God of the Game

Dreamstate is a fantasy in my novel. It was the high I got as a dance addict. The imaginations seducing me under the strobe lights, then spewing me out into an all-possible future. I saw things; wicked things, funny things, things that got me longing, lusting; things that got me thinking. It was another name for heaven, the heaven I imagined…how absurd life would be in it. How ridiculous if we could live forever, eternity as our playground, infinity our games.

But it did happen; Dreamstate dawned. Well it need not actually, for it possessed the same desired effect as death. Scientists called it the Singularity; mystics, Doomsday. Religion’s term was the Second Coming (there was always a notion of a great god returning to Earth in the literature of faith, regardless ancient or contemporary). The aliens have landed. It was all the same. It was one big bloody death, a mass killing. As I said, its desired effect was similar to the last breath, the end of life…the afterlife. It didn’t matter whether you were fused with alien technology, transformed to a digital being, burned in hell, fucking in heaven, casting magical spells, battling dragons, one with a consciousness, or merely fading away. It did happen, all of the above, and much, much more.

This is Dreamstate. I live in Dreamstate, though I only use the term. Everyone calls it to their own abbreviations. Dancing in the colours of the rainbow, dying in a role-playing game, making love in a bubble that opens up to the Garden of Eden, running un-tired across all terrains, jumping from planet to planet, rock to rock with one mighty leap, ruling universal territories, building dimensions, populating the moons, possessing a harem of genome, DNA of life, the codes to creation. This is Dreamstate. I have it all; I live it all.

And yet there is a lack. The insatiable nature gnawing a hole in my stomach with every bite of food that I swallow. Shit streaming in diarrhoea, like an alien stuck to the anus, sucking out faeces together with my intestines even as I eat to replenish my being. What is it? Have I not done away with my raw negative emotions of life forgone in a mortal age? Have I not grown out of my human ache and affliction when I donned this new garment of grace? I am eternal, but feel undead. At times. And I begin to realize that being undead is merely an angle to life. The emptiness spurs us on, the unending hole to create, to perpetually fill it, and yet, continually hunger. It is an engine of creation, this lack. It’s not depression…just a big empty. A big natural empty.

Strange but expectedly, a longing cascades its elegant gown on my psyche, like a bride’s train flowing down the aisle behind her waltz. And I embraced it, drowned in it, encapsulated by it; I shiver to taste my death, my spectral beyond, like ecstasy, rapture, and I was unquestionably ready, ready to cross over, to know for myself new encounters that will further enrich and prosper my existence. I am ready, indeed I am.

My deficit evaporated instantly. In Dreamstate, one does not linger in remorse. Life is bright and bubbly (though we so often explore the darkness). But occasionally, one requires a boost, propulsion to keep us going, to keep us exciting, to try new things; and again, I’m ready, I am.

I dance. I dance the human dance on the floor in Club Utopia - pogo in Zeus, mosh in Tartarus and float in Orpheus; feeding my brain with endorphins, sweat and grime slowly purifying the soul to nostalgia. I was taken back to the first time, my virgin dance steps, the awkward awful desire to impress a girl, or rather, to ensure I not look like a fool…though I’m sure I failed quite miserably. Fond memories.

Then to my real event with a girlfriend; she inspires me to dance my darkness away. A complicated fool and a carefree sanguine; slowly she chased the shyness and coaxed the happiness in me, paving my destiny, initially with a morsel of joy caught between my throat and lung, then finally a gigantic rush like the hallucinatory explosion of a waterfall. I found my call.

But of course, she was beautiful, and she sounded like she wanted to fuck (which we eventually did). We broke up in the end, yet remained friends. I catch myself stroking to the reels of thoughts involving her in my head. Yes, even now in my godlike state, and certainly more when I was on Earth.

Reminiscences of that planet are strongest in Utopia; and the recollections of her, the greatest. More so than those of Gee Ni. She was my favourite, the only of the exes I stayed in touch with throughout our Earthlives. I wonder where she is? I’d made a point not to remember, not to seek her out, but allow chance and the fortune of eternity to roll the die and play its course; for we will eventually meet, more than once, more than one, like gods and pet phoenixes, maker and destroyer, terrible in glory, die in the eye and write new mysteries, new histories…new stories.

I closed my mind’s eye and opened my natural sight; bogus humans to my front, back and side. I’d enjoyed dancing while alive. I still do, now, ultra-alive. I used to imagine stuff when I grooved; future stuff, magic stuff, sex stuff. I used to imagine the universe populated, and everyone jiving to the sounds. Now, it’s true.

When I strut, miracles flower, colours take on a vivid hue, a solid state, they bend to the motions of hand like to a fairy’s wand, opening portals in thin air akin to the vulva or a cock’s little slit. More often, they ride on three-dimensional space, like augmented reality. Animation pops up, similar to the canopy of an artist’s palette; a moment the woman has butterfly wings, voice bubbles in air, self-illustrating t-shirts, Manga beings, 2D images of childhood monsters living side-by-side with adult entertainment.

But that’s outside this demented place called Utopia. I am merely human here. Savouring the salt of perspiration, the palpitation of heart, the throbbing in the veins of my head as blood rushes to the brain. The tiredness of limbs, the hoarseness of throat and the scorching of tongue. I’d traded my divinity for flesh and bone; incongruous, but a primal need remains, the packing order of things, the social strata. The desire, the attraction, the flirtation; like animals in ritual mating calls, a peacock’s erected plumage, his boasted dog and her bloated cupcake. It’s the same in gods, ape and man; he rubs her in the secret and sensitive garden, and the next generation is spawned; but more so in gods and man, he wastes (again and again) countless sperms, committing to death his children with no hope of being born at each spit of the dick’s, but only to be collected by Morpheus, the god of dreams, through his funnel, and into the cellars, dormant, then fed to the factory when a purchase order is signed, a modern assembly line, robotic and fully automated; it constructs new homes for this once dejected seeds to grow and mature to full-fledged beings, and no more will their unfulfilled dreams be denied.

A tiny pill of magic I have in my pocket. I tire of the frames fleeting across my stripped-down brain. Documentaries of world politics, cartoons and blockbuster movies, cult classics, indigenous music, rock stars and international bestselling novels. Friends, Gee Ni and relationships, my second lover and a dead buddy with his estranged wife. Lust, porn and disgust. Masturbating starlets. Handjobs. Footjobs. Fantasies, reality, success and failure, my poor fragile skin condemned to die and rot, to feed the earth and worms; to dust I become, merely a twinkling of the eye, gone; how much more my memories, as vapour in the sky. Do I long for a little sorcery, a little incantation, a tiny spell to evoke. I am bored, how can destiny be fused to a disco named after the pursuit of an ideal but nonsensical style of past life; my Earthlife? I mock it, a splinter in the cell that is all, for now I am god, eternal. And infinite is my might.

A tiny pill of magic I have in my pocket. I’d hidden it, sneaked it in, masked the divination of the witch with a counter charm as I dropped off my powers at the door. She was dumb, worthless. I would have fired her if I were the boss. Paid good money after all. Stupid bitch. Stupid boss. They deserve each other, fooled by the hands of a trickster god…haha…me. Not that I’m bothered if I’m caught. I know Jai-I, I know DJ Trekz. Not that I’ve been caught. It takes more to capture a master of the game, especially not by those worshipping frail humanity. How they wish actually; I wonder how often they’d been duped.

At an opportune time I sucked the tablet and farted out a flame, an invisible blue flame. It spun in the congested air. I was in Tartarus at that moment, watching the Nudes perform, a rock band notorious for playing naked on stage. The lead singer’s dick leapt about, the guitarist’s butt-cheeks were covered with tattoos, the drummer played with three sticks, and the only one with any article of clothing on was the gal bassist who spotted a bright glow-light bra. She had a mighty-hairy red gold and green Rasta inspired bush though, I noticed and remarked to my over-pierced neighbour when she released the strap of that four-string guitar after the encore. They all wore army boots, their trademark style.

The audience behaved in mass paranoia, believing they saw monsters. The organizers weren’t sure if it was the free flow of drugs, and the band thought their music conjured hallucinatory fuck. I knew better. My flatulence got them all. Screwed with their brain. They did see monsters…monster rape to be precise. Tentacles with testicles tore out from the ground and ravaged them. All this happening in a subliminal region of the cortex, and I am sure some sick pervert in the surveillance room is recording this event even as he picks out spikes in the energy reading barometer. Tuning the vision into the right sub-altered frequency will allow those streaming data from Utopia’s mainframe to view the carnage caused by my pet beast. I should be able to get a pirated copy of my artistic handiwork in the black market. I hear there’s an exhibition next week by neo-artists in a grindhouse, and perhaps I can obtain a spot and squeeze my masterpiece in as one of the exhibited pieces.

Pleased and gloated with self, I stealthily 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 with 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 cuts the air. The inebriated revellers stumbled, my seductress stumped. Leisurely, I led her to an enclave for two, even as mass hysteria builds.