God of the Game (Dreamstate) (8 page)

    Pleased and gloated with self, I s
tealthily exited the Rock arena and climbed upstairs. A maenad grabbed me in an orgy fair and stuck her intoxicated tongue in my mouth. I returned favours. She was ferocious. Biting till I bled. I think she imagined herself a vampire, a gothic indulgence. And it dawned on me that she’s mortal. No, she didn’t have to unload her potency with the red-haired witch collecting energy forces at the door; this poseur bitch had nothing in store. She could just walk in through the front entrance with no security checks. Cheap bait, I presume the bouncers thought, for men to spend more money. She looks like the type that easily gets horny. Free drinks too, I presume, one too many; that would explain her drunken state.

    On the other hand, she sounds as if she’s in Utopia to feel powerful; an unfortunate illusionary essence of strength
, my darling. Banking on her powers of seduction, she hopes to be empowered, taunting the will of god-men. No wonder she was driving me towards her gang – the collective muscle of powerless entities huddling tight together. Right at the centre of this flesh-fest was the exploitation of a starved skinny, moustachioed man. Mortified, his Bavarian swirl was chopped off but for the flimsy airstrip beneath the nose’s bridge. His skeleton draped with a thin layer of skin with hardly any meat inside. His degradation was complete with diapers. He had one on. It hung heavy with waste against his groin. Gravity beckoned, muddy gravy of brown and yellow dripped thick, seeping out to his thighs, pulling the napkin to the floor together with the underweight man, his stance struggling with the load. Everything was wrong. A mutant baby too tall, too thin; bald too, but not in an infant way. Patches of hair remained on the head as if mine bombs ate a field; the rest looked like it’d been rudely torn away. His scalp was stained with dried blood, and his engorged eyes were as if he were about to cry. They were vacant, staring blankly to beyond.

    The mob pelted him w
ith manure; pig entrails wrapped round his throat. He stood trembling, absorbing it, accepting this fate that could not be changed. I could smell the decay from here. The sexy tart pushing her nipples too far…pushed her luck too far…I felt it, the two buds, stiffened, and impaling into my chest. I kissed her again as if suckered by her sting, the next victim inviting faeces to the face. A big satyr stepped forward, shouting obscenities into the ear of that poor man. He cringed, his eardrums exploded, a phizog of pain shot past his nerves to the brain. Next, the huge brute shat down his throat. Everyone copied, and then peed on him. Menstruating women made him suck their tampons, before ordering him to swallow. He whimpered on the floor, a perverted contentment, and his humiliation was complete when he was commanded to banquet on his own vomit as well as the pudenda and foetuses which were smeared on the ground.

    Her evil eyes invited mine; she gave a wicked smile, drawing the crowd to consume me, like zombies to fresh meat. The horde surrounded, but I had other plans. Eat this! Blue vapour filled the room; a traceless odour cut
s the air. The inebriated revellers stumbled, my seductress stumped. Leisurely, I led her to an enclave for two, even as mass hysteria builds.   

17

    Gods are cruel. That’s because we already know the fate of men. In the eyes of beings with temporary lives, our actions are brutal and merciless. But we know better. All that has been made cannot be unmade; all that exist cannot cease to exist. Life which is born will carry on living in one form or another, even after death, even after many deaths.

    But short-sighted worms cannot comprehend this dilemma. For them it is only guess work,
their luck after. It helps much for the inhabitants of Syurga and the omniverse that divine creatures live side-by-side, giving hope of existence after expiration, after the candle had been snuffed out. Unlike my bastard time on Earth, a pure guessing game. Faith we called it. We didn’t have a clue, only a gut feeling. Providence the children now have. Lucky. Blessed. They have a chance to take on any form at the point of death. Question is, which? There are infinite variables, and like a Russian roulette, they don’t know their doom. It lies in the hand of the god who created them, or in the cog of an eternal machine.

    I guess the lack of knowledge screws the brain. The fear of pain, or the manner of demi
se, what will they be afterward. But a tantalizing arousal is present simultaneously next to the morbid and macabre. They pang for their extinction, the blowout. So great is this excitement that even now we return, time and again, to experience death, to reincarnate. Gods debasing themselves unashamedly…like sex…like masturbation…like food and water…like art and entertainment. We need it no matter who we are; this masochistic gore.

    Mortals need not fear. When we inflict great suffering, and when we bring an end to breathing, we harvest the souls. What we do with the soul is our business, but even if you
manage to envisage the most gruesome hell…you’ll somehow still enjoy it. An orgasmic torment blossoming in the deepest and darkest tar pit.

She was under my spell. Obediently she got on her knees to fellate me. Her plump succulent mouth on my plump succulent cock. I made her work back, back to my balls, and on to my asshole. I moaned a little, and rattled out bubbly beads of gas from the anus like a firing Uzi. It caught her perfectly in a gaping O. The devaluing reek creaked into her orifice, down the throat and lung, invading the blood, mixing with oxygen, and then, carried on to the brain…

She SCREAMED!!!

    I reclined to enjoy the show. She was a mad woman peeling off flesh. At first, she giggled with amusement as if seeing something funny, flicking her clit, her eyes crossed, looking into another dimension; drool balancing like a ballerina on the chin. And then terror struck. The eyeballs widened, ballooning out from the sockets. Her fingers dug and tore the vagina. She shrieked, and suddenly nails were grappling at the navel, tugging, yanking, pulling; burrowing into the belly. Marks appeared. She screeched again, hands to the face this time, clawing into the skull through the holes of the face. The bitch groaned and moaned; a crossbreed of sexual ecstasy and unadulterated horror. Her vocal cords were loud, a boisterous cum, a bellow of fear. But soft, limp, all of a sudden; whispers and murmurs unintelligible, speaking in tongues; only she understood. The stare, empty like shards of broken glass piercing;
a crystal chandelier crashing down outside, pinning the crowd under
. Death infusing, the vast loneliness of space, imploding…imploding…imploding.

    The same event was happening on two levels of existence. I could only view the crazy chick mutilating herself; didn’t want to risk exposing my magic. Later
, I got a copy of the mayhem I generated from a trusted inter-dimensional digital pirated dealer.

    Prepare the chaos.            

    In the auxiliary parallel of truth, a prime steak hung from her pussy. Prying through, like a baby’s paw, was a loose fold of skin. Scrotum peeping out of the vulva till a ball dropped out. That got her tickling. Abruptly, she was the proud owner of a male generational orb. Then popped another; its twin. She tittered once more; and what seemed like a penis sprouted from her cunt. The lady was chuckling comically now, entertained by the testosterone-tool emerging from her body. A
dicksy chick
she became.

    But soon the giggles turned to hoots, and the hoots to a nasal gurgling, like
overdubs for foreign cartoons, shrill-sounding cute characters often present for slapstick effect to cajole children or the idiot child in us. Glued-eyes on TV, on cinemas, on monitors, and even on our mental screens. We can’t look away, it’s so funny, it’s so appalling, so grotesque. So appealing to our senses so in-tuned to horror…

    And I was watching. Watching like a dumb ape witnessing another gorilla bludgeoning its offspring, stunned to shock. Watching like a loser wanking over porn, too spastic to stop. Addiction. Obsession. Revelling in pathetic mutilation. Drooling in humiliation. I can’t stop, not even if someone walks
into the room; `cos I’m about to blow my muck! The visitor is laughing as I contort and explode. I enjoy it, this shame, this mortification, this disgrace…
and then she detonates
.

    Blood and organs everywhere. Pulp. Matter; bits and pieces of flesh decorated the walls and floor. An octopus flopping about. But it had two head
s, which were actually two spheres, two giant testicles. And what were tentacles flying around behaved more like alien penises.
My pets
.

    They clawed
out of her. The balloons protruding from her pink diamond bloated as if water was pumped in them. The weight soon dragged on her, pulling her down; she sat. She was a little girl bouncing on two big, purple, venous, exercise balls, the cords attached from deep within her fallopian tubes.

    Then the dick grew. L
arger than any man’s erection, Godzilla’s or King Kong’s. Her expression marvelled initially; that was before a
scaly limb wrapped round her, before it suckered on her skin for a demonic hickey. And that was when she screamed. Her nerves whacked confused, colliding with pleasure, pain, awe, disgust, disdain, comedy, tragedy, hysterics, dementia, schizophrenia, fun, funny,
haha
...boohoo. Tears, death and the climax of sexual catastrophe. She inhaled, she received and revered and lived it all. Breathed it all. She was the sacrifice. The altar, too. Burnt offerings were placed on her being, set alight, consumed and accepted by the
Kreators
.

    And another tentacle burst from her. From her belly this time, like a fountain shoo
ting a spray of red paint, evolving to a bloody pissing competition. And the room was drenched. Wet graffiti art slowly taking shape. Her arteries and aorta were entwined with the humongous testicular cords somehow, making her the source, the mother of fucks and games. Eyes rolled up white; a giant flesh-eating flower was blossoming from her stomach much akin to a malicious potted plant. What used to be digestive organs blended and spewed red carnage, like a Gatling gun firing nonstop; chunks of meat chugging as if an invisible hand was drawing a twisted circle of territorial pissing. Picture an inept kitchen help, absentminded of the lid for the blender, pressing start - a massacre of mince pork, or should I say human flesh, flying out. The chef outraged, the kitchen help finds the blade of the blender encrusted on his forehead, similar to a shuriken thrown by a household appliance, a mechanical ninja.

    She was taken up to heaven on a chariot like Elijah; a new
born goddess is crowned, one with inseminating intestines swimming out of the belly. An avenger of women. Welcomed and embraced in the arms of Jahr, ensconced and protected in his family, given a seat and position in the courts. The wives, concubines, children and gay lovers of the great god congratulated her. And her eyes opened. Pearl white. Aflame. A stabbing stare sliced my sight. The celestial beauty was coming for me, lusting revenge. Lady octopus reached out with one of her many limbs. I scurried; I panicked. I wet my pants. Twisting and turning to run, but my escape was barred. I clawed at the bloody walls, fingernails scratching on bricks. They peeled, stained with chalky dust. Was behaving as a dog locked in a car at noon, ripping the cushions, but only to be found dead three hours later. A dog timid, scampering from its aggressors, continuously turning back to look at the proximity of the threat.                        

    My eyeballs were marbles. From the c
orner I see my ruin. A slithery serpent shaped hardened claw tangled round my neck, choking the wind and food out of my trachea and oesophagus, lifting me off ground. My arms and legs flew, pathetically; wetting myself again. The limbs were jerking in minute combustions. Legs kicking, but running nowhere. Another spiny limb slid up my arse, a tentacle in the hole. Penetrating. A cavity search, an anal probe. I sang a song, a broken melody nauseating out of my mouth uncontrollably; pitching problems, jumping octaves whenever her spider-like arms stretched from her abdomen, squeezing an organ inside my body. Lunch came spewing, slimy and drooling, I danced a funny dance of twitches, spasms, as if I were a puppet in the hands of a ventriloquist deity. I look funny, odd, like a parrot under mind control, mumbling high and low, humming a popular tune, but not very discernible.

    In the end, I started screaming; so horribly, so terrible and petrified, the sound a man makes without his dick, begging, “
Pl...please...help…help...me...somebody…argghhh…”
I gurgled,
“Please...I’m...sorry...I...promise...to...be...good...promise...not to hurt you... pl…please...for...give...me...don’t...hurt...me…mummy…please…please…argghh…argghh
” It wasn’t my usual tone of voice; it was a girl’s screech. I’d lost my Adam’s apple just as I’d lost my balls. But to no avail. She was uncompromising. Instead, the queen, this female god, my ex-victim, chewed my digestive organs; the octopus-monster inhabiting her tummy now clutching me by the arsehole. I was like a basketball in its grip, swaying as in a wind, a tornado or hurricane. It loosened its hold on my throat, I breathed a little, and was supported by what felt like a rod skewered in the anus right through to my chest. I vomited again; the tentacle drilling my heart…then my brain, controlling my every movement. Spasmodic convulsions ceased my nervous system, directing the flow of motion like a traffic cop. My breath was robbed from me once more, the sufferings of one nailed to a crucifix, and I grooved; a jig, a history lesson on dance culture: the salsa, tango, ballet, modern, freestyle, tap, the twist, cha-cha, belly dancing, joget, flamenco ...sometimes all at once. And finally, an abrupt end, a stop precisely synchronized to whatever music it was she was composing. The heavenly hosts adored and applauded her masterpiece, even cooperating and participating, joining as a choir in melodious and harmonious parts: bass, tenor, alto; she was soprano. Others were the orchestra, many even with instruments engraved in their ribs, like the Morning Star, Vesper’s brother.