God of the Game

(Guitar riff!)

So you think you can stone me and spit in my eye

So you think you can love me and leave me to die

Oh baby, can’t do this to me baby

Just gotta get out, just gotta get right outta here

Bohemian Rhapsody continues...

The couple wakes up, stares suspiciously into the other’s soul; they’re never gonna feel the same for each other again. No one suspects Vesper and I and our misanthropic evil, except perhaps...maybe...for that sweaty creep with the rotted flesh under black coat and top hat.

Ding! No smoking sign comes on.

Ding! Seat belt sign comes on.

Time to disembark.

Vesper and I back in the past. In Hell. On the day we met. Jai-I also present. No more clothed as confectionary creations in Catacombs, we were attired the way we were when we hunted Rogol the Beast. Brunette the Centaur (or Minotaur) had just duped us; Bleached Blue the Centaur (or Minotaur) is a molten statue.

Standing in a crater, Jai-I kicks his wraparounds; cursing, screaming. The scene is all too familiar, still brewing fresh in my head, as if it’d only been yesterday the three of us had met.

After the dust settled, the white man awkwardly introduced, “Hi, I’m Jai-I.”

I stared at Vesper. He only returned my gaze, knowing all. This Jai-I is a reset. We stand at the crossroad of an alternate timeline, an offshoot of destiny, a tangent and juxtaposed life.

We made our acquaintance. Jai-I has no history of Nimrod. Heck, he hadn’t even programmed ZOOL.A.ND, and he’d definitely not rescued his hermaphrodite sweetheart. Jai-I just gave me a blank when I brought the name Trekz up.

Vesper pulls me aside. “This is what I was telling you. Only that I didn’t expect to meet him again so soon. He is not the same Jai-I you and I know. Up till today, he is similar. Tomorrow, he is different. Rogol, he remembers; meeting you and me, he does. Anything after, it’s vacant to him. `Cause he had not met Trekz yet, or designed ZOOL.A.ND. Whether he will or not, we won’t know. Perhaps yes, but also perhaps no. Our meeting him here could screw our future together. Best way to retain our memory is to do the exact same things up till the point I plunged in the knife.” Vesper pauses. “But then again, this could be a cool opportunity to take new paths. Live a life based on another set of decisions. What do you say?”

What do I say? Always game for a new adventure, that’s what I said. Besides, we, present in the past, that already alters situations. No way can anyone copy a past life a hundred percent to the dot. One will certainly fail. Not talking about the big choices, even trivial events like what we had for brunch (bacon and sunny-side-ups) on a certain date may revise the course of time; not mentioning that it will be impossible to remember all the minute and intricate details. Sure to forget, so better not try in the first place.

I agreed. Transfer our existence to a parallel aeon.

So, I’m standing in a parched land, admiring Rogol’s handiwork. Jai-I and Vesper come up next to me. Head cocked to the right, I said, “You know, she’s quite arty,” referring to the permanent death of Bleached Blue on display.

“Want to vandalize?” Jai-I cued.

Ok, the subsequent sentences are a brief description of Bleached Blue. For starters, she is part of Hell’s scenery. And, over the decades, the hot, hostile winds will erode whatever’s left of her frozen face. Lower limbs resemble roots of a tree, strangling the dusty soil of this MMORPG realm, a twisted vine, creepers with knotted crevices randomly in between; her jammed machinery and armour, scorched and singed, sprouting from the charred carcass as if dry, dead and corroded leaves. Bleached Blue was a beautiful woman, her right breast is in place, but left boob sludged south in an oblong and oblique manner right to her hip, leaving a trail of silicone, which is tantamount to lard and refrigerated gravy thawing; a microwaved papaya exploded and dripping off the appliance.

Her hands were still trying to unleash their firepower. Fact, you can see the ray of lethal light combusting forth, before the implosion caused by Rogol’s flame splintered her arms, making her fingers seem over a foot long and branching at odd angles.

“What do you propose?” Vesper enquired.

“Let’s rape her,” Jai-I advocated.

“But she’s dead,” I said.

“So?” came both their replies.

The following scenes (which were omitted in the original reality) contain adult material some may find offensive. Viewer discretion required. If you are repulsed by explicit content, carry on reading. You have come thus far, hypocrite.

Worshipping in a circle, a mock cult of the ‘stallion’ goddess with her idol erected at the centre of our prostrated postures: this role-playing game has us in ceremony, in rituals, in traditions. The burned incense of our libido rises; a smoky spiral snaking into her melted nose.

Now we approach her graven image; belts loosened, fly undone, pants round our ankles. Cock up. Motorized penises; mine’s a power drill, Jai-I’s a hammer and chisel, and Vesper’s a saw.

Camera moves to a far-wide angle; and we hack into her, buttocks swaying up and down, in and out, frenetic and calm, slow then fast, then slow, then fast again, in rhythm to the menhir of our necrophilia. Sweating copiously to this menial blue-collar task, are we masons, you ask? `Cos when we are done, Bleached Blue is no longer Rogol’s work, hideous like the man-eating monster, but a heavenly icon, an angelic representation, a statue of the mother of god; standing in stoic contradiction to the foulness of Hell, in Hades’ own backyard, her monument causes gastric ulcers in the devil’s hungry belly.

Then we ordered pints of beer in a pub hewn from rock, aptly named the Cavern, a barbaric hotspot for players of Hell. The topic was the desecration of Brunette; revenge, if we ever meet her again. I remember this same reverie in the past; only that it was not fulfilled. This time however, providence plays her part.

In walks Brunette with Rogol’s head and scrotum. But the huge sac contained gold coins instead of testicles. She did not see us, gloating rather about her victory, buying all a round. She digs her hand into Rogol’s bowling-balls-bag and retrieves two shiny pieces and flips them with a ching to the bartender.

We shared the same mind. This is our chance.

It seems, to the outsider, in a witness’ account, that Vesper abruptly turns to smash a bottle over the head of a stranger sitting at the next table. For no known reason apparently; perhaps the Fallen Star felt the guy was talking too loud? But this is a tavern for goodness sake, and everyone’s drunk; and we’re in Hell! What do you expect, buddy?

A brawl spewed. Blood spilled. And violence spawned. All calculated; we dodged our way amidst the affray to the table Brunette sat. Mug in hand, in a corner, alone, she was tipsy, and sobbing. The decapitated face of Rogol was her company, as well as his rawhide which used to house gonads that produced a legendary dosage of wild testosterone. Flies were now feasting, and laying eggs on the ogre’s butchered remains.

This was all too easy. We clubbed her, and she awoke pretty tied up in a derelict warehouse in an abandoned industrial zone. Splayed topless, Brunette is in plutonium pantyhose, soft and stretchable like a lycra mix, but much tougher than diamond. Volatile - extremely flammable; extremely fashionable. Jai-I bows his legs and opens her up with his screwdriver. She is lassoed midair. Brunette is screaming, begging for her life.

But this only fills our pleasure.

Above, at full volume, three musicians take turns masturbating their guitars on video. I am under the monitor, hand in my coat pocket, playing with something sharp. A sudden prick, and I quickly remove my extremity. Red flows from my thumb. Instinctively, I lick it.

The honour is mine, Vesper said. So I showcased Leper and the Gunk’s knife (taken from those dead teenage boys) to her frightened eyes, moving the blade close to the pupils, as if threatening to dig those orbs out. Jai-I is fingering her remote control panties after having removed the flap for her electronic pussy. Pubic hairs are an interconnected web of wires, and the aperture itself is lush with blue-veined semiconductors. I run the cold steel down her neck to her crotch, via flesh and blood boobs, and she shivers in a way that I would like to think is sheer delight. Then I smiled an evil smile. Brunette stared directly into my soul, her mouth gasping the word “no,” but all I heard was breathing panic. She is as good as dead fish, a had-it doe blinking serene at the next life while hyenas dine on her belly.

Heartlessly, I stuff the dagger in. Twisting the weapon in her cunt in patterned formations, each configuration opens a different artillery mode of combat. For a while, M-16s, AK-47s and Uzis slid out her thighs; then it was bazookas, rocket launchers and anti-aircraft guns. Next, blasters, new-generation lazer weaponry, morphed from her limbs; and all this while we were careful to hold the cords down so that Brunette, armed for war, would not disintegrate her fetters.

Then came the killer that knocked me off her vagina. At full battle gear, Brunette’s legs transformed into a tank carrying nuclear warheads. Jai-I and Vesper went, “Whoa,” wet with schoolboy awe, overtaken by mechanophilia, an erotic fetish for machines. More accurately, they were turned on by all that firepower.

We jumped in. Using that masculine tool, we dismembered every piece of machinery. Black oil was spurting out ceaselessly; the whole place is an auto gore-fest. Slippery, slimy, smelly. The pong of petrol. Lubricants ejaculated from Brunette’s lower part. Her upper is jittering, as if bones are relocating.

In the end, pieces of her are strewn across the floor. In a dark pool, her spine, seen from under her stomach, is twitching. All four limbs had been cruelly torn off. Bust and head lie in black and red, eyes are a complete grey marble; Brunette is dead.

Above, the guitar trio are cumming together solo after solo. They’ve got the facial expressions to match. Below, the three of us are as filthy as our destructive frenzy. The music is loud, we are silent, some perverse satiation spread out across our ugly mugs.

“I need a bath,” I said, searching for Leper and the Gunk’s razor artefact.

In the shower, regret kicks in. It always does after I engage horny, wrongful acts. This sufferable thorn has been present in my side ever since told, at the age of twelve, that seminal ejaculation is a sin. And I hate it! I had a religious upbringing which colours my perception. Though eternity is very different from what I’d comprehended as a child, I suffer, nonetheless, bouts of compunction after hurting another being, even though the offence is just in a game, and Brunette is probably okay, in bed or at her desk, in front of a computer screen or wearing virtual specs, at the other end of fibre-optic cables, just cursing for letting her guard down.

Perhaps the feeling is intrinsic, and the horror of violence is true and real on all planes. We are hyped, we are excited, we climax; and then we are morose. And then the cycle repeats. Different players, same game.

I soaped off the grime, burned my articles and exited Hell. I’ll definitely be back, but for now, I hanker for time alone.