15. God of the Game
Club Utopia
Club Utopia. Club Utopia is a haven humans go to be human. There is a counter at the entrance of the discothèque where revellers are required to leave their superpowers, bio-robotic integrations, gene-enhanced therapy and divinity at the door. Stripped of god, you relive your history.
There is a school of thought that we will only truly know ourselves when we are less…not more. They believe that life is more precious in its imperfections and frailty. In the presence of mortality we become more appreciative. The fact that we are not all-powerful makes every morsel of life sweeter, as if we were sucking that little bit of honey out of a flower.
Utopia - an ideal life and society, hence the name. Of course it also makes perfect sense that the suffering of humanity is rudely excluded from this idyllic scenario, the bad and undesirable beheaded from the total human condition. Executed by a big fat wrestler in a mask operating the fucking guillotine; in this one-sided demoted reality of good vibes minus the evil, only lovey-dovey feelings fill the room. An aura created by ecstasy and other drugs. There are those however who feed only on pure adrenalin, the rush, sweat and grime without the artificial stimulation of smoking, snorting and popping.
Mankind’s sorrow is out of the equation in this nightclub. That makes it pretty lame to follow a philosophy of so called ‘truth’ when you only include the sugar and not the spice, the magic mushrooms but not the bitter pill.
But most sub-deities come to Club Utopia just for a good time. To remember an epoch that was. A time when we were young and foolish. A simpler time. A time devoid of eternal complications. It was of a time when I had no power to wield, when I could not have everything I wanted; a time of innocent desire, when I was man, not god.
For the negative experiences of both my childhood and manhood, I have to admit that I occasionally muse over. After all, they made me what I am today, this crass and asinine being armoured in immortality, so different perhaps from those born or created in perfection.
The girl behind the counter had red hair. She was also a witch. She collected our supernatural powers and deposited them in safe-boxes before handing over the key. She was also the last mote of magic I saw before entering the cathedral, which was converted into a massive dance floor.
Inside, gothic architecture lined expansive stained glass windows depicting icons of Christianity, Islam, Buddhism and Hinduism. Paraphernalia of cult and occult beliefs, like the idol of Baphomet and the inverted star of Satanism, as well as artefacts from ancient faiths ranging from the Sumerians’ to the Mayans’, were laden as part of the interior décor. Religion was propagator of much worldly violence, and therefore it was the intention of the owner from the beginning to diffuse the message of peace and harmony. Modern art and Athenian statues of the Renaissance, placed haphazardly, intertwined with flesh and blood mingling as a crowd. Giant video screens and cutting-edge lighting illuminate the dark with images from history: newsreels, MTV and popular movies dissected by comic art and animation.
There are three halls. The main, Zeus, which usually plays house music, commands the greatest action. At times pop stars are raised from the dead (outside Club Utopia most definitely), and examples of the reincarnated that have graced the stage include Beyonce, Elvis, Michael Jackson, Madonna and countless others generations have grown up loving.
The second, Tartarus, rocks! Live musicians play hard and furious. Tapestries suspended from the ceiling and Indian carpets on the floor provide a warm atmosphere, contrasting the high energy of power chords, thumping drums and shrieking guitar solos.
Finally, the third area, dedicated to trip-hop and chilled-out jazz, is a smoky blues bar dubbed Orpheus, which has an intimate dance floor for coupling and soulful individual expressions.
There is a fourth upstairs, Dionysus, where patrons go when they’re horny. Devoted to licentious appetites, this space boasts of all coitus known to man. There are small booths for duos and large areas for orgies and fit-for-one rectangular cubicles for peeping-toms and fanny-introverts or those who get hard or wet sleeping in a coffin. Gloryholes with erections hang decorative ornaments – fake ferns hiding real penises; precious stone embroidery and spider web gold threads draped over to beautify generational jewels; masculine muscles tested with the weight of portraits; and tongues substituted by cocks, sticking out of the mouth of Mona Lisa & Friends, contemporary wise or classical. I guess sex and music always go together hand-in-hand, like cookies and cream, or toothpaste with a toothbrush. A hallway with rows of doors leads to wide ranging fantasies to satiate the wildest appetites.
What hits me as I enter the club is the pungent odour of humanness, sweet and salty. Perspiration reeked havoc; topless males and bikini chicks rising high in spirit to join with the almighty by mediation of the high priest international superstar DJ. I find it funny that we would shred ourselves of our supremacy and don a fragile form, and then crave to be united again to an absolute. Though I admit that I left out the convenient fact that most of those present are still trapped in mortality, or merely made this way, and Club Utopia is their only hope of securing an experience of godlikeness as grasshoppers walking timidly amongst a crowd of giants.
What was I doing here? I need to be in ZOOL.A.ND instead, but somehow discover myself gravitating towards my past. Some kind of security or nostalgia I presume, a scent I was trying to get back and remember. The scent of love, the scent of a woman, a previous lover to inspire an intimacy with Sha-Rronne.
Why the heck do I torture myself? What do I seek? I can create subterranean worlds of longing so potent to fill every need and want. I don’t need to force others to love me; they naturally do. So why? What is it with Sha-Rronne that makes me lose my wit? What is it that makes me nervous? I need an answer.
AI generated art prompted by author
All characters and events, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.