62. Tapestry 13
What is the measure of a life? For Brit Patt, not much. He falls off the chair as if it is the sensation of waking up from a dream. But he does not. He lies there in the abbot’s office facing up; his eyes staring vacantly at the wooden ceiling. That is his last absorption of the world. There is a small hole drilled at the centre of his forehead, and behind, a darkening lake spreads out its borders.
Indeed, what is the measure of a life? Why did the abbot shoot him? For no apparent reason it seems; he was just telling a story.
Perhaps the abbot has his own demons; perhaps he’s psycho. Perhaps, death is Truth; or perhaps that was the way it was meant to be, providence. Perhaps the abbot freed Brit Patt; and yet perhaps, Brit Patt is sin! Perhaps that is how we separate sin; or, that is the meaning of it is not Brit Patt that sin but sin that sin. We will never know. Brit Patt will never know.
The measure of a life...yes...meaningless. Strive all you want, guilt, unhappiness, not contented with your lot, though others may kill for your position; what does it all mean? It can just go away, by the fly of a bullet, by an abbot’s tale.
Poor Brit, all he wanted was to fulfil destiny, be holy, purge sin, turn his back on an ungodly industry. Was it worth it? No one knows. What we can only say is, lying there, he is all ready for the click of the camera. Lying there, he does appear quite cool and serene. Lying there, Brit Patt is still the handsomest guy in the universe.
That should be enough said.
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For some, life is a tiny cage shared with demons in a cell. In a spiritual warp of his soul, standing in the middle of a sea of a hundred young vengeful spirits – a significant handful, his past victims, now undead and ogling him with ghastly white eyes and cold dead skin - Muhammad ‘Tongkat’ Ali never ever achieves another erection for the rest of his anguished life. It is both justice and peace, he got what he punishingly deserved and longed. In the material world, his new name is Legion, for many live in him.
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And yet for others, life is regurgitation, a recycle bin. If it is ever true the notion of reincarnation, then it is most apt for cyborgs.
William Borg, at the finale of battle, the last note of war, is just a lump of silicone. His processor fried, and his unreliable limbs strewn across the four corners of the police station. His memory is rebooted, and he remembers nothing of his former directives. In fact, he is no more a stand-alone unit, his CPU is integrated into the Barbie machine, a super computer, whose eyes roam the Earth via clones, and all information uploaded to the omniscient mind of Pomelo Anderson.
One might even say, for William Borg, he has attained Nirvana.
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But what is the fate of Roanna Fausi? Together with her publicist cum campaign manager, she was beheaded. Roanna had grace by her side all the way till death; but the same cannot be said of the manager.
Brought before Pomelo’s throne, the small lady in a smart suit cursed Roanna blatantly in the open. Her hair is, overall, still in a bun, though a few messy streaks cling to her face as she begs the Barbie for mercy. With sweat bubbling on her delicate nape, she swears allegiance, and vows to promote Pomelo Anderson’s public image.
But most of all, to prove these are not mere words, but action, she jumps, face first, onto the banquet table and chows down the entire spread inked on the Pomelo Pie menu in a glutinous fashion. Looking maniacally up like a vampire on heat, makeup meshed into chocolate milkshake, and meat between buns, she swims amongst the dishes and accuses Roanna for not allowing her to wallow in such delicious delicacies. And finally, she rips her blouse and trainer bra off and madly kneads her two little lumps of breasts.
Her acting is quite good; she’s got, put on, the seductive O of mouth as she massages herself whilst covered in a buttery sheen of food, as if posing for paparazzi; and she moans, even as she does so, that she can already feel the shapeless size of her mammary enlarging to filled-up matured fruits.
“All thanks to the Barbie, all praises to the Barbie,” she worships. But Pomelo only chuckles, and the next thing Roanna’s publicist cum campaign manager knows, her head is rolling on the floor, still donning that fake provocative O as her tit-less topless body does a chicken dance before collapsing in an eternal disgrace.
Thank god, no such indignity befell Roanna Fausi; for when it was her turn, she was silent as sheep before slaughter, composed in the roar of Pomelo’s mockery. Eyes closed, she meditated. All was lost, her dream of an empire, her desire for a better humanity. She recalled her past, the chain of events that’d led to the present, the disease that cut her tits, which presented her fortune.
She prayed; she emptied her brain as one would a garbage bin; she has no regrets of her mistakes. This irked Pomelo Anderson for she did not get the satisfaction of seeing Roanna grovel and beg.
Swiftly she ordered the execution. Roanna’s carcass was fed to the hounds. Her head impaled on a stake for all to see. Supposed to send the message of victory, but the visage had more of a breath of tranquillity; Roanna Fausi, her demised face became the badge, the seal, the banner and the hope of the Resistance. Her image, destined to be the emblem on the cover of the book of good.
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And what of that other traitor, Divalicious, who now stands as Pomelo’s number two? What of the nature of prophecies when they’re duped?
Divalicious reflects upon her dishonest life, and yearns for the time it was simpler, the time she was but an out-of-shape cross-dressing Indian man working in a Chinese coffee-shop, the time when all her name meant was but a stage moniker. Before the operation, before she was white and fit, before she could sing and dance well; before men desired her.
Now she is trapped, Pomelo’s caged bird; the evil trinity had tricked her, and at night she can’t stop the nightmares suggesting what Master Wan meant when he said he had other plans for her...him...it??? Divalicious wakes up sweating. Like her mistress, she survives on multi-vits and medications, on more beautification procedures, for there is no end to the curse of vanity.
When she sleeps again, she manages to dream of the era before World War Four, even that period before her prolonged blackout attributed to normal women pouncing on her. If she could then have accepted her innate oddity, happy just dressing as a closet drag; if she could then be contented being called he, he may have tasted slivers of bliss and die a human being, instead of holding designation now as Satan’s slave.
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What about canines?
Animals are pure; same as toddlers, they grip no grudges. Rex is but a blue flame of energy, a consciousness of destruction without conscience; and maybe, of all the characters, the dog is the least conflicted – no remorse, no destinies, no final destinations. From swallowing goldfishes to human cadavers to human spirits, a fiery hound’s life is just eat, shit and sleep, and then waking in a coma of repeats.
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Manny however disagrees. He believes his old pet is somewhere in the Cerberus. He implores Medusa to don her Gorgon mask and save the canine, but she replied she’d traded in for love in exchange for her powers. Besides, even if they manage to extract Rex from the three-headed monster, it wouldn’t be the same animal. Cerberus is spliced from three fierce dogs, and it would be impossible to separate the genes from this detestable mix.
Manny Masculine, being the stubborn Italian that he is, is adamant on a rescue. Unbeknownst to Medusa, he storms Wong Boom Bong’s fortress, whistling for Rex; he is torched to ash immediately as he tries to pat his pet.
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Medusa is morose. She condemns herself for Manny’s death. Perhaps she unwittingly gave an ultimatum; Rex or she, Manny had to choose. And Manny chose.
Medusa cannot have power and love, it’s a trade off; it’s either one or the other. She begged Manny to let Rex go, let her love be the substitute; surely it is better than a dog’s, isn’t it?
Apparently not. Medusa is both angry and hurt over Manny’s impulsive decision; he loves her less than he loves his dog...ridiculous... She cannot forgive herself, she feels selfish; she cannot forgive him, she feels Manny is selfish; and she cannot forgive that damn dog!
Medusa feels stupid. Perhaps she should have given in to his demands, put on the Gorgon mask; but she’s not sure if it’d even work. Love had diluted her negative emotions; no fuel for hatred, Cerberus will tear her to pieces. Then it would be Manny who regrets, Manny, whose tears mar the ground.
And odd, even now, even though Manny is gone, she cannot summon sufficient rage to turn anyone to stone, (not that there is anyone left around to be turned to in the first place), for she loves him even more now that he is merely a rooted memory.
Medusa crumbles; it is the paradox of the time. She is filled with love, but it is hate that is needed in order to survive. Maybe in her mother’s house there is a solution; if it’s still around, if it’d not been destroyed. Find the serum or virus that transmits via pheromone and sight, causing the blood of males to cement, engorging the veins of the pathetic penis till it ruptures and hulks out of its pants. The statues and their statuettes, they look so aggrandized and funny. She takes the arduous track into austere territory, an icy god forsaken land where her parent’s lab is. But of course, everywhere is god forsaken already today.
In her quest, Medusa laughs an ironical laugh; she thinks back to the days she was called Madame - all that power, all that hate; she was planning a merger with Pomelo Anderson and Roanna Fausi. The three of them had gathered once for coffee, and it had seemed amicable enough in spite of the media reports and quotes made concerning her contemporaries. She was about to put in the pitch, a conglomerate to unite the countries in all arenas of politics, economics and society, having clean renewable energy – a solar project her research & technology office had been tirelessly working upon and is now confident for public revelation - a network that would guarantee a return to prosperity that is far more glorious and hygienically oxygenated than anything seen or experienced by their forefathers and their vast carbon footprint that culminated toward the total ozone depleting years of the Third World War when...hah...what a twist of fate.
Well, you can say we were never pure in our intentions and relationships, it was all just a front; behind, we had our own evil agendas, only that Pomelo’s was eviller. But regardless, and in all respite, for whatever it’s worth, Manny and Medusa did find salvation in each other.
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Two lone sojourners of the Earth crossed paths in the icy lands of the Tundra, an unlikely alliance, Medusa and Kunty Kaur.
Kunty said she was strangely led to this place, and Medusa replied she is searching for her mother’s home. Kunty believes in destiny; Medusa does not. In her zeal, Kunty proclaims she is seeking the book of good - which soothsayer writings say contains the keys to unlock the human souls caged in those mindless dolls, those beatific monstrosities - and divine providence had brought them here for a union and purpose. Medusa laughs. Kunty insists they must find Medusa’s mum’s abode, there is something there, a clue, perhaps even an article of light to fight the dark forces. Medusa laughs some more. Kunty’s antics are entertaining; and when she suggested they walk together, Medusa thought, why not, two is better than one. She shed a silent tear for Manny as she mulled over that saying; and that was how the Resistance was born.
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Pomelo Anderson. She has been called many names – Queen Bitch, Slut of the Century, Dumbest Blonde; but no one ever coined Eucharist. She is the body and the flesh of the future. All the inhabitants of the land not only bear her image, they are ciphered from her DNA. She is the Barbie – uniformed, mass produced versions of her roam the lands, all similarly packaged, all similarly pink.
And all guys are Ken, with large, interchangeable alien toys screwed onto their crotches. Oooo...just the thought gets her horny. Pomelo Anderson, the Eucharist, the Barbie, she is the head of a collective consciousness; all her dolls’ five senses are her five senses.
“It’s a good world, don’t ya think?” She speaks to no one in her chamber, “Everyone is pretty, and beautiful and fashionable; everyone looks just like me,” she giggles, “and all the guys are hunks with huge hunks... hung,” she tailed off, giggling some more. The only frown on her face is caused by the ghostly mind-fucked-through-ass kids her father has as sentinels. The spectral hounds of Wong Boom Bong, she can take. They’re quite cool, with their blue flame and all, and besides, the god-Boy has a crush on her. She giggles again.
Then she picks up the old sepia photo of the obese teenage girl - the stranger - and her yellowing Barbie doll from its shrine, and feeds them to the three-headed dog sprawled in her room. The articles burn up instantaneously. Next, she commands the mutt to consume the Altar. From now on, the only Doll in the world will be her.
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Before he was operating on animals and on his father and mother, Wong Boom Bong was cutting on himself. Those heinous crimes, like the one that opened this tale, well, his alter ego was the culprit. And the question on everybody’s mind – who or what is Wong Boom Bong?
What causes a teenage boy to go on such rampage? Videogames? That’s only half right. For one, he’s an orphan; that surely has to say something. Mr and Mrs Wong adopted him. Boom Bong is not his real name. Growing up, being bullied in school, a daily affair, it affects a kid, but usually not enough to turn him monstrous; unless you throw in another monster, a child molester, a sexual predator, a cock diagnosed with priapism abusing young Wong anally. Now, that could drive a boy ballistic; and if that minor is a genius, a computer expert hooked on graphic electronic entertainment, and an innate hacker of systems... Boy! You got a potent mix here. You got a screw up of identity, a moral blackout, especially if your career-minded parents have got no time for you. It’s not that they don’t love you, they do! But they show it with tangibles rather than affection.
Complex kids are made.
Stop. Change topic. Still on felonies though; what about those babes with boobs sliced off? It’s him again, the youth’s alter ego. This time the reason is infatuation, puppy love; you know this already, Wong Boom Bong has the hots for Pomelo Anderson. He is planning the ultimate gift, a present that will bring Pomelo’s hands to her bosom in delight. At his workstation, Boom Bong is crafting the supreme pair of jublees for his soon-to-be beloved, so perfectly shaped they will surely win her heart. To do this, he needed girls with gorgeous jugs, the best of the genus; and he wrung the curves out of them, moulding into that one perfect pair, as a master perfumer extricating individual essences and in combination, infuses them into a most captivating scent.
Complicated emotions, this.
But wait, there is more. More perversions going on here. Pomelo Anderson and he, written in the fairytale, in the final pages, are King and Queen living happily ever after...
They have a relationship, a marriage, but it is an incestuous one...well, kind of...these gods, if you read their family tree, they always sleep with kin, forever some divine soap opera going on - she is Master Wan’s daughter, and Master Wan is his son!
So the young boy is marrying his granddaughter??? Well, not technically; the ageless Wan is Boom Bong’s alter ego. And when your avatar is an old metrosexual, you better let him think he is in control. But you know better, the god-Boy is just playing dumb. Behind the Master’s every move is the littlefinger of Wong Boom Bong. He is the god of death after all, for in the last chapter, he takes over the reins from the Grim Reaper.
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This is the Master’s story. The uncensored version before being sugarized for babes, before being made digestible for tender minds so that mums won’t complain; before popping in the visual effects onto keywords to make the novel interactive, for the imagination of readers are dulled nowadays. This hardcover leather-bound storybook with large print is Master Wan’s most prized possession in the material world; for with it, he rules the Earth and all the creatures that walk upon.
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But there is another book in the making, also a storybook of tales un-foretold, of incredible fables. Some call it the book of good, but Lingam doesn’t have a title, and Siva just drools.
Perhaps one day the two books will meet and an epic battle will be fought in the realms; but today, this tale is finished, its plot and characters weaved. The tapestry is completed, and the weft threads filled over the warps. The finished product is cut from loom. Now, it only needs to be exhibited on mural.
If good will ever triumph over evil, if ever the underdog wins, if ever the rebels subjugate the empire and the Resistance conquers the Unholy Triumvirate, that story will only be told in Tapestry 14: My Name is Legion, in the next Series, or in a Sequel, or maybe even in a Spin-off to this magnificent tale.