’s clean lines, geometrical buildings; symbiotic, harmonious, a twenty-first century human dream come true. Moon, in this modern makeover, is a
desert landscape dotted by oases, a primitive Sahara opulence. Lush tents are spread beside blue lakes, and camels, with more humps than two, are tied and fed to fat. Rounder than those ungulates, obese
Homo
sapiens laze under canopies, smoking shisha, indulging leisure, talking business: mining pursuits the cold side of this satellite.

Fa
rther off, Mars, the Red Planet: still red, but in the shape of boutique accommodation. This crimson tone, this scarlet hue, blood palette dark and bright; I subbed out its development to a punk rocker, an anarchic designer employing the initials AD in a barbwire embellished logo, and her company comes up with the theme:
the fashionable death of gods
. Everywhere are shades of red contrasted on black for impact; makeup of anyone you meet on Mars’ streets is asymmetrical mimicry of bloodshot sclera and wounded cheeks. The colour of pain is not limited to the face; splashes of strawberry adorn bodies like luminous paint. In vogue zombies hang out. They go shopping, buying rubies, sipping wine, and driving burgundy Veyrons.

Closer to the sun, Mercury and Venus are spirit and flesh respectively. The first planet of
the Solar System, hot with mercurial uprising, is firing up lazer from its atmosphere, flaring out as shooting stars, thundering incandescence into outer space; a fireworks display of varied trajectory aimed at all other globes. These lights are the spirits of life, birthed of the Sun, but incubated in the Mother Star’s small neighbour, Mercury; it is where angels are aplenty, where storks start off their long austere journeys, bearing beautiful bundles of magnificent starlet joy.

Venus however is the end and dark destiny of those beautiful bundles; when they’d grown up, and clouded in vain lounging. Venus is the erotic suicide of spirit. The realization of the tangible, the
withering pallor of inner grace; age seventeen and materialistic, squandering the soul for the squalid shimmers of things that bling before we blink. Venus is a spa, a holiday destination to get a perfect tan, a discothèque free flowing with mushrooms for us to forget our origins, our core. Paul’s first epistle to the Corinthians states,
the natural is before the spiritual
; but here in Venus, we say, fuck the spiritual, fuck faith, what you see is what you get! A preternatural existence built upon the short-sighted covetousness of carnal cunts.

Now, the Asteroid Belt is hunting ground. Assorted game awaits
death fried by ray guns, pending the incisors, canines and molars of intergalactic hunters. Between Mars and Jupiter is richest in flora and fauna, it is the Amazon of this constellation, the eco-bin of our system. The Asteroid Belt must be preserved, minimum real estate developments; retained as a primordial paradise for colossal creatures, miniscule organisms, and single cell life capable of wiping out civilizations if genetically modified in the airstream. A rainbow of a jungle is this orbiting ring; fecund, forever on heat, unending in resources; so much so that the capital of worlds operates adjacent to, suckling richness, the population of Jupiter, nourished by its endless supplies.

O
’ Jupiter, my Jupiter, capital of planets; yet you are only a tiny fraction of Syurga. The largest globular mass of the Solar System, thus naturally crowned major metropolis; took the title off Earth an aeon ago. Another city-world in the copy of Syurga, totally unoriginal, fake urban stardom, and same-same retail chains strutting off on each corner of this cosmopolitan globe. “
Un-inspiringly dreary
,” citizens complain in their quintessential wide hats and illuminating summer dresses, yet frolic its terra-formatted pavements perpetually. I admit, my lazy folly, lack of ideas derived from
this
demigod’s mind, a deistic brain drain. In this imagination, I just took a piece of Syurga and repopulated it. Cheating. Plagiarism. But everybody does so, too. No one bothers; in fact, everyone wants what Syurga’s got to offer, they just follow; and thus, the populace lives happily ever after in what’s called a copycat rapture.         

But what I rea
lly want to illustrate is the subsequent sphere, Saturn. Home to the Armoniacs, hallucinatory beings regurgitated by the planet’s gases, most vivid in Saturn’s rings. On the surface of the second most prominent orb, these creatures appear only in the dimension behind the natural. I guess you can call them supernatural, ghosts; but they weave a tapestry of worlds perpendicular to this smokescreen, and you can view their filamentous existence by merely crossing your eyes into a trance. The Armoniac realm is as slippery as wet noodles, the texture is oil silk, and you can run your hand through and beyond solid structures like walls. Molecules part at the touch, while doors are nonsense; one can penetrate and enter rooms by absorption. Glide past barriers to appear at the other side. The Armoniacs themselves are fusible, blending in and out of their environment. A favourite form is as jellyfishes; tendrils and recognizable human features float beneath voluptuous umbrellas. A face, rich with raw nerves, is connected at the temples to the inner side of the dome. In the rings, Armoniacs take on a less soluble apparition. They are space dolphins, dodging ice particles and debris; and when a craft flies by they swim alongside the ripples generated by the ship’s intrusion on Saturn’s magnetic zone. 

Neptune is aqualand;
named after its king. Mermaids, sirens and life-forms breathing by gills are subjects of his crown. Above surface is a perfect storm with occasional calms; and radical Bodhisattvas, enlightened ones, surf the magnanimous yet malevolent waves, impersonal waters cruel and charming. These who have attained beyond Nirvana paddle their silver surfboards to catch massive crests and ride them in victory, conquering the elements symbolizing karma, dharma and the limitations of mortality.

Big junkyard U
ranus: unfortunately designated. I mean...every house needs a toilet; every town, its sewer; and thus, Uranus is our pot of dung. But of much worth is found in things a galaxy throws away. If you know where to look. And Nidots do; Hobbit-sized tinkers that have one shared hole for mouth and anus. They eat garbage, process whatever nutrition in their digestive track, regurgitate the waste, and excrete items worth selling for a buck or two. Quantity matters; and entrepreneurial Nidots have amassed quite an empire on trinkets and knick-knacks.

Finally, Pluto:
relegated from planet status to a satellite frontier in the Kuiper belt – a remote celestial frost-jungle at the outer rim of the System. But that’s alright, `cos this is where I’m at, meditating. The frozen surface mirrors my heart, and I can see my many reflections too in the ice astride a chillier core. This creates an illusion; images bouncing off each other, as if millions of dear old me are trapped behind cold transparent sepulchres. Each silent I is different, my many avatars suited for a million worlds. Latent, resting, taking a break. Retreat from the hustle and bustle. And sometimes, in the frost, she is there, too; Sanguine Lover, snow queen and pompous goddess of my icy territory; a bit of me has evolved into her, over time...over long epochs, and that’s confusing. Who am I? Am I actually you, Sanguine Lover? Jai-I and the Perverted Penguin said Sha-Rronne is me in disguise; so too is Sharon. Sharon who shot her father, who killed me in my own film; which Vesper likes but never commented or made the family association. Does that make you her actually? My Sanguine Lover is Sharon? Is Sha-Rronne?

I need drugs; I need therapy.

79

Jahr lectures “It is wrong to say Sanguine Lover
is
Sha-Rronne. The right grammar is Sanguine Lover
as
Sha-Rronne...and Sharon.”

I’d arrived at Jahr’s house by
Led Zeppelin’s Stairway to Heaven
. At a fork, I could have taken a wrong turn and head towards
Highway to Hell
, the
ACDC
hit. Travelling, in my imagination, is via songs. Hits, by international artistes, are the major routes, whilst their lesser known numbers lead to less travelled spots. The advent of the Internet had also brought forth a glut of wannabe bands and singers; their lack of popularity (sometimes talent) and infinitesimal sales volume makes them isolated and secluded locations reached only by off-road tracks. But some of the destinations this obscure music brings to are incredibly unique and it’d be a matter of time, through word of mouth, and ‘mouse,’ before they become tourist hotspots. So swing out your music pods: scroll, select and teleport.

What Jahr means when he says ‘Sanguine Lover
as
Sha-Rronne, or Sharon,’ is the same as saying ‘Angelina Jolie
as
Lara Croft.’ Well, you can say Angelina Jolie
is
Lara Croft, but technically, that’s not right, for surely, Angelina Jolie
is not
Lara Croft. Angelina Jolie is Angelina Jolie and Lara Croft is Lara Croft. Angelina Jolie is merely
acting as
Lara Croft.

The key thing to remember
, according to the wisdom of Jahr, is the verb, ‘
act
.’

   “The whole of existence is a play,” he explicates, “and we are all actors in the director’s grand set.”

   “Who is the director?” I stuffed in.

Jahr did a waving motion, casting a spell to lock my infiltrating tongue.

   “Doesn’t matter who directs,” he says, “or who produces, finances, whatever...”

Jahr seems annoyed. He’s tappi
ng his cane on the floor in Morse code; multi-tasking; sending orders to his lawyers to conclude the
Kreator Nephlim
negotiations.

   “Yes...” he stares at me, reweaving his train of thought, “Yes, Sanguine Lover as Sha-Rronne, just as Angelina Jolie as Lara Croft. But the question you may now want to raise is, if Angelina Jolie is acting as Lara Croft, who then is Lara Croft? Lara is definitely not Angie, and I should know, I’ve met them both...” he wanders again. “Charming angels, the two of them...but different. Very different,” he repeats.

   “Lara, the Tomb Raider, as I’m sure you are aware, was born in fiction. When Angelina played her, she became that character in the film universe. But Lara Croft already existed way before Angelina possessed her, or for that matter, before any buxom model pretended to be this daughter of an English nobleman for promotional gimmicks to wet male appetites in game conventions and exhibitions. Lara Croft lives in her own world, doing what she does best, in her many forms. She is independent, she is real. But Angelina Jolie as Lara Croft is fake! She is just playing her in that frame, in that frame of time. Beyond that, Angelina has zip to do with Lara. Do you understand?” Jahr stares at me with all three eyes. The third, his mind’s eye, protruded from the folds of his forehead, very similar to the glans emerging from the foreskin during an uncircumcised erection. That ‘thing’ having a pupil and iris, ogling, is freaking scary.