61. Tapestry 13
The master-bedroom, red and ugly; and the mattress, soggy, with bloodied magazine pictures of sexy women lying on top. Above, hanging from right ankle is a naked Mr. Wong, slaughtered with his throat slit like an abattoir chicken. His free left leg is kicking, for whatever reason; and in a funny way, he looks relaxed, his deadened composure captured, as if it is a photograph of a man diving into a bloody bed of his own desire.
When they cut the pale corpse down, Mrs. Wong is crying, confessing to the crime. Investigators only half believe her. If it is true, she must have at least one accomplice. How can a 50 kg woman lug a man almost twice her weight and hang him from the ceiling? And without a pulley in sight, too? No sign of struggle, Mr. Wong was killed by the incision at the jugular while aerial.
But the trouble is that Mrs. Wong does not remember anything else; she’s only admitting, frightfully admitting, that she is the culprit. She is the murderer. Why? Because she dreamt the exact same scene last night, after their altercation, after he’d grabbed the pillow and bolster and crashed onto the living room settee. She’d discovered his porn collection, (his usually locked drawer – supposedly containing investment documents – was not), and she kicked a fuss. But no, she was not upset...not really upset, just a bit wounded and hurt.
She slept alone, weeping on their wedding bed, and falling to slumber after a good cry, feeling a little melancholy. When she awoke in the nightmare, she was the one on the couch. He’d found pictures of naked men; the roles were reversed. She could not sleep, shrouded by reproach as in a heavy blanket, she wanted to apologize. She needed to. So she timidly climbed the stairs, quietly wound the doorknob, slowly entered the chamber.
She screamed and she retched and she woke up. Then she screamed and she retched and she fainted. Evilly, the two states had merged. Mrs. Wong did not dream how it’d occurred; Mr. Wong had already journeyed on to the afterlife in this mortifying position. But she was convinced it was she, she who jerked the knife, she who strung him up there. How the hell she did it, she does not know. All she remembered was that she wanted it, she imagined it; perhaps it was just playful, girlish vengeance, but she recalled entertaining the morbid thought; he, butchered exactly the way he was found when she was incensed, hugging and soiling the bed-sheets with uncontrollable sobs.
Now it’s true. Now it’s become a reality. And all that fills her mind this moment, all that gives her respite and an abode, as CSI click and bag evidence, is the innocent portrait of her child...their one and only prodigious child, her precious son, Wong Boom Bong.
---
Master Wan is riled, his cloak fluttering everywhere, wizardry vials and flacons flying violent in a tornado of putrefaction, a storm made up of unstopped corks, and the contents rifling and bubbling in demonic hues, smoke even appearing like sprites; spiritual realms and rooms are collapsing, portals closing, hybrid creations within wiped clean; reset to zero, start again.
No doubt, all too dramatic, all in the name of too much flair; but the Master is one for palaver and exaggerated parades. And because? The newspapers, and all other media, are calling him a kiddie molester. Worse, a child rapist, a paedophile.
Apparently they caught him, “...the police now have in custody the most dangerous abuser of youngsters’ minds and posteriors; he is a fifty-year-old indigenous male suffering from priapism, a medical condition...” he read aloud; “What a joke; don’t make me laugh,” Master Wan croaked, “mistaking me for that fat, pathetic fetishist. Don’t insult me!”
Underneath the pompous sarcastic demeanour, hysterical and satiric of police folly, the Master is honestly quite offended over the trifling comparisons to a pervert.
“Me, a paedophile?” he barked, “That hurts my reputation. I mean, how else can I get to the head but through the anus? Don’t ask me why? Ask the books...” he pointed at the alchemic volumes of encyclopaedia now strewn about; some on the floor, some hovering midair, and yet, some in between worlds – limbo, where evil spirits dwell. His poor apprentice would have to pick them up...by magic or manual, he’ll leave to that donkey.
“Ask god! Besides, it’s not that I fucked those poor children; all I did was I inserted my wand,” he winked, and swore he washed the twelve-inch enchanted stick after each kid. “And me, they imagined me with a dick...with a pitiable human organ...? How dare they?! I am Nephlim.” He zapped-pow the thick, bolted door and marched outside.
The Igor assumed housekeeping tasks. In the foreground, Master Wan is brewing lightning and thunder. The revered Wan has a habit of talking out loud to himself, perhaps the side-effects of too much isolation conjuring spells and potions. Outside, it’s a lush balcony of greens and creepers and rare and even extinct flowers. Overlooking, it’s fairytale land, the womb of bedtime stories, a child’s chronicle. “Everything starts with the kids. You want the world, possess the innocent,” Master Wan bellows. The stage is set for his young antichrist, the teenage anarchist; he’d forgotten about his earlier ostentation, he is now consumed by a new one. Master Wan glances at his cheap digital watch, presses a combination of buttons that go ‘dit-dit, dit-dit-dit’, and all over, in the government secured vault, the eyes of children twitch as they sit up and kill the first adult in sight.
---
This is not some Clive Barker production, neither the Village nor the Children of the Damned. This is the end of the world, William Borg thought. They’d caught the wrong person, or did they...? Maybe that fat bastard is piloting mayhem from his head...
He had no time to muse however, for the children are children no more. They are closer in resembling apparitions, or even angels right out of the Bible, an upgrade of the spontaneous combustion canine spectres witnessed around the world.
The scientists were the first to go, they just melted, disintegrated. William Borg didn’t believe in God. He was created by man. It’s not that he didn’t want to by reason of philosophical rationalization or mathematical computation, he just couldn’t. It was out of his protocol. His priority was to contain the situation. Should the danger extend beyond the secured zone of the police headquarters, he was certain from the extractions of objective calculation that World War Four would begin.
---
Saved by the bell. The abominable two-headed cop rushed outside. Earlier they’d forced him to strip. They laughed at his uninterrupted erection; then one of them gazed leeringly. Muhammad ‘Tongkat’ Ali doesn’t know who’s worse; the one that’s rude and insulting and tempestuous, threatening to saw off his ancient rock; or the other, who’s always flying off to a flirtatious pose at the end of every ‘so called’ ominous sentence made, which sounded, to Ali’s seasoned mind, more like fantasy webcam sex, with the exception that this (unreciprocated) seduction was played out in front of the evidence recording camera. Good cop bad cop routine, all very perplexing.
Now, he’s tied up nude in a small white room, awaiting execution, which comes in the form of a ghost. A familiar ghost, one whose manifestion is durian and semen - white creamy plasma - as if melted flesh sloshing all over the un-rested spirit seeking retribution.
That was the substance of its last waking memories, the anal torment by ‘Tongkat’ Ali administering fruit-enema. So now, with reckoning in hand, the ghoul approaches a whimpering Ali, and for once throughout his cursed lifetime, his appendage softened, and stayed that way.
---
Prior to the carnage, Roanna Fausi had already smelled something fishy. She has a sneaky suspicion concerning Pomelo Anderson’s business venture. “That brainless bitch is up to no good. And besides, how can someone as dumb as her start a chain of restaurants?” Roanna mused, “She must have outside help. There must be someone else behind the entire operation. It cannot be only Pomelo.”
Roanna Fausi will not accept the fact that it is plausible under the dumb blonde deportment Pomelo Anderson could be a shrewd entrepreneur. Just using that stupid face to hide devious plots; now, that would make her arch nemesis an infernal contender. Roanna Fausi may deny this vehemently, but she’s worried because support is waning. See, Roanna, based on the advices of her publicist cum campaign manager, has merely been appealing to the emotional void of the public after the War. People are discontented over the current administration, but at the same time, they’d learn to live around the corrupt legislation. Through bribery and black markets, society survives, and some may even say, thrives.
For more than twenty years humankind has sieved through the wreckage hoping to find a sliver of their former selves, but when vast natural resources have been swallowed by the tyranny of battle, tomorrow can always wait. Today we must eat. Leave cultural heritage out; let world-famous monuments be covered in moss and their facades dilapidate; allow commercial buildings to be desecrated, raped by homeless families. Let us only think about beauty, about aesthetics, when our tummy is fed, and fed continuously, at that.
A promise, Roanna gives a promise, a rally cry to hold our hunger pangs for a better future, delayed gratification; but Pomelo Anderson provides cheap food, food which not only fills the stomach, but models the masses after her.
What would women give to assimilate the most lusted over female in the world, and men large diverse packages? Not much it seems, (only nine ninety-nine for Tuesday’s buffet), but because it is very affordable and it satiates their growling stomachs, Roanna didn’t stand a chance. It’s not that Pomelo’s running for office, but as long as Maslow’s physiological needs of sustenance and cosmetic beauty are met, humans won’t be bothered by her dream of a better mankind no more.
Pomelo Anderson, according to the campaign manager, must be stopped at all cost.
---
Away from all this madness, in a closed-circuit community, Brit Patt is adapting to his new life. They grow their own produce, raise their own cattle; they don’t adhere to the self-imposed sufferings of those worldly deniers of Christ. They pray for them though, and leave the rest to the will and wisdom of the meek and gentle Saviour.
“It is inevitable for those who do not follow the narrow way to fall into the jaws of destruction; for broad is the way, and sheer cliffs are at the end of it,” the abbot preached.
In a private time with Brit Patt, strolling in the vineyard, the former male celebrity of the year asks, “How do you deal with your inner demons? How do you deal with your compulsive sins?”
The righteous man of God quoted excerpts from Romans chapter seven, and concluded that it is not Brit Patt who sin, but rather, sin itself that sin! And since Brit Patt and sin are not one and the same, they can easily exterminate sin.
This the world does not realize. Men think they are hooked on to sin, and women think they are sin, and the world is evil because of their desires and sufferings.
“But you know better, man is separate and not responsible for sin,” the abbot concluded.
Another occasion, in the abbot’s dank study, which smelled of musk and rosewood, Brit Patt, who was still struggling with this doctrine, asked if there was any technique to secede sin.
He admitted, due to the many years at the forefront of the entertainment industry, his spiritual senses had been dulled. Mr. Patt confessed, with phlegm and mucus, that he was an Onanist even in the midst of this holy environment and amongst pure brothers.
In fact, he felt even more condemned than before, and in thrall to his weakness, he is professing the possibility of taking his own life.
The abbot smiled. He started telling the story of his youth, dealing with his own set of sins. And since it was many forgotten years ago, before the War, yes, even before the bitter battles of the decades, World War Three, which ravaged the Earth, the abbot was but a twenty-something-year-old just out of college, and he’d come upon the teaching, ‘it is not he that sin but sin that sin;’ and he grappled, yes he grappled, he struggled with his own set of sins, which he could not overcome, till the Master, the one who originated this thinking, suggested a simple exercise.
He, like Brit Patt now, was also in tears, contemplating suicide, disgusted with his prurient self. He therefore understood what the new recruit was experiencing, the torment, the will wanting to do what’s right, but inescapably submerged by the flood of iniquity. If this dogma is so easy and natural, why then is it so hard to adhere? To carry out? Yes the abbot could relate every inch; and Brit Patt felt comforted in the presence of one so wise, one so strong, so experienced of his own turmoil. But most importantly, he was with someone who had rooted out his carnal dilemma. Surely he can learn from this man.
“That simple exercise,” continued the abbot, “which the Master suggested was to imagine sin as a person. This person is on his knees. This person is grovelling and begging for his life. This person is dirty and filthy and dressed in rags. This person has a gun in his mouth, or at the back of his head.” He paused. “This person is crying...he is crying out to you. He is begging you for mercy; he is saying, ‘For the love of God...please...I have a family’, or whatever else crap he’s got coming out of his mouth. This person is promising you riches; if it’s a girl, she’s promising you a good time. This person, he is promising you fame. He is promising...if you let him...if you let him go...you can have anything, anything you want in this world, all your troubles will be over. In fact, this person is promising, if you spare his life, a trembling tone in his voice, if you spare his life, you won’t see him again...you won’t sin again...he’ll disappear...it’ll all be all right.” The abbot shakes his head and warns the younger, “Don’t believe this person. No!” he bangs the table; Brit jumps. “Don’t ever believe this person! This person is Satan! And no matter how much he begs, no matter how much he cries,” the abbot’s eyes are ballooning, he’s taking something out of his drawer, “you hold that gun firm in your hand. Like the way I’m doing now...” Brit’s pupils dilate, his jaw vibrates... “And you pull that fucking trigger!”
---
Another man staring down the barrel of a weapon is Manny Masculine. Madam Medusa is oblivious to this – everyone is, in fact, everyone except for the dealers - but the small bodybuilder has got a drug problem: the pressures of the ghetto and staying at the top of competitive sports. That’s where his money goes. And with Rex’s ineptness to the cops, and the mismanagement of his cash prizes, Manny is owing gangsters big time.
Will he ask the Madame for help? Of course not. On the contrary, she is not to know. This is his problem; he’ll deal with his own problem.
But Manny ain’t dealing too well. Right now, the big, two-meter-tall guy just crushed his knuckles; and he’s thinking how the hell is he gonna keep this from her? Next, they kick him in, five, six of them. He’s no good to them dead, corpses can’t pay, they just give a little warning, and an unwanted souvenir. Then they leave him to recuperate in the ditch.
The boss - hairy chest under a gold chain and some swanky suit - says they’ll see him again next week. Make sure he has the Ks along this time, if he doesn’t want anymore dysfunctional body parts. They laugh their gangster laugh as they enter their gangster cars. The engines vroom, they pull away, and suddenly, tyres burst, and the wheels give way, splayed under the deadweight of concrete drivers and cemented passengers.
Big boss, having just lighted a cigar, and planning to jack up some high-class call-girls whilst getting stoned in the limo, gets his wish; not the thousand-dollar-a-night social escorts, just the stoned part. He got stoned, alright.
---
Question: How do you love a man when you can’t look into his eyes, when he can’t look into yours?
Answer: by wearing a veil.
Medusa cradled her lover.
He asks, “How long have you know?”
“Always,” came her reply, accompanied by a smile he spots for the very first time. The mouth muscles flex upward, and Manny Masculine sees her lips, red, and says how wonderful they are. He is more accustomed to viewing the labia. Medusa smiles again, a tear streams out of the black lace shroud; Manny wipes it off even as she laughs at his affectionate joke.
Inside, something was churning, her heart is melting away; and pain, confined all these years, mollified by male sacrifices, is liberating. There on the lonely road, with Manny lying, and Medusa bent over on her knees, embracing him, they both snigger and cry at the vulnerable redemption of their souls revealed; their weaknesses, nowhere to hide; and secrets, flung out in the open field.
There is a strange and awkward liberty which exists when there is nothing more to conceal, when your partner knows all, when you can finally be yourself under the possession of your myriad flaws.
This susceptibility, we guess, is love revealing its petals, blossoming in spirit as you’re joined to your most significant other, the person you wish to spend the rest of life with.
Instinctively, their quavering lips met for the first time, love once more traverses their union; and as Medusa loses herself in the arms and emotion of the man she is madly passionate about, pouring her adoration into him, a chain shatters in her mind, fetters released, and her mother’s curse is broken. The captivated men of her gaze are freed from their stone prisons, and she rips off the veil and stares Manny affectionately in the eyes.
---
This is the mission: Divalicious has been sent to infiltrate Pomelo’s factory and discover the mysteries of the Pie. The following is the summary of the report, (which never got to Roanna, `cos the ‘snipped-off’ drag was captured at the last resort.)
[Pomelo Anderson has no grandmother. As most records were destroyed during the War, genetic scans concluded no one alive shares the same DNA as Ms. Anderson. Of course this could be due to the simple reason that she is merely more plastic than flesh, but it is highly probable to mention that if Pomelo Anderson had a grandmother, she died during, or before the Great War.
Who then is this lady who passed away recently at a hundred and two? Just a random person Pomelo picked out from the streets to accelerate aging towards the century bracket. It is noted that many test subjects were used for this vile experiment, various degenerative genes introduced into their biological system, and all the ‘lab-rats’ perished by the artificial age of eighty-five at most, till they hit the lottery with that one successful host.
As for the secret recipe of Pomelo Pie – it is regurgitated content expelled by her middle finger down the throat, blended with preserved ‘bacon’ (meat, fatty tissues, innards and the rest) extracted from her countless plastic surgeries, genetically modified and compounded into tablets and massed produced, and then seeded in synthetic farms that were once toxic-waste landfills, mass graves, and gory battle sites. The potent and rich contents of blood-spill, flesh-rot and lethal chemicals nourish the first trees that bear animal protein.
One interesting piece of information is the financial statements showing monies siphoned to various third-party accounts of phony companies owned by her shrink, ‘slash’, plastic surgeon.]
---
“You know yer not getting away,” Pomelo grins, veneer cheeks lift, a Botox smile, and her hands are clasped with the thumbs rolling. It’s a subliminal message penetrating Divalicious’ cerebral cortex, that the showgirl Marilyn Monroe wannabe is trapped in a lair like a hamster on the spinning wheel; like two scimitars slicing, certain to cut her in pieces should she even try to escape.
“What I don’t get,” the plastic princess continues, “is what a beautiful and well-endowed girl like you is doing, swearing allegiance to the tit-less one?” Pomelo stands and strides to the other side of the interrogation table, laying her perfectly nail-polished manicured hands on Divalicious’ shoulders. The captive can clearly see in her periphery the design depicting zebras, but upon closer inspection, white swimming sperms across dark water.
“Of course I am fully aware that you used to be an abomination, an ugly man wanting nothing more than to be beautiful.”
The Caucasian hottie who was formerly a South Indian sissy provided an intriguing stare peppered with fear.
“Well, you came to the right place,” Pomelo laughed, slapping a file down on the surface which had the word ‘Divalicious’ in boldface and ‘Classified’ stamped diagonally across the name in red ink. She goes back to her seat and resumes, “Look, you and me both,” she gesticulates, “we’re not that different.” Ms. Anderson watches the mirror, and eyeballs Divalicious by the reflection. Diva does a copycat. “We’re pretty much the same. We’ve both had extensive makeovers; we’re both hot and gorgeous, lusted by guys and envied by females.”
It was true, they seemed like sisters.
“So why the hell are you on her side???” The scream rattled Divalicious’ eardrums.
You gotta admit there is some logic to what’s just being said. It is tempting, flattering, to be compared to the most desirable woman on Earth. Bearing in mind her humble and masculine start, this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, a dream come true. Wasn’t that what Pomelo Anderson was insinuating? That they’re alike, that they’re even kin, and now the queen wanted her by her side?
Yes, this is all very logical and appealing indeed; but no, she couldn’t do that, she couldn’t betray Roanna; she must adhere to the prophecy. Roanna is redeemer, and Divalicious is the herald preparing the way. The dream, the dream, the visions, the visions...she must obey.
Bang! Another slam on the table, a hardcover book this time, “The dream, the dream, the visions, the visions...I must obey,” Pomelo mocked and mimicked.
Divalicious was shocked. She knows. How did she know? She was reading her mind.
“Who do you think put them in there?” Ms. Anderson touched her temple. Divalicious was speechless; and right then, a man entered from behind the violet curtain, standing at Pomelo Anderson’s rear. He said, “I did,” as if cued, as if he were a thespian and this was all a theatrical performance; and he added, “Pomelo, don’t recruit him...or her...” he shrugged in disgust, “I have other plans for it.”
Divalicious recognized that voice; and that man, standing there with his long covetous white hair and beard, his long white robes, if she could switch off the backlight of her hospital dream, she realized, the silhouetted figure in her vision is set right and clear before her very eyes. What woke her from her stupor was when Pomelo said, “Daddy, you know I never listen to what you say.”
---
Rex the dog is guarding stout at the door; so fierce, that should Manny Masculine walk up, it’d tear him to shreds. Rex serves new masters. It is also obvious to mention that Rex is now a Cerberus, a three-headed hound from the pits of hell. This is its new incarnation, without memory of the former; spliced by the gas of stars, Rex will torch the soul and marrow of any human who dare approaches.
---
Take a pause, move forward. Kunty Kaur is a sole survivor of World War Four; a lone resistance fighter against an army of possessed animals, the demon controlled, and plastic zombies cloned from the most beautiful person on Earth. She is tough, muscular and able to fend for herself. A bit zany, her inclination is towards a religious zealot, for she seeks the legend of the book of good, which the ancients say will free the world from this tyranny.
There are clues of the existence of other hermit warriors, and possibly even a community, but she’d met no one in her journeys. She walks the Earth, continues her travel, from Europe to Africa and Asia, admiring whatever remains of the old-world.
She is planning to cross into America through Siberia and Alaska, and in so doing, if she meets another living human being, she will preach the message of peace through forgiveness of sins. Otherwise, if they are not (or no longer) Homo sapiens, she’ll introduce the strangers to her trusty pals, machineguns.
That not working, and they’re still alive, she’ll execute plan B, which is to run like hell.
---
Rewind. Back to now. To the now Detective Lingam and Sergeant Siva are leaving Muhammad ‘Tongkat’ Ali all alone in the interrogation room; to the now there is a deathly commotion in the police HQ.
One is to be the inane seer; the other, the scribe. What are the seven tongues of fire?, wondered Detective Lingam. If he needs an answer, now is the time. Sergeant Siva is fending off fiends, he is also wounded, he is shouting at his brother. Detective Lingam is breaking out of the headquarters, dragging his other, who is still screaming, still bleeding from a head injury, still spraying a barrage of bullets.
Sergeant Siva seems to have lost it. He’s yelling profanities, he’s yakking nonsense. The police department is overrun by ghouls. The evil is consuming everyone on the streets not already transformed by Pomelo Anderson’s Pie.
The brothers make way to their house, reloading on ammo, Lingam grabbing his unfinished book; unknown yet to him, it is the most precious article on the side of good. They head out of the city, the Sergeant has gone completely loony, the metropolis is burning behind them, and the collective screams of souls is too much for the Detective to bear.
World War Four officially starts, but it is not between man and his brother, it is the climax of the pilferage of another species; slowly, unassumingly, and surely, all of mankind is cooked in the faeces of his own folly, wiped out by his own vanity.
The disabled and fractionalized armies of the New United Nations (NUN) never had time for reconnaissance, intelligence and attack. They were paralyzed, demobilized at the core command centre from the onset by the foe. In all truth, it was a short war, lasting only days. They turned Earth into the Lake of Fire, a free trade zone for demons swooping down to pick the carrions of those unfortunately alive. The Ageless, the god-Boy and the Barbie, they call themselves Christ & Whore, like as though they are some multinational company; which in a way, they are.
All consciousness worships them. Armageddon is won, but they are assembling a new legion, for Master Wan has many enemies. As for the fate of man, to surrender meant death; they lobotomized the conscience and bypassed the spirit, and assimilated all to One. O’ what have they done to our Earth? What have they done to our blue planet? They have turned it into a dark one.
Detective Lingam is tearing; he is inconsolable. Hands trembling, he takes out pieces of paper from his bag. Siva suddenly screams; he is completely mad, completely crazy, if not from the lesion across his skull, then it is from the trauma of the end of the world. His brother was always the stronger, mentally and physically, but an urge grabbed him, a psychotic lust, his subconscious manifesting; he doesn’t care about his other, he’s attained an erection, and his fighting to fuck his bro in their shared anus.
Lingam punches him, furious with force, till his insane other goes limp. Lingam can feel the pain of his own brother with each bash of the fist, each hard slap on the cheek, and he can take it no more, this is beyond the suffering any sane person can burden. With a final blow he crumples and cries. Lingam hugs Siva in Phileo, brotherly love; one, throbbing, and howling, with salty liquids flooding from the ducts; and from the other, just a gurgling spastic murmur. They hold each other as if dead, especially when the dragons circle the air, searching souls to eat.
Then, when his brother sleeps in exhaustion at night, Lingam, in the cold, with torchlight and the eerie glow of the city smouldering from afar, with a cheap pen, on smeared paper, records the events of that calamitous day.
He lives it through the continuation of his story; for how else can he accept the cataclysmic events that’d occurred if he does not distant his heart? The characters take a spin, the plot twists, and fate takes an unhallowed turn that would be laughable, and too fantastical, had he not lived through the episodes of today.
As Siva stirs, Lingam stops; the novel he is writing, entry after entry, dates after dates, he still does not want anyone to read, till this day.