God of the Game (Dreamstate) (5 page)

    My instincts told me to delay. I guess the four possessed not the patience, as the prize only went to the individual, or team, that brought back Rogol’s head. I had no intentions of challenging the wretched creature; I figured it was simply eas
ier to steal the head from the ‘victor.’

    So from m
y vantage point, it was first-class seating of the entertainment sport which was to begin in the hellish coliseum below. In my mind, I was playing out the tactics that could be applied to kill the Beast; would they work together to weaken the monster before betraying each other for the promise of glory and mammon, or would their adversity be on display from the start? Or, would Rogol get the better of them and slaughter all four wannabes? That being a potential outcome, I calculated strategies to lop off its head, instead.

    But before I indulge in fantasies of grandeur, it is best I provide a detailed description of Rogol the Be
ast. Standing more than twenty-feet, this blackened brute of pure muscle can tear a truck to two as simply as a Christian breaking bread. Its eyes glow a sickening scarlet, while its dirty dreadlocks, thick like vines, swing maniacally with enough force to smash boulders to sand. A choker hangs round its neck where torn limbs and decapitated heads dangle, some still bloodied, drooling faces of sudden terror, a testicle yet attached to a piece of leg; trophies taken from the vanquished, both to boast to, and to scare off, future opponents.

    Such grim scenery plastered the wasteland. Skeletons and rotting corpses littered the earth to the tune of buzzing flies. More remains of heroes and heroines, impaled on spears in odd postures
, as if frozen while grooving to a spastic remix of a bubblegum pop song.

    Rogol is a deformed son of Anak, a hunchback giant condemned to roam the land. Its evil blood is one third
Nephlim
, one third virgin bride, and one third unadulterated rabid beast. 

    The dames were about to attack. Transformed to full battle alert, arsenals appeared below their waist which could nuke an entire city.

   “Centaurs,” I said, “or maybe Minotaurs.” I wasn’t sure
of which tribe. Enhanced of course, not of Greek legend. It was a nick given anyway, street lingo, for bio-mechanical warriors with nuclear limbs. At a hundred-percent activation, their legs changed to tanks with an assortment of guns and rocket launchers, extending all angles to cover three-sixty degrees. A big boy’s ultimate toy, his wet dream.

    Bleach
ed Blue’s right hand was altered to a sniper rifle capable of firing armour piercing bullets at more than five kilometres away, while her left was ready to throw proton grenades.  Her partner, in contrast, was unmodified in the upper limbs. She put on a boxer’s pose, protecting her skull; perhaps to unleash a tirade of psychic waves to disorient the target. 

    But before they could act, a silvery object appeared in the sky, hovering just above Rogol’s he
ad. It had been there all along, cloaked in invisibility; it was now suddenly apparent. What looked like three teenage boys jumped out of the starship with acrobatic precision; their manoeuvre, lithe and agile. Two flitted in front of the goliath’s face as if to distract it, while a third, holding what looked like a magical dagger that gleamed whitish green, dived full forced at the creature’s top, hoping to stab, I think, into Rogol’s brain.

    Foiled. Rogol was not fooled. Flexible as they were, the kids weren’t contenders for the Beast’s brutal strength. With an acceleration double the speed of the boys
’, the monster flicked the one holding the knife with its overflowing hair, throwing him easily towards a rock face. He slammed into the cliff with such force that his body splattered on contact with the hard surface, similar to swatting a mosquito or a fly. The innards slimed, resembling a Salvatore Dali masterpiece, gelled with dark blood, comical, like Tom & Jerry cartoon; the eyeballs’ mocking expression, akin to laughing marbles scorning the warped experience of his own doom.

    The other two, too stunned to move
, shared equal fates. Rogol grabbed their heads with its gigantic palms, and squeezed like orange juice. They did a funny dance, frantic, jolting as if in electric shock, then to a sudden stillness. The Beast tossed their limp carcasses, and leapt stylishly to grab the silver spaceship. It caught the fuselage, and the modern plane looked like a model toy in its hand. It ripped it; a screaming Asian girl in chequered miniskirt was the pilot. Her helmet fell off; she couldn’t be more than eighteen.      

    Rogol held her upside down by the legs. All I could hear was her scream. She wore white panties. Rogol licked her terrified pussy over the cotton material with its forked tongue. Then it grunted, and with a show of strength, the iron arms pulled the thighs apart like the way I
would separate the drumstick from a tender-roasted chicken.  

    She was dead in two pieces.

12

    Time stopped after the schoolgirl’s death. The Centaur chicks doubted; the European guy calculated his options. I thought of the blade the boy brought; what manner of power did it possess? I sensed the dark gentleman shared the same contemplation.

    But we only had one second of pause. Rogol attacked. It charged directly at the white man like a speeding bulldozer. We were all caught unawares; and that was when I first saw a demonstration of the European’s craft. Calmly he bowed, and disappeared. He reappeared, teleported behind the Beast. The illuminating suit he wore fluttered in the hot wind.

    Rogol was
in top gear.  It rushed on, more earth shattering than a buffalo stampede. Next in line were the two gals. Brunette fired a psychic bullet. It hit Rogol with minimal impact, merely an ant bite of pain in the brain. The animal brushed her aside. Luckily she was quick enough to divert a force field to break her fall. She was scratched, but unharmed.

    Bleach
ed Blue wasn’t that fortunate. She prepared to unleash her firepower; but Rogol was quicker. For a mass its size, I am surprised by its speed. It braked suddenly; throwing Bleached Blue off balanced. Immediately, it took a lungful of air and breathed fire like a fucking dragon. I was impressed. Bleached Blue wasn’t. She was fried to crisp. Her metal parts melted and fused with charred flesh. I thought the final product looked quite arty. A modern, avant-garde centrepiece proud of Hell, fused to soil, molten and cooled, her droopy figure perpetually dumbfounded by an abandoned son of Anak’s prowess.   

    Then it came for me
, and I felt like I was going to pee in my pants. I wasn’t at all ready, unlike the rest (and look at their bad fate), and I dared not think what would be my outcome. My strategy was to scavenge, not be smacked in the thick of battle. I could not decide on my mode of defence, and I wanted to scream before my life was rudely snatched away; but my ego came to the rescue. By divine intervention, so to speak, I darted on impulse, and rolled, first to escape the pound of its fist, then the stamp of its feet.

    Rogol turned; but instead of facing
o’ dear me, its flaring nostrils met a stunned whitey who was trying to creep up for a mystical thwack. The European had hoped to take the Beast down by surprise from behind while it was busy erasing me from the face of this virtual ambit. But my tumbling actions spoilt everything for him. From the corner I could see his lips form, “Shit,” under the shades. He accepted his end calmly by whatever methods Rogol may have planned up its sleeve; but praise be to my skidding efforts, I lost control of my motions while evading the colossal creature, and knocked the Westerner off his stoic stance and to the side, just as fire flared once more from the mouth of the Beast to the spot his intended victim was first rooted.      

    The impact knocked his shade
s off, and I saw Pacific blue irises. But immediately, it was on him again. I expected a “thanks,” but I guess the urgency of the moment provided no exchange of words, as danger still lurked.              

    We were disorientated; but out of thin air, Rogol roared. It was a cry of anger and ache. For the first time it hurt. High in the sky, the mysterious dark man fired a thunderbolt at the monster’s back. I was amazed at his talents. The streaks of energy seem to appear from his opened palm. He threw caution to the wind, sweeping down low, constantly bombarding Rogol with calculated accuracy. This gave me time to check out the knife. It still glowed green, though weaker now. My AI guide provided info
rmation. It was an artefact created by Leper and the Gunk, developers of the game. The source of its potency was from its innate connection with Hell; and depending on the vigour of the wielder, it could possibly kill the Beast.

    I
, however, was not about to use something so precious so early, especially as I’d not discovered its full potential, and how it reacted to me. I belted and hid it, then ran closer to the battlefield. The East-European eyed me; perhaps in jealousy I got to the jewel studded dagger first.

    The other man was impressive. I think he was the only one who could match Rogol’s strength. The Euro
pean and I ended up sharing a seat on a boulder, enjoying the carnage. I bet we were both scheming how to steal the head after that third fella had done the job. He unexpectedly popped an apple; I took it. We both stared, munching on our fruit, an unspoken alliance. 

    I was yet waiting for the thanks that never came. Not even till today.

13

    Rogol seems to be regaining its composure. Each stroke was more confident, and that meant its challenger was now on the back foot.

   “C’mon, I think he needs help,” my East-Western compatriot mouthed. I saw my own reflection; still look good despite the adversity. My forehead was wrapped in a bandana, and from it grew spiky hair like a garden of alfalfa grass. I’m handsome, boyish and manly simultaneously, and clothed in a denim jacket. I exuded a carefree spirit, an opportunist willing to take advantage of situations whenever a plump carrot dangles.

    He walked off toward
s the war zone, jogging, as if to warm up like a substitute football player. I didn’t share his enthusiasm, but I didn’t want to be tagged a coward either.

    R
eluctantly I followed, copied his movements. When at close proximity, he unveiled a blaster, which he kept firing. It was a sight to behold; airborne, the dark-eyed warrior who had now sprouted alloy wings from his ribs shot electric currents; whilst on earth, the fair-skinned sportsman in sunglasses blasted a mean array of lazer beams at the Beast.

    They were succeeding. I now had to devi
se my part to play in the offence. I checked my stamina. The battery level was nearly full. I won’t run out of steam any time soon unless I obtained a walloping of gargantuan proportions. Next, I inspected my armaments, devices I’d picked up along the way. Besides the magical knife, I possessed loads of other gadgets from cannons to poison darts. Then I mused over my skill options. I had
Flash
, which allows me to move at super speed - actually slowing the course of time, and manipulating my molecules to advance at an accelerated rate. I got
Giant
, which makes me double my size, though this is useless against Rogol. And finally, I can opt for
Telekinesis
. I can move and fling stuff the size of a souped-up motorcycle, and also create force fields like that Brunette Centaur.

    Settled, I chose
Flash
(which already saved me once intuitively) and
Telekinesis
. I liked the idea of chucking boulders at that abominable creature. As for weapons, a standard blaster would do. A ray of light beamed, coagulating the pixels to one spot, and the gun appeared, ready in my hand, wired to my brain.

   Now I had to locate a spot. I scanned Rogol for
structural weaknesses, my Guide returned with none. Since aerial and ground attack has been covered, my clear option was to flank the Beast on both sides. I commanded a jet pack, and then activated my latest gift, which was
Multiplicity
. This is cool, the first time I’m using outside simulation since mastering the power. I split to two, identical copies of my being right down to my clothing and stance.

    It would be beneficial to add here the state of mind for such an insta
nce. At the point of fission, my memories will suddenly fork; my twin-forms absorb experiences singly, although communication by telepathy is natural; and until we choose to unite, we can actually proceed with separate lives.

    There is a danger that the divided personalities may not want to re-fuse; usually, from what I’d read, due to the different encounters while in severance, which leads to the decision to stay independent. I can’t help but feel sentimental whenever I read
the tragic stories of Two-Face, Jackyl & Hyde and Schizo, who are basically two persons sharing one birth and the same history up to a dot in time. At least for Schizo, I know she retains a core, where journeys and experiences are stored and accessed by all the ‘sisters’; not two, but three, four and growing. It has become her obsession to multiply and populate worlds, heavens and dimensions with varied interpretations of herself.